Chapter 1 #3
But Sloan Tailoring lagged over its orders, as evidenced by shelves laden with uncut fabric and many disgruntled customers.
Mr. Sloan proceeded without hurry. He mismanaged the apprentices too.
They worked hard for him, but he advanced them slowly when they could move at twice the pace.
Her years as a London needlewoman had taught her methods of increasing production that Mr. Sloan appeared ignorant of.
Day after day he refused her assistance, as Giles had.
“Miss Cooper. Please brush the two coats on the clotheshorse and package them for delivery.”
Her fists tightened. Three months she had waited in her corner, biding her time for an opportune moment to beg her master’s instruction. As he felt comfortable looking inside her wicker trunk, she must demand her due.
“Certainly. Afterward, I will help with Mrs. Barnes’s order. I hear she wishes a more comfortable sleeve, and I have a few ideas that—”
“Another time.” He smiled, turned on his heel, and sauntered toward his office.
“Another time—in three months, perhaps? I will not wait so long for you to teach me nothing.” She swallowed, but was proud of her firm, steady voice.
In a collective swoosh of shifting fabric, the apprentices faced her, needles hovering.
Mr. Sloan turned, one brow raised.
Heart pounding, she pressed on. “Your shop is cleaner and more orderly than when I arrived. I turn a hem faster than your most adept worker. Nine months of my contract remain, and I am ready to learn.”
His gaze intensified as if her suggestion were new to him. “You are right,” he said, dimples showing. “We shall discuss this later.”
No! He would put her off. “When is later?”
“Seven. After close. Ah, there is Mr. Quincy. Please excuse me.”
A fair man in a cerulean frock coat entered the shop. Mr. Sloan swept him into the measuring room, though Mr. Quincy caught Meg’s eye first and blushed. Perhaps the poor man believed her glare was meant for him.
With an entire day of unsatisfying work ahead, Meg began composing the words she would use when she spoke to Master Sloan that evening.
The dowager countess of Halverton had once told her to behave like a gentlewoman and expect to be treated as one.
Meg’s own mother had been a lady and had ensured she received a gentlewoman’s education, so Meg had learned to dance, play the harpsichord, draw and paint—poorly—and dine properly in a grand house.
But she never wished to be a lady if it meant becoming like her mother, who was no example of respectability.
She instructed herself to instead adopt the dowager’s counsel: be polite, be firm, accept nothing less than her due.
Strips of fabric, tangled threads, and fluff covered the empty workshop—Meg’s work for the following day. She stood in the center of the vacant shop, waiting for Mr. Sloan to emerge from his office.
I am a gentlewoman. She turned the mantra over in her mind.
“Miss Cooper,” he called from behind the closed door. “You may enter.”
Mr. Sloan reclined behind a small desk. She left the door ajar.
“Thank you for your assistance these past months,” he said. “You are the most diligent first-year apprentice I’ve ever had. Young boys are not so fastidious.” He half-smiled and cleared his throat. “That is to say, I’ll be sorry to lose your help.”
“Lose my help, sir?”
However appealing the notion of never entering Mr. Sloan’s vicinity again, she required the apprenticeship to validate her future work.
Even now, the seam of her gown cut into her shoulder and would not lie smooth despite a dozen restitchings.
Mr. Sloan’s mastery of the sacque gown approached that of a French dressmaker.
“Have I not performed my tasks to your satisfaction?” she asked.
“Your work is without reproach, but if you are not happy…”
“I came for your instruction, not to sweep your shop and hem shirts.”
“Your tasks are the same as every first-year student.”
She lifted her chin. “Unjust. I came to you for the secrets of dressmaking, as you are well aware.”
He rested his chin on tented fingers. “Miss Cooper. Advancing you is unfair to the other apprentices, and in what remains of the year, I cannot teach you the intricacies of complicated women’s clothing.
I can offer only a continuation of our current arrangement and advance you as any other apprentice. ”
“But that pace of instruction would require seven years, and I have one. I am ready now and have lost three months already.”
“Your shop is brimming with fabrics. Practice with what you have. Open your own shop.”
“So I can fail?”
“If dressmaking doesn’t suit, open a mercer shop. You’ve amassed plenty of silk.” He smiled as though expecting her to find this amusing.
She nearly invoked the earl’s name. “I am asking for instruction.”
He leaned over the desk. “Why is your learning so important? From what I can tell, your guardian does not shirk his duty. Why not indulge in idle luxury?”
Fury sparked and flamed. The roots of her hair prickled hot. She must be crimson.
Breathe. Swallow your words. Breathe.
“Were I a queen, an empress, or in possession of a great treasure, I would learn dressmaking. Even if I must do it alone, I will master the craft—if it takes ten years, if it takes a lifetime.”
She was halfway out the door when he said, “I mean no insult, Miss Cooper. I have signed a contract with you, and I am doing my best to honor it.”
Meg glanced back at him with scorn. “I am as well.”
Then she closed the door on that stupid smile.