Chapter 20
Miss Cooper’s arm swept Peter’s shoulder as she took an armful of silk and moved to the opposite end of the settee.
Peter glanced at her, but she didn’t seem to feel the same rush of heat the touch sent through him.
He scrubbed his forehead with the back of his hand before threading a needle and plunging it into Lady Halverton’s gown.
She had loved the last gown Miss Cooper and he had delivered in April so much that she had asked for two more by the end of May.
“At least we can finish the gown now that we’re staying,” Miss Cooper said.
Confusion over carriages, tired horses, and a mid-May deluge had landed them without return transportation to Stroud.
Miss Cooper had come at the problem from every angle—farm horse, Lady Halverton’s donkey carriage, a cart, a neighbor with a spare.
Peter watched the interaction between Lord Halverton and Miss Cooper with bemused delight, Lord Halverton answering each query with patient logic until she was satisfied that staying the night remained the single alternative.
Resigned to their fate, they worked on Lady Halverton’s gown.
Miss Cooper was quieter than usual, distant in a way different from her customary brisk diligence.
Something seemed amiss, and Peter imagined for a moment she may suspect him as her valentine.
They continued corresponding weekly. But he remembered she had lost a great deal of money and a dear friend.
Her mood likely had nothing to do with him.
“You have done a remarkable job with this gown,” he said.
“A certain tailor I know taught me how to take measure without using a strip of fabric.” Her teasing tone bordered on coy. Almost a flirtation.
“The cut suits Lady Halverton’s temperament and will accentuate her affability.”
“You are too kind.” Miss Cooper’s strained expression reappeared.
“I can manage for a bit on my own, you know. Why don’t you visit Samuel?” Peter asked. The boy had sat with them for a time but excused himself to study, saying he did not wish to fall behind after his long illness.
“He is studying, as is right.” She did not lift her head.
The quiet between them amplified the sound of rain gushing from the drain outside the window.
With Lady Halverton’s blue gown connecting them, Peter couldn’t concentrate.
He drew the thread from his needle and pulled out three stitches that meandered like a drunken sailor.
Miss Cooper’s steady hand moved against the side of the skirt.
She slid over to sew the upper portion, a fraction closer to him.
He wanted to speak with her, to dip into the intimacy held in their letters.
He had received her latest note the day before, and he could hardly stop thinking about her words, the hints she kept begging for.
A coppery tendril fell over her brow. He half-reached to sweep it from her eye, but his hand paused midair, drawing her attention.
She looked a question at him, then returned to her work.
He squeezed his eyes shut. He could not be alone with her without revealing himself.
“My eyes need rest.” He wove his needle into the fabric and moved toward the window.
“We’ve just begun,” she said.
“It’s a muddy-boots day.” Fast-falling rain blurred the garden.
“Because of the rain?” The smile in her voice ignited a spark within him.
“My mother used to say that, referring to times when work feels impossible. Though I must admit those days often coincide with rainy weather.”
Just then, Lady Halverton burst in. “Oh, I cannot believe I slept so long. The rain is soothing. And the two of you have been sewing all this while. Well, stop. It is a rainy day, and no one should be working.” She collapsed into a chair.
“A muddy-boots day,” Peter said.
“Yes, exactly. Has my mother-in-law come down?”
“I have not seen the dowager, my lady,” Peter said. The dowager was a favorite client of Peter’s who spent most of her time in London now that her son had married.
“Margaret, I woke thinking of that concerto you played for us last Sunday. I long to hear it again. Do you mind?” She gestured hopefully toward the harpsichord.
“I would much prefer to finish your gown, my lady.”
Lady Halverton moaned in an unladylike fashion. “Call me Louisa and have done with it.”
“Louisa,” Miss Cooper said, “the rain puts me in a sewing mood.”
“Liar.” Lady Halverton laughed. “Now I know you can play so well, I am certain your fingers itch every time you see a harpsichord. And I so ill and tired. You are not so cruel as to deny me a tiny song.”
Peter had noticed Miss Cooper glance toward the instrument a time or two. “I promise to sew my fastest all the time you play,” he said.
Miss Cooper acquiesced and opened the instrument.
Her long fingers, so capable with a needle and thread, began a slow, deliberate march over the keys.
A heart-wrenching, melancholy tune filled the room while Miss Cooper transformed, her face softening, her stiff posture giving way to the pull of the melody.
