Chapter 8
Peter arrived at the Gainsworth estate as the guilds finished unloading their carts.
Trunks of fabric and supplies, dye vats, a spinning wheel, and a few band looms littered the lawn.
Gardens and fields stretched beyond view, surrounding an edifice that combined stateliness with whimsy.
Tents, pitched the day before, sunk and swelled beneath a mild breeze.
He opened a trunk and began arranging fabric on a table.
“Peter, Lucius!” Mr. Fullman called, and Peter looked up from his display. “Carry in these foot stoves. We want our tent so warm no one will leave—even if some of us tend to break the law.” He referred to Peter’s female apprentice. It was useless to say anything in his own defense.
“Are you prepared to meet your fate tonight?” Lucius asked as they heaved a stove between them.
“You pretend your own future does not hang in the balance. Which fortunate young—or perhaps old—lady will have your undivided attention for the next several weeks?”
“Undivided? Was that part of our arrangement?”
“Of course. Or we could terminate our wager.”
In unison, they squatted and relinquished their load. Lucius clapped Peter on the back. “There is no retreating from this.”
Once the stoves were in place, Peter set stones in the blazing bonfire to heat for the festival. When he returned to the tent, Freddy and Arnold arrived to hang samples of Sloan Tailoring’s best work.
A waistcoat, dressing gown, and sacque fluttered above their table.
Miss Cooper’s new gown would have done them more credit, though she had insisted on doing most of the work herself.
She’d called him an artist, but she possessed more intuition for the craft than he’d seen in anyone.
The gown fit her person. She understood what he clumsily tried to explain about finding the tension inside a person and building a wardrobe around it.
It was a pleasure to have such a student, if for a short time.
Then she would pull the thread of his instruction across the street, leaving him with a spinning, empty bobbin.
“Assist me with the baskets?” Peter asked his apprentices.
The three found the tailor’s trunk behind the tent and filled baskets with ready-made valentine gifts: finely trimmed gloves, heart-shaped pincushions, caps, and embroidered handkerchiefs.
Each object a testament to Miss Cooper’s efficiency.
If not for her, they’d have been too far behind to think of making trifles.
After a day full of merriment and drawing in customers, light faded into the surrounding forest. Peter invited his apprentices to find their supper and make merry; they had worked out a schedule so they could all enjoy the night’s festivities, and Peter had volunteered to manage the first hour in the tent.
He arranged what remained of the valentine gifts into a pleasing display, darting glances at the dyers’ table where colorful bunting exhibited their colors.
Rusty scarlet, brick, brownish puce, but no true red.
The hour passed in a flurry of sales. Freddy and Arnold returned, bright-eyed and pink-cheeked from the cold. Peter found Lucius demonstrating his weaving skills with a fly shuttle to three young ladies gathered to watch.
Peter and Lucius exited the tent into Stroud’s most anticipated public fête, where the unmarried gathered to find a spouse—or so they hoped.
Chill air swathed Peter, but the weather allowed for outdoor festivities.
The lawn stretched in a display of footraces, stone throwing, ninepins, and ring toss, while young men made a raucous at cudgel play.
Some came in costumes, others wore masks.
Glass pane lanterns flickered into the dusky evening, and children chased shadows around the blazing bonfire.
The air smelled of hot sausages and treacle.
A young maiden scampered by, followed by a man sporting a mask embellished with clumsy antlers. The buck pinched her derrière.
“This is archaic,” Peter said to Lucius.
“You gave your word,” Lucius reminded him.
“A promise I regretted as soon as it exited my mouth.” Peter considered excusing himself and thereby avoiding the receipt of a name.
He might use his father as a reason to leave, but the old man was in the capable hands of one of his best needlewomen.
And Peter enjoyed the energy of the festival and interacting with his neighbors.
“Just until Easter,” Lucius urged.
“All sixty-one days?”
Lucius laughed. “Of course you counted. This is genuinely an antiquated tradition, you know, dating to ancient Rome. Pagan priests matched strangers, married and single alike, for an evening of debauchery.”
