Chapter 13
Under a dusky sky peeking through Meg’s parlor windows, she, Grace, and Miss Matilde sewed when a knock sounded at the door. Meg opened it and returned with a valentine, excusing herself under a chorus of teasing oohs and ahs.
Safe in her bedroom, Meg unwrapped a brown, oblong parcel and found a delicious pair of gloves to replace the thin, worn pair that insufficiently warmed her hands.
Had her valentine noticed? She half suspected Lucius, who visited his friend Mr. Sloan at his shop often and behaved with increasing familiarity toward her.
The gloves were strikingly similar to a pair she had lingered over at the cloth fair.
The idea made her uneasy. Far better to suspect a mysterious ghost than to put a name to the man. She didn’t want to know.
Beneath the gloves was a note.
Dear Valentine,
I perceive you are not as impervious to the cold as you would have the world believe. May these gloves serve as additional armor against the depth of feeling you seek to conceal.
Since valentines are to speak of love, I will tell you what I know of it.
My mother taught me that love is quiet and constant, and I believed her because I saw it practiced daily.
I wonder, if she had been forced to fight for survival rather than cushioned by affection, would her lesson have been harder to learn?
There is a gentleness in your nature that seems to discomfort you and causes me to wonder what you learned from your early examples about love. You will forgive me if I speak too freely.
Your Valentine
She refolded the note and considered burning the page but lost her nerve.
Instead, Meg pressed the paper into the bottom of a trunk she used for things she did not want but could not move herself to part with, mostly her mother’s things.
An old wig. An elaborately embroidered silk scarf her mother had loved too well to sell, even when they had no bread.
Letters from her mother’s potential lovers, kept with some vague notion they would someday become useful.
A few odd bits of jewelry. An old dressing gown, practical and warm, that Meg could never make herself use.
There were other things as well. Warm, beautiful things.
The piece of slate on which she and Samuel had both practiced their letters, and later Grace.
An ill-formed woolen dog stuffed with scraps that Meg had gifted Samuel when he was first brought to them.
He’d slept with it for years before declaring himself too old, about the time Lord Halverton found them.
She slid her fingers into the gloves. They resembled an offering from one of her mother’s patrons, except they came without expectation of a favor, else the note would have read differently. She knew what sorts of letters came with expectations.
These few words were of a different tenor, one that made her feel understood rather than pursued.
She did feel deeply. Her care for Samuel ran fathomless.
Passion for her work invigorated and strengthened her.
Concern for Grace and Matilde followed her needle across her projects.
The beauty of a morning brought a lump to her throat.
All these things she sought to hide. How had this man—a stranger—recognized her truth?
Over her plate, Meg powdered the remainder of a scone with a tiny fork, then swept the crumbs into a line, like a row of soldiers.
The literary breakfast thus far had proved the most dismal waste of a Saturday.
She began to wish she had spent the morning turning the disarray of her workroom into something resembling a shop.
Her fingers itched for a needle or a pair of scissors.
The little crumb soldiers scurried before her fork while the women around her professed violent opinions over a novel by a Lady Mary.
“What of the red silk gown?” someone asked breathlessly. Several ladies covered their hearts or lips, some sighing audibly.
Beside Meg, Miss Matilde whispered, “The red gown.” Meg barely prevented herself from snorting.
Her attention shifted to the peripheries of the room where three young ladies replenished trays of scones and refreshed teapots.
Neat and serious in gray gowns and starched pinafores, they moved with silent industry before sitting at the edge of the group and pulling sewing from a shared basket.
Their fingers moved with adept swiftness—darning socks, embroidering a handkerchief, repairing a torn chemise.
An increasing number of women were appearing at Meg’s door, exchanging their gowns for the promise of special trimmings.
No fewer than thirteen had hung about her shop yesterday.
She did not have the time to make good on her word, not with her work at Sloan’s in addition to the shirts and shifts she made.
Even with Grace and Matilde, she could use more hands.
When Miss Fisher concluded her remarks and the room broke into movement, Meg made her way to the sewing ladies, leaving Miss Matilde, Lady Halverton, and Miss Ivy to continue discussing the novel.
She examined the women’s work and spoke to them briefly. One was a little older than the others. A little maturity would not hurt.
