Chapter 19 #2
She curled forward, breathless. His good opinion had become vital.
The idea of standing before him, watching his expression shutter with contempt, seeing whatever warmth had begun to kindle in his eyes extinguish, burned her throat.
She pressed her palm flat against the table, grounding herself in the solid wood.
There must be something she could do. But there was nothing. The letter had seen to that.
The first thing Meg saw upon opening her eyes the next morning was the guild letter lying across her desk like a spray of foxglove, appearing benign but poisonous.
“Miss Cooper,” Miss Matilde called from downstairs. “Breakfast.”
Without appetite, Meg ignored the summons and prepared herself for the day as though readying herself for her own burial.
She threw her black cape around her shoulders and went across the street. The workshop appeared as it always did in the morning. Disheveled. From force of guilt or habit, she started the fires, retrieved the broom, and began ordering the place.
Shuffling came from the direction of the door connecting workshop to house. Meg froze, not ready for the end of the apprenticeship or their friendship. Mr. Sloan strode toward her, a genuine grin splitting his face.
“Welcome back, Miss Cooper. I am pleased you are returned from London safe and sound.” He stepped close enough to touch her, a proximity that had Meg wanting to move closer. “Is there something the matter?” His eyes searched hers, and whatever he found pulled his brows together.
He did not know—had not read the letter, or perhaps it had not arrived.
“Nothing at all.” She retreated, breaking the tension between them.
“Did you find her?”
Meg shook her head, unable to speak. She felt the lie between them, felt the tightness in his jaw, could not know whether it was his discomfort or her own guilt making the space between them heavy with words she was unwilling to say.
“You’ve purchased another clock,” she said.
“Your idea.” His shoulders relaxed. “Now we may all keep track of the time, regardless of where we sit.”
“Sensible.”
“You are sensible.”
Meg forced her legs not to make up the space she’d created between them. What would happen if she did?
His eyes fell to her lips, as if answering the question.
She spun away. “Well, I shall finish up here.”
“Can I show you something?” he asked.
She wanted to follow him, regretted her quick retreat. Placing the broom against the wall, she trailed after him into the dyehouse where a long stretch of fabric ran across a long table. Meg approached, finding patterns developing over the white cotton.
“Chintz. You made this?” Meg understood his preoccupation with the dye. “It almost looks like it came straight from India.”
“Not exactly, but I am in its clutches. It’s all I can think about.” Beneath his light words lay an almost manic urgency. Her valentine wrote of such an obsession with the same blend of passion and self-doubt. The same words might be applied to Mr. Sloan.
She bent over the cloth, recognizing something sensual in its colors and movement. If fabric could express desire, yearning even, Mr. Sloan had created it.
“It follows me to sleep, speaks to me when I’m awake,” he whispered, their heads close. Meg did not pull away. His closeness filled some yearning inside her, a sort of answer to the emotion found inside the pattern she observed.
“May I?” she asked.
He nodded but scratched his arm as if unsure. They reached for the cloth together, their hands touching. She flushed but did not dislike the sensation.
“Let’s hold it to the window,” he said.
They kept the cloth from brushing the floor as they shifted toward a shaft of light.
Standing beside its creator, the sight of it quickened her breath.
She pushed aside the unaccountable reaction and examined it with a practical eye.
Her heartbeat slowed. “You are right. You could not sell this, but it is almost good enough.” If he succeeded, he would be the richest man in England.
He ran a hand through his hair, squinting at the pattern, avoiding her regard.
“You are immensely talented, Mr. Sloan. I cannot imagine this activity as a mere hobby.”
“It’s an outlet,” he insisted. “A place where I feel my parents merge—the dyer’s daughter, the tailor who loved fabric.” They replaced the cloth on the table.
“That is a lovely sentiment.” He was tender and sincere the same way he was handsome, without effort or thought. Meg had never known anyone like him. It was too easy to fall into pleasant conversation, to forget they were not allies. Her throat soured.
Meg retreated to Mr. Sloan’s office to review receipts and order his ledger.
A pile of untouched letters lay neatly stacked on his desk.
She checked the door was shut, then thumbed through them, heart pounding.
A familiar script. The guild seal. She found the letter unopened, confirming Mr. Sloan remained unaware.
The door snicked open. Meg spun around, hiding the letter behind her back.
Giles entered and closed the door. “Excuse me, Miss Cooper, but I hoped to speak with you before the others arrive.” He scratched the back of his head.
“I finish my apprenticeship soon, but some gaps in my knowledge remain. I don’t know how to keep accounts and manage orders.
Would you agree to show me?” He cleared his throat.
“Mr. Sloan is capable, the best. But you are the better manager.”
That simple sentence, putting her and Mr. Sloan together, infused Meg with a gentle bloom. They complimented each other, that was certain. Behind her back, the letter became saturated with the same sourness that climbed into her belly. The warmth drained away.
“It is not something you can learn before your training ends. What are your plans after you finish?”
“I will serve as a journeyman to Mr. Sloan until I feel ready to take my own work.”
She recognized the opportunity. “I could offer you a position with me, teach you all that you require once I open my shop across the street.” A tailor in a dress shop would lend credence to her enterprise.
“You could watch me build a clientele, start a shop from the ground up, which I believe is your ambition.”
A look of distaste crossed his face. “I will consider it.”
As soon as the door closed, she stuffed the correspondence into her pocket and dashed across the street.
With the correspondence burning against her thigh, she entered her bedroom.
After the debacle with Grace, Meg had had a large drawer in her bureau outfitted with a key, a safer location out of sight from anyone living in her house or visiting her shop.
She unlocked it and tucked both guild letters beside the money Miss Matilde had collected over the past week.
She twisted the key in the lock, the decided click effectively barring her from Mr. Sloan’s friendship. His trust.
And though she knew it, she accepted that pain as the lesser of two evils. An end to her apprenticeship meant an end to all she’d strived for. She must hide the letter or lose Samuel.