Chapter 12
Peter counted four running stitches per tick of the clock.
He would finish the first eight gowns of the Downsbury commission before midnight.
Miss Cooper had taken two home. If not for her organizing powers, Sloan Tailoring could not have delivered the gowns on such an ambitious schedule.
She’d harnessed the full abilities of his apprentices and the needlewomen and dragged in a few neighborhood ladies to help.
A quick study, her knack for understanding a pattern proved her value in construction as well.
A tap sounded on the window before the door swung open and Miss Cooper appeared in a bustle of cold wind and black crepe.
“The train is buckling, sir.” She was calling him sir now? And entering the shop in the middle of the night as if it were commonplace. “Everything else is finished, but examine the mess I’ve made.” She held the gown in lantern light.
“And good evening to you, Miss Cooper.” He smiled at her matter-of-fact manner and laid the gown across the table, backside facing them. After briefly studying the garment, he prescribed a solution. “A gored panel sewn between the front skirt and the back. Can you picture it?”
“Yes.”
In swift motions, he unstitched her work. “Cut the panel and we’ll sew it together.”
Their hands brushed as they sewed parallel down the back of the train.
She flinched but did not move away. They continued in tandem, as if moved by the same rhythm.
They touched again, skin to skin. He adjusted his hold on the needle, but the warmth of her grazed his palm.
He began to find that her quiet focus steadied him.
He felt more himself with her nearby, an odd sentiment when they were hardly friends.
When finished, Miss Cooper draped their work over a chair but lingered, checking over a seam. “All is ready for the delivery?”
“Thanks to you. I didn’t know the other apprentices could stitch so quickly.” He wanted to show his gratitude. “Would you join me for the delivery tomorrow? The carriage arrives at seven. Final adjustments will be an hour or more.”
Her eyes brightened. “I will be ready.”
“I had planned to visit the Gloucester Cloth Fair after the fitting—it runs all day. You are welcome to join me, unless the trip would inconvenience you.”
“I should be glad to attend the fair with you.”
“I will see you in a few hours, then.”
“Does anything require finishing work?”
He chuckled. “You’ve worked hard enough. Get some sleep.”
She opened the door and turned. “Thank you, Master Sloan.”
The following morning Peter rose early to rinse several yards of plain-weave cotton brought by Lucius, whose determination to supply England with chintz led him to press Peter into experimentation.
Lucius made no expectation the fabric be returned, so Peter could not object.
Time in the dyehouse calmed his soul. Filling his grandfather’s journal with detailed notes of his failures satisfied him in a way he couldn’t fully explain.
Perhaps because the failures were inconsequential, a balm for the sorrow that accompanied his father’s gradual decline.
He pulled the fabric from a lye solution and plunged it into soapy water, rinsing and scrubbing until it squeaked.
He could almost hear his grandfather. The cloth must sing to you, else it hath not purged.
Peter wiped soapy splashes from his face and brought the cotton to his nose, searching for any trace of smoky lye.
When satisfied, he wrung it out and coiled it into a basin of buttermilk, which would strip the creamy hue left by lye and leave the cloth bright white.
Half an hour remained before the Downsbury carriage arrived for him and Miss Cooper. Perhaps not the wisest invitation, but he wanted to acknowledge her work and could think of no better way. The outing may provide an opportunity to discover what she might like by way of valentines.
He found her in the workroom when he emerged. The room lay in spotless order, and she was scribbling something.
“How do you do, Miss Cooper? You are early this morning.” He stood behind her and saw she was making a list for the apprentices.
“I hope you don’t mind. They work so much better when—”
“When you guide their labor?”
She made a noncommittal noise and continued writing. Though she inserted herself without questioning whether his methods served a purpose, he felt no resentment. Her apprenticeship ended in seven months, and her interference allowed him time in the dyehouse and with his father.
“I will return in a moment,” he said, making for the door to his living space.
“You will make us late.” She did not look up.
Her assertion proved correct. Nearly an hour later, they settled into the roomy carriage, the smell of warm butter and caraway rising from the basket between them.
“Seed cake?” He pointed his chin at the basket.
“Miss Henton made three yesterday as your father took a longer nap than usual. What kept you? Is anything amiss?”
“One does not visit Lady Downsbury in work clothes.” It was half the truth. He had splashed a bit of cologne over his freshly shaved face with thoughts of Miss Cooper.
