Chapter 24 #2
Peter opened his mouth to combat the words against his love but found nothing to refute them. “What do I do?”
“I doubt Sloan Tailoring is in danger of closing, but if it is, you have a place with me.”
“I mean about Margaret. Lucius, I’m in love with her.”
Lucius drew a sharp breath. “You’d better think hard about that statement. Can you trust her?”
“I don’t know.”
“I am sorry, old chap.” Lucius’s brows grew heavy. “Perhaps I should have spoken to you when I found out her falsehood. I thought you’d work it out. She’s spirited, determined. I assumed she had good reason for what she did.”
Peter held his head. “I cannot understand what that reason might be. Do you think she guessed her valentine’s identity and used the letters to her advantage?”
Lucius lifted a shoulder. “In light of everything, I cannot say it would surprise me. In hindsight, her actions appear designing and opportunistic.”
The painful coil that wrapped Peter’s insides lost its sharp edges, becoming heavy and fixed. His hopeful grasp slipped as he shifted from shock to sorrow, from fear to certainty.
Peter left Lucius and ambled the streets without seeing whom or what he passed. Afternoon faded into evening, his feet and hands growing cold. He returned home to stare at the wall.
He understood her ambition and determination but had not known the lengths she would reach to meet her goal. And her secrecy was for naught. Had he known what she was about, knew why she acted in such a manner, he would have supported her.
Her secrecy. He too had kept a secret. His valentine anonymity, if she truly had not pieced the truth together, had given him access to her inner life, which she’d never consented to share with her master.
In his shop, she bore a serious demeanor, spoke little of her personal life, but he knew more about her than he had a right to know.
Did his slight dishonesty compare to her gross treachery?
Peter pulled Miss Cooper’s ledgers from the shelf she had organized.
When perusing them not long ago, he had seen the pattern.
Profits slowly drifted after the first signs of his father’s illness, regaining their footing when Miss Cooper entered the scene.
Now he knew why, despite the incoming payments, orders had plummeted.
Shirts, shifts, and small linens had once proved essential to the business. The breadth of her reach astounded him.
Peter examined the red stains beneath his fingernails with a rueful glare. All this while he dyed and stamped and colored cotton.
The appointment book showed bleak prospects. No females were scheduled, and few men. He made his way to the shuttered window that looked across the street and folded back a single panel.
Sloan Tailoring would not be forced to close its doors, but he doubted he could count on the enterprise to support himself and his apprentices much longer.
Might now be the right time to pivot? He ran his fingers along the window frame, thinking of how long his father had loved this shop.
At some point over the past months, Peter had stopped thinking of Sloan Tailoring as his establishment.
It belonged to his deceased father. He felt like a snail laboring to move under an improperly sized shell.
For several weeks he’d reimagined the various rooms of Sloan Tailoring arranged into a stamping house.
He’d filled pages with detailed changes and listed provisions for anticipated problems. He’d reached the point where he was not adding new ideas, merely reiterating.
It had begun to feel less like a dream and more a plan.
Peter sighed and closed the shutter again.
He felt closer than ever to the edge of his doubts and reservations, was nearly ready to take the leap into this new venture that excited and distracted him so thoroughly.
But he ought to make the decision when his mind was not clouded by Margaret’s betrayal.
He would grieve and strategize a little while longer.
A fortnight passed quietly. Peter lived in his head, confused and heartbroken over Margaret while mentally creating a workshop for chintz. The three remaining apprentices worked soundlessly, sensing he was preoccupied.
Early on a Monday morning, Peter entered the workshop and found the apprentices hunched diligently over their work, the floor swept clean and everything in its place, save Miss Cooper and Giles.
Everything as it had been since Margaret’s confession.
Peter stole a glance out the window and found Miss Cooper directing Giles on hanging a sign: The Golden Thimble.
Golden, indeed. So she’d done it in two weeks. Her shop was open for business.
“Good morning.” Peter’s false good humor rang dully into the silence.
The apprentices nodded or mumbled but kept their heads down.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed the excitement across the street, but we shall not let that distract us in completing our work today.
My deepest gratitude for your diligence and loyalty.
” He cleared his throat. “I am behind on some administrative work and will be in my office.” Where he could observe the opening of The Golden Thimble in privacy.
A festival bubbled across the street. The Havenwood ladies, dressed in matching pink linen, distributed tea and cakes to those who could not fit inside.
Rather than dark curtains, three sacques in various styles adorned the window, complete with caps and aprons, gloves and pockets, hung like celebratory bunting.
Children’s gowns embroidered with whimsical animals were strung on a separate line.
A man’s suit hung in the corner. Spring flowers made of fabric scraps framed the window, lending the appearance of a garden party. A brilliant idea.
Giles sallied forth among the guests in a sapphire-colored suit that bordered on foppish but was finely crafted.
He’d powdered his hair and, at twenty-two, looked like a child, fresh and bare cheeked.
The young gentlemen in the crowd admired his suit, most of them keen on wearing something more avant-garde than one typically saw in Stroud.
Miss Cooper’s genius shone through the entire display. She appealed across a broad range of tastes, her window featuring both the plain and the extravagant.
And there she was. Miss Cooper emerged, all smiles and pink with joy, greeting her guests one by one.
She clasped Lord Halverton’s hand, a fleeting expression of gratitude softening her face.
Peter slammed the shutter and pressed his back against the wall.
How could he compete against that? The presence of the earl elevated the event and lent the weight of his patronage.
Unable to resist, he pulled the shutter back an inch. Meg, in an amber silk gown—simple with lace flourishes, as he knew would favor her—spoke familiarly with Mrs. Smith, who had not crossed his threshold in some time.
A smile breezed on and off her lips, her fingers brushing across her knuckles.
She was not entirely at ease. A wish unfurled, tugging him toward her, his whole self aching.
The feeling, visceral and perilous in its sincerity, nearly had him out the door and at her side. How could he still be drawn to her?
The apprentices fell silent upon his entrance into the workshop.
Peter scanned the room. Instead of three boys sitting atop a table, he saw them bent over snow white cloth, imbuing it with color.
Instead of scissors and thread and rolls of fabric, he saw vials of powder, shelves of stamps, vats soaking white into red.
“Well, then. Let’s discuss this and have it out.” Peter stood before the three boys. “What are the rumors?”
“Most believe Miss Cooper stole your money and your secrets. But I think she fancies you.”
“They say she’s a better tailor than you, but we don’t believe it.”
“I heard someone claim she sold her soul to the devil in exchange for becoming the most talented dressmaker in England. Oh, and she does not require sleep.”
Peter snorted. “We know none of that is true, though I don’t know if she sleeps. Miss Cooper struck out on her own, and we wish her success.”
“Is that what happened?” Johnathan asked.
“I am pretty certain she stole your money and your secrets,” said Arnold.
“She didn’t steal anything.” Peter looked at each of them. “She did what she always claimed she would.”
The three boys glanced dubiously across the street.
“We cannot appear to care; else it shows weakness. We do not talk about Miss Cooper and her employees to customers or neighbors or family. We do not participate in slander or gossip. We simply get on with our work.” Even if that work became something entirely new.
“Like my mother when the boys spend all Sunday fishing,” Johnathan said.
Peter’s gratitude for the boys swelled. They gave him something to care about.
“They also say you have become a dyer and don’t care about Sloan Tailoring.” Freddy kept a steady gaze on his work.
Peter would not speak to that until his plans were certain, but he assured them of his loyalty to them. He would ensure his apprentices did not suffer for any alterations Peter made to his work.