Page 90 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

“Louisa.” Meg was truly happy to see her. “Miss Matilde didn’t say it was you. I missed you on Sunday.”

“I wanted to surprise you. Look, I feel like myself again.”

“How pleased I am. And you’re more beautiful than ever. Are you serious about the gold brocade?”

“I promised to be one of your first customers.”

Meg grinned. Perhaps she could grow accustomed to having a sister. “What is the occasion?”

“I want something lovely for when I feel plain. You see, I will have a baby in late winter.”

Meg gasped, real joy flooding her chest. She expressed her delight at the news before returning to business with vigor. “You require an everyday sort of gown, but it must be exceptional.” Meg considered what she knew of Louisa. She was a woman of deep feelings, exuberant even. What might she require when not feeling quite herself? “It must be comfortable, and I will make an extra-large pocket to go beneath. You may require…bonbons, perhaps? A great deal of them?”

Louisa laughed. “I am always hungry lately.”

“The dress must be loose of course, but supportive in the right places. No lace or ribbons, I think, but an elaborate stomacher.” Meg examined the pattern.

“Precisely. Shall we begin?”

Meg withdrew a ribbon to mark Louisa’s size and pulled it across her shoulders.

“How are you?” Louisa asked. “I heard things did not go your way with Samuel.”

“I… I’ll manage. Do you want your gown floor length or shorter for walking?”

“Something in between? I’m sure Samuel will be fine away at school, but how will you fare without him?”

She wouldn’t. His absence felt final. Meg marked the ribbon with the measurement from waist to two inches above the floor. “He doesn’t need me, and I shall grow accustomed to it.”

“He does, in a different way. James has noted the same thing, a sort of pulling away, a bid for independence.”

“He is nine.”

“But thinks he is twenty.” They shared a smile. “Perhaps you need him?”

The words twisted with painful truth. “I think the stomacher ought to be in a thread that matches the brocade—gold on cream?”

“Lovely.” Louisa rubbed her collarbone. “Meg, I am not wise. James will tell you I sometimes cannot resist flying headlong into disaster, but I know a broken heart when I see one, having experienced my own. I suspect you are not just worried about Samuel. James explained where you stand with Mr. Sloan.”

Meg set down the measuring ribbon with a sigh. The pain in her chest centered on the fact that everyone she needed and cared about did not need her. Peter had trained her but owned his own shop. James had funded her but did not miss the money. Samuel had become her reason but had chosen boarding school. Grace had betrayed her. She had given her affection to each of them, allowing them to hurt her. Peter’s last letter had been a resounding, final blow.

“I’m afraid Mr. Sloan does not wish to speak to me,” she said.

“My dear, you know how to chase after what you want; this shop is proof of that. You pursued this trade with steadfastness and boldness. Why not attend to your heart with equal ferocity?”

Meg’s voice became smaller. “I more than betrayed him.”

“You know better, now. Fix it.”

Louisa’s directness shook her as if she’d been awoken from a daze. No one understood Peter’s pain better than Meg, which echoed injuries she had borne in a language as familiar as a mother’s lullaby. Perhaps she could offer him something, a gift with no expectation of reciprocation.

She thought of the pattern he’d designed for her. If she fashioned it into a dress, others would want his chintz. Michaelmas came in just over a month, and nearly the whole town would attend the feasting and dancing that evening. Ladies would swoon over the fabric of the sacque. And when Meg told them Peter had made it, they would go to him and ask for their own chintz. His understanding of demand would give him the confidence he required to launch his own venture. As James had said, the man was an artist who did not belong in a tailor’s shop.

The idea buzzed in her chest as she finished Louisa’s measurements. She had seen Peter’s perfect pattern for her dress, but she could not replicate it from memory. Could she convince Arnold to snitch it for her? She could hardly wait to start the project, would not rest until that gown was finished. It would stand as her finest work, a tribute to her regard for Peter and his vast talent.

30

Peter caught a glimpse of Margaret moving through the distant throng. With her back to him, clad in a nondescript black cape, her decisive gait gave her away. He moved off the road and rested his back against the wall of the inn, the celebratory peal of church bells suddenly too loud in his ears. She pressed forward, away from him. Their paths had crossed too many times over the past weeks, and he lacked the fortitude for another encounter.