Her eyes settled over him, examining the impeccable turn of his collarless, single-breasted frock coat of indigo superfine wool with eighteen fabric-covered buttons down the front.
He felt her attention move to the ten-inch cuffs and matching waistcoat, the intensity of her regard sliding warmly into his chest.
“You might have warned me.” She smoothed her chestnut linen gown. Her fingers, covered in thin wool gloves, clutched the edges of her cape as if drawing a barrier between them. “Did you eat? There is plenty of cake.”
“I am in fact ravenous. Clever of you to have brought refreshment.” He helped himself. “Your Miss Henton has a talent in the kitchen.”
She nudged the basket toward him and looked out the window.
His best efforts at friendliness did not crack her. He didn’t understand why he wanted her to like him. He was teaching her, taking her all the way to Gloucester because he thought she would enjoy it.
“You grew up in London?” he asked.
“For the most part.”
“Where else?”
“The occasional year or two in a country cottage, here and there.”
Vague. “Do you miss London?”
“Not at all. It is dirty and crowded. I find Stroud suits me, just a wander away to sheep-dotted hills.”
She waxed poetic. He hadn’t expected that. “And your family? You’ve mentioned a brother.”
“Samuel. He studies in Gloucester.”
“That is all the family you have?”
Her manner turned stiff. “What are you doing with a dyehouse at the rear of your workshop?”
“I did not mean to pry.” He knew the rumors that Lord Halverton was a relation but couldn’t recall how. An ill-begotten cousin? He had no use for gossip. “My grandfather was a dyer bent on learning the trick of Turkey red.”
She puffed dismissively.
“Precisely. Except, look.” He pulled the ruby-colored cotton square from his pocket. He’d turned the edges and embroidered his initials to make a handkerchief.
She took it and turned it. “This could be imported.”
“But it wasn’t. My grandfather spent so much time experimenting that the guild grew resentful, accused him of wasting time. He built that dyehouse when he came to live with my parents. By the time he mastered Turkey red, his health dwindled.”
“A tragedy.” She closed her eyes as if pained. “His most valuable heirloom buried with him.”
Any break from her customary stoicism intrigued him. He watched her for a moment, the high cheekbones, aristocratic nose, confident chin.
She was incorrect, though. His grandfather’s gift was not a color.
“The most precious thing he gave me was not that secret.” Peter pondered the hours spent by his grandfather’s side, a man never too busy or messy for his grandson.
Perhaps his grandfather’s easy manner had encouraged Peter’s own amiable nature, his assurance that there would always be enough time to finish a task.
“Well?” she asked.
“His greatest gift was the love and time he gave me.”
She deflated and sat back in her seat.
He laughed.
“I am not amusing, yet you continue to laugh at me.”
“Someone must.”
“What does that mean?”
“You are prodigiously grave.”
“I am earnest, that is all. But you find a joke in everything.”
He lifted a shoulder. The desire to confide in the woman beside him baffled him. Perhaps it was rooted in the selfish wish to gain her confidence.
“Regardless, you mustn’t fret so about my grandfather’s legacy. I was his student. His secret was not buried with him.”
She twisted toward him. “You know the recipe. Why are you tailoring?”
He laughed. “I am a tailor.”
“I don’t understand. You squander your inheritance.”
“My grandfather never meant me to use the knowledge, not for gain.”
She stared, disbelieving. “Grandfather and grandson equally foolish. If someone left me such a gift…” She looked out the window.
“It’s more complicated than that. Remember, the guild resented him for neglecting his work in pursuit of chemistry; the guild essentially abandoned him to my parents’ care. My grandfather could not forgive them and insisted the guild never profit from his work. I promised I would safeguard it.”
“Sometimes stepping out of our elders’ footsteps is precisely what we should do.”
He glanced at her. That statement said more about her than anything she’d previously expressed. What suffering was she escaping? He wanted to take her hand and infuse her with all the warmth of his happy childhood. “I am sorry,” he said, a pitiful substitute for the comfort he wished to give.
“You have nothing for which to apologize.” She pulled her mantle tighter. “Except not using the gift fate dropped in your lap.”
He wished to draw her out, so he began talking, blathering, covering everything from the differences between French and English fashion to his mother’s recipe that made gin taste like cordial and finally Lucius’s being strapped to Widow Tolbert for the duration of valentine season.
“Why not ignore the assignment?” she asked.