Chapter 14 #2
May I suggest the difference between us is necessity.
Whatever your ambition, it does not seem to hinge between life or death, peace or suffering.
If I fail, I am ruined, destined for separation from one I love.
I must succeed. If I lack the ability to enjoy small triumphs, I do not regret it.
My happiness does not depend on small achievements but one great victory to benefit my loved one.
You may suggest I will not appreciate it.
Perhaps you are right. Life never permits me complacency.
This is the burden I wish you to understand. While I enjoy dressmaking, adore it, I also labor out of fear. I dread failure so much that I hardly let myself consider it.
Thank you for your letter and for the gloves and the watercolors. I was wary of the tradition, but you have made receiving valentines palatable, even delicious. I do not know who you are or how you know me, but I have never felt so understood, and for that, I thank you.
With a hand extended in friendship, I remain,
Your Valentine
Peter had seen Miss Cooper’s script in the workroom, but on this missive she held a softer expression. The letter begged further questions. Why did she feel it necessary to succeed when Lord Halverton’s generosity, as Miss Henton said, prevented any risk of her poverty?
His attention moved to the papers he’d wished to show his father. Dread pressed him into inaction. He must overcome that.
He needed air and someone to confide in. Lucius it must be. Peter strode toward the river, each step taking him closer to the deafening roar of the mill.
“What’s afoot?” Lucius asked from behind his desk.
“I needed a walk, and the evening is fine.” Peter rubbed his hands near the fire.
Lucius settled his quill on the inkstand. “You’re in love. That is the only reason one might enjoy chill weather.”
Peter scoffed.
“How are things with your valentine?”
“She has yet to wear the gloves I gave her. How is Widow Tolbert?”
“I sent her a puzzle. But it’s your Margaret Cooper that interests me.”
“Court her, then.” Peter recoiled from the idea but maintained a straight face. Now that she had written in return, he could not relinquish her.
“Perhaps I will.”
Peter forced a laugh. “You wouldn’t suit.”
“Jealous?”
“She is not what I thought her to be.”
Lucius leaned forward, all interest. “Well?”
“She is like an egg.”
“Put that in your next valentine and she will be yours.”
Peter laughed. “She is all hardness and sometimes incivility in appearance, but she possesses something tender beneath her shell.”
“Get to it, then, old boy.” Lucius studied him. “Something else troubles you. Why are you here?”
Peter described the impossible request he’d given Leonore, the letters, the pen, the detailed outline he’d created by consolidating the information. “One man instructs one way, another something different, you see?”
“Plain as a riddle.”
“My grandfather was right. The recipe helps, but understanding why it works is the key. It’s not magic. It’s chemistry.”
Lucius stood. “I’m ready. Let’s see what you’ve made.”
“Nothing at all. I’m only thinking.”
Lucius exhaled loudly and thudded back into his seat. “You had me thinking you’d already mastered it.”
Peter smiled, ensconced in delightful anticipation. “When I do, I won’t tell you.”
“Don’t. Not unless you’re ready to sell.” They shared a grin.
Early the following morning, Peter entered the workshop to find Miss Cooper instructing Finn, an eight-year-old son of one of the needlewomen, on the proper way to clean a grate.
“Finn, keep the shovel’s edge close to the floor, so you’re not sweeping ash under it.” She demonstrated and returned the tools to the boy.
Finn pinched his lips and swept the charcoal beneath the ash shovel.
“Mr. Cox,” she said. He looked up, likely startled by the use of his surname.
“Your work is critical to the proper running of this shop. Most towns of this size have a single tailor with perhaps one apprentice. Sloan Tailoring is exceptional, with people traveling from as far as London to commission clothes from us. This is a respected establishment, and you are the perfect gentleman to help us keep it tidy. Now, try gathering the ash without sweeping it all over.”
Her speech made Peter feel proud to work there. But his mind wandered to the fear she had expressed in her letter. She dreaded falling short but spoke to little Finn as though failure were impossible. Miss Cooper’s inner terror lay invisible behind a wall of confidence and authority.
When all was in order and Finn departed, Miss Cooper turned to Peter. “He will do well.”
“You have made certain of that.”
Her brief smile faded. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you about something. I am taking on another boarder from Havenwood. The women under my roof are helping me prepare my shop for opening.”
“I suppose they will become seamstresses when your time here ends?” Of course she would begin preparing for her shop’s opening. “I wish you the best in your preparations.” His heart insisted on this truth while his stomach felt uneasy.
Her brows drew together. Had he mistaken her expression? She showed suspicion, not confusion. Or was it something else entirely—perhaps yearning?
Blast Lucius for their stupid wager. It forced him to imagine feelings where there were none.
“You are spending an awful lot of time in the dye room,” she said. “It is none of my concern, but what are you doing in there?”
Her words felt like a challenge. Perhaps he wasted time, but he was a treasure hunter on the brink of a grand discovery. “I’ll show you.” His step faltered. He was about to reveal his own fears, the very dread he’d spoken of in his letters. But she did not know that, after all.
Her heels clicked behind him. He unlocked the dyehouse and welcomed her in. She covered her nose.
“Dying is dirty and malodorous. When you already have a trade, why engage—”
“—in a filthy and foul-smelling task? Allow me to show you.” His thudding heart reminded him that he was inviting a new level of intimacy and judgement. He cared what she thought, craved her reaction. If she was like an egg, he was like a peach, friendly softness concealing a stone.
He stepped into the dyehouse. The rising sun cast harsh, brilliant light through red cotton hanging to dry near the open windows.
Miss Cooper stilled, her hand dropping from her face. “You did this?” she uttered with the reverence of a prayer. She stepped forward and took the cloth with both hands, stretching it tight. “You said that you… I didn’t imagine…”
“Lucius thinks I should sell the recipe. Or join his venture.”
“Would that please you?”
“I can’t.”
“The vow to your grandfather?”
Peter assented, feeling confined by a promise that had always felt like a sacred gift, made more precious for being his alone.
“Little wonder you spend so much time in here. What an accomplishment.”
“Not one I discovered on my own. My grandfather unraveled the mystery.”
“Your mother would have been pleased, though.”
She would have. The acknowledgement grew in his throat, words his father might have said if he were able.
Miss Cooper examined him. “You are surprising. All those drawings, this color. What can’t you do?” She noticed his illustrations on the table. “You are decorating the fabric?”
“I’ve tried stamping without success, but victory may lie around the corner.”
She leafed through the drawings. “These sketches are lovely. You are talented, Mr. Sloan.”
His heart swelled at the honest praise. She had written that she’d never felt so understood as when reading his letters, and now her praise answered an unspoken need for approbation in return. A smile spread unbidden, and no swiping the back of his hand across his mouth reduced it.
He wanted to send her yards of floral chintz, patterned after the one she’d loved at the cloth fair, fashioned into a gown that might crack her shell.
But that lay beyond his skill, and he could never deliver the gift without revealing himself as her valentine.
For the first time, Peter found himself wishing the partition separating the master tailor from the anonymous valentine would grow thinner.