Chapter 19
Upon her return from London, Meg stepped from the mail coach onto her street and inhaled the complex scent of April on the edge of verdant countryside, a contrast to the stink of the city.
Grace and the money were gone. Meg had sent letters, asked at every address she knew in east London, but Miss Grace Henton had vanished with the skill of every street urchin. Nothing to do but press forward.
Inside, her home breathed silently. Samuel was at Halverton’s, and she felt his absence in the extreme tidiness of the kitchen—no marbles in dark corners, no toy soldiers poised for battle across the table.
On the verge of financial independence, Grace’s theft could not have come at a worse time.
It forced an unfruitful trip to London, compelling Meg to leave Samuel with Lord Halverton and abandon Mr. Sloan when he and his apprentices most required her.
She would make amends in every way possible—save the one most requisite.
With barren coffers, she must do everything to increase her trade. She cared for Mr. Sloan, but this blow required all resources. Required her to think of herself and those for whom she was responsible.
She found Matilde in the workroom. At the sight of the young lady, a swell of gratitude washed over Meg.
The comfort of being able to leave her home in the hands of Miss Matilde and Miss Reed both relieved Meg’s anxiety and caused her to question whether they deserved her trust. The women in her home had begun to feel like friends.
Despite her better judgement, she relied and depended on them.
“Good afternoon, Miss Matilde. I must apologize again for boxing your ear and for my outburst.”
“I quite understand. Look at all we’ve accomplished in your absence.” She enumerated the women who’d left gowns, those who’d fetched and paid, and those who owed. “The money is all in the jar.”
The collection of coins would not last the month, and the money from her stipend—if it came—would not arrive until May. She must beg Lord Halverton’s help. “Well done. You are an impressive young woman. Would you consider training in dressmaking?”
“If I was not in a hurry to return home.”
Meg let the matter alone. “Miss Reed is across the street?”
“She is, but her work there takes little time. Now, go rest. I put your letters in your room.”
Upon Meg’s writing desk, she found a small box and a letter in the familiar hand of her valentine. He’d responded to her letter—a thought that made her eyes sting with the unshed tears of Grace’s betrayal.
Dear Valentine,
Easter is past and my contract ended, but I would like to continue the habit of writing to you. If you find this disagreeable, you have only to inform me.
I am sorry for your loss of a friend, more for the pain her disloyalty caused.
It is none of my affair, but your letter brought with it more questions.
Why are you so eager to break ties with your guardian?
Is he not sympathetic? Are you saving in preparation to open your shop?
Or were your savings meant to benefit the brother you mentioned?
It pains me to learn of your skeptical view of humanity.
I long to show you that friends can be true, but I fear my words may ring empty.
Trust, certainly, cannot be requested as a mere favor, but it must be earned over time with intent, words, and actions aligning again and again.
I am keenly aware of how little correspondence we’ve shared and how little reason you may have to trust my friendship, but I am honored that you trust me enough to express such distress.
I hope in time to prove that I wish to be a trustworthy friend.
I have enclosed the one balm I know for sorrow.
Your Friend and Valentine
Hands vibrating, Meg opened the box folded from stiff paper.
Within lay a marzipan dove, a symbol of rest. She removed the bird and found it sat in a nest of straw-like candied orange peels atop soft gingerbread.
Spicy and sweet, it smelled like heaven.
Beneath it all lay a folded azure linen handkerchief embroidered in the corner with an M—the linen soft as velvet, the handiwork impeccable.
She set the bird, nest, and handkerchief aside, then unfolded the paper box to find a watercolored willow tree that branched over the entire page, doves nested in its leaves. At the bottom was written, “Sugar for your sorrow, beauty for your soul.”
An anchor that lodged in her heart sank steadily away. No one had ever attempted to comprehend her to such a degree or offer so meaningful a gift to soothe her distress.
Who was this man? She had vowed not to seek his identity, but that was before he’d touched her heart so deeply again and again. If simply for the joy of friendship, he must be known.
Could it be one of the apprentices? Giles perhaps, curt with her to obscure his interest? A customer? Mr. Quincy frequented Sloan’s, a young man overly fond of silk waistcoats, but they usually interacted with professional formality, nothing suspicious.
