Chapter 18
Peter’s scissors hovered over brown superfine wool, his eyes following Miss Cooper, whose puckered brow glared at a fine example of silk brocade. She stood at a table, moving pieces of a sleeve around. She glanced up, caught his gaze, and her hand moved to her neck before she returned to her work.
He applied himself to the line he’d been cutting, now crooked from inattention.
The letter she’d written to her valentine some weeks ago weighed heavy in his breast pocket.
He knew why her face appeared tight, why her hands trembled over the cut pieces of a gown.
She’d explained her fear of failure to her valentine, but he could not address the matter without betraying himself.
He wished her correspondence as regular as his own, that he might receive a weekly letter in return.
Lately he thought of her more as his valentine and less as his apprentice, a dynamic and capable woman with whom he wished to spend a little time.
Or a great deal of time. But she had no idea that Peter was her valentine, a fact that felt increasingly like deceit.
Peter had sent the apprentices away for an hour with a shilling each for supper at the tavern to thank them for the additional work while he grieved over the past month. He lingered because Miss Cooper remained.
“I should have spent more time with the apprentices today.” He’d planned to, but the papers from Leonore had made time disappear and his imagination soar.
“You are missed, but we understand,” Miss Cooper said, distraction evident in her voice.
She looked up, face pale, mouth slightly open. “I’ve made a terrible mistake. This fabric—I’ve ruined Mrs. Gainsworth’s gown.”
“It cannot be so bad.” He went to her side.
“I assure you, it is.” She pushed the sleeves toward him. “I shall reimburse you.”
“Nonsense. The sleeve is not salvageable, but the bulk of the fabric is usable. Perhaps recut the shoulder piece and add pink silk to the bottom.”
“It is worse than that. I cut the sleeves first and mislaid the pattern. There is not enough width.” With her elbows on the table, she collapsed her head into her hands. She didn’t make a sound, would probably rather swallow glass than weep in front of him.
Damaged silk did not cause this level of sorrow. Peter recognized the shape of her grief. The abyss she’d described in her letter, the conviction that if she failed, she was ruined and would be separated from one she loved.
“Mistakes are part of the trade, something to learn from.” His hand hovered over her back before he allowed himself to touch her.
He rested his palm between her shoulder blades, felt the tick of tensing muscles, then the sharp rise and fall of her breath.
He did not tell her of the many bolts he had ruined.
He hoped his touch would convey what he could not say, that he accepted her, that mistakes don’t alter worth or belonging.
Under his hand, her breathing slowed. “It will be alright. It is as much my fault for not being more available.”
“I cut with you standing right there. My foolish pride.”
“My father used to say that mastery is not the absence of mistakes but the willingness to pick up the shears again.”
She lifted her head, not flinching at the inches between them. “Thank you.”
The small smile that followed filled him from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes. He could either fold her in his arms or step away. He forced himself to retreat a stride, leaving him cold.
A carriage rumbled to a stop in front of Miss Cooper’s residence. She went to the window.
“It’s Dr. McCully. Please excuse me. I shall return shortly.”
Half an hour later, she had not returned. Peter did what he could to salvage Mrs. Gainsworth’s gown, half his attention on Miss Cooper’s home. A glance out the window told him the doctor had gone.
He knocked on Miss Cooper’s door to no avail. He pounded. He shouted. He lifted the latch and entered. Silence met him.
“Miss Cooper?” The kitchen and parlor were empty. He went upstairs and found a boy played on the floor with a line of wooden soldiers. “Hello there. You must be Samuel. Do you know where Miss Cooper is?”
“She went to find Grace. Would you like to play?” Samuel asked.
“I wish I could, but I am worried about your sister.”
“She is furious. I saw her turn that color one other time, and it did not go well for me.”
“Oh?”
“I hid beneath the bed and fell asleep. She thought I was lost forever, wouldn’t let me out of her sight for a week.”
“You probably shouldn’t tell me why she is angry, I suppose?”
From the floor, Samuel rested his head on the bed and looked up at Peter, measuring. “The money is gone. She thought Miss Matilde took it to return home, but I think it was Grace.”
Samuel stated a figure down to the halfpenny, and Peter nearly choked. How did she have such a sum? Little wonder she had gone after the thief in such a panic.
“I should like to return another day and take a look at your soldiers. French and English, are they? I know a thing or two about war stratagem.”
