Page 17 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

“Why am I learning of this only now?”

“I believe Mrs. Call didn’t want you to run after her. She told Miss Henton she is too old for the job.”

Knowing Mrs. Call, she’d said a great deal more than that. Peter ran his hand through his hair and sat down. Without someone to look after his father, he was finished.

“Miss Henton also wanted you to know she can cook for you and the other apprentices. She is familiar with your father’s ailment and will check on him from time to time until you find another housekeeper. Would you like supper this evening?” When he didn’t respond, she said, “She’s already making it. She doesn’t have enough to do. It would be no trouble.”

Her brow furrowed with what appeared to be genuine concern. While he had no desire to indebt himself to Miss Cooper, this offer was a godsend he could not afford to refuse. His father’s infamy among Gloucestershire housekeepers made finding competent help nearly impossible. He slid his sketchbook into a drawer and banged it closed.

“My father requires more than an occasional visit.” The man wandered the streets and flew into anxious, tearful fits. “Could Miss Henton spend most of the day with him?”

“I will have to discuss that with her, but she appeared pleased to have more work.” Miss Cooper’s hands clasped in front of her brown linen dress, the white fichu at her collarbone bright. Her mobcap sat perfectly straight. She chewed her lip. “In exchange for the use of my servant, you will instruct me in dressmaking. Properly. Stop dodging my questions, stop putting me off.”

He should have expected this. His father’s comfort was more important than anything, more than a favor to Miss Cooper—and denying the guild’s wishes. “Tomorrow, you may begin stitching Mrs. Gainsworth’s gown.”

“Not just Mrs. Gainsworth’s gown—I expect full partnership in every gown you create.”

“I must see to my father.” He hadn’t time to negotiate. Why couldn’t she simply accept what he offered?

“We are agreed, then,” she said as he left the room.

5

With the Saint Valentine’s festival three weeks away, Meg adjusted Mrs. Gainsworth’s gown. She treasured the privilege, for Mr. Sloan continued guarding his craft.

She pinned a quarter inch on either side of Mrs. Gainsworth’s shoulder blades. “Is that better?”

“Yes. Quite supportive.”

Meg examined every seam, searching for puckers or looseness.

“Are you pleased with the silhouette? Is it as you imagined?” Meg asked.

“It is better than I’d hoped. I cannot wait to wear it with all the finishings. Will you attend the festival?”

“Perhaps.” If the sleeves on her own gown stopped crumpling. Mr. Sloan proved a thorough and competent teacher, but Meg did not have nearly enough practice to perfect her own sacque.

“You must! I organized everything. There will be fires and food and dancing. Everyone will be there. And it’s so romantic, you know, though I am sure with your looks you have no shortage of suitors.”

“Indeed, I have no time to think of admirers,” Meg said, as Mr. Sloan’s face flashed in her mind. A startling, bothersome vision.

Mrs. Gainsworth looked at her with a critical eye. “You are a self-contained gentlewoman, but you need friends. Attending is the best way to become known to your neighbors. Everyone will be there.”

After Mrs. Gainsworth departed, Meg glanced at the clock. Approximately fifty-three minutes until Mr. Sloan reappeared. Meg had learned the hours Grace spent with the elder Mr. Sloan and when his son would leave the workroom to sit with his father. She used the information to her advantage, inserting herself into the workings of his shop in his absence.

Atop the sewing table, the apprentices drooped over their work. Each practically worshipped the master tailor, but their loyalty did not translate into strong work ethic. The night before, while sewing her festival gown, Meg had rehearsed what she would say to them. She cleared her throat. Their eyes remained on their work.

“Gentlemen.” She had determined that calling them boys might ruffle feathers. They swiveled toward her and all but clutched their work to their chests. She, a woman and an outsider, encroached on their domain, but she could not allow their prejudice to interfere with what must be done.

“In a private conversation, Mrs. Gainsworth confided her concern that her livery will not be finished in time.” If this wasn’t true, it should be. “She asked that I do everything possible to ensure the garments are completed punctually. Me? Can you imagine?” She laughed and pressed a hand to her chest. A positive lie told with requisite astonished humility. She appealed to the senior apprentice. “Giles, you must help where I am lacking. What can be done? I hate to disappoint Mrs. Gainsworth, and we all know the import of this commission.” Her voice pitched small and pleading, a tone that made her want to crawl from her skin, but the apprentices had not turned from her apparent distress.

Giles dropped his work onto his lap. “What do you mean, Miss? Aren’t we doing our best and following Master Sloan’s instruction?” He sounded bitter.

“Of course, I don’t mean to imply… Master Sloan is distracted and cannot properly advise. But you are quite capable, Giles.” He puffed his chest ever so slightly. Meg lowered her voice. “I wonder, is there a possibility of completing a garment in a day?” From her work as a needlewoman in London, she had learned that two men often divided a project, one sewing the left, the other the right. In this establishment, Mr. Sloan had them trace, cut, and sew an entire garment apiece—good practice for tailors who toiled alone, but not expeditious when orders piled up.

“Impossible.” Giles resumed stitching.

At least he was speaking with her.