Chapter 17
Meg woke to a tight coil in her chest. Something was wrong. Like descending into a frozen pond, she recalled Old Master Sloan’s death, Samuel’s fever, the mounds of sewing in her own shop.
Each problem in turn, she would attend to them all. She rolled out of bed, sliding wool-socked feet into house slippers, a chill pricking her skin in the black morning. She pulled a blanket from the bed, its strengthening warmth fortifying against the rigor ahead.
First, Samuel. She rushed to his room to find him asleep and breathing easily. She felt his head. Fevered. Poor child. She went to the kitchen to prepare willow bark tea, hoping it would burn away the fever.
Miss Matilde and Miss Reed were finishing breakfast. Meg complimented their early habits and asked them to meet her in the shop in an hour.
“Didn’t we learn that waking early set us on the best course for the day,” Miss Matilde said, washing her dishes.
Miss Reed caught Meg’s eye with a withering look on behalf of Miss Matilde’s cheerful self-righteousness.
“Where is Grace?”
“With Mr. Sloan, likely forcing cream porridge down his throat,” Miss Reed said.
“I am glad someone is attending him.” A lump crawled up Meg’s throat. “We must be ready for a vigorous few weeks while Mr. Sloan grieves. Between the work we have here and Samuel’s illness, we’ll have to pitch in at Sloan Tailoring as well.”
“Don’t we have the bones for it,” Matilde said on her way up the stairs.
“Miss Reed,” Meg added, “you will tell us if your leg is bothering you.”
As always, Miss Reed brushed the concern aside.
“It is no weakness to take care of yourself,” Meg said. “We are all of us accustomed to work, and I mean to make use of that, but we must be honest about our limits.”
Meg brought tea to Samuel and stayed until he’d consumed the entire cup. Grace appeared with porridge for the boy, who ate a few bites before pushing it aside.
“I’ll read my book now,” Samuel told them.
“You have become quite the scholar, young man.”
“Speaking of, when can I return to school?”
What a question when that school bore responsibility for the illness. “James and I are thinking about that carefully.”
“Will James visit soon?”
This oft repeated question sank cooly to her stomach. Meg forced her features to remain steady. “I am sure he will.”
Samuel propped his book against his legs.
Meg turned to Grace. “How is Mr. Sloan?”
“I straightened up the house, but he didn’t emerge. You’d best get over there.”
Meg nodded. “I must start the day. Samuel, call out should you need anything at all. I am at your disposal, for every tiny thing.”
He grinned at her, a smile that took her back to the days when the two of them relied on one another. “I like school, but it’s nice being here with you.”
“I like it, too.” Meg patted his cheek and left to dress, but the mindless task allowed the very thing she did not wish to contemplate to drop forcefully into her consciousness.
Mr. Sloan fancied her.
Or so she was beginning to believe. He’d sought her company at the wake and gripped her hand like an anchor when his long-standing connections approached.
He had not chosen Mr. Ivy, or Charlotte, or the vicar, or friends of his father’s.
He’d chosen Meg. She rubbed the phantom imprints of his fingers from the back of her hand.
They had become friends, or at least she considered him a friend. His eyes told her he felt more.
And why not? She liked him. Were it not for her elusive valentine, she might consider Mr. Sloan for a suitor.
But there was a valentine, a mystery she found more and more intriguing each week.
And if her valentine maintained a strictly friendly interest, she was also preparing to open her shop to rival Mr. Sloan’s, breaching her indenture.
The guilt of her deception set on her anew.
She could not undo the past, and the death of his father did not make a good prelude to a confession that would hurt him more deeply. She meant to make whatever amends possible by maintaining his shop in flawless order while he mourned. Then perhaps she could beg his forgiveness.
Daily preparations finished, she crossed the street, ready to face a man whose loss seemed to have stripped whatever defenses he used to conceal his affection for her.
Darkness thinned as she performed the usual tasks, preparing the shop to open in the tailor’s absence.
When the apprentices arrived, Meg distributed assignments for the day, and they worked with grim diligence, no complaining, no arguing.
The workshop churned breeches and waistcoats at record speed.
From time to time, Meg stepped into Mr. Sloan’s home, often encountering dim silence.
On occasion, she met Mr. Ivy or his sister, the one warm and appreciative, the other cool and dismissive.
But Mr. Sloan remained silent, closed behind the doors of his home or the dyehouse.
