Page 63 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

“I admire your honor, but I do not think he intended to create a prison out of an oath from an eight-year-old.” Lucius tipped his mug toward Peter. “Clearly you love working with dye. Make it your trade.”

A lovely wish, but a heavy one. He knew he would be happier working in the dyehouse all day, but such a venture meant betraying his grandfather as well as discarding everything he’d built at Sloan Tailoring—the customers, the apprentices he trained, the legacy he carried. Was he not selfish to consider trading all that for his happiness?

A change of subject was in order. “How is the factory going?” Peter asked, reaching for his tankard.

“You know, your father would have loved watching fine cotton spin so steadily off the loom. I wish I’d taken him before…”

Would have loved.

The words lodged solidly into Peter’s chest. He watched himself set his drink back on the table, the room blurring at its edges, Lucius’s speech fading into the tavern’s muted clatter. How many times had he and his father sat at the table he now gripped? Even so, Peter returned to old habits as though his life was unaltered, as if death were something temporary.

“I best return home.” He stood, stumbled over his chair, and returned to the quiet of his house.

In the comfort of his father’s chair, he reached for Miss Cooper’s letters, finding in them a solace unavailable elsewhere. She wrote of her desire for independence; he watched her manage his shop and her own household with enormous aptitude. She described her fear of failure; he watched her dismiss compliments as if deaf to them, then pick up her next project in resolute pursuit of excellence. His apprentice astounded him beyond all measure. He could not desist his sending valentines simply because Easter had come and gone. If wishes were horses, she would be his.

19

Upon her return from London, Meg stepped from the mail coach onto her street and inhaled the complex scent of April on the edge of verdant countryside, a contrast to the stink of the city. Grace and the money were gone. Meg had sent letters, asked at every address she knew in east London, but Miss Grace Henton had vanished with the skill of every street urchin. Nothing to do but press forward.

Inside, her home breathed silently. Samuel was at Halverton’s, and she felt his absence in the extreme tidiness of the kitchen—no marbles in dark corners, no toy soldiers poised for battle across the table.

On the verge of financial independence, Grace’s theft could not have come at a worse time. It forced an unfruitful trip to London, compelling Meg to leave Samuel with Lord Halverton and abandon Mr. Sloan when he and his apprentices most required her. She would make amends in every way possible—save the one most requisite.

With barren coffers, she must do everything to increase her trade. She cared for Mr. Sloan, but this blow required all resources. Required her to think of herself and those for whom she was responsible.

She found Matilde in the workroom. At the sight of the young lady, a swell of gratitude washed over Meg. The comfort of being able to leave her home in the hands of Miss Matilde and Miss Reed both relieved Meg’s anxiety and caused her to question whether they deserved her trust. The women in her home had begun to feel like friends. Despite her better judgement, she relied and depended on them.

“Good afternoon, Miss Matilde. I must apologize again for boxing your ear and for my outburst.”

“I quite understand. Look at all we’ve accomplished in your absence.” She enumerated the women who’d left gowns, those who’d fetched and paid, and those who owed. “The money is all in the jar.”

The collection of coins would not last the month, and the money from her stipend—if it came—would not arrive until May. She must beg Lord Halverton’s help. “Well done. You are an impressive young woman. Would you consider training in dressmaking?”

“If I was not in a hurry to return home.”

Meg let the matter alone. “Miss Reed is across the street?”

“She is, but her work there takes little time. Now, go rest. I put your letters in your room.”

Upon Meg’s writing desk, she found a small box and a letter in the familiar hand of her valentine. He’d responded to her letter—a thought that made her eyes sting with the unshed tears of Grace’s betrayal.

Dear Valentine,

Easter is past and my contract ended, but I would like to continue the habit of writing to you. If you find this disagreeable, you have only to inform me.

I am sorry for your loss of a friend, more for the pain her disloyalty caused. It is none of my affair, but your letter brought with it more questions. Why are you so eager to break ties with your guardian? Is he not sympathetic? Are you saving in preparation to open your shop? Or were your savings meant to benefit the brother you mentioned?

It pains me to learn of your skeptical view of humanity. I long to show you that friends can be true, but I fear my words may ring empty. Trust, certainly, cannot be requested as a mere favor, but it must be earned over time with intent, words, and actions aligning again and again. I am keenly aware of how little correspondence we’ve shared and how little reason you may have to trust my friendship, but I am honored that you trust me enough to express such distress. I hope in time to prove that I wish to be a trustworthy friend.

I have enclosed the one balm I know for sorrow.

Your Friend and Valentine

Hands vibrating, Meg opened the box folded from stiff paper. Within lay a marzipan dove, a symbol of rest. She removed the bird and found it sat in a nest of straw-like candied orange peels atop soft gingerbread. Spicy and sweet, it smelled like heaven. Beneath it all lay a folded azure linen handkerchief embroidered in the corner with an M—the linen soft as velvet, the handiwork impeccable.

She set the bird, nest, and handkerchief aside, then unfolded the paper box to find a watercolored willow tree that branched over the entire page, doves nested in its leaves. At the bottom was written, “Sugar for your sorrow, beauty for your soul.”

An anchor that lodged in her heart sank steadily away. No one had ever attempted to comprehend her to such a degree or offer so meaningful a gift to soothe her distress.