Page 30 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

At nine o’clock, Mr. Sloan entered his shop. He greeted everyone in his usual jovial manner, but his eyes lingered on Meg for a beat too long. Had he noticed she assembled a man’s frock coat? It was folded in her lap, so he likely could not distinguish its shape. She tried to smile, then hunched over her work. She heard his footsteps cross the room and looked up to see him examine the log she’d created. She bowed down, concentrating on pressing the needle with her thimble finger through the thick fabric. Her fingers slipped over the sharp end. She pressed them into a cake of beeswax and secured the needle again between tacky fingers.

She chided her racing heart. Of what had she to be ashamed? The workshop improved under her hand, the apprentices were happier for knowing where to concentrate their efforts, and they all were accomplishing more in less time. She drew herself upright.

The door connecting Mr. Sloan’s home to the tailor shop opened.

“Good morning to you.” Old Master Sloan entered wearing nothing but his breeches, as confident as a king entering his throne room.

The younger Mr. Sloan darted to his father’s side, taking the older man by the elbow. “Father, where is Miss Henton?”

Where, indeed? Torn between helping Mr. Sloan and finding Grace, Meg remained frozen.

“Who?” The old man did not wait for a reply but shook off his son and climbed shakily onto the sewing table. “What are you doing, young man?” he asked Johnathan.

“I am sewing a waistcoat.”

“But you’ve cut it in half!”

“I am working the left half while Freddy sews the right.”

The old man scowled. “No. You must create the garment entire, else it be inconsistent. Let me have it.”

Mr. Sloan tried again to take hold of his father’s arm. “Let me help you back to the house.”

“You have made a mess of our trade, my son. I hardly turned my back and already you’ve forgotten the proper methods.” He scanned the room, catching Meg’s eye. “And what is that woman doing here?”

The younger Mr. Sloan closed his eyes as his father spun on his backside and dropped his legs to the floor.

Meg’s heart squeezed as much for old Sloan as for his son. How to help? The old man approached her. “Shouldn’t you be with the needlewomen?” He picked up the frock coat from her lap. “What are you… Peter. What have you done?” He took the coat from Meg’s lap and dangled it in the direction of his son. “What treachery is this?”

Mr. Sloan gently removed the coat from his father and returned it to Meg. “Father, I have a special project for you.” He put his arms around his father’s naked shoulders and attempted to guide him toward the door, but his father shook him off.

Meg set her work aside and approached the old man, whose voice rose with his increasing agitation. What was the rhyme he always repeated? It seemed to calm him.

“I’ll not go anywhere until this place is set to rights.” Old Mr. Sloan’s chest heaved, his breaths coming fast and deep.

Meg opened her mouth, if only for distraction. “You are quite right, sir. Please, tell us what we can do.” She took both his cold hands in hers and looked into his pink rimmed eyes, praying he would calm.

“I…” His breath came in fits.

Meg glanced at the younger Mr. Sloan, whose habitual cheer faded against shadowed eyes and a wilting smile. Her heart wrenched to think of the anxiety he must feel. Well, he was teaching her and showed no anger at her work on the frock coat. She would help him in return, as was fair.

“Master Sloan.” She hesitated. “ ‘The tailor he sat cross-legged, A needle and goose at hand; Stitch, stitch, stitch from morn till night, To clothe a naked land.’ ”

Young Mr. Sloan gave her a puzzled look. That wasn’t right.

She tried again. “ ‘Baker, barber, tailor, man, Cobbler, weaver, tinker tan.’ ”

From behind came Freddy’s voice, offering another version. “ ‘Tinker, tailor, Soldier, sailor, Rich man, poor man, Beggar man, thief.’ ”

Still not his rhyme, but anger fell from Master Sloan’s expression and his breath slowed.

Johnathan tried another verse. “ ‘Four and twenty tailors, Went to kill a snail; The best man among them, Durst not touch her tail⁠—’ ”

“ ‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,’ ” Meg interrupted, suddenly remembering the rhyme was not about tailors. “ ‘If ifs and ands were pots and pans, There’d be no work for tinkers’ hands.’ ”

Old Master Sloan nodded and began to chant along. Soon, the apprentices joined. Master Sloan clapped his hands in time with the words and grinned, the hairs on his face almost obscuring his smile. Meg must ask Grace to trim the man’s beard.

The chanting stopped as Mr. Sloan’s father broke into applause, and his son made his appreciation known to the room with a wave of his hand. To Meg he said, “That was kind. You are ready witted.”