Chapter 16
Peter tried to smile at another friend who came to express their condolences.
He heard nothing, felt nothing. One of the first mourners to approach assured him that his father was in a better place, full of faculty, reunited with his sweetheart; anger had roiled, and Peter lost trust in himself to respond without rudeness to a kindly meant sentiment.
No comfort lay in his father’s still, unyielding body.
If his father had found rest, if he was reunited with his Deborah, Peter selfishly wished to watch him again pull a crooked stitch and recite “If Wishes Were Horses.”
Only Margaret had not vexed him in her consolations.
She’d said nothing, only held him together with the earnest pressure of her hands.
In his heartache, she drew him in. She had moved elsewhere in the room to allow others to approach him, but he wished to go to her, to feel her shoulder against his, wished she might be beside him always, wished her to be his Deborah, the north star of his life.
If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
The silly rhyme trotted circles in his mind, challenging him to ask himself what he wished.
The answer came quickly: Margaret Cooper.
How long had he ignored that knowledge? His father’s wake seemed an odd place for such a realization, but upon finding his father’s unmoving body, his thoughts went almost immediately to Miss Cooper. He simply wanted to be beside her.
The lines in his father’s forehead had smoothed in death, his thin white hair combed back, and his beard freshly trimmed.
Peter’s chest opened to a crevasse so deep he felt ill.
He was utterly alone, empty and desolate.
Someone spoke to him, but he did not comprehend and walked toward where Margaret sat and waved a hand at her neighbor to make room.
His shoulders relaxed as soon as he felt Margaret beside him, his breath synchronizing with hers.
He took her hand and found her grip in return, which did not slacken.
She gave no indication of fatigue but remained with him.
From time to time, she nudged him, reminding him to nod at someone speaking to him.
Hours passed, endurable because of her presence, which remained steadfast until the room glowed pink with the rising sun.
With little consciousness of what went on around him, Peter followed his father’s casket up the street to the churchyard in rhythm to the tolling bells.
Lucius and Charlotte stood on either side of him.
The service passed in a dull haze of words, a rosemary garland laid over the casket, a sprinkle of dust.
Then he was again in his parlor, surrounded by blurry faces and indistinct words, everyone eating and trying to lure him into joining. He vaguely recalled that Mrs. Gainsworth had provided the funeral feast. He wished for the quiet darkness of his room.
Eventually he retreated to the dyehouse and collapsed onto a bench. Before him lay cotton into which he’d stamped an outline he planned to fill in when he felt ready to use the kalam pen. The fibers vibrated against his touch—a fine weave, an airy drape. He listened to its subtle whisper.
Warmth stole over him. He saw his mother in the red lines he’d created from snowy whiteness. He felt his father in the weave of the fabric, reflecting his love for all materials that became clothing. This blend of color and cloth embodied his heritage and kept alive his parents’ memory.
As he fingered the cotton, he considered what lessons his parents wished him to carry forward.
Beyond their shared passion for textiles, their marriage had embodied the beauty that springs from reconciliation.
At the time of their union, the dyers and tailors were in a constant state of discord and could not abide one another’s company.
But his parents’ wedding breakfast had found them all in the same room, and no bickering had been permitted.
Peter’s mother told him the mere sight of the newly wedded couple had healed hearts and liberated the two guilds to work more congenially together.
His parents chose to live outside convention, a decision that brought an increase of understanding and forgiveness to all.
Peter turned to examine the pattern he had traced with Margaret on his mind.
It belonged to her, bold and courageous, another example of one who did not buckle to convention.
Her courage and that of his parents infused him, and he began preparing the dyes, following the instructions outlined in Leonore’s papers.
The recipe created vibrant colors of a different consistency than dye used to soak cloth.
The ambivalent space he’d dwelt in collapsed, and he forgot whatever impulse had prevented him from trying the new methods.
His mother would have adored this work, these colors.
His father would have loved to manipulate the fabric.
