Page 75 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

“He refuses to give me any hint of his identity. I know that he is in trade, close to my age, and unattached, but too many fit that description.”

A wistful smile played over her lips and drove him mad. Was it possible to be jealous of himself? He must bide his time. When her apprenticeship ended, he decided, her valentine would gift her chintz, and she would know.

“He painted a sunset,” she continued, “at the bottom of the page.”

“Well?”

She met his look. “It is from our street, a silhouette of town as seen from outside our doors.”

A hot panic seized Peter’s heart. “And what does that tell you? Other than the fact that he knows where you live.”

“True, but he must be familiar with the area. He could work on this street or have reason to visit often.”

“Does that narrow it down for you?”

“Declaring it aloud feels a step too far.”

“But you have your suspicions?”

“I know you do.” Her eyes sharpened their focus on his face.

It almost felt as if she knew and was attempting to extract the truth. He could tell her, confess his feelings, be done with the charade. Take her into his arms, press his lips to hers. How simple, how easy to open his mouth and say, “I am your valentine.” His heart began beating in his throat, confining the words to his chest. His mouth grew dry, but he opened it⁠—

“I have calls to make and must leave you here. Good day, Mr. Sloan.”

He watched her knock on a cottage door and disappear inside. The moment suspended, his body feeling the cool absence of her before he registered what had happened. His mouth was open, ready with a confession. Like a soldier readied for a battle that never came, he stood motionless.

“Ah,” he groaned aloud, spinning away. He had wasted a moment he could not retrieve. This error was entirely his own, wholly preventable, and entirely a matter of nerve. He kicked a rock down the street and watched it tumble between the uneven cobblestones. How his father would chide him, and how Peter wished that man still could.

He wandered home and sat at his desk, staring at the wall, repeating Miss Margaret’s playful, inviting conversation, his own stupidity clarifying with each reprise. His attention fell on the account books. He may as well take Margaret’s advice and look into them.

Aware that the surge of payments dwindled, he began searching for the cause. Peter thumbed through the ledger, finding Margaret’s handwriting all over it. Few outstanding payments remained.

He turned to the newest page where orders were listed beside calculated payments. They fell short of the usual monthly income. He ticked through the work: jackets, suits, breeches, waistcoats, stays, and two gowns. There lay the discrepancy. In a normal month, he averaged over a dozen gowns, as women traveled from every corner of Gloucestershire to see him.

He glanced up from the page at Margaret’s front door, where two women happened to exit, large packages in hand, parcels that fairly resembled carefully bundled gowns. He watched Miss Matilde smile and flutter around them.

What was Miss Cooper about?

He had entertained the possibility that she would take most of his female clientele once she opened her shop, but his pride told him he was too talented for that. Were the women in Gloucestershire waiting for Margaret to complete her apprenticeship? Or was there something else afoot?

The woman who wrote valentine letters with such tenderness would not strategize to overthrow him. He knew her, saw the depth of her, the tenderness beneath the protective shell she’d fashioned in the wake of old wounds. That woman would not betray him. Outside the valentine exchange, they had become friends.

Hadn’t they?

She and her valentine were confidants, but she did not know her master tailor and valentine dwelt in the same frame.

He shook his head and put the ledger away. There must be a proper explanation, one he would surely receive eventually. Until then, he must double his efforts to mind the logistical matters of his shop, lest his carelessness lose everything his father had worked for. He would find a way to manage his responsibilities while laboring over his new dream, the chintz he would gift Margaret one day.

23

Meg insisted that James leave her at the crossroads. “I need to stretch my legs after a day’s travel.”

They had toured Foxmill School in Gloucester for the second time to determine its suitability for Samuel. On the first occasion, James proposed a series of changes, which the staff, who seemed genuinely concerned for Samuel and not merely because his guardian was an earl, had implemented. Meg and James agreed their young charge would enter school that fall. The cleanliness and the newly established, competent resident nurse pushed her consent. Samuel would attend school until Meg had enough money to support him and hire a tutor. In the meanwhile, he would spend the majority of his time with James.

The sky mirrored the painting her valentine had created for her. Meg took in the view as she ambled home in the coral hours of dusk, a swell of satisfaction rising in her at all she’d become since her arrival in Stroud.

Meg’s business flourished. The young ladies from Havenwood worked with rare diligence, and their customers increased. As Meg merely consulted with clients and instructed the needleworkers who did nothing more than add embellishments or make alterations, she consoled herself she made no breach of contract. Her growing clientele and the rate at which the money multiplied testified to the truth at the center of her success. Mr. Sloan’s talent could not compete with the demand for female dressmakers. Women preferred another woman to take their measurements and hear their preferences. Indeed, many of her customers insisted they would order no more gowns until Meg opened her shop, their satisfaction thus apparent.