Page 38 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

He smiled, a languid, quiet grin that resonated with the slow loosening of her chest. He appeared genuinely pleased to be helping her become a dressmaker. She found herself returning his smile, caught in a stretch of gentle ease, of kinship. The moment lasted a beat too long. She enjoyed the feeling too much. She stood. Mr. Sloan cleared his throat and followed her from the room.

After a full day beside her mentor, Meg learned the exact angle of Mr. Sloan’s jaw better than the method for sizing a robe à l’anglaise. Indeed, she memorized the lines around his eyes when he smiled and the slope of his nose. His looks were a distraction she must overcome.

At her kitchen table, she held a letter secured with a nondescript seal, her name scrawled across the front. She snapped the wax and unfolded the page. The bottom edge was rough, as if torn from a ledger, but the sender had made use of it by sketching tents scattered across a stretch of land. People huddled in groups, lanterns swung, and paths stretched from the field into the distant forest—an impressive amount of detail for so crude a medium. It portrayed the Saint Valentine’s festival, conveying movement and a celebratory mood. In the center, a figure warmed herself near the bonfire. Meg squinted. It was she, wearing a gown in the same color as the one she and Mr. Sloan had perfected.

She stared at the drawing.

Whoever her valentine was, he knew her and admired her new gown, had taken time to settle this image in his mind’s eye.

She shook off the sentiment and read the poem. Snorting, she tossed it aside. Who had time for such silliness?

“What is funny?” Grace asked from the counter, where she kneaded bread.

“This valentine business. It seems mine courts me out of obligation but promises to be constant until Easter releases him from the burden.”

“He paints a beautiful bird. What does he say?”

“It is a poorly done poem.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“It does not merit such distinction.” But Grace’s comment prompted Meg to examine the perfectly blended colors that made up the bird, which Grace hadn’t sent to her valentine after all. Meg knew enough of watercolors to recognize the painting was not the work of moments. The artist had allowed the page to dry and returned three or four times to add color and texture. While his poem indicated a dismissive attitude, the bird and the sketch said something different.

“Don’t be a dull blade,” Grace urged.

“Alright, but prepare your ears for assault.” Meg read:

O Valentine, on thee mine lot is cast,

Mine purpose fixed; I am steadfast.

Tradition obliges me to woo,

Flatter and charm, court and pursue.

O Valentine, grant me to amuse

’Til at season’s end thou may accuse

My ev’ry fault save inconstancy,

Then, pardon my deficiency.

Grace was in fits. “How can you be blind to the fun? We might take the festival to London and charge a participation fee.”

“It reads like a warning.”

“Or an apology.”

“Fortunately for both of us, I am not eager to be courted. I wager he will give up. Perhaps I’ll leave him a note informing him he needn’t waste his efforts.”

Grace fisted her hands into the dough and pushed. “Don’t do that. Let’s figure out who he is.”

“I do not wish to know. If you discover his identity, do not tell me. In some matters, I prefer ignorance.” Meg glanced again at the drawing. Whoever this man was, he’d captured her in an unguarded moment, seen her as she rarely saw herself. Who could know her so well? She carefully folded the letter and set it aside. She would never admit her treacherous thoughts to Grace, but she found herself intrigued. What mystery would her valentine send her next?

“I forgot,” Grace said. “You have a letter from Samuel. My head is in the clouds due to my own lovesick heart. I embroidered my valentine a handkerchief.”

“A true romantic.” Meg rolled her eyes but smiled at Grace’s exaggeration. She found the letter and unsealed it with more anticipation than she had her valentine. Samuel’s handwriting improved with every letter. Though they saw one another each Sunday, he wrote every week.