Page 48 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

“Stick with that. If you find something you like better, do that.”

“Did you ever find something you liked better than tailoring?”

“Tailoring is the most noble work.”

“Why? Without vegetables, people might starve.”

“I do not mean to insult your occupation. But clothing is both necessary and an expression of oneself. We tell others who we are and what we value by the fabrics we choose, the color, the cut. Is your waistcoat silk or linen or wool? Are your cuffs embroidered? Are your buttons gold-toned or fabric-covered? A shepherd would not dress like a barrister but might outline his buttonholes in scarlet thread. He is restrained by means and profession, but so is any member of the House of Lords.”

His father’s oration continued, stew abandoned, his arms flung above his head and down his front as he discussed the art and science of a well-cut frock coat. Peter had never enjoyed the monologue more. The high color in his father’s cheeks, the animated body language—these were the words of a man passionate for his trade. Peter loved that his father enjoyed his vocation so well. He wished he could feel the same. Tailoring had been an adequate career, but he longed to paint cotton, not stitch it. But to what end? One did not begin an apprenticeship at the age of twenty-three.

Miss Cooper had begun at nineteen, a rare exception. He admired her for it. She pursued her aspirations relentlessly and possessed a sense for business he lacked. He imagined her shop, a bustle of activity, never chaos, with Miss Cooper at its center. A smudge of chalk across her cheek, a measuring ribbon at her neck, directing Miss Matilde as she fitted a gown. He would like to see that future with her. The thought startled him. When had he started wishing her success so fervently? He must remember it could be to the detriment of his own.

He had his hobby. The day before he’d taken his designs to the block cutters with new instructions derived from the knowledge he’d gained. When his father went to bed, he might try the pen. But he hesitated, afraid of what the attempt would lead to. He enjoyed the simplicity of merely existing in the belief that he might create chintz. He could smugly assume success sat at his fingertips while never having to admit failure. And if he did succeed, what then?

If he possessed a fraction of Miss Cooper’s courage, he might rebel against convention and pursue a new vocation. If he and his grandfather had not sealed their promise with Turkey red dye. If and if…

His father’s attention swiveled to Peter, eyes sharp on his clothing. “You are not dressed like a vegetable seller.”

Peter raised his brow and waited for his father to analyze each thread and conclude he was a tailor.

A tap sounded on the door. Peter excused himself and found young Simon beaming at him, arm extended with a letter. For the past five years Simon had distributed the parish valentines, a role for a boy who could keep a confidence. Though thirteen, he maintained the cherubic cheeks and flaxen hair of a much younger child.

“Is this from…?” Peter asked.

“Your valentine wished to reply.”

Miss Cooper had responded. Peter’s heart leapt to a march. The folded paper bore down upon his breast pocket as he and his father drank port, as he took his father upstairs to bed, as he tidied the quiet house. When nothing remained undone, he withdrew the letter. Instead of wax, she’d tied it with a length of fine silk cord twined in green and blue. He untied it and read:

Dear Valentine,

I have not decided whether your apt understanding of my character is charming or alarming. One does not like to be so anonymously understood.

A ponderous mood drives me to set down my thoughts. The poem you sent indicated your wish to be a friend. Forgive me for taking advantage of your offer. I want someone to know the truth of my burdens—not to solve my problems but to hold them with me. You have taught me there is solace in knowing someone else in the world is aware of my efforts, disappointments, and triumphs.

I offer the same comfort to you, should you find yourself willing to impart your struggles. As we are never to know the identity of the other, it is a safe friendship. I trust I do not need to ask for your confidence. I feel I have it.

I must make some conjectures regarding our differing positions. I surmise from your letter that you choose not to achieve your desire, fearing the thing you seek will disappoint you.

May I suggest the difference between us is necessity. Whatever your ambition, it does not seem to hinge between life or death, peace or suffering. If I fail, I am ruined, destined for separation from one I love. I must succeed. If I lack the ability to enjoy small triumphs, I do not regret it. My happiness does not depend on small achievements but one great victory to benefit my loved one. You may suggest I will not appreciate it. Perhaps you are right. Life never permits me complacency.

This is the burden I wish you to understand. While I enjoy dressmaking, adore it, I also labor out of fear. I dread failure so much that I hardly let myself consider it.

Thank you for your letter and for the gloves and the watercolors. I was wary of the tradition, but you have made receiving valentines palatable, even delicious. I do not know who you are or how you know me, but I have never felt so understood, and for that, I thank you.

With a hand extended in friendship, I remain,

Your Valentine

Peter had seen Miss Cooper’s script in the workroom, but on this missive she held a softer expression. The letter begged further questions. Why did she feel it necessary to succeed when Lord Halverton’s generosity, as Miss Henton said, prevented any risk of her poverty?

His attention moved to the papers he’d wished to show his father. Dread pressed him into inaction. He must overcome that.

He needed air and someone to confide in. Lucius it must be. Peter strode toward the river, each step taking him closer to the deafening roar of the mill.

“What’s afoot?” Lucius asked from behind his desk.

“I needed a walk, and the evening is fine.” Peter rubbed his hands near the fire.