Page 99 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

“But you were right. I am better suited to printing cotton. There is no sacrifice in wanting another’s success.”

She closed her eyes, the sentiment too beautiful to accept. “Those are kind words. I will treasure them.” She extended her hand, not wanting whatever the box contained but needing him gone.

He hesitated to relinquish the gift. “I am afraid your answer does not satisfy my curiosity. I have puzzled over your character for months now. Your letters revealed a woman of strength and courage, yet your desperate actions hint at a tendency for dishonesty. I spoke with James before traveling here, and you seem to have implied that you don’t believe anyone in Stroud cares for you, the most popular shop owner in the county.” He shook his head. “I am missing some vital piece, and I will not rest until I have it.”

Meg stared at him, amazed by how much he cared to see her—the real her, as he always had as her valentine.

She bit her lip as she considered. “Samuel, would you like to take a walk with Mr. Sloan and me? We could visit Rosemary Lane, see how it’s gotten on without us.”

Samuel made a face, likely wondering why she would ever want to return to the dirty place. “I suppose. But then can we come back and open your present? Mr. Sloan wouldn’t let me peek at it.”

Meg laughed. “Of course.” She turned to Peter. “I think I know the piece you are missing. Let me show you.”

34

With each step toward the home Margaret and Samuel once shared, Peter felt her tense against him. They crossed London Bridge toward poverty evidenced by the increasingly shabby accommodations and sour scent, the throng of stooped shoulders dragging themselves about the day. A ragged woman swept a drooping stoop with quiet dignity as two young children pawed the hem of her skirt. The atmosphere hung bleak.

He stole a glance at Margaret, watched her chin rise a fraction as she returned his look. They stopped in front of a squat house surrounded by crumbling paint scattered like so many snowflakes.

“It’s smaller than I remember,” said Samuel.

Margaret wrapped her arm around her brother and pulled him toward her. “It feels a lifetime ago.”

Peter examined the house, an afterthought squeezed between two larger buildings with small windows covered in soot. This had been their home, a lifeless looking thing. How long had Margaret been on her own caring for Samuel? Foolish of him to never consider her past beyond the little she’d told him.

“How long did you live here?” Peter asked.

“A few years,” Margaret answered.

“And before then?”

“We had better accommodations but moved here a year or so before mother died.”

“And you were—what—fifteen when she passed on?” Appalled at his stupidity, the truth of Meg’s life sunk heavily into his belly. Her desperation to succeed was more than ambition. To her, it meant survival, and not solely for herself, but for this boy for whom she cared deeply.

The three of them stood unmoving in front of the dismal building as life moved around them—a baby’s cry, a hawker advertising his wilted produce, a drunk man scraping his way home. What a place to land, young and in care of another child.

“How did you manage?” he whispered.

“By making myself useful.”

He frowned, not understanding.

Meg began to tell a story of one day soon after moving into Rosemary Lane. She had been delivering a bundle of freshly laundered linens when a man approached her, mistaking her for her mother and planting an uninvited kiss on her lips. Meg had fled and demanded an explanation from her mother, who unabashedly told her why she slept during the day and went out at night. Meg was horrified, but her mother laughed and said if she were not interested in such work, she must make herself useful.

“The insinuation took hold of me, a nightmare, impossible to shake. So I took in laundry and mending by the barrel and searched for any work that might be deemed useful. It was always needlecraft I adored. I obtained work at a dress shop and began dreaming of becoming a dressmaker. With a trade, I could support myself without becoming like my mother.”

She described how she’d saved her pennies in a jar to gain an apprenticeship, but when she’d presented the jar to her mother and explained her ambition, her mother had said the money would not be enough. Her mother promised to keep the jar safe while Meg filled another, and then another. Her mother told her she’d written to the dressmaker and been told Meg’s savings were not enough. Setting aside coins became harder when Samuel entered her care, and more so when her mother got sick, but Meg persevered.

And then her mother was dead. Among sordid love letters from married lords, Meg discovered a sealed letter addressed to the dressmaker. She found no evidence of the money jars.

“I ceased my work as a needlewoman to look after Samuel,” Meg finished, “and Grace taught me how to sell gin to get by.”

Peter’s imagined grasp of Miss Cooper’s character faltered, crumbled, and reconstituted itself into something stronger than the beautiful, determined woman he’d thought he understood. Her determination was born of experience he could not fathom.

Margaret’s voice startled him. “Before Grace, my mother instructed”—her voice took on a mocking pitch—“ ‘Trust no man’s promises, but take as much as you can when it is offered. Keep your money well hidden. Become useful.’ I thought I eschewed her wisdom.”

Her chin trembled. She pressed her lips together, looking down at Samuel. Peter mimicked the gesture she offered Samuel and wrapped his arms, first one, then the other, around Margaret, taking Samuel in as well.