Chapter 9 #2
“Who?” The old man did not wait for a reply but shook off his son and climbed shakily onto the sewing table. “What are you doing, young man?” he asked Johnathan.
“I am sewing a waistcoat.”
“But you’ve cut it in half!”
“I am working the left half while Freddy sews the right.”
The old man scowled. “No. You must create the garment entire, else it be inconsistent. Let me have it.”
Mr. Sloan tried again to take hold of his father’s arm. “Let me help you back to the house.”
“You have made a mess of our trade, my son. I hardly turned my back and already you’ve forgotten the proper methods.” He scanned the room, catching Meg’s eye. “And what is that woman doing here?”
The younger Mr. Sloan closed his eyes as his father spun on his backside and dropped his legs to the floor.
Meg’s heart squeezed as much for old Sloan as for his son.
How to help? The old man approached her.
“Shouldn’t you be with the needlewomen?” He picked up the frock coat from her lap.
“What are you… Peter. What have you done?” He took the coat from Meg’s lap and dangled it in the direction of his son. “What treachery is this?”
Mr. Sloan gently removed the coat from his father and returned it to Meg. “Father, I have a special project for you.” He put his arms around his father’s naked shoulders and attempted to guide him toward the door, but his father shook him off.
Meg set her work aside and approached the old man, whose voice rose with his increasing agitation. What was the rhyme he always repeated? It seemed to calm him.
“I’ll not go anywhere until this place is set to rights.” Old Mr. Sloan’s chest heaved, his breaths coming fast and deep.
Meg opened her mouth, if only for distraction. “You are quite right, sir. Please, tell us what we can do.” She took both his cold hands in hers and looked into his pink rimmed eyes, praying he would calm.
“I…” His breath came in fits.
Meg glanced at the younger Mr. Sloan, whose habitual cheer faded against shadowed eyes and a wilting smile. Her heart wrenched to think of the anxiety he must feel. Well, he was teaching her and showed no anger at her work on the frock coat. She would help him in return, as was fair.
“Master Sloan.” She hesitated. “ ‘The tailor he sat cross-legged, A needle and goose at hand; Stitch, stitch, stitch from morn till night, To clothe a naked land.’ ”
Young Mr. Sloan gave her a puzzled look. That wasn’t right.
She tried again. “ ‘Baker, barber, tailor, man, Cobbler, weaver, tinker tan.’ ”
From behind came Freddy’s voice, offering another version. “ ‘Tinker, tailor, Soldier, sailor, Rich man, poor man, Beggar man, thief.’ ”
Still not his rhyme, but anger fell from Master Sloan’s expression and his breath slowed.
Johnathan tried another verse. “ ‘Four and twenty tailors, Went to kill a snail; The best man among them, Durst not touch her tail—’ ”
“ ‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,’ ” Meg interrupted, suddenly remembering the rhyme was not about tailors. “ ‘If ifs and ands were pots and pans, There’d be no work for tinkers’ hands.’ ”
Old Master Sloan nodded and began to chant along. Soon, the apprentices joined. Master Sloan clapped his hands in time with the words and grinned, the hairs on his face almost obscuring his smile. Meg must ask Grace to trim the man’s beard.
The chanting stopped as Mr. Sloan’s father broke into applause, and his son made his appreciation known to the room with a wave of his hand. To Meg he said, “That was kind. You are ready witted.”
“I will find Grace while you take your father home.”
Mr. Sloan nodded, leaving her with a penetrating look before leading his father toward the door.
She struggled under both his gratitude and the way he scanned her face as if trying to solve a riddle.
The warmth of his thanks melted in her chest. But she was his competition.
It was too much to hope that his appreciation would extend into mercy if he discovered she already earned money for her work.
She dashed across the street and found Grace outside the kitchen door delivering a bottle of gin to a baby-faced man. Grace froze before backing toward the house.
Meg snatched the bottle and addressed the customer. “Sir, you must leave immediately and not return.”
“It’s already paid for.” The man reached for the bottle.
