Chapter 12 #2
“He is committed to the tradition.”
“And did you throw your name into the lot?”
Her golden eyes seemed to penetrate to the truth. Peter’s chest clenched. “I would never willingly put my name in.”
“I suppose you don’t have time, seeing as your dyehouse keeps you so occupied that you can barely manage your apprentices.”
He stiffened. She bit her lip and began apologizing, but he waved her off; the damage was done. She had correctly reduced his dyehouse to a waste of time.
They endured fifteen minutes of silence before she ruptured it abruptly.
“My mother was a courtesan.” Perhaps she sensed she’d offended him, and this was her strange offering.
“You may as well know.” She tilted her chin a fraction.
“We moved from grand London townhouses to squalor, from rich country manors to misery. She died several years ago, leaving me to care for my half-brother Samuel.” She delivered the confession like a card laid face up on a table, daring him to flinch.
He did not recoil, but something behind his ribs shifted and resettled, as if making room.
He wanted to reach for her as the man who had painted a starling and sketched her masterpiece of a dress lit by firelight. But any tenderness would bewilder her, and the questions that followed would unravel everything.
“I am glad you have Lord Halverton to look after you.”
She stiffened, fingers tightening around the black velvet trim of her mantle.
He felt her withdrawal and knew she’d risked more than he deserved and received less than she needed.
Yet he remained keenly aware of his position as her master and she as his apprentice; though he thought friendship between them appropriate, could he truly pursue any further intimacy without putting her in an awkward position?
That night, behind the safety of his anonymity, he would answer the confession she made—not that her mother was a courtesan, but that she trusted him enough to say so. Her valentine would present a letter responding to the confidence with due gravity, offering the support he could not.
“I don’t require looking after.” Her mouth set tightly.
He tried to give her what little comfort he could. “We are none of us responsible for what our parents do, though their actions may hurt us.”
She nodded, sharp and dismissive, sending a sinking feeling through his gut.
The visit with the Downsbury ladies went well, thanks largely to Miss Cooper, who knew better than he when to shut her mouth and nod sympathetically.
No one left in tears this time. Final fittings complete and promises made to return with additional gowns, Peter departed with Miss Cooper for the cloth fair.
Rumbling laughter and conversation flooded their ears before they turned onto lower Westgate Street, where Booth Hall housed the market. Tents strewn outside the building and down the road enclosed merchants eager to sell to buyers before they entered the main event.
Peter held out his arm and was gratified by the feel of her hand resting against it.
Miss Cooper’s fingers balled in a fist on his sleeve. Cold more likely than discomfort. Her gloves were insufficient. With Lord Halverton as her guardian, she should not want for such simple things. Peter would send her a pair. A valentine gift.
“Tailor Sloan.” A man waved a length of fine emerald wool.
Others called his name, and Peter nodded and smiled as he passed.
“They all know you?” Miss Cooper asked.
“I have attended this fair nearly every year since my birth. Stroud produces the best wool, so I have little need to buy, but I may acquire linen or silk should I strike a bargain.”
The warmth of a crowd met them at the door of Booth Hall. Miss Cooper disengaged her arm and stepped toward a display of silk brocades. “What is the fashion for gowns this year, sir?” she asked a merchant.
“The best source for that information is at your elbow, ma’am.” The merchant turned to Peter. “Mr. Sloan, tell the lady.”
Peter obliged and pointed at the brocade.
“We are entering a period of simplicity. After years of gowns burdened with every piece of lace, ribbon, and frippery imaginable, the world pivots. Wear your brocade, madame, but keep it plain. If you wish for ruching, maintain monochrome fabrics. Silhouettes will narrow, with more reasonably sized panniers.” He continued as if reading from The London Chronicle, dramatizing his performance in hopes of drawing a rare smile from Miss Cooper.
She didn’t smile. Her brows pinched and her head tilted as it did when she was concentrating. “How can you guess?”
He tapped his nose. “Follow me.” He led her to the back of the building, up an echoing stairwell, and down an empty corridor to a door that flaked blue paint onto the floor.
Peter knocked. No answer. He tapped twice in rapid succession, then once more after a pause.
“The mantua waits,” said an accented female voice from within.
“Only for prints,” Peter replied.
The door opened to a dark-haired, brown-eyed woman resplendent in elaborate court dress. “Peter. At last,” she said with a French accent, offering her cheek as he pressed his against hers.
“Leonore, this is my…” Should he call her apprentice? “…neighbor, Miss Cooper.”
“Mr. Sloan is teaching me dressmaking,” Miss Cooper clarified.
“And you are showing her the best part of the fair? She is special, no?”
Miss Cooper went rigid.
Leonore’s full laugh filled the room. “We will not waste time. You are fortunate no one else is here.” She gestured over a table strewn with fabric samples. Cotton prints. Indian chintz.
Miss Cooper stepped forward, entranced, and asked if she could touch them.
“Absolument,” said Leonore.