The Gentlewoman Apprentice (The Gentlewoman #5)

Chapter 1

The sharp clip of footsteps on cobblestone drew Meg’s gaze from the trunk upon the ground in front of her to the morning light at the mouth of the alley.

She stood outside her kitchen door, which opened onto the backstreet.

A warm glow from her windows and the graying dawn illuminated Mr. Peter Sloan, master tailor and the man from whom Meg was meant to learn dressmaking.

Her sham of an apprenticeship would end in disgrace if he discovered her enterprise—an eventuality that seemed likely, considering he lived across the street.

Perhaps she should devise a more discreet way to conduct business.

The lid of the wicker trunk slipped from her fingers and slammed closed before she could properly take an account of the trunk’s contents.

Mr. Sloan stopped and pivoted toward her.

Heart pounding, she stiffened and gave the barest nod.

Why was he out so early? She tightened her red knitted shawl against the January drizzle, tucking her hands into its folds.

Please, do not approach, she prayed.

“Fine morning.” His voice, too loud and too cheerful for the hour, made her jump.

She stepped in front of the trunk, drawing his eyes to it. Wouldn’t he love to catch her flouting guild rules?

“May I offer my assistance?” he asked, stepping toward her.

Ever obliging—except with what she most wanted. “No, thank you, sir. Good morning.” She spoke too fast, too high.

If he saw her drag the trunk inside, he would insist on helping, so she slipped into the kitchen and left it outside. With her back against the door, she squeezed her eyes shut and counted to five. Peeking through the curtained window, she came eye to eye with the man.

She flung open the door. “What are you doing, sir?”

He dropped the lid. How much had he seen? “Pardon me,” he stammered. “I…”

“You have no business searching my personal belongings.”

“I was merely curious, I swear, but of course that does not justify… Pray, forgive me.”

Perhaps he apologized in earnest, but his words rankled her. “Must I? For which offense?”

He had the cheek to grin, as if they were great friends sharing a delightful jest. Was he proud of his refusal to honor their contract?

After her half-brother had bullied the tailor’s guild into allowing her an unprecedented apprenticeship, she had waited nine months to begin.

Nine. A delay Mr. Sloan must have schemed.

She had finally entered training three months prior only to sit in a corner with finishing work like a needlewoman.

Although the other apprentices in the shop, all male, learned to measure, cut, drape, and stitch, she received no such instruction.

“Teach me dressmaking, and I will forgive all,” she said, glowering at him.

He coughed. “Of course. When I determine you’re ready, Miss Cooper.” He tipped his hat and was gone.

She pushed the trunk into her kitchen before opening it. The crate lay empty save her worn honor box, which she had used in London to collect payment for the gin she sold. Tension loosened with a heavy breath—nothing to give her away.

Meg upended the honor box onto the counter. Coins clattered and rolled while she captured them, grouping shillings and halfpence in neat stacks. The shirts, which she had stitched herself, had been paid for in full.

“Grace?” Meg restocked the trunk with an additional bundle of shirts and two shifts, tucking a card reading “Mrs. Smith” beneath the binding string.

Grace, looking fresh and younger than her twenty-five years, came down the stairs into the kitchen. “Yes, mistress?”

“For heaven’s sake. Don’t call me that.”

“You are the sister of an earl.” Her blue eyes sparkled.

“The illegitimate do not signify. Besides, my half-brother may rescind his aid at any moment, and I’ll be so poor you could be my mistress. Now listen, we must find another way to deliver the linens. Sloan looked in the trunk.”

“He didn’t.”

Meg lifted her brow in cool confirmation. “It felt like a brush with the parish constable.” Thank heavens those days were over.

She shifted her attention to freshly whitewashed walls, delicate lace curtains, and well-stocked shelves. The kitchen alone was larger than her entire house on London’s Rosemary Lane and contained more food than all the riverside rookeries combined. It smelled of lavender instead of desperation.

All of it she owed to her half-brother, Lord James Halverton.

Despite efforts to accept his goodwill, wariness had grown until she’d begun devolving into her customary independence.

