Chapter 14
Peter spread the information Leonore had gathered onto a long table—pages of advice from Indian masters, translated and contradictory but precious.
The final letter, from a French Jesuit who’d traveled to study Indian dye, contained a list of reasons the task of replicating chintz was impossible to accomplish in Europe.
After nearly a fortnight of deciphering the method, Peter had begun to find the pattern within the puzzle and stitched the information together in his grandfather’s journal. He nearly had it.
When he grew tired of deciphering unfamiliar handwriting, he set aside his notes and selected a fresh sheet of drawing paper.
He drew the pattern Miss Cooper had admired in Leonore’s shop as best he could remember, losing himself in line and curve.
The image of Miss Cooper settled in his mind, the press of her cheek against the carriage wall, the fan of her lashes, the slope of her mouth.
He leaned back, examined the image, and found her likeness traced into his work.
As his neighbor, his apprentice, and now his valentine, their relationship already held too much complexity.
Adding her as the subject of his fanciful thoughts would not do.
He crumpled the page and tossed it aside.
He returned to the journals, reviewing the steps he’d outlined, searching for a flaw that must lay hidden.
The chemistry appeared solid as Peter imagined each step of the process.
It felt right. He would like to tell his father and wished his grandfather were there to discuss the notes he’d taken.
Another dyer, one like Mr. Hobbins, would truly appreciate what lay in the packet Leonore had given him.
The workday had ended an hour ago, and Miss Henton no doubt waited for him. He gathered the journal and contents of Leonore’s package, eager to show his father.
Entering the house, he called, “Father, I have a surprise to show you.” The parlor was empty. “Miss Henton? Where is my father?”
“He’s been napping this hour,” she told him from the kitchen doorway.
Peter’s arm fell to his side. “I don’t recall his habit of sleeping so often.”
“He sleeps more and more these days.”
“You may return to your mistress, Miss Henton. Thank you. My father has never been more content than with you.”
She nodded and bustled about, replacing a bowl and wiping the counters. Her activity reminded him of the industrious women across the street. At any hour of the day, he might look up from his work to find ladies carrying packages into or out of Miss Cooper’s establishment.
“There is a great deal of activity across the street,” he said.
“Miss Cooper knows how to turn a penny, though I don’t know why she works so hard when Lord Halverton’s generosity would keep her like a queen. The new boarders cut my work, and I enjoy the company.” She finished fluffing a pillow and departed.
That did not explain much. Miss Cooper made money from her boarders, but what were all the other women doing there?
Peter mounted the stairs. The door to his father’s room opened softly onto the smooth rumble of snoring. Dressed in toile from the walls to the bedclothes, the room carried the same hallowed ambience since Peter’s childhood. His mother had loved that fabric. He sat at the edge of the bed.
“I think I can do it.” His father didn’t stir, so Peter explained to the sleeping figure.
“Knowing how to prepare cotton for red is half the puzzle. The colors I used for stamping previously ran too thin, but now I have this pen—a kalam, the papers call it. This wool ball soaks in the liquid dye, which then drips down the wood. Brilliant.” Peter examined the pen. He must learn to make his own.
“Father, it’s time for supper.”
With some effort, Peter woke his father and led him to the parlor, where they ate their stew, his father wondering aloud from time to time why Peter looked so familiar.
“I’ve got it,” his father said. “You’re the lad mongering vegetables on London Road. How have you been this winter?”
“Cold and a bit bored. I’ll be glad when spring comes in full.”
“Won’t we all.”
Over the past weeks his father had retreated further into himself, with fewer moments when he remembered the approximate year or who Peter was.
“You’re a tailor,” Peter told him. “What if by some accident you discovered the secret to printing Turkey red?”
“Bah. Leave it to the dyers. Dirty work, I say.”
Peter nodded patiently. In guild hierarchy tailors considered themselves above dyers, whose work stained their hands and smelled repulsive. His father had learned the prejudice in his youth, and it rose now and then when he forgot his beloved wife had come from dyers.
“But the discovery would be of great value.”
The man’s gnarled hand circled his beard, giving it a tug as he grew thoughtful. “You are right. Red cloth from Stroud. The whole town would flow with coin.”
