Chapter 25
Meg’s cheeks ached with smiling, but she carried on despite a heaviness that slackened her tread and robbed the delight from a moment meant to crown her accomplishment.
“So beautiful.”
“This white muslin…”
“Those ruffles and lace.”
“A female dressmaker in Stroud.”
“And a tailor with her.”
Around her voices buzzed and exclaimed over fabrics and patterns, the display, and the tea.
Meg took little credit for any of it. Louisa had been to Paris and seen a burgeoning trend toward opulence in window displays.
When Miss Matilde heard of it, she took a fancy to the notion, leading Meg’s household to work two weeks straight completing gowns for the opening, cooking and embroidering, creating spring peonies from fabric scraps.
James sent a cook and a scullery who arrived complete with a tea service large enough to place a cup in the hands of each person in town.
Gratitude for her half-brother’s support hit both pleasant and sharp.
Without him, where would she be? Emotion pressed upon her as she moved through greetings and congratulations until she could scarcely breathe.
Pride in her accomplishment flickered and died against the hollow ache of losing Peter.
Shame, hope, and heartbreak tore through her like a garment assembled and reassembled until it lay in tatters.
She was a gown in need of restoration. In her efforts to create something, to be useful, she had lost her sense of honesty. She had arrived precisely where she wanted to be, had woven her own path, but she had taken a dark turn. Was it possible to fix her mistakes without losing her prize?
“Are you feeling alright, Miss Cooper?” Miss Reed approached with a pot of tea.
“I will be. Thank you.” Meg accepted the offered cup. “Sit with me a while?”
Darting eyes indicated Miss Reed’s imminent refusal—whether to prove her ability despite her malformed leg or for another reason, Meg couldn’t guess—but Miss Reed must have sensed Meg’s need, for she pinched her lips and sat.
Meg asked about Miss Reed’s family until the soothing rhythm of her voice eased Meg’s melancholy. Thank heavens for these women. Though ignorant of the depths of Meg’s suffering, their presence soothed and strengthened her.
Despite efforts to avoid looking through the window, Meg glanced across the street at Sloan Tailoring where the apprentices shot curious glances her way. Peter sat atop the work bench, his back to the street. Was there a way to restore what she’d taken?
That evening, Meg stared at the large bundle sitting on her bureau, bright red linen tied with smooth twine from Sloan Tailoring. Peter always insisted upon using the best materials alongside anything precious.
The gift, given in the moment she’d confessed all the ill she had done to Peter, had remained untouched these two weeks.
It festered like a lesion, sore and bleeding, a reminder of what might have been.
But she missed him, and his absence at the celebration of her greatest aspirations had exacerbated that feeling.
Heart thudding at the mere touch of the package, her fingers fell over satiny linen.
Her valentine had a face now—dimpled cheeks, charm and personality.
No longer a shadowed mystery, she knew the arms she wanted around her, was familiar with the lips that might utter loving words previously found in letters.
Peter had perceived her true nature all this time—at least the tender side that did not scheme and take advantage of friends. The person she wished to be.
She pressed the bundle against her. Eyes dry but burning, she inhaled the cloth. His scent, clean and subtly spicy, filled her.
Light burned from the embers barely aglow in the hearth.
She pulled aside the curtain and looked across the street at the dim candlelight that filled Sloan Tailoring.
Ah, to return to the days when she might slip from the house and into the workshop, finding him at work in the dyehouse or finishing some finery that required his touch.
It was a place of warmth she had not appreciated when it was available to her.
Curiosity overcame her, and she pulled the silken twine and unwrapped the linen to find the most gorgeous length of painted cotton she had ever beheld.
She unfolded it over the bed. Something sharp hit the floor—a folded paper, stark and white.
Fearing what it might say, she left it in favor of examining the fabric.
She spread the full length of it across her bed and gasped at its beauty, entranced by the skill of Peter’s art.
Her finger traced flowers and leaves. Turkey red from his grandfather, and tones she’d admired in Leonore’s hidden room.
He’d remembered how Meg appreciated a similar cloth and recreated it for her, only better.
She lit several candles, wrapped the cotton around herself, and looked in the mirror. It suited to perfection—so beautiful it was almost painful to look at, a reminder that she had injured its creator. Her eyes fell to the floor. She reached for his letter.
My darling Meg,
Is it too much to call you mine? The word is a hope and an offer to belong to you in turn.
I must, however, introduce myself. I am Peter Sloan, your valentine.
Forgive me for taking advantage of that assignment to learn who you are, to grow in admiration for you from a distance.
And I assure you that I do adore you. You have made a conquest of me.
I am utterly and completely lost to reason where you are concerned.
May I hope the expression we exchanged in the billiard room represented something more than an accident of proximity? I await your reply with more anxiety than is dignified.
Yours, if you will have me,
Peter Sloan
He had taken advantage. She had written to an unknown, a mystery. Peter had no right to work by her side, pretending he did not know the secrets of her heart. Righteous heat flared behind her ribs. She held it, willed it to replace the cold hollow at her center.
But his soft words dismantled her argument. To hold a letter containing proof of how she had been cherished… No one loved her like Peter had. And she loved him. Unlike Peter, her love yet burned, ached. She craved his laughter, his conversation, his kiss.
She collapsed onto her bed, the letter pressed to her chest.
The following morning, Meg woke to Miss Reed lighting the fire. “What is that fabric? I’ve never seen the like.”
Peter’s floral chintz lay over her bedding. “Nor have I.” Meg barely kept her voice from cracking. She ran her hand against its silken surface.
“You’re abed late. The others are already at work.”
“I’m not feeling well.”
“It’s little wonder. Yesterday was a grand day but took its toll. I’ll bring your breakfast.”
“Do not trouble yourself. I will be down soon.”
The door clicked behind Miss Reed. Meg examined her final valentine gift in the full light of day. Magnificent. Utterly breathtaking. It shone with vivid color, each seemingly created to flatter her complexion.
From below, the bustling sounds of a shop preparing to open captured her. She began dressing, muted excitement rushing her movements. Despite it all, she loved her shop still.
As she pulled a cap over her curls, her eye caught the letter Peter had included. Her heart split, like a tired seam giving way. She dropped into the hard chair at her desk and pulled out her writing implements. She rested her hand over the velvety surface of her most expensive stationery.
Her hands trembled, but she wrote all she felt. Almost all. She re-read her words before folding the page. She withdrew a stick of sealing wax and watched it bubble and blacken in the candle’s flame, then sealed the letter and marched downstairs toward Peter before courage failed her.