Page 33 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

“He would have loved seeing you work with the stuff. Imagine his pride, watching from heaven as London shops fill with Sloan’s printed cottons.”

Peter shrugged away the suggestion. “I did not pull you aside to repeat the discussion I held with Mr. Hobbins. I must beg you to release me from our wager.”

Lucius stopped in surprise. “You’re choosing option two?”

“To walk home each week with Widow Tolbert?”

“You must walk home with whomever I choose for you.”

“I accept.”

Lucius beamed. “Miss Cooper.”

Peter scoffed. “No. She is the woman I’m trying to avoid. As she is my apprentice, it is unseemly for me to send valentines to her.”

“Call it fate. She’s perfect for you.”

“Perfect? She is a thorn in my side, a squeaking hinge, a wasp in the jam pot.” While his words did not precisely mirror his feelings, Peter would not make trouble with full honesty.

“Charlotte liked her. Miss Cooper is a woman who will never bore you. Clever, lively, handsome. As your brother by all but blood, you have my permission to propose marriage to her.”

Peter smiled, though his unease remained.

“I’ll tell you what,” Lucius said. “Send the valentines, but you needn’t reveal your identity unless you wish.”

“Give me another concession. Allow me to discontinue mid-March.”

“Never.”

“And what lucky woman will be the focus of your charms?”

“Widow Tolbert.”

“You’re joking.” Peter laughed.

“I wish I were.” Lucius grimaced. “I have already sent a card.”

“That is kind of you.”

Lucius glanced over at Peter. “If I can manage it, you too are capable of delivering some small note or token to Miss Cooper.”

Unlike Widow Tolbert, Miss Cooper was not covered in cat hair, did not smell of damp wool and mustard, and had not the stigma of mysteriously losing three husbands before the age of thirty-two. But sending love notes to his female apprentice unsettled his stomach.

“If you’re so interested in Miss Cooper, take her,” Peter said. As he made the offer, an image rose—Miss Cooper’s arms around Lucius, Lucius’s hands on her hips. Peter shuddered.

“Never,” said Lucius. “Names cannot be exchanged. It’s been a week. You must send her something tonight.”

Whatever would he give her? He didn’t know anything about her, though he’d seen her almost daily for months and she’d lived across the street for a year. He must observe and discover what she valued beyond dressmaking. There was no sense sending things she didn’t want.

“Have you received valentines yourself?” Peter asked.

“Not a one.”

“Neither have I. At least the ladies keep it simple for us.”

Seldom had Peter or Lucius received a valentine in return. Custom held the gentleman far more responsible for maintaining the tradition.

Upon his return home, Peter thanked Miss Henton and checked that his father was breathing before stepping into the dye workshop. It smelled terrible. Ammonia, dung, urine—every foul odor combined. He passed mortars and pestles, thick aprons, and a cauldron, making for the shelf at the back where his grandfather’s journals stood in chronological order, bindings flaky, paper scraps fanning from the pages. The newest volume cracked open in his palm. Not a word scarred the pages, but it fell open to a six-inch square of cotton as red as an April tulip.