“You are quoting your sister.”
“Of course. Who but Charlotte would know such things? When Christians entered the scene, they altered the ritual. Instead of carnal sin, we of the present age send valentines for a few weeks to whomever fate assigns. In some parishes they receive the name of a saint to emulate rather than a neighbor with whom they hope to fall in love.”
“Thank you for that thorough history.”
“Thank my sister. Ah, there she is—the little pixie in blue stockings, a nod to her scholarly London sisters.”
“Good evening, Charlotte.” Peter greeted her. “Your costume does you credit.”
“Lucius.” She withdrew the mask from her face. “You weren’t to give me away. But thank you, Peter.” She swished her petticoat, layered in green scalloped triangles like leaves, contrasting with the blue stockings visible beneath her shorter-than-customary skirts.
“Your disguise isn’t doing its job. Anyone would know you,” Lucius told her. “Come, let’s greet our hostess.”
Peter followed his friends up the stairs toward Mrs. Gainsworth, who stood smiling at each arriving guest in a gown more fit for a royal ballroom than a country festival. It was precisely what Jane had desired and a triumph of craftsmanship.
“Lucius. Charlotte. Peter. Ah! My evening is complete.” She kissed them all.
Peter kept half his attention on the conversation as he watched the crowd.
A young couple carrying a lamp between them disappeared into a garden path.
A group of old men clinked pewter mugs. Under the spotlight of a lantern, a woman held court.
Miss Cooper. He recognized many of the women surrounding her.
They ran their fingers over the ruched trim at her sleeve, which spilled in scalloped lines down the front of her gown.
She was building a clientele, as he expected she might.
His stomach pinched, but he had agreed to help her, and so he would.
Mrs. Gainsworth appeared at his side. “You must help us distribute the names.”
“Not he,” Lucius cut in. “He is participating, and it might appear he has tampered with the results.”
“And so are you,” Peter reminded his friend.
“I have mine already.” Lucius grimaced.
“Shouldn’t Mr. Gainsworth help you?” Charlotte was brave enough to ask. “Where is he?”
Mrs. Gainsworth rubbed her nose. “He will be in the library with Mr. Fillmore and Mr. Anthony, tracing our British royalty to Troy.”
“She means developing national myths,” Lucius whispered to Peter.
“But it’s true,” Charlotte cut in. “Aeneas led his people to our great isle when exiled.”
“Is The Iliad a true history? Don’t believe everything you read, sister.”
“The two of you may join the other scholars in the library.” Mrs. Gainsworth laughed.
A footman in immaculate livery stepped forward with a mouth trumpet to his lips, silencing the debate and the crowd alike. Those who had deposited their names in the slotted boxes left in the church were to come forward and collect a name.
Lucius shoved a card at Peter, who slid it unseen into his breast pocket. He watched his friend descend the steps, grinning at every woman he passed. Peter made his way to the balustrade and looked over the crowd. Alone, he removed the slip of paper and unfolded it.
Miss Margaret Cooper.
He stared at the name, willing it to transform into any other.
Impossible. The woman who had hounded him relentlessly for an apprenticeship, organized his shop behind his back, and bounded into his workplace at an unnatural hour, demanding help with her gown.
That night he’d glimpsed a fissure in her armor, her desperation palpable.
Her chin had quivered, and he’d felt the frustration of wanting something beyond reach.
He glanced up. His eyes followed the trail of light until it landed on Miss Cooper, bathed in the glow of a hanging lantern, surrounded by women.
She laughed and then extended her arm and twisted it this way, then that, showing them the cuff.
She directed their attention to the hem.
As one, the ladies bent to inspect the delicate, layered lace that puffed out in a soft frill, almost like fur.
She looked up. Her eyes caught his. She seemed to flinch as his chest tightened.
How had he not noticed she was beautiful?
He’d known she was pretty, a danger to the apprentices, absolutely.
But that was not where the greatest peril lay.
He’d agreed to truly teach her, requiring them to spend more time in close proximity.
She smiled at him and nodded, his valentine.