Chapter 9
Grace’s sharp elbow dug into Meg’s rib.
“What is that for?” Meg asked.
“Go get your valentine.”
“I didn’t enter my name.” Meg turned to face Grace, mostly to avoid the hovering presence of Mr. Quincy, who stood near but never close enough to acknowledge. Why did he take an interest in her? Today, he dressed in vivid green from head to toe, like a spring leaf. A costume, perhaps?
“Well, it’s in there.” Grace winked.
“Grace. This is how you thank me for making you literate?”
“All you do is work. You need something fun.”
“Like I need a blister.”
Grace took her by the wrist and pulled her into a line of young, giggling misses. As soon as Mr. Lucius Ivy handed Grace a name from the box of cards, she squeezed Meg’s hand and disappeared into the glowing evening.
Mr. Ivy oft visited Sloan Tailoring to speak with Mr. Sloan, but Meg had rarely spoken to him. He approached her, extending a card. “Miss Cooper. I am pleased to see you. My sister Charlotte is here somewhere, and I am sure the two of you would get on.”
Meg doubted that. Other than Grace, she did not have friends; but she liked the idea of them.
“I hoped to introduce you.” His eyes searched the crowd. “There she is.” Lucius tucked the box of names under his arm and lifted his hands to his mouth. “Charlotte!” A young lady clad in emerald leaves and blue stockings bounced toward them.
“Miss Cooper, this is my sister, Miss Charlotte Ivy.”
“How do you do?” Meg asked.
Miss Ivy greeted her with a bright smile and a little twist that made the greenery of her skirt flare. She seemed the kind of woman that scarcely held still.
“Margaret, dear!” Lady Halverton cried from behind them.
Meg greeted Lady Halverton and introduced Miss Ivy.
“Oh.” Lady Halverton took Miss Ivy’s hand. “I have seen you at Havenwood.”
Miss Ivy brightened and said, “Indeed. I am presenting next month.”
“What is Havenwood?” Meg asked.
“A place of learning for women. The boarders study everything from philosophy to needlework. Such talent. You must come with us next time we visit.” Lady Halverton squeezed Meg’s hand.
Needleworkers? A useful connection. Meg said, “Please, do let me know when next you visit.” Her need for help was too great to wait for Lady Halverton’s escort.
She would visit the establishment on the following week.
If Lady Halverton later asked for her company to the house, Meg would naturally comply.
In the business of dressmaking, connections held consequence.
“Of course,” Lady Halverton agreed.
Meg drew her mantle around her shoulders as Lady Halverton and Miss Ivy launched into a discussion of philosophy, ideas of which Meg was ignorant.
Although Miss Ivy seemed charming and friendly enough, Meg began to suspect any prolonged conversation between them would stall quickly.
After offering a polite excuse, she made her way over to the bonfire and tossed her valentine card in.
Perhaps whichever young man had been hoping for such amusement from her would be disappointed, but she had not asked for this distraction, and she could hardly afford it.
Smokey mist gathered at the edge of the surrounding forest and crept across the lawn.
The evening was damp. Meg wished she were home and in bed.
Where had Grace wandered off to? Perhaps they could leave.
In a darkened corner near the house, Meg spied Grace speaking with two men, who subsequently disappeared into the dark, surrounding forest. Grace was no doubt selling gin.
Though disappointed, Meg watched without astonishment.
She understood how one could struggle to release old habits.
“Miss Cooper.” Mrs. Smith was at Meg’s elbow. “I heard your gown is a feat of excellence. Will you show me?”
Meg extended her arm, showing the matching ruching on cuff and hem.
Mrs. Smith sighed. “Such beauty in simplicity.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Smith,” Meg replied with a warm smile.
Her gown certainly served its purpose, receiving universal admiration.
She eyed the other lady’s dress. “That color suits you.” Meg made a show of examining the gown.
“I could elevate your dress with a few discerning trappings.” She didn’t know how to make good on the offer with Grace’s time taken by old Master Sloan but wouldn’t allow the opportunity to pass.
Desire flashed in Mrs. Smith’s countenance.
All around them, daughters, wives, mothers, aunts, and grandmothers gathered in the evening mist, giggling over an assigned valentine, gossiping with neighbors, or chastising their children.
All wished to be beautiful and comfortable with a touch of luxury.
