Page 47 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

When he grew tired of deciphering unfamiliar handwriting, he set aside his notes and selected a fresh sheet of drawing paper. He drew the pattern Miss Cooper had admired in Leonore’s shop as best he could remember, losing himself in line and curve. The image of Miss Cooper settled in his mind, the press of her cheek against the carriage wall, the fan of her lashes, the slope of her mouth. He leaned back, examined the image, and found her likeness traced into his work. As his neighbor, his apprentice, and now his valentine, their relationship already held too much complexity. Adding her as the subject of his fanciful thoughts would not do. He crumpled the page and tossed it aside.

He returned to the journals, reviewing the steps he’d outlined, searching for a flaw that must lay hidden. The chemistry appeared solid as Peter imagined each step of the process. It felt right. He would like to tell his father and wished his grandfather were there to discuss the notes he’d taken. Another dyer, one like Mr. Hobbins, would truly appreciate what lay in the packet Leonore had given him.

The workday had ended an hour ago, and Miss Henton no doubt waited for him. He gathered the journal and contents of Leonore’s package, eager to show his father.

Entering the house, he called, “Father, I have a surprise to show you.” The parlor was empty. “Miss Henton? Where is my father?”

“He’s been napping this hour,” she told him from the kitchen doorway.

Peter’s arm fell to his side. “I don’t recall his habit of sleeping so often.”

“He sleeps more and more these days.”

“You may return to your mistress, Miss Henton. Thank you. My father has never been more content than with you.”

She nodded and bustled about, replacing a bowl and wiping the counters. Her activity reminded him of the industrious women across the street. At any hour of the day, he might look up from his work to find ladies carrying packages into or out of Miss Cooper’s establishment.

“There is a great deal of activity across the street,” he said.

“Miss Cooper knows how to turn a penny, though I don’t know why she works so hard when Lord Halverton’s generosity would keep her like a queen. The new boarders cut my work, and I enjoy the company.” She finished fluffing a pillow and departed.

That did not explain much. Miss Cooper made money from her boarders, but what were all the other women doing there?

Peter mounted the stairs. The door to his father’s room opened softly onto the smooth rumble of snoring. Dressed in toile from the walls to the bedclothes, the room carried the same hallowed ambience since Peter’s childhood. His mother had loved that fabric. He sat at the edge of the bed.

“I think I can do it.” His father didn’t stir, so Peter explained to the sleeping figure. “Knowing how to prepare cotton for red is half the puzzle. The colors I used for stamping previously ran too thin, but now I have this pen—a kalam, the papers call it. This wool ball soaks in the liquid dye, which then drips down the wood. Brilliant.” Peter examined the pen. He must learn to make his own.

“Father, it’s time for supper.”

With some effort, Peter woke his father and led him to the parlor, where they ate their stew, his father wondering aloud from time to time why Peter looked so familiar.

“I’ve got it,” his father said. “You’re the lad mongering vegetables on London Road. How have you been this winter?”

“Cold and a bit bored. I’ll be glad when spring comes in full.”

“Won’t we all.”

Over the past weeks his father had retreated further into himself, with fewer moments when he remembered the approximate year or who Peter was.

“You’re a tailor,” Peter told him. “What if by some accident you discovered the secret to printing Turkey red?”

“Bah. Leave it to the dyers. Dirty work, I say.”

Peter nodded patiently. In guild hierarchy tailors considered themselves above dyers, whose work stained their hands and smelled repulsive. His father had learned the prejudice in his youth, and it rose now and then when he forgot his beloved wife had come from dyers.

“But the discovery would be of great value.”

The man’s gnarled hand circled his beard, giving it a tug as he grew thoughtful. “You are right. Red cloth from Stroud. The whole town would flow with coin.”

“One might sell the recipe.” If there were no promise between grandfather and grandson.

“My father-in-law was a dyer. A saint of a man. Distrustful, though, with a solid grudge against his guildsmen. If he found Turkey red, he would perish with the secret in his head. That is how much he despised his fellows.”

Peter smiled.

“Do you enjoy selling vegetables?” his father asked.

“I do.”