Page 12 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

Meg hadn’t, but her heart sank; this was not fabric to experiment with. Though her fingers tingled, she didn’t dare touch it.

Mrs. Gainsworth opened a drawer and produced a stack of stiff paper. “Sit and look,” she whispered, as if they shared something improper.

Meg examined charcoal sketches of women’s clothing from various vantage points, then glanced at Mrs. Gainsworth. “These are of your hand?”

“And you must make them. I have so many ideas.”

Her enthusiasm struck a chord. Meg wanted to see this woman’s dreams realized; few fancies found their substance. But in this case, Mrs. Gainsworth’s vision could become a reality, and Meg would enable that bit of magic. Practically speaking, this success could lead to valuable patronage when her shop opened. She slogged through self-doubt and cast it aside. “Most assuredly. Which design do you have in mind for this fabric?”

Mrs. Gainsworth laid cards on the floor one at a time and described the gown she envisioned, taking pieces from each drawing. Then she placed the final illustration in Meg’s hand—a robe à la française, a more formal, structured version of a sacque. The ingenious, daring conglomeration of Mrs. Gainsworth’s own imagination was stunning.

“I must have it by the Valentine’s festival.” Mrs. Gainsworth gave a toss of her head. “We are hosting, you see.”

Perhaps if every needlewoman in Mr. Sloan’s shop assisted with the confection and labored through the night, they might finish in time. In addition to extensive embroidery, there were pleats and ruffles, lace and ribbons enough for a dozen common gowns.

“Have you a coordinating petticoat?” Meg hoped to reduce the work.

Mrs. Gainsworth moved the pink silk to reveal creamy white satin. “I’d like it quilted to mimic the embroidery of the sacque.”

“And this?” Meg pointed to the card where Mrs. Gainsworth had drawn a stomacher.

“Quilted as well. Same fabric.”

“A gown this intricate may require more than five weeks. If you had a petticoat from another gown…”

Mrs. Gainsworth drooped like a flower deprived of water. “My heart is set on a quilted petticoat.”

“Can you make do without the beading here, or the trail of ribbons, or this gathered lace?”

“I do not think I can. Are you saying it cannot be done?”

“Can you make any concessions? We can add whatever you wish later.” Given time, Meg could make each embellishment herself.

Mrs. Gainsworth stared at her drawing. “No. I cannot.” She shoved the card at Meg and stood before a long mirror, turning this way and that, as if seeing herself in the gown she fantasized about. “Dobbs, help me with this?” she called, tugging at a pin fastening her gown to its stomacher. A lady’s maid appeared and began undressing her mistress.

The matter seemed settled. Mrs. Gainsworth would have her gown. Meg pulled a strip of pin-studded linen from her pocket and draped it around her neck. Her chest tightened as she reached for the silk, cool and heavy between her fingers. She draped it around Mrs. Gainsworth’s shoulders and began pinning it into shape.

She dared not make a single cut, hoping the pinning alone would be enough to begin, rudimentary though it was. With some practice on her own clothes and having created a few simple gowns for Grace, Meg took her time, pinning and unpinning, marking and measuring, until the silk took shape.

While she worked, Mrs. Gainsworth guided her, changing her mind about the width of the panniers, the number of pleats, the placement of future ribbons. While the indecision might have frustrated her another time, today Meg appreciated the practice.

When Meg had done her best, Mrs. Gainsworth examined the result. “I believe you will do.”

Not high praise, but a warm spark ignited and glowed in Meg’s chest. If nothing else, the process brought forth a hundred questions for Mr. Sloan. Perhaps now she knew what to ask, he might struggle to continue dodging her questions and requests.

Mrs. Gainsworth examined the back of the gown. “Perhaps I was wrong about wanting a robe à la française. A French sacque might better suit the occasion.”

Meg’s heart dipped. At this rate, Mrs. Gainsworth might require the entire five weeks simply to decide upon what she wanted.

4

Peter reviewed the servants’ measurements, each recorded in a neat ledger half an hour past. Where was Miss Cooper? It was folly to send her untrained into Mrs. Gainsworth’s lair, but what else could be done?

The door to the parlor banged open. Miss Cooper entered, a hint of triumph on her lips, a mound of silk held so high it nearly obscured her face. “Come along. I fear if she dresses quickly, she will find us and alter the style of this gown again.”

She bent to lay the silk on a sofa, a coil of rusty hair escaping her mobcap. “The wrapper?”

Peter pulled linen from his bag, and together they folded Mrs. Gainsworth’s fabric and secured it inside.