“You are not sewing, Mr. Sloan,” she said, without looking or missing a note.
Startled, he turned to his work, but his fingers remained still. His eyes lifted toward her again.
When Miss Cooper’s hands stilled over the keys, Lady Halverton began clapping, and Peter bent over the silk and began running thread as fast as possible while maintaining straight stitches.
“It is beautiful but makes me weep,” said Lady Halverton. “Let us hear something jolly.”
Miss Cooper played another piece and another until Peter thoroughly lost himself under the enchantment of her song.
Her habitual restraint gave way to the depth of emotion he’d suspected lay within her.
Confessions she’d made in her letters became audible, suffocating him with the desire to show her joy and love could be found.
When Lady Halverton rose and said it was time to dress for supper, it took Peter a moment to recall himself. He did not want to dine with the family but would endure it should Miss Cooper be there.
“Oh, but the two of you have nothing to wear.” Lady Halverton glanced between the two of them.
“I have no wish to disrupt your family supper. I shall be happy in the kitchen,” Peter said.
“As would I,” Miss Cooper agreed, drawing sharp disapproval from Lady Halverton.
“Margaret. I shall pretend such a thing was not said. No one is dressing for supper. I expect you both, and my mother-in-law will be disappointed if you don’t come.”
Miss Cooper sighed as she closed the harpsichord. “She is so winsome and makes it difficult to deny her. And I am fond of the dowager. I suppose we have no choice.”
Lady Halverton clapped in delight and began leading them to the dining room.
“How did you learn to play?” Peter could not keep the question as he and his apprentice settled into their seats.
“My mother ensured my education included all the niceties belonging to a lady.” Her tone was bitter.
“I am grateful for this one, but almost all the rest were useless. I dance a little, sing poorly, watercolor inadequately. I can greet you in three languages. I do not enjoy reading, but at least I excel at needlecraft and sums, though ciphering I taught myself from necessity.”
Lord Halverton and his mother entered. At the sight of the dowager, everyone stood, but she went first to Miss Cooper, cupping her face and pronouncing her as capable as she was beautiful.
“Louisa has shown me your work. You are as magnificent as I knew you would be.” The dowager turned to Peter, taking both his hands.
“She has the best instructor in the world.”
A moment later, Samuel joined them, and the family started comfortably into the task of dining, Miss Cooper a natural addition to the party.
“It’s been months,” said Lady Halverton, “but I never asked if you discovered the identity of your valentine, Margaret.”
Peter thought she blushed.
“She hasn’t,” said Samuel, “but she loves him.”
“Samuel,” said Miss Margaret coolly, “what do you know about it?”
“Everything. Miss Grace said that Meg took out her valentines and read through each of them every night and was every day keen for a new one. Grace was the one who put her name in the box and said it was a good thing, else Meg would smither away.”
Miss Margaret laughed at his made0up word.
“How dispiriting that a short missive from an unknown stranger is the best part of my week. I admit to enjoying having a valentine, for his gifts and letters are thoughtful, but my dear Samuel, you are the best part of my week.”
Heat simmered in Peter’s cheeks. So she thought him a thoughtful valentine, did she? That was high praise from a woman so hesitant to share her feelings.
“You still correspond with your valentine and haven’t said a word? Past Easter, and he hasn’t revealed himself?” asked Lady Halverton.
“He committed from the start never to reveal his identity. Perhaps he has a reason for anonymity.” Miss Margaret sipped her drink.
“I do hope it’s nothing nefarious,” the dowager said. “When one believes something must be done in secret, it is a sure indication it should not be done at all. Tell us, what does he send?”
Miss Margaret folded and refolded the napkin in her lap. “Silly poems, letters. He draws pictures and sends little gifts.”
“And you’ve no hint to his identity?” Lady Halverton asked. “No clues in his letters or gifts?”
“Sometimes I think I must know him somehow, but I have not been able to guess.”
Lady Halverton pointed her fork at Miss Margaret. “Have you asked the delivery boy?”
“If he told, he would lose his job,” Miss Margaret said.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Lady Halverton pressed.
Miss Margaret bit her lower lip. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps? Perhaps?” Lady Halverton turned to Peter. “You must help us discover the identity of Margaret’s secret admirer, you who are with her and see everyone with whom she interacts.”
“Not everyone.” His words went unheeded.
“Have you any guesses, Mr. Sloan?” asked the dowager.