Samuel looked up. “Do you?”
“I have my own set—not so fine as yours, but they do the job.” Peter hesitated a moment before sitting down on the floor across from the boy. “Tell me about the conflict here.”
Samuel launched into an elaborate story that included piracy, a tavern skirmish, and the rise of an orphan boy, his east London accent making an appearance as he spoke.
“Do you have any marbles?” Peter asked. “We might use them as ammunition in the battle.”
Samuel pulled an emerald velvet bag from under his bed. They divided marbles, established rules, and began to play. Samuel flicked from the palm of his hand, attacking Peter’s cavalry with swift cruelty, while his own bowmen fell by threes.
“What are you doing?” Miss Cooper stood in the doorway.
Peter scrambled to his feet. “I came looking for you but became distracted.”
Samuel rushed to embrace Miss Cooper. She went to her knees before him, pulled him to her lap, kissed his forehead.
With a hand on his cheek, she asked after his health.
Clever and capable were words for Margaret Cooper in the workshop, where she scanned each room for inefficiencies and spoke in clipped tones.
With Samuel, her militant shoulders softened, her reserve forsaken for tenderness.
Conscious of the intimacy he observed, Peter glanced down at the mess of marbles and soldiers.
“I see there has been a battle.” An almost-smile quirked the corner of her mouth.
Her quiet amusement buoyed him, a gentle lift that settled his insides.
“What a day I’ve had. Thank you for staying with Samuel, Mr. Sloan.” Her hands clenched her skirts.
He wanted to ask where she’d been, but Miss Cooper had become formal. She did not know the degree of their acquaintance.
“I’m afraid I shall not return to Sloan’s today,” she said.
“Oh?” He stared a beat too long, but her frown urged him to draw her into his arms.
She unraveled her hands from her skirt. “Well, then.”
Peter addressed Samuel. “You conquered me today, young man.” He clicked his heels together and saluted.
Samuel eyed Miss Cooper as if determining whether to risk asking Peter to stay. The boy returned the salute. “You proved a formidable opponent, sir.”
“I shall see you another day, then.” Peter nodded and slipped past them.
“Miss Reed will keep your house, as Miss Henton is gone,” Miss Cooper said to his back.
Peter turned. “That is generous. I will arrange things with her.” His mind faltered for a moment, then, “Might I enquire where Miss Henton is?”
Her gaze flitted to the wall beside him. “She’s gone. Left without a word.” She closed her eyes for a beat, then seemed to rally. “I must go to London, see if I can find her. I won’t be gone a week.”
He clomped slowly down the stairs, wishing she might call him back, wanting to offer comfort. The temptation to reveal himself as her valentine clawed at him.
The following morning, Peter entered his shop to find that all his apprentices had arrived early to prepare in Miss Cooper’s stead now that she had gone to London. Easter came in a few days, and she would not be back in time to receive his faithful weekly valentine.
A few hours later, Simon the valentine courier delivered a letter. Peter tucked it into his breast pocket, savoring the anticipation of reading whatever it contained. When at last the apprentices left, he withdrew the missive.
Dear Valentine,
I’ve had a dreadful day and find myself unaccountably drawn to you, who seem to understand me.
Earlier today I reached for funds to pay the doctor who cared for my brother during a recent illness.
I found nothing. Imagine my humiliation when obliged to explain that payment must wait, after insisting I pay him that moment.
Immediately, I blamed an innocent, the thought of betrayal from one I consider dear too painful for imagining.
Over the course of the year, I have saved every penny to free myself from dependency upon my guardian. Today I learned that my dear friend, the one person whom I believed my true friend, stole from me and disappeared.
In London I provided her shelter from a dark situation when she most required it. I taught her to read and write. When my own fortunes changed, I delivered her from a horrible living situation and established her as a housekeeper. I paid a generous wage, though I felt the pain of every expense.
I am shaken by her disloyalty and by my feeling too much empathy for her decision.
Would I have done the same if our positions were reversed?
I fear the answer and what it reveals. Perhaps I value independence over relationships too much.
I have scarce known a soul whom I could trust not to forsake me if opportunity presented a better option.
Pardon this depressing missive. It feels imperative I unburden myself to someone. You need not respond. Easter is upon us, and you are relieved from your obligation to me.
I am deeply grateful for your attentiveness.
Yours, etc.,