Chapter 16 #2
She stepped back, upsetting a stool. “Pardon my clumsiness.” She dipped down and set things to right.
“I must go. Thank you for showing me your work.” In a moment she stood at the door.
Turning, she said, “I’ll not be far should you require anything.
” She paused, studying him as she seemed to reassess something.
“Come, let’s go across the street. It’s warm and lively, there is plenty to eat, and I think you need a little society. ”
If he required company, he could dine with his apprentices, something he rarely did, knowing young men required time away from their masters. He wished only for Miss Cooper, so he offered his arm. She glanced at it, then slid her hand beneath his. A fullness gathered in his chest at her touch.
“I think my mother would have liked you,” he said.
She stiffened against him. “You do not know me well enough to make such a judgement.”
Inside her warm kitchen, the hearth blazed, the air smelled of thyme and stewed onions. A vase of peonies adorned the table, set with mismatched plates.
The Havenwood girls bustled around the room, setting a new place, taking Peter’s coat, speaking gentle condolences.
Miss Cooper’s countenance altered, the tightness around her eyes giving way to smiles and laughter as she joined the other women.
Still, she held herself a little apart, the others looking to her for direction and approval.
Peter sensed she did not desire the distance but did not know how to close it.
“My brother Samuel is here, recovering from illness,” Miss Cooper told him. “I will check on him and return.”
Miss Reed ladled soup and Miss Matilde sliced crusty bread and brought it to the table.
Miss Cooper returned with Miss Henton, and they all took their places around a table not quite large enough for them. Peter sat next to Miss Cooper, her skirts brushing against his leg. Miss Matilde said grace, calling blessings of comfort upon Peter.
“I enjoyed knowing your father,” Miss Henton said, resting her hand on his arm.
“He told me once that he had a little boy, seven-years-old, the smartest lad in Stroud, possibly Gloucestershire. Filled my ears, boasting of his Peter. ‘The little lad can sew a seam and is learning the secrets of the dyehouse. Cleverest boy there ever was.’ ”
Peter’s throat thickened. He couldn’t speak but nodded his appreciation.
People tended to remember the more hilarious things his father had done as his illness progressed.
The times he wandered into the street wearing nothing but breeches.
The customers he was too honest with. “You are five stones heavier, my lady.” It warmed him to hear a different kind of story.
For a time, the room held the sounds of spoons clinking against bowls.
“Flowers came from Mr. Godfry, another of Matilde’s admirers,” Miss Reed said, taking the conversation into a lighter turn.
“Pooh. They are for you.” Matilde slapped the table.
“I thought he admired me, but since he laid eyes upon you it is over.” Miss Reed didn’t seem sorry for it.
“Well, I will return home soon. Mr. Godfry is nothing to me,” Matilde said. “Though don’t I love it here, the clothes and fabric and pretty things.”
“Ladies, you forget we have a visitor. Mr. Sloan does not wish to listen to you prattle about your beaux,” Miss Cooper said.
“He might, if he knew how many of them live above his workshop,” Miss Henton said.
Peter chuckled. “Miss Matilde, do you return any of your admirers’ sentiments?” Miss Matilde proclaimed her disinterest, while Peter suspected she would miss the attentions if lost.
“It is kind of you to have me. All of you,” Peter said. However, his appreciation was directed primarily at Miss Cooper. “You are much occupied, so your kindness is doubly felt.”
“La, we’ve been sewing all day.” Miss Matilde raised her finger to show a callous on her forefinger. With a glance at Miss Cooper, she mumbled, “But of course it is no trouble,” and studiously returned to her stew.
Miss Cooper glanced sideways at him, a wary look, as if caught at something. He was no fool, and aware that she had engaged these women in preparation to open her own shop. She’d told him as much, and he’d expressed how wise she was to begin. He smiled back, but her eyes darted away.
“I should like to see your shop,” Peter offered, hoping to encourage her.
Miss Cooper froze, her fork hovering. “When it is in order, you can advise me on how best to arrange things.”
“Are you nervous Miss Cooper will take your business?” Miss Reed asked, not catching Miss Cooper’s glare.
“I’ve been afraid of Miss Cooper since she entered Stroud over a year ago.” Wasn’t that the truth.
“As best you might,” Miss Henton muttered. The room fell silent. The women bent over their food. His attention fell to Miss Cooper, who found his eyes and gave a studied smile. What were they up to?
Miss Cooper shifted beside him. Peter searched for something to comment upon.
“That is an interesting watercolor.” He waved a fork toward the framed valentine, the sight of which was like honey in his veins.
Miss Cooper must have some feeling for her valentine, else she would not display his artwork.
“It is from Meg’s valentine,” Miss Matilde said, a delighted gleam in her eye.
Miss Cooper shot her a dark look, but Miss Matilde grinned back.
“It seems you believe it worthy of a frame?” he asked.
“I rather like clean, whitewashed walls, but someone informed me the starkness of my house is unwelcoming,” Miss Cooper said.
“Otherwise, you’d have burnt it?” Peter teased.
“Oh, no.” Matilde said. “She loves her valentine, asks after the post first thing when she comes home, and nearly swoons when a letter arrives. She keeps everything he sends. His letters are probably falling apart from having been read so often.”
“Thank you, Matilde,” Miss Cooper said.
Peter swiveled toward her. “Margaret Cooper. I would not have believed you a softhearted sentimental.”
“Peter Sloan,” she said, “I believe you know me better than that.”
“On the contrary, Miss Matilde’s description does not conflict with what I know of you.” He popped a large potato into his mouth and took his time chewing.
Miss Matilde giggled. “I suppose we will walk her down the aisle, then, if her valentine ever reveals himself.”
“Mr. Sloan, will you stay for pudding?” Miss Cooper interrupted. “Miss Henton has treacle tart.”
“Certainly.”
“Let’s take it in the parlor. Matilde, will you make the tea?”
Peter followed Miss Cooper to the settee and slid beside her, close enough to feel the warmth of her body. He enjoyed it more than he should, more than was good for the seven months of her remaining apprenticeship.
“Thank you.” His words were quiet, just for her. “You were right. The company is easier than an empty house.”
Her eyes, like captured sunlight, sent a ripple down his arms that settled in his belly, making him deeply aware of his raw emotion.
Perhaps Miss Cooper’s friends exaggerated, and she was not so fond of her valentine as they insisted.
Her written response indicated to him that she viewed her valentine as a friend and confidant, not a romantic interest. He must sit in the anonymity of sending valentines until she completed her apprenticeship, when it would be more appropriate to further her advances.
These moments when he knew his own feelings but could not confess them pierced with a sweet agony he wished to hold, for he could not predict her reaction when she learned the truth.