Chapter 13 #2
Meg had little expected that and hated its truth. She felt like her mother, ingratiating herself to the wealthy to line her pockets, unable to fend for herself.
“I cannot depend upon my guardian.” She had not meant to speak with such desperate vehemence, nor to let her voice break. She scratched her chin to hide its quivering.
Silence joined them, drowned by the turbulence of her thoughts. It must work, this plan of hers, to pay for all her needs and Samuel’s, to earn the right to hold her head high because she contributed to the world.
“You have parents, I assume? And a brother—people who care for your happiness and who will remain steadfast? I am alone and must see to my own survival. Think what happens to women who have no one upon whom they can rely. I am that woman, and I will spare no pains to scratch out a respectable place for myself.”
Miss Ivy’s eyes held an expression between pity and admiration. Meg took it, heedless of what she thought, determined to maintain her path.
“I’ll keep your secret,” Miss Ivy said. “But if your venture grows or if you hurt him in any way, I will recompense you tenfold.”
“I have no intention of doing ill by Mr. Sloan.”
Miss Ivy nodded, and they returned to the house.
The following week, Meg arrived home after a full day with the Downsbury gowns, which were bound to be finished right on schedule. She had received another valentine from the delivery boy as she crossed the street, and she felt the paper weighing her pocket.
Grace was covered in flour, making enough tea biscuits to feed an army. “The old man eats nothing but these. I found Deborah’s recipe in his kitchen.”
“That is thoughtful.”
Grace winked. “I do what I can.”
“Is there any business I should help you with before I retire to my sanctuary?” Her shop was beginning to resemble a true storefront but required organizing.
Grace shook her head.
“I will be in my room should you require anything.”
“It’s not another valentine, is it?” Grace raised an eyebrow. When Meg refused to answer, she let out a cackle. “The cupid’s arrow struck true!”
Alone, Meg withdrew the thick page from her pocket and examined its intricate folds.
A puzzle purse, with a watercolored heart on one side and a pair of blue doves on the other.
She pulled a flap and opened the folds into a star shape, in the center of which was an endless love knot entwined with words. She held the verse to the light:
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy need:
If thou sorrow, he will weep;
If thou wake, he cannot sleep;
Thus of every grief in heart
He with thee doth bear a part.
These are certain signs to know
Faithful friend from flatt’ring foe.
A verse from The Passionate Pilgrim. She traced the trail of words that looped and twisted around the love knot.
It seemed her valentine hinted at a measure of mindfulness toward her well-being.
Her heart slowed and she closed her eyes, embracing an unexpected peace born of knowing somewhere, someone observed her, not with dubious intentions but with tender concern.
She slid her finger under the fold of the star and pulled the page flat, finding another square of paper inside. A letter:
My Dear Valentine,
Forgive me if my sentiments grow too forward, but as I never intend to reveal myself, I hope I may presume to speak as I find.
You have crossed my mind often this week, for I have seen evidence of your striving and determined efforts, which I have no doubt will meet their prosperous conclusion.
In your quiet hours do you doubt your quest, or are you certain of satisfaction in its end?
I wonder because—forgive my impertinence—you seem blind to your progress.
Perhaps your swift cutting through the waters of life disallows opportunity for pause.
I fear you are missing all the mastery you leave in your wake.
Your tireless labor inspires me. I dream of accomplishing a work I once believed unattainable.
Now I may have stumbled upon a key to unlock that impossibility.
I find myself unwilling to open that door, fearing that finding the treasure will somehow disappoint.
When I compare my anxiety to your endeavors, I feel foolish.
We are at odds. While I fear an attempt at obtaining my goal, you may never know you’ve conquered at all.
This is a poor excuse for a valentine. But I hope it will assure you that many admire you and cheer silently for your success.
Your Friend and Valentine
On the bottom of the page was drawn a ship, swollen sails driving it over water while various articles of clothing billowed into the wind.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or throw it into the fire.
It held the sting of truth and the salve of feeling truly known.
She had never possessed a friend so perceptive or compassionate, not even Grace.
But how could this mystery valentine see how hard she worked or what her objectives were?
How could anyone guess that her greatest fear was failure?
Unless he worked with her. Was it one of the apprentices?
Sloan himself? She laughed at that. She was nothing but an annoyance to the men across the street.
Perhaps Mr. Quincy? Although she could believe him capable of the silly poem she’d received the previous week, she could not picture him writing such an insightful valentine as this.
Without many clues to allow her to discern his identity, Meg forced her valentine from her mind.