Chapter 21
As the others spoke of the weather and spring fashion in the parlor after supper, Meg pulled James aside.
“I dislike receiving money I have not earned. I know you cannot understand that, but it…reminds me of my mother. I never want to be as desperate as she or unable to support myself. So I’ve been taking work, earning quite a bit on simple linens, shirts, shifts, and gown alterations. ”
James sighed. “Is that in line with your indenture?”
“Hush.” She glanced at Mr. Sloan, but he spoke with the dowager. “No, but it’s essential that I earn an income and set aside savings.”
He crossed his arms. “I am wary of your methods, but I think I understand that sentiment.”
“But Grace took every farthing I’d set aside. I have nothing to pay Miss Matilde and Miss Reed or Dr. McCully. I had to take credit at market, a thing I loathe.” And she owed Mr. Sloan for the fabric she’d ruined.
“Why don’t you draw upon your trust?”
Meg withered inside, tired of his mentioning the trust. “I’d rather a loan from you,” she said. “Temporary, of course. So I can pay the good doctor and start saving up again with the help of my boarders.”
He nodded. “Remind me before you depart.”
While relieved by his easy assent, she did not like taking his money any more than drawing on credit.
“Have you spoken with Samuel about returning with me to Stroud?” Meg asked.
He hesitated. “He does not wish to hurt you, but this morning he told me he prefers the estate.”
“Of course he does, but this is not the future he can expect. He will do much better with me.” A downward pull of her chest reminded her if Grace had not stolen from her, this conversation would have gone differently.
She could have demanded he stay with her.
But she could no longer afford that. Hard work would return her to a place where those demands could be made.
“More than anything, he misses his school friends,” James said. “He asks about returning to boarding school. Would you like to visit the place together? Perhaps we are making a mistake.”
“I am confident we are not, but if it helps convince Samuel, I will certainly go.”
A maid cleared the tea service and Lady Halverton yawned and stole away, followed by Lord Halverton. The dowager excused herself, and Samuel ran off to finish his studies. Meg and Mr. Sloan returned to their work, the hiss of rain their companion.
Meg examined the callus on the pad of her middle finger, formed from years of pushing a needle, and wished for sunshine and dry roads, wanting to be alone in a closed carriage with Mr. Sloan.
An odd desire that set her more on edge.
Meg felt out of sorts in an undefinable way.
Her body seemed to edge toward Mr. Sloan as if he might answer some need she could not identify.
The effort to work against the urge was like trying not to scratch an itch.
She wanted to settle into the calm ease of his presence, wondered over his reaction if she were to let her guard down.
More likely, the desperate situation Grace had created for her left her unsettled.
It could not be that Meg wanted to rest against the shoulder of the man whose arm brushed casually against hers as they worked, who did not need to ask which part of the gown she preferred working on, who handed her the scissors the moment she realized she required them.
She missed him preemptively. Their time together tingled with absence.
Time, which usually passed without notice, acquired an intolerable swiftness, an hourglass wherein each grain of sand fell with finality, ticking off the seconds until Mr. Sloan learned what she had done. Although, she still had her valentine.
“Mr. Sloan,” she asked, “what do you think about this valentine business?”
He glanced up quickly. “I am not certain what you’re asking.” He returned his attention to his work, his fingers seeming to weave thread ever faster through the silk.
“I’ve been considering Lady Halverton’s assertion that you might have a hint as to his identity.”
“Ah.” He picked up the scissors and cut a length of thread.
He knew something.
“Is it someone you know well?” She leaned closer to examine his face. He bit his lip. To prevent a smile? “You are not telling me something.”
“I find it amusing you are so interested.”
“How could I not be?” She leaned against the cushion behind her, watching him thread a needle. “Whoever it is has thoroughly charmed me.”
“Ah!” Mr. Sloan shook out his hand. “I stabbed myself.”
“Is it bleeding?”
“Not much.”
Meg rang the bell and asked the maid to bring a plaster.
“I’m sure it will stop bleeding in a moment. Let’s pause our work and go find Samuel,” he suggested.
“I will not fall for such a trick. Give me a hint. Or admit to knowing his identity.”
“It is not allowed.”
“So, there are rules? What are they?”
“You must wait until your valentine reveals himself.”