Perhaps he slept, but Meg’s shoulders tightened as another day drew to a close and she bid the apprentices farewell without having seen Mr. Sloan.
Alone in the workshop, she went over the items finished that day and planned for the next. At the snicking sound of the dyehouse door, she looked up from the register. Mr. Sloan, gray and bedraggled, emerged.
“Good evening, Miss Cooper.”
“Come,” she said, setting down her pen. “It’s time you eat.”
He followed her into his house without protest. She pulled out a chair. “Sit.”
Grace had left the kitchen in immaculate order, the remains of the funeral feast neatly arranged on trays.
Meg set water to boil and presented him a plate of cold ham, cheese, and a slice of cake that smelled of treacle and cloves.
When she finished preparing the tea and sat across from him, he had barely touched his plate.
“How are you?” It was not a hollow question. During her own mourning, she had wanted someone to care, anyone to appear and ask what could be done. When he did not reply, she said, “You look like you’ve been dragged behind a horse.”
“It does not seem real. My parents—and I know this may sound foolish—feel closer to me than before. With much reflection, I believe I understand their desires for my life and happiness.”
“What do they want for you?” she dared to ask.
He did not speak for several heartbeats but captured her look until warmth swathed her chest. The table sat small between them, their hands nearly touching. She plunged her fork into his slice of cake and put it in her mouth, breaking the spell.
“This is good cake.” She nudged the slice closer to him.
Mr. Sloan’s lopsided smile caught her breath. “Above all, they want me to experience love and family, as they had. I am also a coward, and my parents wish me bravery.” He put his forearms on the table and leaned toward her. A muscle in his jaw ticked.
“If you don’t eat, you will make yourself sick. I’m guessing you’ve been working in the dyehouse all night and day. I suggest you sleep.” She looked at the clock. “I must see how Samuel does.” She stood and pushed in her chair.
He caught her hand, causing her ribs to draw inward. “Thank you,” he said.
She paused, allowing his touch to radiate through her for a heartbeat. A brisk nod, and she turned from the room.
A week passed for Meg in a blur of tending Sloan Tailoring, worrying over Samuel’s persistent fever, and managing her own household.
Each day, she darted across the street multiple times to answer Miss Reed’s and Miss Matilde’s questions or meet with Dr. McCully, who visited daily.
Grace continued to keep Peter’s house, tend Samuel, and cook meals but was often absent, so Meg hardly knew what else she did but was glad to have Miss Matilde and Miss Reed.
At night, Meg kept vigil over her brother, swathing his forehead and praying for his recovery.
He did not worsen, but neither did he improve.
In Mr. Sloan’s absence, Meg studied dressmaking by necessity.
When women came for fittings, she assisted them, using every remembered word of Mr. Sloan’s instruction.
When she fitted a sacque, she recalled the motion of his hands, the assured way he pinned, and his smooth method of creating a pleat.
Because of him, she improved. She hid her fear behind a confident smile and allowed her scissors to do the work.
Evidence of her improvement lay in her increasing ability to work with her instincts and listen to the clients. The better she knew them, the more she intuited their needs. The truth of Mr. Sloan’s teaching made themselves plain beneath her fingers, and the women noticed as well.
That afternoon, Meg pinned pleats at the nape of Mrs. Gainsworth’s neck, half listening to her chatter about the price of the silk brocade she’d purchased for her latest commission.
For the first time, Meg would cut the fabric without Mr. Sloan’s assistance, and Mr. Sloan’s instruction gave her the confidence to do it.
He spent almost all his time in the dyehouse, and she had not disturbed him except in emergencies.
She prayed this gown would not be a disaster.
Pink-cheeked and breathing heavily, Matilde burst into the fitting room. “Miss Cooper, when you are finished here, please come across the street.”
Meg almost dropped the expensive fabric. “Is it Samuel?”
“Yes, but not to worry.”
Meg excused herself and rushed home. He must live, she thought as her shoulder caught the door frame. She would make him live.
“He is fine. Better than fine. Come.” Miss Matilde took her arm and led her not to Samuel’s room but to the future shop.
The boy stood on a stool with a folk whistle at his lips, playing “Early One Morning” while Grace and Miss Reed sang along and sewed. Meg pressed her hand to her mouth. His face had cleared of peak. He was well.
She sagged into a chair and pressed her palms against her burning eyes, the pressures of the week culminating in a wave of exhaustion. Samuel’s little hand patted her back.