Page 62 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

He clomped slowly down the stairs, wishing she might call him back, wanting to offer comfort. The temptation to reveal himself as her valentine clawed at him.

The following morning, Peter entered his shop to find that all his apprentices had arrived early to prepare in Miss Cooper’s stead now that she had gone to London. Easter came in a few days, and she would not be back in time to receive his faithful weekly valentine.

A few hours later, Simon the valentine courier delivered a letter. Peter tucked it into his breast pocket, savoring the anticipation of reading whatever it contained. When at last the apprentices left, he withdrew the missive.

Dear Valentine,

I’ve had a dreadful day and find myself unaccountably drawn to you, who seem to understand me.

Earlier today I reached for funds to pay the doctor who cared for my brother during a recent illness. I found nothing. Imagine my humiliation when obliged to explain that payment must wait, after insisting I pay him that moment. Immediately, I blamed an innocent, the thought of betrayal from one I consider dear too painful for imagining.

Over the course of the year, I have saved every penny to free myself from dependency upon my guardian. Today I learned that my dear friend, the one person whom I believed my true friend, stole from me and disappeared.

In London I provided her shelter from a dark situation when she most required it. I taught her to read and write. When my own fortunes changed, I delivered her from a horrible living situation and established her as a housekeeper. I paid a generous wage, though I felt the pain of every expense.

I am shaken by her disloyalty and by my feeling too much empathy for her decision. Would I have done the same if our positions were reversed? I fear the answer and what it reveals. Perhaps I value independence over relationships too much. I have scarce known a soul whom I could trust not to forsake me if opportunity presented a better option.

Pardon this depressing missive. It feels imperative I unburden myself to someone. You need not respond. Easter is upon us, and you are relieved from your obligation to me.

I am deeply grateful for your attentiveness.

Yours, etc.,

Margaret Cooper

She, aware the end of the season approached, had not asked for his identity. The simple honesty of her gratitude produced a glowing hush inside him. That she had selected him for such a confidence both pleased him and flooded him with sorrow for her loneliness. It pained him that she thought herself so isolated that he, a nameless admirer, was the chosen receptacle of her grief. She preferred anything over becoming a burden. A more candid self-evaluation, he could not imagine. He certainly lacked the courage to look at himself with so frank an eye.

Forty yards of cotton lay in the dyehouse, prepared and ready to receive pigment. The kalam waited. An urgent desire to create something that expressed his admiration for Margaret Cooper pulled him from the tailoring table. With fifteen yards he could experiment. The remaining length must be perfect. Miss Cooper must have her chintz.

The kalam between his fingers, time and space disappeared. Only color and pattern remained. He consciously created for Miss Cooper, aware that the curve of her neck to jawline echoed the stem and base of the flowers, that the shape of her eyes lived in every leaf reaching from the vine. He captured the strength of her back, the tirelessness of her hands, the fortitude of her determination in the pattern’s dynamic repeat. He imbued the fabric with her softness, the gentle care she took of her brother, the thoughtful compassion she demonstrated when his father died. He colored her past in deep purple shadows that strengthened and contrasted with the sunrise of floral hues signifying her promising future. The cloth would hold her when he could not, express what he was beginning to understand. He wanted to display it for her, allow her to see what he saw, feel what he felt.

The door flew open followed by Lucius’s resonant voice. “We’ve come to fetch you and will not hear… Merciful powers, Peter. What have you done? Charlotte, do you see this?”

They paused, their identical slack-jawed incredulity making Peter wish to splay himself over his work, guard the intimate exhibit that revealed Miss Cooper and his regard for her. He also did not want anyone to know what he could do, else they would not understand his doing anything else.

“It’s gorgeous. How did you manage?” Charlotte asked.

Peter said nothing.

Lucius clamped his lips closed.

“He will badger you about it another day,” said Charlotte. “Now, you must prepare yourself. We are going to the tavern and will not take no for an answer.”

Everything in Peter urged him to return to his work, but his mother’s death had taught him not to ignore his friendships. He changed his clothes, covered himself in his father’s moss-colored frock coat, and followed them out the door.

Over their ale, Lucius turned to him. “We must discuss the matter too large to ignore. You’re printing chintz.”

“Ineptly,” Peter said.

“It looked excellent to me.” Charlotte rapped his knee.

“You have the method for Turkey red and will soon conquer the art of stamping. This is too great a thing to call a diversion.”

“It isn’t good enough. Look at it in the light of day, compare it to what India is producing, and you won’t be so impressed.”

“I know you, Peter,” Lucius insisted. “You will perfect it. Do you really think your grandfather would have his knowledge kept in the pages of a book? All his work, for what?”

“He spoke so earnestly when he bade me promise. It’s a memory I cannot shake,” Peter said.