“What is your name?” Meg asked her.
“I am Miss Reed, and I understand Miss Matilde is boarding with you. Is she content?”
Content did not quite describe Miss Matilde, who saved her coins as faithfully as Meg and spoke of returning home several times each day. “She seems pleased. You may ask her about it yourself.” No better way to enlist help than to send someone already engaged in the work.
Meg excused herself and approached Miss Fisher.
“Miss Matilde looks well and happy,” Miss Fisher said.
“I am glad to hear it, for I ask the same favor again. Miss Reed seems promising.”
“She is a fine sort of woman. Strong, despite the twist in her leg. I know it ails her at times, but she never lets on.” Miss Fisher agreed to sort out the details and visit later that week.
As they spoke, Meg considered how the arrangement might look from the outside or across the street.
With four women under her roof, concealing her illicit venture would become more difficult.
She must tell Mr. Sloan something to explain their presence.
That is, if Miss Ivy did not explain first. On the journey to Havenwood in Lord Halverton’s carriage, she had waited in vain for Miss Ivy to find the courage to ask in which ways Meg cheated her contract with Mr. Sloan.
Instead, Miss Matilde and Miss Ivy chatted endlessly about the book.
Meg did not like ambiguity and planned to bring the matter up herself when she could pull Miss Ivy aside.
No matter how her acquaintance might chastise her, discontinuing her operation remained impossible.
Each day her objective seemed to slip as Samuel grew more reliant on Lord Halverton’s generosity.
Samuel’s health had prevented his traveling for nearly the past fortnight.
The demands of the Downsbury commission, to be finished by the end of next week, could not keep Meg from missing and worrying over him.
Until he resided safely under her roof, that concern would not cease.
Lady Halverton appeared at Meg’s elbow. “Miss Fisher, I see you have met my dear friend Miss Cooper. She is a most experienced seamstress and will soon have her own dress shop. Miss Cooper will have every lady in Gloucestershire at her door this time next year. Mark my words.”
Meg seized the opportunity. “I am, in fact, doing a little work now.” The risk was great, but the women at such gatherings would have no knowledge of apprenticeships or indenture contracts.
“I cannot create full gowns, but I have begun advising and embellishing. Anyone might come to me for ideas on improving her wardrobe. I can promise to make it uniquely flattering for each woman.”
“Oh.” Lady Halverton squealed. “May I come today?”
“Please do, my lady. I believe we might improve upon perfection,” Meg said.
Voices agreed in giggles and assenting murmurs. Meg glanced around. She had gathered an audience and spoken with authority, as one who controlled her fate. She wished to hold onto that.
Having accomplished her objective, Meg sought Miss Ivy, whom she found concluding a conversation with an elderly lady.
“I hope you enjoyed the breakfast,” Miss Ivy said.
“It has been most beneficial.”
“In what way?” Miss Ivy’s words held suspicion.
They edged away from the crowd and stood near glass doors looking out onto the garden.
“I know you overheard my reference to cheating my contract with Mr. Sloan. I imagine that is the root of your bitterness toward me.”
“Peter is a good friend and one of the best men I know. It pains me to learn someone has done him ill.”
As the only woman of the party likely to understand apprenticeships, Meg wondered what Miss Ivy suspected her of. If watched, anyone might guess the workings of Meg’s household. “You have not told Mr. Sloan.”
“I admire your bravery in obtaining an apprenticeship and can see that Peter may be hesitant to hold his end of such a bargain. I wish to understand you. Do you do it out of spite?”
Again, Meg questioned what Miss Ivy knew. “I promise, I harbor no ill-will for Mr. Sloan.” The truth of her words struck true. Mr. Sloan had showed her generosity beyond anyone she knew. He deserved every good thing. “Shall we walk outside?”
They exited into the garden and walked in silence among snow shrinking into tinkling rivulets.
“I have been selling a bit of extra work in secret,” Meg finally said. “I need the money now.” Everyone understood money.
Miss Ivy blew an incredulous breath. “Not as the ward of Lord Halverton.”
“What does that mean?” Meg wanted her to spell it out, find the assumptions false on her own.
“Do not pretend you became the first female apprentice in the history of England without the help of your powerful guardian.”