Chapter 2 #2
The following morning, Peter woke with his head on his desk, a drawing pad for a pillow.
He scraped it into a drawer and rushed through the door connecting the workshop to his home, praying he would find Mrs. Call.
If she abandoned them, he would be in a hobble.
Housekeepers willing to look after an elderly gentleman of fickle temperament were not easily found.
Mrs. Call measured flour in the kitchen, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Good morning,” Peter said. “I was concerned to discover you were missing last night.”
She looked up at him sternly. “He shouted at me like one possessed.”
His shoulders slumped. He knew how awful his father’s moods could be, and he hated to push them on anyone, but he had to run the shop. “Come for me when that happens. I will get him sorted.”
“I’ll not endure him much longer, not with the old man weeping for his mistress and me crying myself. Next moment he’s shouting as if I were an interloper and not the woman stirring his soup and cleaning his shirts.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He tried to placate her but knew he sounded desperate.
She cracked two eggs into a well in the flour, indifferent to his distress.
Peter washed and readied himself for the day, bid Mrs. Call farewell, and reentered his office, where he found Miss Cooper. She slapped his pattern book closed and crossed her arms.
“What are you doing?” How dare she enter his private room and look through his things?
He recalled his hypocrisy. Looking inside her trunk had been a foolish impulse he could not explain, but her behavior had roused his suspicion.
Still, he had opened the door for this violation, so he stifled his indignation.
“I am waiting to begin my training,” she said. “And looking through your patterns, as it is apparently acceptable for us to invade one another’s private spaces.”
“I believe I apologized for that grievance; I promise, it won’t happen again. I will have you fetched when I am available.”
“No need to put yourself to the trouble. I shall be right here.” She seated herself in the corner.
He almost laughed but remembered the piles of fabric she was hoarding in her shop. Nothing about this woman was amusing.
“Miss Cooper, neither of us has time to dither. You are welcome to wait.” He gestured to a pile of mail. “But I doubt it would serve your purpose.”
Miss Cooper sighed, drawing his attention to the deep shadows beneath her eyes. She looked as exhausted as he felt. While she disrupted the placid flow of his life, he did not dislike her. From his bottom drawer he took a small tin and opened it, leaning over the desk to offer an almond comfit.
She stepped back, brow creased. “A bribe?”
“Something sweet to cheer you.” He set the tin on his desk and nudged it toward her. The dragées, as the box called them, were a gift from a client who took the wardrobe he’d created for her to France, where she found herself so à la mode she did not purchase a single Parisian gown.
“I require instruction, not merriment.” But Miss Cooper eyed the box, then swiped a sugar-coated nut and popped it in her mouth.
The confection created a large, quite amusing bulge in her cheek.
She made an awkward attempt to speak, then clamped her lips closed.
Unable to talk and too polite to spit the thing out, Miss Copper’s arms fell limp to her sides.
The comfits were large and hard enough to crack a tooth, lasting ten minutes until the sugar dissolved.
He put one in his own mouth and smiled at her with closed lips, delighted at the silence the delicacy demanded.
Miss Cooper grumbled incoherently and left his office.
Peter reached for a letter, at once recognizing the swirling script of Mrs. Gainsworth.
He’d won the commission. He cracked the seal and scanned the words.
She requested a “spectacular gown.” Her servants required new livery, as the footmen looked “bedraggled in decades-old clothing” that was “entirely worn and ill-fitting.” She “simply must have it done before the Saint Valentine’s festival,” which she was hosting that year.
He and Mrs. Gainsworth had been friends since childhood.
Though a butcher’s daughter, Mrs. Gainsworth’s beauty had won the attention of a wealthy, middle-aged merchant.
Upon their marriage, Peter had expected her patronage at Sloan Tailoring.
Instead, she had taken her business to London mantua makers, a disappointment since she ordered gowns enough almost to single-handedly support the shop.
With the abundance of work she required, her business might restore the shop to the financial success it had enjoyed before his father’s illness.
He continued reading: “I am delighted to learn you have obtained a female apprentice. Bring her along, for I much prefer the expertise of another woman when it comes to fashion. Stroud has long been deprived in that regard, and I am grateful to you for bringing a female dressmaker to us.”
