Page 83 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

“Thank you, Miss Cooper. Good afternoon, Jane.” Peter shot for the door. Stroud took its feast days seriously and no one missed Michaelmas, a day beginning with a fair and ending with food. It marked the end of the harvest wherein summer accounts were settled and quarter-day rents came due. Having no business with Miss Cooper, he carried no obligation to see her on Michaelmas or any other day.

Safe within the walls of his shop once more, he found everything on the list except the snips. He would not return to The Golden Thimble, however, and made do with borrowing from the apprentices. At the end of the workday, he scribbled a quick note, took it across the street, and slid it under Margaret’s kitchen door.

That night, Peter reviewed Lord Halverton’s pages and found a fair proposition allowing time to set up a shop and train artisans. He did not ask to be a partner in the enterprise as Lucius had, but he offered instead the means by which Peter could build it himself. He expressed eager willingness to propose a change to the calico laws that prohibited chintz, preparing the way for it to be produced locally and put a slow but certain end to its illegal importation. A neat table of sums completed the proposal: investment, initial cost estimates, sources of cotton with varying prices. It recalled Meg with sharp clarity. He shook her from his mind and compared the figures with his own evaluation. Lord Halverton had done his research. The terms were sound.

Excitement lifted his heart to a patter. Could he? Dare he?

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

That silly rhyme plagued him, but the words rang true. Never a beggar or a wisher, Miss Cooper knew how to take hold of what she wanted. Her courage astounded Peter, from the moment she audaciously presented herself as a female apprentice. That move held far more potential scandal and risk than agreeing to Lord Halverton’s scheme.

He turned over a sheet of paper and began sketching an outline, reimagining his workshop again into a dyehouse. Though he did his best, the task required an expert, someone more familiar with the workings of a large dyehouse. He appreciated that Halverton’s proposal left him largely independent, but a knowledgeable partner was essential if he were to truly chase his dream.

Since his father’s death, Peter had begun to reconsider the vow he’d made with his grandfather. Although he sympathized with his grandfather’s pain, the promise felt more and more like a spiteful secret. Regardless of whatever Peter stood to gain, he would defy all his parents represented if he withheld this wealth of knowledge that might bless an entire community. His grandfather had given him a great gift, but it would remain a burden if Peter did not share it. While there remained something painful in acknowledging the error in his grandfather’s grudge, Peter knew one way to repair it.

He grabbed his grandfather’s journal and left Sloan Tailoring.

Half an hour later, Peter’s grip tightened over the book as Mr. Hobbins’s fingers closed over one side of it. Peter’s grandfather’s voice echoed a warning that the guild did not deserve the knowledge. But he knew Mr. Hobbins was a good man. Peter’s confidence held, and he let his hand fall. This remained the proper course.

Mr. Hobbins settled into a chair. He cracked the book open, his brows pinching as he read over the instructions outlined for creating Turkey red and stamping cotton after the Indian fashion. Peter paced, his insides knotting each time he glanced at his grandfather’s journal, the same that carried two crimson fingerprints. Peter’s restlessness lay not in sorrow, regret, or self-reproach but rather an unsettling expansion at this abandonment of an inherited false moral code.

“So much preparation? I scarcely imagined.” Mr. Hobbins spoke this to himself, but soon enough he began peppering Peter with questions, who stood ready to answer.

Until that moment, he had not been aware to what extent he defined himself by the grudge his grandfather had relinquished to his care. Now, the walls that restricted with whom to do business, trust, or befriend toppled and crashed, leaving him directionless. Lost in liberation, Peter wondered at the terror he felt—but also the exhilaration. Perhaps Meg felt the same rush of anxiety and excitement with each fear she conquered. As soon as he settled the basis of his plans with Mr. Hobbins, he would write Lord Halverton to accept his proposal and insist that Mr. Hobbins be included in the offer. They would navigate this unknown territory together.

27

Folded paper shot from beneath the door across the floor and tapped against Meg’s foot. She placed her fork beside her plate and picked it up, aware the Havenwood ladies were watching her.

That Monday marked one week from the day The Golden Thimble had opened. They celebrated with extra courses for the evening meal. At the rate orders entered the shop, they would require a cook soon.

Meg recognized the script. “It’s from Mr. Sloan.” She unfolded the page—a vast sheet torn from one of his larger sketchbooks—and found a brief two lines.

Miss Cooper,

The thread snips are unfound. May I request your assistance?

P

“He’s looking for his thread snips.”

“Well, go find them for him.” Miss Matilde giggled.

Meg pushed her plate away. “I have other correspondence needing my attention, so I will respond by letter.” She retreated to the office in her shop and riffled through the tray of correspondence until she found the letter from a tutor she had enquired after. With everything in order, a shop running well, many hands to work, and some money saved, Meg wrote a letter inviting the tutor to begin teaching Samuel in a fortnight.

Her heart stuttered with hope when she turned to Peter’s letter. A feeling she could ill afford. Using the same paper he had written on, she responded.

Dear Peter,

Giles sometimes took them into the measuring room. If you can’t find them there, ask the needlewomen.

M

The following morning, she made a quick errand of sending out her correspondence, finishing with slipping her note to Peter back under his shop door. Not an hour later, Matilde called her over from consulting with a customer, fluttering her lashes and waving the same paper at her, which contained a response.

Miss Cooper,

All but one of my needlewomen departed for your establishment. Still no snips.