Chapter 2
Not wishing to wake Father, Peter removed his shoes and slid into a pair of silk embroidered slippers, a favorite indulgence.
“Deborah?” His father’s voice rang from the kitchen. “Is that you?”
Peter held his tongue, hating the daily ritual of shattering his father’s happiness. He took his time brushing lint and thread from his coat.
Inside the kitchen, his father sat atop the table, legs crossed, a long piece of worn cotton and other scraps scattered over his lap.
His fingers shook as he pulled needle and thread through the linen, creating uneven stitches that did little to hold the fabric scraps together.
The first time Peter had found him like this, he’d hidden every rag in the house.
The following day, Father had cut up his own best nightshirt.
Since then, Peter had made certain to bring home a basket of scraps on occasion.
Father’s current project had been in the works for weeks.
Wilted and brown, the sight of it stung Peter’s throat.
“Who are you?” His father pressed the fabric to his chest and began trembling.
“It’s me. Peter.”
“I don’t know you.”
“What did you tell Deborah you would name your son, should you have one?”
“…Peter. After my brother.”
Peter stepped slowly toward the table. “I am that son.”
His father snorted and began to chuckle, as he did most evenings. “You look like my brother, but he is dead.”
Peter glanced at the hearth, a glowing ember. He added fuel and stoked the fire. Where was the housekeeper? “Have you eaten?”
With knitted brows, his father pulled at his long gray beard. “I cannot remember.”
“Where is Mrs. Call?”
“Mrs. Call?”
What had his father done to scare her off?
At times the old man forgot to dress himself properly, or his confusion created such anxiety that he grew angry; never violent, but his anxious fits were frightening.
Mrs. Call was not the first hired help to leave, though the others had at least informed him before they’d gone.
She would return. She must. Without someone to care for his father, Peter was sunk.
Running the shop, teaching his apprentices, and periodically checking on his father already gave him more than enough work.
Without a housekeeper, the shop would fail.
The apprentices were decent, but Peter found it hard to teach the young men when he could do the work twice as fast and many times better.
Excepting Miss Cooper, whose natural talent surpassed any apprentice with whom he’d ever worked.
But of course, she brought her own share of problems.
His father returned to his sewing and began chanting, “ ‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. If ifs and ands were pots and pans, there’d be no work for tinkers’ hands.’ ”
It didn’t feel so long ago that Peter had bounced on his father’s knee, laughing at that rhyme. He unwrapped a loaf of bread and cut two thick slices, which he speared onto toasting forks. Grilled bread and cheese: the best supper.
He offered his father one of the forks.
“Thank you, but I’ve eaten.”
Peter toasted both slices regardless. When he finished, he said, “The cheese is melted to perfection.” He took a large bite, watching as his father set aside his rag and needle.
“Who are you?” his father asked.
“Not that you care when I offer a feast.”
“Hah. I’ll take it with a mug of ale and would appreciate a splash of rum.” He finally slid off the table and sat beside Peter, grinning.
The loud noise of crunching toast allowed Peter to pretend his mother’s footfall might be nearby.
He imagined all as it had been before her death and his father’s illness, before the shop came under his care and orders began piling up.
Miss Cooper might offer a temporary solution to his trouble, but she presented a problem.
Her presence and her handsome figure distracted the young apprentices and some customers.
Despite soft russet hair that oft escaped her cap, she was cold and stiff.
Notwithstanding her frigid demeanor, the apprentices were all half in love with her.
They tried to hide it behind righteous indignation, but if she were soft and kind, they would all be trailing after her.
He remembered the first day Miss Cooper had walked into his store nearly a year ago, all anticipation to put scissors and needle to fabric immediately.
Although recovering from his shock at the guild’s command to apprentice Miss Cooper, he had done his best to temper her expectations—no apprentice could claim the privilege of draping a dress on their first day, after all.
That evening, however, he’d received a letter from Guild Master Dickson, lamenting the necessity of such an appointment and claiming Miss Cooper could not begin her apprenticeship presently as “details” of her contract must be “finalized” and complaints from other guilds addressed.