Her sentiments explained why she had taken her business to London in the past. No matter—he would simply accept the commission, allow Miss Cooper to observe, and prove to Mrs. Gainsworth his capabilities, gaining a lucrative client.
Though she ought to know his skill. No one else in Stroud traveled to London for their wardrobe, not even Lord and Lady Halverton.
After scribbling a reply, he left the office to find his female apprentice.
If such a prominent client demanded she be present, refusal was impossible, and Guild Master Dickson himself could not deny such a request. Peter found himself eager to extend the invitation, curious to witness Miss Cooper’s response to her long-anticipated desire.
“Miss Cooper, I have received an order for a French sacque and livery for a fleet of servants, to be complete before the Valentine’s festival. I would like you to accompany me when I visit the house on Monday to obtain measurements.”
Her hands stilled, and she lifted her chin to meet his gaze. “Forgive me. What did you say?”
“I request your assistance with a large order.”
“I don’t understand.”
Slowly, Peter repeated the invitation. “With your help, I trust we can finish.”
“You wish me to accompany you? How will I be of service?”
He should have guessed she would demand particulars. “We shall see what the lady requires of you.”
“And if she expects me to fit the sacque?” A measure of panic crossed her face.
“We shall see.” He hoped she would not misunderstand. The situation with Mrs. Gainsworth was singular. He would certainly not require Miss Cooper’s services in any other circumstance.
Peter entered the assembly room five minutes late, the toe of his boot catching a chair.
The ensuing clatter turned the curious, then exasperated, eyes of the gathered guild members upon him.
He already received their disapproval for having a lady apprentice, a gross violation of guild tradition.
Peter smiled, a true and loving grin at the group whose moods and foibles were as familiar as family.
Today, members of each guild gathered to plan the Valentine’s festival, where they would display their wares and sponsor the celebration.
He sat next to Lucius, a textile manufacturer who whispered, “Three months and they are still annoyed with you.”
“It will pass. I’m not the first to suffer the ire of the guilds.”
“You are too agreeable.”
Peter laughed. Anger would help nothing. “I’ll wait it out. They can’t be cross forever.”
“Can’t they?”
“They should sympathize with me. I did not engage the female apprentice. She was foisted upon me. Their wrath ought to be targeted at the tailor guild masters.”
“But you are right here, ready to receive their indignation, while they are in Gloucester.”
Mr. Fullman, who stood in front of the room, glared at them. Peter swallowed his next words and listened.
“I wish to propose a different approach to selling our goods at the Saint Valentine’s festival,” Mr. Fullman said. The audience groaned in a collective sigh. “It is a good idea, if you’ll give it a chance.”
“Your last good idea found us with a failed batch.” This from Mr. Hobbins, a dyer who’d been persuaded to lend a vat to the fuller. Mr. Fullman had left alkali residue in the drum, resulting in a length of blotchy, blue-gray wool.
“I had my apprentice clean your precious vat. How many times must I apologize?” Mr. Fullman threw his hands in the air.
“Let’s hear your plan, Fullman,” the butcher said, then turned to Mr. Hobbins and winked. “Our cleavers’ll protect you.”
Mr. Fullman cleared his throat. “Instead of delegating individual tables for each guild to utilize, let us unite our resources and thus create larger, more impressive tents separated by industry. For example, the enclosure housing textiles would include myself, representing the fuller’s guild, as well as dyers, weavers, woolmen, and drapers.
In another, bakers, dairymen, brewers, and butchers would gather to distribute food. Blacksmiths, carpenters, and coopers…”
“They’ve forgotten you,” Lucius muttered.
“They’ve slighted me.” Which was agreeable to Peter, as it spared him the trouble of planning a display and competing for the attention of festival attendees.
A general debate ensued, loudest among them the dyers, wary of sharing space. In the end, the scheme was approved, leaving the dyers to sulk.
Mr. Fullman clapped his hands and conversation quieted. “Before we convene with our guilds, I have a piece of good news. Mrs. Gainsworth, being the daughter of our own butcher, has donated a large sum to cover much of the festival’s expenses, meaning all the food and drink shall be free this year.”
“Generosity itself.” Lucius clapped with the others, and the men began dispersing into groups.
Peter turned to his friend. “I’d best take my leave. Come to my house after and tell me the news.”
“You needn’t leave early. Join us.” He gestured to the other textile guild members.
“I had much better return to my father.”