The maid entered with a stiff bit of plaster and departed the room.
Meg cut a small square and moistened her lips.
She pressed the plaster to her mouth until she felt it soften, then extended her palm, feeling the intimacy of his eyes upon her and the charged air between them.
Mr. Sloan set his hand over hers, sending a flush up the length of Meg’s arm, which settled deliciously in her chest. She cleared her throat.
They were speaking of her valentine. Were her feelings in this moment traitorous?
“Everyone waits to be told by the valentine himself? Never in the history of this strange tradition has anyone broken that rule and sought the identity of her valentine through other means?” She pressed the plaster gently over the red bead on his forefinger.
Their knees brushed, and Meg was aware of surrendering to his pull.
Not ready to relinquish his touch, her fingers curled around his palm.
Their hands fell to the sofa. His palm turned, pressed against hers, then retreated.
“Once. They are Mr. and Mrs. Jones and live in a cottage near the edge of town with ten young children. She bribed the postboy with an unbelievable sum of money. It was an outrage.”
Meg’s hand tingled. She was losing her focus.
“Clearly, the method has much to recommend it. But I take your point. I am not in the market for a husband. Though I would like to know, especially if he doesn’t know that I know, you see?
It is unfair he is aware of my person while I am ignorant of his. ”
He made a noncommittal noise.
“You aren’t going to help me?” An idea entered her head. She narrowed in on his face, prepared to catch the merest twitch of his countenance. “It isn’t you, is it?”
He burst out laughing. “Can you imagine the impropriety of accepting such an assignment?”
Relief made her feel slightly limp. Good. Her life was complicated enough without that happenstance. Or had her heart dropped in disappointment?
“Perhaps we could strike a bargain,” he said.
“What do you propose?”
“If I tell you one thing, you must not ask me anymore.” His voice was gruff.
“But what if it’s utterly useless?”
“I think you’ll find this tidbit interesting. I happen to know your valentine, and you have made a conquest of him. He is utterly and completely lost to reason where you are concerned.” He returned to his sewing, deftly stringing thread through needle before sewing a perfect seam.
A thrill zipped up her spine, followed by a heavy snagging at her heart.
Meg felt numb, her hands useless and heavy in her lap.
Her valentine was utterly and completely lost to reason over her.
A sort of half laugh coughed from her chest as her true wish materialized.
She yearned for Mr. Sloan to make the confession on his own behalf, wished that he somehow had put his name in the valentine exchange box, and that her name had somehow found her way into his hand.
He was real, generating heat beside her so it crept from his person through her body, and it was all too easy to imagine that he and her valentine were one and the same.
She needed to move. “I must stretch my legs. Do you fancy a look around the house? I can give you a tour.”
He met her gaze, trapping a vulnerable something before she fully captured it. “I’m intrigued.”
They wrapped the gown, and Meg led Mr. Sloan to the dining room, reciting as many arbitrary facts about the house as she could. “With all the molding, there are seven colors of paint, if you can believe it.”
He bent closer to examine the detail. “Subtle, but it certainly makes a statement.”
“And look at the rug.”
They both stepped back to appreciate the Turkish carpet, a crimson masterpiece with cerulean and royal blue accents.
“I never cared much for wealth,” Meg admitted, “but I love the textiles.”
Mr. Sloan looked at her, one of his penetrating gazes. It occurred to her that he might think she spoke of his home, simple but overflowing with gorgeous fabrics.
She cleared her throat. “Would you like to see chintz?” They entered an adjoining room. “I don’t know what they call this room, but I dubbed it Variation on a Theme of Turkish Rug.”
“For the colors?”
“Mm,” she assented. The cobalt of the dining room rug saturated the walls, while white Indian chintz covered in red florals served as window and sofa coverings.
Large mirrors and windows prevented the room from succumbing to heaviness.
Books adorned one wall, but this was not the library, which housed a much more impressive collection.
“I believe Lady Halverton uses this room to study and entertain close friends.”
She took him to the salon looking over the garden where emerald walls held large birds and flowers in the foreground. Floor-to-ceiling windows without coverings flooded the room with light.
“The rain stopped,” he said.
They stepped toward the window and stood shoulder to shoulder, the sun warming their faces. She felt his proximity all along the side of her body. She wished to turn toward him as one might a glowing fire.