Chapter 15 #2
Someone banged on the door. Meg opened it to Lord Halverton with Samuel draped in his arms.
She recognized every sign of illness in her baby brother. “What happened?” She shooed them in from the cold.
“Business took me to Gloucester, so I stopped to see Samuel at his school. I found him far more ill than we were led to believe. He asked me to bring him to you, and I obeyed immediately.”
“Lay him on the sofa.”
“Don’t fret; I am not so ill, Meg,” Samuel said between coughs. His voice, though scratchy, was not hoarse.
“The devil you’re not.” She fetched a blanket and settled it around him.
“The headmaster was most evasive,” Lord Halverton said. “I’ll never send Samuel back. Dr. McCully is on his way and will send his bill to me.”
“No,” Meg said, clenching her hands. “I’ll be caring for Samuel and will settle the bill as well.
” If she wanted to truly support Samuel on her own, she had to prove she could do so at all times—even when an unexpected illness arose.
Paying the doctor would absorb half her savings, but with Miss Matilde and Miss Reed at work on the dozen gowns in the shop, money would replenish soon enough.
Halverton gave her a strange look at the demand, but he agreed to allow her to settle the financial matter on her own. “I am glad you are taking an interest in utilizing your and Samuel’s resources. Have you been reading over your trust documents lately? Do you have any questions?”
Not again. Meg reached for an excuse. “Would you care for tea?” she asked, already on her way to the kitchen.
She explained the situation to the ladies. “You will share the third floor until Samuel improves. It is large enough and there are two beds.”
Miss Reed released a forlorn sigh.
Miss Matilde giggled at her expression. “We were four to a room at Havenwood. What luxury we enjoy here!”
While searching for the syrup of balsam, Meg moved canisters and shifted boxes. Behind a bag of flour she found three large stone jugs. Gin. A flush of heat swept her face.
“Grace.” She kept her voice even. “I want these out of here. We will talk later.”
“Is this what you are looking for?” Grace held up the brown apothecary bottle, looking as shameless as any street thief.
Meg snatched it from her. “I hoped better of you.” She swallowed the waver in her voice and asked Grace to prepare tea for Lord Halverton.
Late that night, after the doctor had left with a sloshing bleeding bowl, Meg sat at Samuel’s bedside, stitching by candlelight.
He slept soundly with a slight purr in his chest to indicate illness.
The regular rhythm of her needle, each stitch small but necessary, seemed a string of doubts.
Would she earn sufficient funds to care for Samuel? Could she succeed as a dressmaker?
And Grace was selling gin, though she earned a double income across two households. Didn’t she trust Meg? If the worst happened and Meg lost the shop and failed in her apprenticeship, weren’t they bound to weather those storms together?
The weight of her brother’s illness pushed her to fret more and more. If Grace, whom Meg knew and loved, could cause such difficulty, heaven knew what trouble the two new women under her roof might bring. Miss Matilde too charming by half, Miss Reed ready to disapprove.
Meg finished a row and tied it off with a sigh.
She drew a blanket around Samuel’s shoulders and allowed the peaceful sleep of a child to settle her mind.
She mustn’t think of the women in her home as burdens.
Fortune had brought them to her house, bringing her home and life more warmth and fellowship as responsibility increased.
She was glad for the growth. As she continued to sew into the evening, she held onto the confidence her valentine had in her.
He would no doubt assure her of her ability to manage her household, and she chose to believe him.
Meg spent the next day, a Saturday, walking the miles between her rural customers, delivering wares and collecting commissions.
Tired by a day of social graces, she entered her home through the kitchen door, hoping to find a letter from her valentine, but the house was dark.
A mound of drying dough sat on the counter.
Unwashed dishes lay near the washing tub. The house was silent.
Where was Samuel? She rushed to his room and found it empty.
In the workroom, a partially embroidered stomacher sat on the table beside a sewing box.
The inhabitants of the house had disappeared as if by magic.
She pulled aside the parlor curtain. Sloan Tailoring sat on its corner in darkness, but light emanated from Peter’s house, and people gathered in groups outside his door.
A cold chill rolled through Meg’s chest. Old Master Sloan.
She rushed across the street. “What happened?”
“Old Sloan has passed on.”
Meg wrapped her cape tight and held herself against the collapse that cascaded through her and bit the inside of her cheek.
She elbowed her way through the door and into the parlor, the scent of burning sage embracing her.
Old Master Sloan lay atop a table, candles near his head and feet, rosemary on his chest. Meg stood over him, comforted by the serenity of his countenance.
He was with his Deborah at last. Her chin quivered and she pressed her hand over her mouth.
She felt the pressure of someone watching her and looked up to catch Peter’s eyes.
A line of people blocked her way to him, so she raised her hand to her heart and closed her eyes, hoping he might sense the depths of her sympathies.
She would go to him as soon as she found Samuel.
Scanning the room, she found him beside Miss Reed.
In the dim light, she could not see how he did, but his head rested against Miss Reed’s shoulder.
This was no place for an ill child. She weaved through the body of mourners and knelt beside him, putting her hand on his forehead.
Fevered, but not so bad as the day before.
“You are better?” she asked.
He nodded, then yawned.
“Miss Reed, please take him home and be sure he eats before bed.” She wished she could attend to him herself, but she felt an obligation to Mr. Sloan. Her chest ached for his loss.
Mr. Ivy handed her a cup of spiced rum and thanked her for coming, a kindness to Mr. Sloan, who probably didn’t have words for everyone.
“Old Mr. Sloan was a friend to me.” She turned away to hide the emotion that quivered her chin and caught Miss Ivy’s steady gaze.
Mr. Ivy’s hand encircled her arm. “To me as well. I don’t know why it came as such a surprise.”
“I will step in. Help in the shop and give him time to grieve.” The rightness of her words settled inside her. Losing a parent changed the world and required many hands to help stabilize it. Lightheaded, Meg excused herself. Mr. Ivy tightened his grip a fraction before letting her go.
She crossed the room to sit by Miss Matilde, who told the story.
The old man simply did not rise from his bed that morning.
They had helped arrange the parlor, cleaned and prepared the food now being distributed among mourners.
Her retelling faded into the dim candlelight as Meg felt the difference between this death and her mother’s.
For Master Sloan, friends and loved ones spilled from the parlor into the kitchen, out onto the street. Tears and laughter mingled in storytelling, the love in the room swelling into painful waves, heating the cold that settled in her chest.
Upon her mother’s death, Meg and Samuel had waited alone. Grace stopped in with a couple of day-old buns, then rushed to work. No candles burned through the night. No sage, no rosemary, no fond remembrance. No one had been there to feel her loss.
The following day the undertaker had beleaguered them for his fee, then applied to the parish. Without money for a funeral, Meg’s mother had been buried a pauper, taken from the transport coffin and laid to rest in a woolen shroud and time-grayed sheets.
No one cried when the woman who had given Meg life was lowered into the cold ground. Meg herself could not weep for wondering how to keep her position as needlewoman and food in Samuel’s belly.
She pulled herself out of her memories and searched the room for Mr. Peter Sloan, who was sitting, elbows on knees, hands holding his chin, accepting condolences through pats on his back.
He looked exhausted. She set down her mug and made her way toward him.
He glanced up as if feeling her approach.
She could scarcely meet his gaze but once locked, could not look away.
His stricken, hollow face spoke his grief.
Meg took his hands. Wordlessly, she squeezed them, an acknowledgement of his loss, a shared sorrow. His eyes closed and head tipped back as he relaxed beneath her palms. That he understood the empathy she offered felt like an immeasurable triumph.