Chapter 7 #2
Arnold seemed thrilled at being chosen. The three of them made their way to the measuring room, where Meg undressed behind a screen to her most modest underclothes.
She hesitated. Mr. Sloan measured women all day long, yet the idea of his measuring her seemed too intimate.
She shook the thought and stood on the rug.
Mr. Sloan draped the fabric over her shoulders. “Would you like a robe fermée or ouverte?”
She’d initially planned a sacque with an open front, displaying an opulent stomacher, but that would add difficulty and she wished to concentrate on perfecting the pleats. “Fermée.”
“I could have guessed.”
“Pray, what are you implying?” Since her instruction depended on his goodwill, Meg tried to maintain civility, but was this a backhanded insult?
“Perfecting one’s style requires finding a unique balance between restraint and ostentation. Listen, Arnold, this will help you as well.” He stood behind her, gathering fabric into pleats. “I prefer dressing women because most men want only comfort and to look like everyone else.”
“And what has this to do with my choosing a closed gown?”
“Clothing is one way we express character. So, I always consider what a customer ought to portray. For example, you are like a shell, sharp, hard…closed.” His hand ran down her spine to smooth the fabric, sending a brief wave of something—panic?
—from her stomach to her toes. “Straight of back. Taut and strong, like a thread for gathering.”
His breath brushed her neck and she could not concentrate. She steadied herself as he walked around to face her.
“But your red hair—”
“Auburn,” she corrected.
“—is disobedient and soft, a contrast to your edges—”
“I did not ask for a study of my character.” Her laugh sounded thin. “Teach me the mechanics of the gown.”
“This is the first lesson. A lady’s gown demands equilibrium, which is different for every woman. Find it, and you have a customer for life.”
“Your father taught you that?”
“My mother.”
Meg squirmed. She had not counted on being so thoroughly analyzed but valued his wisdom. Perhaps his success centered on this secret.
“The gown I made for Lady Halverton would never do for you. She is vivacious and diverting but battles a fear of overwhelming others. She requires confidence, a gown that will hold her securely while reflecting how much she has to offer. You are self-contained, angled. However, we must account for the pliant curve of your cheek and the gentle slope of your shoulder.”
He ran his hand from her shoulder to her elbow, and she jumped. He drew back, surprise flickering across his face. With a gentle smile, he said, “Yes, you demand a bold cut with defying, soft frills. Lace. But you should wear patterned clothes.”
“Brocade is too fine for everyday wear.” She was breathless. Did he know her so well? But he explained Lady Halverton in similar terms. He merely showed his skill. And what skill.
“Too stiff. Chintz is your fabric—soft and complex.”
“Don’t I wish. The day an Englishman discovers the method for stamping cotton will become a national holiday.”
Peter nodded as if no one longed for that day more than he.
“I’ll begin pinning. Four pleats between the shoulders come together at the small of your back.
” His fingers brushed her neck, pressed against her back.
“Arnold, more pins, please.” He took her by the hips and shifted her to the left.
His touch was measured, scientific rather than sensual, but her belly warmed.
She wanted to shake him off along with his fanciful words about her character.
But she needed the gown. The festival was the following week.
“Let’s take that off, and I’ll show you what I’ve done.”
Meg slipped behind the screen, shedding his touch as the linen gown dropped to the floor.
When she returned, Mr. Sloan examined a pattern book of his own creation under candlelight.
“This one.” He pointed to a diagram, explaining how to adjust the pattern for size and apply the cut pieces to what they’d done.
Then he handed her the bodice to stitch and excused himself through a door at the back of the room, bringing with him a waft of strong, foul odor.
When Meg unspooled a length of thread to begin sewing, it felt like opening a door. She shared the pinned garment with Arnold, and they stitched like mad to the sound of banging pots.
“What is he doing in there?” Meg asked.
“I don’t know, but it smells like a dyehouse.”
“Has anyone asked him about it?”
Arnold waxed a fresh piece of thread. “His mother’s family were dyers, and his grandfather left his equipment to Mr. Sloan. It’s common knowledge.”
“But he has a trade.”
Arnold lifted a shoulder. “One cannot make sense of him, going on about angles and restraint. He’s odd, perhaps a bit touched.”
Her own appreciation of his skill had risen sharply since he agreed to teach her. “Mr. Sloan is an artist. Do you know how fortunate you are to be apprenticed to so talented a tailor?”
Meg hadn’t noticed the room grow quiet. Mr. Sloan stood beside her, grinning. “An artist, am I?”
Having already expressed herself so openly to Mr. Sloan the night before, she felt no compunction against letting him know what she thought of his abilities. “Unequivocally. And Arnold will be lucky to learn a fraction of your ingenuity.”
Arnold began to sputter.
Mr. Sloan laughed and slapped his back. “I’ll not hold it against you. Miss Cooper speaks hyperbole. Get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He nodded at Meg. “That goes for you both. We’ll finish cutting tomorrow and have it done in time for the festival.”
A great space opened in her chest. She did not question him about the odd smell or beg him to teach her more. Contentment, a sentiment almost foreign, must be savored.
“Thank you, Master Sloan,” she said, hoping he did not hear the swell in her throat.
Outside, a February gale plastered Meg’s skirts against her backside and nudged her across the street, augmenting the vitality that propelled her into guarded hope.
The dream of Meg’s shop took half a step from the shadows.
Mr. Sloan had finally begun teaching her, and his instruction consisted of more than mere advice to add a pleat here or a tuck there.
The lesson, imbued with fanciful discourse, made sense and expanded her intellect.
She opened the kitchen door and inhaled. Lemon oil and wax. Grace must have found time to polish. Meg brought the fire back to life and set to making tea. As she poured water over the leaves, the door opened, ushering in her housekeeper with a flurry of snow.
“Gracious, this weather,” Meg said as she took Grace’s mantle and pushed her into a chair by the fire. “Tea in a moment.”
Grace sighed as she settled in. “Old Mr. Sloan puts me in mind of my grandfather, as much a child as an aged man. I cope well enough with his whimsy, but it pains me to watch him struggle to grasp his situation.”
“You are saintly, Grace.” Meg meant it. She liked the elder Mr. Sloan but lacked the patience to care for him all day.
They sipped their tea in silence, Meg’s fingertips warming around the cup while her toes stiffened in the still-cold kitchen.
“You were late tonight.” Grace’s face glowed against the fire as she raised her brows.
“My plans march forth. The great Sloan has deigned to instruct me. He’s helping me with my gown for the festival.”
“Is he now? Does he know he is bidding farewell to his shop?”
“He is too talented to lose his business.” But Meg squirmed.
The whispered ambition to dominate production of all clothing in Stroud grew louder the longer she remained.
Her natural talent for running an enterprise was superior to Mr. Sloan’s, but he owned the advantage of being male.
She could never control tailoring without a tailor working for her. That lay beyond the reach of fancy.
New clients left requests in the wicker trunk almost daily.
Guilt wormed its way into Meg’s stomach.
Perhaps she should cease now that Mr. Sloan was holding up his end of the indenture.
But did not the debt lay with him still?
He had contracted to apprentice her and was finally making good after four months.
In return, Grace cared for his father and kept his house, and Meg organized his business and settled accounts.
The balance clearly tilted in Meg’s favor.
She washed away her worries with a swallow of hot tea.
When her apprenticeship ended and the field was open…
Well, there was no telling the heights she might reach.