Mr. Sloan? Her heart skipped a beat. She felt his eyes increasingly on her and he seemed to take special care in teaching her. The handkerchief’s embroidery compared to none, and Mr. Sloan held a needle as if he’d invented it. She glanced at the painted birds. Mr. Sloan was an artist…
His hand on her back when she’d ruined Mrs. Gainsworth’s fabric had steadied her, made her feel safe in the same way the valentine letters soothed her. The words he said, “You are not diminished by this,” seemed to echo the sentiments written to her.
But no, it could not be him. He’d told her he had not submitted his name.
His art was of a different fashion, and she knew his handwriting—she’d seen it in the shop’s accounting books: precise, blocked letters that a schoolchild could easily interpret.
While she imagined he fancied her, it was likely wishful thinking.
A quiet ache settled in her chest. She willed away the tender throb and forced herself to think of someone else.
Could it be Lucius? Good-natured and jocular, the letters did not reflect what she knew of him. But he was curious about her, asked impertinent questions, and sought her out. She did not know enough about him to confirm or deny the possibility.
Knowing might ruin everything.
Knowing might lead to more than she’d ever dreamed of. If her valentine contained a soul with half the kindness of Mr. Sloan, she would be fortunate indeed.
At her writing desk, she trimmed a quill.
Dear Valentine,
How can I thank you for your letter and gift when I do not know who you are? Drop me a hint. It is unfair that you see me with your eyes while I must know you only with my heart.
I spent the week traveling to and from London, remaining a day in the city. It was enough: How quickly one forgets the rag-and-bone men who appear made from what they hawk, the children begging for money I could not spare. When I was one of them, the suffering seemed so ordinary.
When I stepped from the carriage in Stroud, the familiar sight of the Cotswolds cradled me, and I was home. Dare I admit that your letter embraced me deeper into contentment?
Yours, etc.,
Meg
The letter contained an almost-confession.
Before she could lose her nerve, she sealed the letter for delivery and set it in the usual place for Simon to collect.
When she returned to her room, she sorted through the rest of her correspondence and found one rather official-looking message, sealed with a pair of open scissors.
The tailor’s guild. But why would they correspond with her?
With trembling hands, she snapped the wax.
Miss Cooper,
As the Master Warden of Saint Anne’s of the Tailor’s, I hereby end your apprenticeship due to gross violation of the terms of your indenture.
Meg dropped into a chair, her fingers growing numb. She blinked hard, but the ink remained—black, definitive, damning.
She read a description of her perfidy: hiring ladies to work at her establishment before her apprenticeship ended, poaching her master’s customers, the unlawful stores of fabric she housed.
Each accusation landed like a stone in her chest, settling heavily atop the last. At the end of the missive, “Mr. Sloan has been likewise informed.”
This could not be.
But Master Dickson’s signature sat at the bottom as permanent as a gravestone inscription. Her throat constricted. Miss Ivy must have betrayed her. But why now, and why directly to the guild? It hardly mattered. The damage was done.
Though she had improved in Mr. Sloan’s absence, Meg required his instruction, Mrs. Gainsworth’s ruined silk oppressive in her mind.
The thought arrived with nauseating clarity.
Without his attentive instruction to guide her the last six months of her apprenticeship, she would not succeed. She needed time—time she no longer had.
He would dismiss her.
The certainty squeezed the air from her lungs. She had been careless, greedy perhaps, too eager to secure her future. And now that future was dissolving.
With barren coffers and insufficient skill, wholly unprepared to open her shop, her grand plans and fevered preparations had become a fool’s errand. The best she could hope for was to sell the contents of her workshop and return to London.
London. The word sank into her belly like a stone at the bottom of a well. To return would be to admit defeat, to surrender her entire purpose. She wished to be useful, to be recognized as competent, to provide for herself and give Samuel the life he deserved.
And Mr. Sloan would know. He already knew.
She gasped, her hand flying to her chest. He had read Master Dickson’s letter, seen her name attached to words like perfidy and unethical and unlawful. He would despise her.