“One might sell the recipe.” If there were no promise between grandfather and grandson.
“My father-in-law was a dyer. A saint of a man. Distrustful, though, with a solid grudge against his guildsmen. If he found Turkey red, he would perish with the secret in his head. That is how much he despised his fellows.”
Peter smiled.
“Do you enjoy selling vegetables?” his father asked.
“I do.”
“Stick with that. If you find something you like better, do that.”
“Did you ever find something you liked better than tailoring?”
“Tailoring is the most noble work.”
“Why? Without vegetables, people might starve.”
“I do not mean to insult your occupation. But clothing is both necessary and an expression of oneself. We tell others who we are and what we value by the fabrics we choose, the color, the cut. Is your waistcoat silk or linen or wool? Are your cuffs embroidered? Are your buttons gold-toned or fabric-covered? A shepherd would not dress like a barrister but might outline his buttonholes in scarlet thread. He is restrained by means and profession, but so is any member of the House of Lords.”
His father’s oration continued, stew abandoned, his arms flung above his head and down his front as he discussed the art and science of a well-cut frock coat.
Peter had never enjoyed the monologue more.
The high color in his father’s cheeks, the animated body language—these were the words of a man passionate for his trade.
Peter loved that his father enjoyed his vocation so well.
He wished he could feel the same. Tailoring had been an adequate career, but he longed to paint cotton, not stitch it.
But to what end? One did not begin an apprenticeship at the age of twenty-three.
Miss Cooper had begun at nineteen, a rare exception.
He admired her for it. She pursued her aspirations relentlessly and possessed a sense for business he lacked.
He imagined her shop, a bustle of activity, never chaos, with Miss Cooper at its center.
A smudge of chalk across her cheek, a measuring ribbon at her neck, directing Miss Matilde as she fitted a gown.
He would like to see that future with her.
The thought startled him. When had he started wishing her success so fervently?
He must remember it could be to the detriment of his own.
He had his hobby. The day before he’d taken his designs to the block cutters with new instructions derived from the knowledge he’d gained.
When his father went to bed, he might try the pen.
But he hesitated, afraid of what the attempt would lead to.
He enjoyed the simplicity of merely existing in the belief that he might create chintz.
He could smugly assume success sat at his fingertips while never having to admit failure. And if he did succeed, what then?
If he possessed a fraction of Miss Cooper’s courage, he might rebel against convention and pursue a new vocation. If he and his grandfather had not sealed their promise with Turkey red dye. If and if…
His father’s attention swiveled to Peter, eyes sharp on his clothing. “You are not dressed like a vegetable seller.”
Peter raised his brow and waited for his father to analyze each thread and conclude he was a tailor.
A tap sounded on the door. Peter excused himself and found young Simon beaming at him, arm extended with a letter.
For the past five years Simon had distributed the parish valentines, a role for a boy who could keep a confidence.
Though thirteen, he maintained the cherubic cheeks and flaxen hair of a much younger child.
“Is this from…?” Peter asked.
“Your valentine wished to reply.”
Miss Cooper had responded. Peter’s heart leapt to a march.
The folded paper bore down upon his breast pocket as he and his father drank port, as he took his father upstairs to bed, as he tidied the quiet house.
When nothing remained undone, he withdrew the letter.
Instead of wax, she’d tied it with a length of fine silk cord twined in green and blue. He untied it and read:
Dear Valentine,
I have not decided whether your apt understanding of my character is charming or alarming. One does not like to be so anonymously understood.
A ponderous mood drives me to set down my thoughts.
The poem you sent indicated your wish to be a friend.
Forgive me for taking advantage of your offer.
I want someone to know the truth of my burdens—not to solve my problems but to hold them with me.
You have taught me there is solace in knowing someone else in the world is aware of my efforts, disappointments, and triumphs.
I offer the same comfort to you, should you find yourself willing to impart your struggles. As we are never to know the identity of the other, it is a safe friendship. I trust I do not need to ask for your confidence. I feel I have it.
I must make some conjectures regarding our differing positions. I surmise from your letter that you choose not to achieve your desire, fearing the thing you seek will disappoint you.