Master Dickson had written to him with excuse after excuse and put off the apprenticeship for months, and all the while Peter had been forced to concoct reasonable explanations for Miss Cooper while avoiding openly accusing the guild masters of misogynistic treatment.
Finally someone, probably Lord Halverton, had bribed the wardens to put an end to the charade, as evidenced by the elaborate banquet the guild had held the previous month.
The Fraternity of Saint Anne of the Tailors had celebrated a great restoration of the guild hall with a feast and grand display of pageantry: banners, flags, and newly upholstered furniture.
At first, Peter had been relieved that Miss Cooper’s glares of betrayal might end at last, but then Master Dickson had sent one more letter, hinting Peter needn’t actually instruct his new apprentice with any sense of seriousness or urgency.
In fact, Master Dickson insinuated any particular attention to Miss Cooper’s progress would prove a great affront to the local guilds—and Peter wouldn’t want that, would he?
As Miss Cooper’s apprenticeship was limited to one year, Peter had planned to please both parties by supplying her with plain sewing while putting her real training off until it was too late.
Ah, but she pestered him. And exhibited suspicious behavior.
What had she been doing in the alley that morning?
He’d thought nothing of it until she practically threw her body in front of the trunk as if protecting a child.
And her passionate speech to him that evening.
He rather admired her dedication to the craft—how could he not?
—but her shop loomed across the street. He did not think she could rival his demand, yet his business floundered more than passing observers knew.
Could he afford the pilfering of a few of his customers to someone as admittedly talented and devoted as Miss Cooper?
He hardly knew what to do with her anymore.
“Have you ever heard of a woman gaining an apprenticeship?” Peter asked his father.
“That is against the statutes of the guild.” His father spoke with his mouth full, a slip in manners he’d never have committed a year ago.
“What if you were obliged to take a female apprentice?”
“Never. Not at Sloan’s.”
“And if the guild forced you into it?”
“Nothing could induce me.”
Peter relaxed into his chair. “I suppose one must remain patient and trust things will come to rights.”
“ ‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride…’ Where is Deborah?”
“She stays away when you’re in your cups.”
“Bah. I’m as sober as a saint. Though I do feel muddled.”
After a few bites, his father set aside the toast and nursed his drink. It was just as well and would settle him into the night.
“Did you always wish to be a tailor, sir?” Peter asked.
“When at three years old my father placed a pair of scissors in my hand and demanded I cut along the chalk line, I found my calling. Measure, cut, stitch. Measure, cut, stitch.”
For Peter, a length of painted chintz had captured his childhood imagination.
Shiney cotton, a little heavier than muslin, swirled with florals in Turkey red.
The color came from the eastern Mediterranean, though Peter knew his maternal grandfather had discovered the secret to its creation and guarded the process like a dragon keeps his gold.
Peter had learned the difference between fabrics quickly, and chintz had always been his favorite.
Unfortunately, to protect the silk, linen, and wool industries, England had banned it.
On occasion, when he got hold of a smuggled bolt or an old set of curtains being converted into clothing, he studied it, wondering at the milling and dyeing processes, marveling at its softness and intricate designs.
If only his parents’ heritages were reversed, his father having learned dyeing while his mother came from tailors.
Alas, one could not alter what providence set forth. No sense indulging regret.
“Let me help you to your bed.” Peter stood and offered his hand.
“I’ll wait for my Deborah.”
“She will be a while.” But Peter returned to his chair and stared at the fire, listening with his father for his mother’s entrance, waiting for the light in his father’s eyes to reignite.
“There is a woman who wants to be a tailor,” Peter said, his thoughts circling as his father’s often did.
“I knew a female tailor who inherited a shop after her husband died. A uniquely talented woman.”
“Did you? I know a lady tailor as well. Her stitches are impossibly even, almost as good as mine.” He laughed.
“Women are not tailors.”
It was of no use to remind his father what he’d said a moment earlier. “She wants to be a mantua maker.”
“Not in Stroud.”
Peter sighed and stoked the fire. “But what can a tailor do against a determined gentlewoman?”