Meg pondered over the ideas Mr. Sloan had taught her.
What would render Mrs. Smith confident to walk the aisle of a full but silent church or arrive late to the sewing circle?
Truly, every woman deserved a costume that showed her to advantage.
Meg would devise the means to provide such a service for Mrs. Smith.
“Come see me of an evening,” Meg said with a promise in the invitation. It was not the only summons she’d extended that evening. She meant to serve her clients well, with or without sleep. Perhaps Havenwood might offer an answer to her need for help with the work.
Mr. Quincy appeared at her side as Mrs. Smith waltzed away. “I too admire your gown, Miss Cooper. May I ask if you have taken a valentine?”
Meg glanced at the bonfire. “I have not. Did you?”
“It is a tradition of mine.” He bowed, inexplicably.
“Very well. And is your splendid attire part of that tradition?”
He inhaled sharply. “How did you guess?”
“I wish you the best of luck with your valentine, sir.”
Meg excused herself to pull Grace from the shadows. She told her friend all her success as they walked home and laid her head on her pillow dreaming of the dresses she would craft.
Meg wiped her brow after stoking the last fire of the tailor shop.
She performed the usual tasks of a first-year apprentice in the hours before sunrise, but now all on her own.
Since Arnold had begun stitching, he deemed himself above morning chores and no longer came to help.
Something must be done, and her mind began to sort through potential solutions.
Now that the fires blazed and the room was tidy, Meg moved to the project log to plan for the day’s work.
Mr. Sloan did not like her in his office, so she’d convinced him to keep a running list of orders in the open.
When she first began inserting herself in this manner, the shop had fallen nearly a month behind schedule.
Under her management, she’d shortened the gap by a week.
At this rate, they might catch up and accept more orders by mid-March.
The four apprentices stumbled down the stairs, jostling one another and teasing Arnold over the number of sausages he consumed for breakfast.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Meg said. “How did you fare last night? A new love for each of you?”
Arnold tried to hide a sheepish grin.
“Mine is ten years my senior,” said Freddy, wiping his boots on the mat.
“Perhaps Arnold had better luck?” She gave him a teasing look, and Giles and Johnathan jostled him.
“Here is your work for the day.” She gave them each a slip of paper and watched Giles head to the cutting table and Arnold heat the irons while the other two took their place atop the table and began stitching.
When the needlewomen arrived, Meg asked if any had a son, eight or nine, who might help with morning chores and tend the irons. One of them offered her boy, and Meg promised to speak with Mr. Sloan. Another problem hopefully solved, which would allow everyone more time.
Meg ensured each woman knew what she was about for the day before turning her attention to a frock coat, an item technically outside her domain.
The apprentices didn’t seem to care, and Mr. Sloan had not noticed.
For Meg, the practice of creating a man’s coat increased her skill.
A lady’s riding jacket, though shorter and more fitted, differed little from the garment in her hands.
If she learned to create all parts of the female wardrobe, what would stop her from profiting from her expertise?
Besides, she enjoyed the variety of work.
Her fingers worked over thick, brown wool to add four buttons up the scalloped mariner’s cuff. She would line the plackets and collar with chocolate velvet to create a sense of luxury for the practical article of clothing.
At nine o’clock, Mr. Sloan entered his shop.
He greeted everyone in his usual jovial manner, but his eyes lingered on Meg for a beat too long.
Had he noticed she assembled a man’s frock coat?
It was folded in her lap, so he likely could not distinguish its shape.
She tried to smile, then hunched over her work.
She heard his footsteps cross the room and looked up to see him examine the log she’d created.
She bowed down, concentrating on pressing the needle with her thimble finger through the thick fabric.
Her fingers slipped over the sharp end. She pressed them into a cake of beeswax and secured the needle again between tacky fingers.
She chided her racing heart. Of what had she to be ashamed? The workshop improved under her hand, the apprentices were happier for knowing where to concentrate their efforts, and they all were accomplishing more in less time. She drew herself upright.
The door connecting Mr. Sloan’s home to the tailor shop opened.
“Good morning to you.” Old Master Sloan entered wearing nothing but his breeches, as confident as a king entering his throne room.
The younger Mr. Sloan darted to his father’s side, taking the older man by the elbow. “Father, where is Miss Henton?”
Where, indeed? Torn between helping Mr. Sloan and finding Grace, Meg remained frozen.