Perhaps she was, as Lord Halverton said, a guard dog unable to distinguish friend from foe.

She loved her new home and the shop that came with it, but would never feel secure until every farthing required for herself and her eight-year-old brother, Samuel, came from her own pocket.

Then she would hire a tutor and bring him home from boarding school. They would be a family again.

“We should wrap these in brown paper. Keep ’em hid?” Grace held up the bundle of newly made simple linens.

Meg calculated the cost of paper and judged it worth the expense. “A fine touch.” She gave Grace a few coins to make the purchase. “Do you have time to make deliveries so we don’t have to worry about Mr. Sloan snooping about?”

Grace groaned. “So much time I’m growing dull.”

They had never been bored when they lived in London, always scrimping and scraping for every meal. Meg warmed, pleased to have brought her friend into a better life. “Enjoy the reprieve.” She reached for a canister of oats.

“What am I here for?” Grace tucked a blonde curl into her mobcap, took the oats, and nudged Meg aside with a grin.

“I don’t like being waited upon.”

Grace snorted. “Don’t say that when you know this position saved me from a yellow-eyed bas—excuse me—my father, who spews bedlam and pisses gin.

Pardon the vulgarity, my lady.” She dipped into a teasing curtsy, drawing a laugh from Meg.

“Besides, you do more than a pirate during a siege. Finish your gown for the Saint Valentine’s festival. ”

“It’s a disaster and will never be done in time.”

Grace shot her a withering look.

“I’ve made a mess of it. And it’s practically Mr. Sloan’s work.”

“Not anymore. You’ve made it yours. People will see what you can do and clamor for you to open your own shop.”

Grace was right. Meg dreamed of running her own dress shop, filling each day stitching masterpieces that women throughout the county would admire. But to have a hope of success, she must learn to construct a proper sacque gown—or rather teach herself, as her master was disinclined to do so.

With a grateful squeeze of Grace’s hand, Meg retreated into what she privately called her sanctuary and was met with orderly disarray.

The week before, a large shipment had arrived—silk, bombazine, brocade, wool, and linen in prints and solids; ribbons, beads, lace, and thread of every color.

A gift from her half-brother in anticipation of her completed apprenticeship and future shop.

She moved to the shelves at the far end of the room and triggered a hidden mechanism.

A portion of the shelf swung open, revealing a shallow compartment.

The coins from her pocket clinked into the jar inside.

A third of Samuel’s tuition. When her income proved sufficient to support herself and Grace and the jar held enough for a year of his schooling—a feat she had vowed to accomplish by the end of her apprenticeship—she would sever all financial ties to Lord Halverton.

A year prior, when her half-brother had discovered her existence, he had bought her this house with its adjacent shop and established a trust providing a monthly stipend, twice what she required.

She squirreled away the excess, fearing one day everything would disappear.

Though Lord Halverton was everything an earl ought to be—handsome, well-mannered, and unusually concerned for the lower classes—Meg was well acquainted with the fickle munificence of the wealthy.

His generosity might evaporate the moment his yet-unborn heirs required his attention.

He might fall into debt or discover a sudden appetite for grand carriages or gambling.

Of course she had read the terms of the trust, but words like assets, land rents, and distributed incomes overwhelmed her.

What did she know of such things? Halverton’s patient explanations illuminated her ignorance.

How could she accept charity she did not understand?

If he was anything like their late father, he and his money could not be relied upon.

She gave the jar a final shake, returned it to the shelf, and secured the compartment before settling near the shuttered window.

Slatted light fell across an unfinished gown of burgundy linen, the hem of which she gathered to embellish with patterns in cream-colored thread.

On the table beside her lay a gown Lady Halverton had gifted her a few months ago, a glorious confection of amethyst silk.

Meg had taken it apart, studied it, and now attempted its reproduction in sturdy linen.

The original, simple and elegant, had been made by Mr. Sloan.

When she’d first seen such gowns on the Halverton ladies, she had wanted nothing more than to learn from their maker.

What a mistake that was turning out to be.