Meg clutched it to her chest and leaned toward him. “Do you want your name before the magistrate over a pint of gin? Go to the alehouse and buy it proper.”
The man shot one glaring look at Grace before sauntering away.
“You lost me a customer.” Grace thrust fists to her hips.
“Do I need to remind you the fine for selling gin?” Meg asked.
They had been neighbors in London, and Meg’s invitation for Grace to join her in Stroud had come due to knowing Grace’s struggle with her alcoholic father and dishonest brother.
Meg had hoped to help her friend escape.
“If you cannot maintain the rules of propriety, I cannot keep you here. You have no need to sell gin anymore. Why do you persist?”
Grace threw back her shoulders and lifted her chin but would not meet Meg’s gaze. “It’s easy money. Why not seize the opportunity?”
“Gin killed your mother and destroyed your father. You can’t tell me you want that for others.”
“You are breaking your contract. I hardly see how this is different. You may justify your actions, but you know it is against the law. I have my reasons as you have.”
Meg’s stomach dropped. “I prepare for my future, which does not include gin. Grace, we are so close. I have almost enough for full independence.” Hope lit Grace’s countenance. “Don’t ruin honest efforts with gin.”
Grace took a long moment to respond. “I will simply sell off what I have, then visit my brother to cut off ties in person.”
“Don’t come back if you’re going to slip back into this,” Meg warned.
“Of course.” Grace dropped her chin, and something in her dimmed. Hugging herself, she turned away.
“I came to find you because Master Sloan entered the shop in only his breeches,” Meg said to Grace’s retreating back.
“It won’t happen again,” Grace said.
Meg could not tell whether Grace referred to Master Sloan or the gin. With all her heart, she hoped for both.
Meg knocked on the front door of Havenwood, a large but simple estate near Halverton.
Miss Fisher, a lean, capable woman who ran the establishment with her sister, opened the door and led Meg into a cozy parlor where they sat near the fire across from one another.
Several women, young and old, sat sewing in the adjacent room, clad in matching gray with white pinafores.
After the proper niceties were given, Meg explained the occasion for her visit.
“As my housekeeper is additionally engaged in helping a neighbor, I would like to employ one of your boarders to assist me in my work. In time, I will open a dressmaker’s shop, and I am already beginning preparations.
Can you recommend someone good with the needle? ”
“My niece Matilde would do well.” Miss Fisher lowered her voice. “Understand that she was found taken in adultery. Rumors may follow the girl, but most of the women here are unemployable for one reason or another.”
Meg glanced around with new eyes. Havenwood was not simply a place for women to learn; it was a refuge for unwanted females.
Her heart ached with understanding for these women and girls who were deemed unworthy, often through circumstances beyond their control.
In Stroud, people were kind to Meg, but there was a reason few reached out in friendship.
Although Lord and Lady Halverton hadn’t breathed a word about her illegitimacy, she knew rumors circled about her.
“Nothing you have told me prevents her from producing uniform stitches,” Meg said.
Miss Fisher’s eyes softened. “I vouch for her character, but she is young and full of life. She requires a keen eye.”
Matters settled quickly, and soon Meg and her new needlewoman bumped along in a donkey cart borrowed from Havenwood.
Miss Matilde bounced her heel and looked from right to left in enthusiasm, driving the cart as if she trusted it to take her to whatever destination she desired.
“Perhaps you should keep your eye on the road?” Meg could not relate to Miss Matilde’s optimism.
“The donkey knows where to go,” Miss Matilde said, and launched into a monologue covering the difference between Kent and Gloucestershire, the garden she meant to one day grow, and her plan to eventually return home.
But in that moment, they were heading toward Meg’s home, where she would provide the girl with a bed and food. With hopes and desires of her own, this girl trustfully entered Meg’s stewardship, wherein Meg must keep her safe. Meg’s success or ruin affected more than herself or Samuel now.
Meg bit her cheek, sending away encroaching fears of failure. The path before her ended with one possible outcome. She would press forward until she triumphed, whatever the cost.