He reached for the kalam, soaking the wool ball in dye, and began experimenting.
As he worked, lessons from his parents’ example merged into the fabric—patterns fused, blotches of dye marred the cloth, new lines and curves developed.
No matter the mistakes he made or how difficult the work became, he began again and again, the kalam slowly growing more familiar in his hand.
Late afternoon sun shone when a rap sounded at the door and Margaret entered, her face drawn in apology.
“I guessed you would be here,” she said.
He nodded and set his pen aside.
“Everyone has stopped looking for you and gone home. I thought if you wanted to be found, you would not have disappeared, so I let them disperse.” Her hands clasped, she rubbed her thumb over her knuckles.
“Take whatever time you need to grieve. I can manage the workshop until you are ready to rejoin us. Giles is only months away from completing his apprenticeship and is prepared to step in should anyone require a fitting.” She was avoiding his scrutiny.
Nervous, or uncomfortable with his grief?
He moved to a bench and motioned for her to sit.
She joined him, her presence all the consolation he required.
Though she remained ignorant that the valentines she received contained his confession, Peter had also acknowledged to her in person the complexities of his feelings surrounding his work, his fear of attempting the art that surrounded them.
She alone knew his entire truth. With Miss Cooper beside him, he felt whole.
As they sat together, his memories lingered around his parents.
The loss of his mother felt as poignant as that of his father, though years apart.
Together they emerged from the corners of his mind, laughing, playing into ancient jokes that grew more amusing with time.
His father delighted in presenting his mother with leftover fabrics, out of which she made pillows or curtains or other decorations for their home.
His mother had loved nothing more than to gift her husband a vividly dyed length of wool and forbid him from using it for anything but his own wardrobe, thus contributing to his collection of colorful frock coats.
“Wear the yellow to church today,” his mother would urge. “Everyone will want you to tailor one for himself.”
Miss Cooper grew restless beside him.
“Mar—Miss Cooper.” The intimacy of her given name belonged to his valentine self, and he caught the slip in time. “I do not mean to keep you. You must be exhausted.”
“I will stay,” she said. “No one stayed with me when my mother died.”
“No one? Not Lord Halverton?”
“Our connection is but newly formed. But I did not mean to steer the conversation toward myself. Tell me about your father.”
She who had no one had become everything to him in the moment of his parent’s death. He rubbed the burn from his eyes.
“He enjoyed cricket. He played with one of the earliest teams in Gloucestershire, and my mother and I used to watch him against neighboring counties. He was quick on his feet, and my mother would lean over and whisper, ‘Isn’t he handsome? What a father you have.’ ”
“Do you play?” she asked.
“When I get the chance. Perhaps now he is gone, I will join the team.”
“Interesting how the death of a parent is gutting and liberating at the same time. Or pushes us to places we may never have gone if they were here.”
“Is that how it was for you?”
She picked at her fingernail. “My mother’s death certainly changed my circumstances. Can I see what you are working on?”
They moved to the long table. He watched for her reaction. Her eyes widened, bright with surprise, and a delighted smile flashed across her face.
“Incredible. What will you do with it?”
He merely lifted a shoulder.
“Mr. Sloan, you could make this your livelihood.”
He could not keep the smile from his face.
“Only in fancy. To create enough to turn a profit would require a vast and complicated system, years of work I cannot afford. Besides, what would happen to Sloan Tailoring?” With his father gone, the rolls of fabric, the scissors and chalk, the needle and thread seemed a necessary connection to his father.
“Will you show me how you paint the fabric?”
“I have begun testing this method.” He showed her the kalam, soaked the wool in green dye, and began filling in a leaf. “Would you like to try?”
“Never. I fear I may ruin it.”
His stomach fell, an irrational sense she was rejecting more than the pen.
“And you designed the pattern yourself. A wasted talent if the world never sees it.”
“I do not require recognition. It is enough to create it for—” He almost finished with “for one I love.” He glanced at her sharply. A mistake. His eyes surely spoke the truth.