Chapter 11 #2
“There is one more thing. Yesterday, in your absence, Master Dickson paid me a visit with the intention of warning against my teaching you. He threatened my removal from the guild if he discovers otherwise.”
“He wouldn’t.” Her chest tightened, grasping at the education she craved as she felt it slipping away. She knew enough of odious Master Dickson to be assured he would indeed expel Mr. Sloan from the guild.
“Several tradespeople have been upset about your position, concerned that more women will begin demanding membership into guilds. Until you arrived, I admit I took their opinion but did not examine the problem. Now I’ve come to know you, I see no reason to keep you from your goal.
Rest assured, I will continue to teach you, but we must not spark suspicion.
Townsfolk may report to the guild and put a stop to what they deem heresy. ”
Meg had braced herself for a fight, ready to argue against any reason Mr. Sloan put against instructing her, but he was on her side, a fact that did not slide easily into her understanding. Time would tell if she could take him at his word.
“Do you fear the apprentices will give me up?”
He laughed. “Hardly. They are devoted to you, Miss Cooper.” He looked as if he would ask a question but said, “I believe you are safe with them. It’s everyone else whose loyalty I question.”
The risk he took for her sake made no sense, but acceptance was her choice.
She decided not to dwell on his selfless kindness and pressed her hand over her ribs to calm the fluttering anticipation of receiving his attention.
Liking him would create difficulties. “We shall be discreet.” She sounded too eager.
Pausing for a breath, she said, “I can remain unseen when anyone from the guild comes to visit, and you must treat me as though I am a mere needlewoman helping you with your female customers when ladies come for fittings. What other precautions should we take?”
“That will do for now.”
He smiled, a languid, quiet grin that resonated with the slow loosening of her chest. He appeared genuinely pleased to be helping her become a dressmaker.
She found herself returning his smile, caught in a stretch of gentle ease, of kinship.
The moment lasted a beat too long. She enjoyed the feeling too much.
She stood. Mr. Sloan cleared his throat and followed her from the room.
After a full day beside her mentor, Meg learned the exact angle of Mr. Sloan’s jaw better than the method for sizing a robe à l’anglaise. Indeed, she memorized the lines around his eyes when he smiled and the slope of his nose. His looks were a distraction she must overcome.
At her kitchen table, she held a letter secured with a nondescript seal, her name scrawled across the front.
She snapped the wax and unfolded the page.
The bottom edge was rough, as if torn from a ledger, but the sender had made use of it by sketching tents scattered across a stretch of land.
People huddled in groups, lanterns swung, and paths stretched from the field into the distant forest—an impressive amount of detail for so crude a medium.
It portrayed the Saint Valentine’s festival, conveying movement and a celebratory mood.
In the center, a figure warmed herself near the bonfire.
Meg squinted. It was she, wearing a gown in the same color as the one she and Mr. Sloan had perfected.
She stared at the drawing.
Whoever her valentine was, he knew her and admired her new gown, had taken time to settle this image in his mind’s eye.
She shook off the sentiment and read the poem. Snorting, she tossed it aside. Who had time for such silliness?
“What is funny?” Grace asked from the counter, where she kneaded bread.
“This valentine business. It seems mine courts me out of obligation but promises to be constant until Easter releases him from the burden.”
“He paints a beautiful bird. What does he say?”
“It is a poorly done poem.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“It does not merit such distinction.” But Grace’s comment prompted Meg to examine the perfectly blended colors that made up the bird, which Grace hadn’t sent to her valentine after all.
Meg knew enough of watercolors to recognize the painting was not the work of moments.
The artist had allowed the page to dry and returned three or four times to add color and texture.
While his poem indicated a dismissive attitude, the bird and the sketch said something different.
“Don’t be a dull blade,” Grace urged.
“Alright, but prepare your ears for assault.” Meg read:
O Valentine, on thee mine lot is cast,
Mine purpose fixed; I am steadfast.
Tradition obliges me to woo,
Flatter and charm, court and pursue.
O Valentine, grant me to amuse
’Til at season’s end thou may accuse
My ev’ry fault save inconstancy,
Then, pardon my deficiency.
Grace was in fits. “How can you be blind to the fun? We might take the festival to London and charge a participation fee.”
“It reads like a warning.”
“Or an apology.”
“Fortunately for both of us, I am not eager to be courted. I wager he will give up. Perhaps I’ll leave him a note informing him he needn’t waste his efforts.”
Grace fisted her hands into the dough and pushed. “Don’t do that. Let’s figure out who he is.”
“I do not wish to know. If you discover his identity, do not tell me. In some matters, I prefer ignorance.” Meg glanced again at the drawing.
Whoever this man was, he’d captured her in an unguarded moment, seen her as she rarely saw herself.
Who could know her so well? She carefully folded the letter and set it aside.
She would never admit her treacherous thoughts to Grace, but she found herself intrigued.
What mystery would her valentine send her next?
“I forgot,” Grace said. “You have a letter from Samuel. My head is in the clouds due to my own lovesick heart. I embroidered my valentine a handkerchief.”
“A true romantic.” Meg rolled her eyes but smiled at Grace’s exaggeration. She found the letter and unsealed it with more anticipation than she had her valentine. Samuel’s handwriting improved with every letter. Though they saw one another each Sunday, he wrote every week.
“Read it aloud?” Grace asked.
Meg cleared her throat.
February 28, 1759
Foxmill School
Dear Meg,
Do not worry that I’ve been abed three days with a cold. I have no work to do and get to read all the time I’m not sleeping. Cook brings me broth, which I do not like, but also hot sugared buns, which remind me of Christmas. I didn’t know people ate sweet buns so regular.
Remember Jacob Plinker? His mum sent him a deck of cards, and he taught me and three other fellows to play Pam-Loo. We bet with clay marbles, and I won so many they hardly fit in my pouch.
James promised we could hare hunt on Sunday. Would you join us?
Your devoted brother,
Samuel
Meg pressed her fingers to her lips, feeling her mouth move into a smile at his dignified closing.
Though boarding school had not been her favorite of Lord Halverton’s plans, the learning seemed good for Samuel.
Everyone caught a cold from time to time, and distressing over it was pointless.
If he hadn’t spent so much of his childhood fevered, she would not be so concerned.
On Sunday she could assess his illness herself and bring him a larger bag for his marbles.