Page 86 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

James’s face softened, his eyes heavy as though examining something wretchedly broken.

“You’ve ruined him,” Meg said, feeling a sting behind her eyes. “You don’t know what I’ve sacrificed to afford the possibility of keeping him.”

“Whatever do you mean, Margaret?”

Meg covered her face with her hands. The sob that had been growing erupted, ugly and breathless. She could not pull in air, nor spare herself the humiliation of the moment.

A heavy arm fell across her back, and she was pulled into her brother’s chest, the wetness of her face surely ruining his silk waistcoat. Tears ran thick, like an ocean held at bay for all the years since her mother had left her. She cried for the girl she’d been, her innocence broken with the knowledge that her mother lived at the mercy of men’s baser appetites. She wept for Grace’s theft, for her own dishonesty, and for the pain of wanting to trust James but falling short.

She cried for what she’d lost in betraying Peter.

When at last she caught her breath, she said, “Forgive me.”

“Not at all. What troubles you so? I can see it’s not just Samuel.” He led her to a seat and sat beside her, his gold eyes full of compassion she could not meet.

“I have done terrible things. I don’t think I can mend them.” She explained everything, including Peter’s identity as her valentine. “I think I fell in love with him,” she admitted. “I have cruelly used him. Perhaps ruined Sloan Tailoring in my eagerness to rise. I told myself I was doing it for Samuel, to provide for him.” Her voice caught. “And I think I was, but my motives were primarily selfish, simply to prove I could, to show I am not…”

“Your mother?”

She nodded, tears wetting her face. “But I’ve showed that I am like her, willing to do anything to gain my desire.”

He offered her a handkerchief. “One might say you’ve done the man a service.”

Meg laughed and blew her nose. “I cannot see how.”

“Peter Sloan is an artist. He does not belong in a tailor shop.”

“True. I have often thought as much, told him so, but it does not change what I have done. He values Sloan Tailoring, and I have harmed him. I was numb to his interests when intent on my own. No thought in my head urged me to consider his feelings or his future. I’ve been selfish.”

“One learns by experience,” James said. “We have all done our share of ill deeds.”

“Except for you, James. You are priestly in your sinlessness.”

His laughter brought the tug of a smile to Meg’s lips. She sat in it for a moment, allowing it to loosen the shame that clutched her, exchanging the heaviness she’d grown accustomed to for a hesitant softening. “What do you suggest I do?”

“I wish Louisa were here to help me console you. But I imagine she would suggest you go to him, tell him how you feel.”

That she could not do. Her actions were unforgivable. The best she hoped for was a gradual easing as they met on the road or passed in church. “I will think about it,” she said.

“Good. Before we return to the parlor, let us speak of Samuel’s future. You have the papers concerning your trust? I’d like to review them with you again.”

Meg tried to explain the futility of reexamining the complicated legal documents, but James insisted until she found the papers, forgotten in the back of a drawer, and tossed them at him.

He returned them to her. “Examine the terms. I’m convinced you are trying not to understand them.”

She took the document reluctantly and began to read. Was he right?

The meaning was clouded in dense, formal language—“hereby agreed and declared,” “accruing interest and dividends,” “residue of monies repaid upon mortgage”—words she and Grace might have ridiculed.

She groaned. “I am no solicitor.”

“You’re more intelligent than any solicitor I have met.” He took the paper and began reading aloud, pausing after each paragraph to ask for her interpretation.

To her surprise, she found she could summarize each one with full comprehension. In the middle of one sentence, she interrupted him. “I understand. I own shares of the East India Company and a few other businesses, as well as a portion of the mortgages on one of your properties. There is also a sum of money that earns interest, which I may use as I please, but not the principal.” The full picture was beginning to take form, like a watercolor receiving its final layers of paint.

James read the final few paragraphs. He could not retract, command, or control the funds. She held them in full possession. Her wealth would extend over generations, remain her own even after marriage. All this time, she had never truly been beholden to her brother’s whims of generosity. She had always been free. And she knew that James had arranged a nearly identical contract for Samuel, save for which specific shares he owned.

The picture was finished. “You aren’t paying for Samuel’s tuition. He is paying for it with his own trust,” she said.