Chapter 27
Folded paper shot from beneath the door across the floor and tapped against Meg’s foot. She placed her fork beside her plate and picked it up, aware the Havenwood ladies were watching her.
That Monday marked one week from the day The Golden Thimble had opened. They celebrated with extra courses for the evening meal. At the rate orders entered the shop, they would require a cook soon.
Meg recognized the script. “It’s from Mr. Sloan.” She unfolded the page—a vast sheet torn from one of his larger sketchbooks—and found a brief two lines.
Miss Cooper,
The thread snips are unfound. May I request your assistance?
P
“He’s looking for his thread snips.”
“Well, go find them for him.” Miss Matilde giggled.
Meg pushed her plate away. “I have other correspondence needing my attention, so I will respond by letter.” She retreated to the office in her shop and riffled through the tray of correspondence until she found the letter from a tutor she had enquired after.
With everything in order, a shop running well, many hands to work, and some money saved, Meg wrote a letter inviting the tutor to begin teaching Samuel in a fortnight.
Her heart stuttered with hope when she turned to Peter’s letter. A feeling she could ill afford. Using the same paper he had written on, she responded.
Dear Peter,
Giles sometimes took them into the measuring room. If you can’t find them there, ask the needlewomen.
M
The following morning, she made a quick errand of sending out her correspondence, finishing with slipping her note to Peter back under his shop door.
Not an hour later, Matilde called her over from consulting with a customer, fluttering her lashes and waving the same paper at her, which contained a response.
Miss Cooper,
All but one of my needlewomen departed for your establishment. Still no snips.
P
Meg sighed. Of course he was angry with her. She embarked on her investigation and gathered her peace offering into a basket, delivering it with the paper to the shop door of Sloan Tailoring.
Dear Peter,
I found them. Mrs. Pincham had them in her sewing basket. My apologies. Also, share these cakes Miss Reed made with the boys. Arnold likes them in particular. They remind me of your father; may his blessed soul rest in peace.
M
The next day, Meg went about her usual routine in preparing her shop when she noticed a new sheet of sketchbook paper had been slipped under the door.
Dear Miss Cooper,
Thank you for the queen cakes. I miss him, too. I found this nonsensical page among his things and believe he was thinking of you.
Peter
The letter was accompanied by a list of chess pieces and their various skills. Meg smiled at the memory of learning the game with Peter’s father. She paused her work to respond.
Dear Peter,
Your father was a dear man. Thank you. It was kind of you to think to send that to me, and I will treasure it. Did you notice yesterday’s sunset?
Meg
After delivering the note, Meg found herself unable to attend to conversation, forgetting her purpose mid-stitch, and staring into the distance as she waited nearly all day for the telltale sound of an answer skimming under her door.
Finally, an hour before she meant to close, a reply arrived.
Aware the Havenwood girls watched, she took measured steps to retrieve the paper.
Dear Miss Cooper,
The line of customers out your door blocked the sunset. I jest. It stole my breath. I was in the churchyard speaking with my parents when I saw it. My mother loved Stroud sunsets.
Peter
She breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe they could remain friends, at least, after everything.
Trying to ignore how her heart yearned for more, she penned her response.
The demands of her shop quickly swept her away from the letter, but she delivered it promptly underneath Peter’s door the next morning.
Dear Peter,
You are fortunate to have grown up with wonderful parents. Speaking of parents, I’ve a mother come in with a dress intended for her daughter, but the mother now wishes it for herself. Can you tell me how to widen the shoulders of a sacque?
Meg
The response came quickly.
Dear Miss Cooper,
You may have to remove the pleats if the mother’s shoulders are a great deal broader. I suggest informing her you have other fabric that will suit her better. No doubt you do.
Peter
Meg felt the barb in the final line, but his helpful response assuaged the sting. That he replied at all meant something. She found quill and ink and penned her reply, making certain to restrain her hope while expressing honest gratitude.
Dear Peter,
Thank you for the kind advice. The mother transferred her interest to an indigo velvet.
Meg
Sunday morning rays burned into Meg’s eyelids. She rolled over and pulled a blanket to her neck. If sleep did not return, luxuriating in bed for a few minutes almost satisfied.
Church service began at nine, and Peter attended each week. Would he acknowledge her? The letters they had exchanged last week were almost friendly.
And after the service—Samuel. Meg expected him with James and Louisa at eleven o’clock for tea.
With the knowledge she’d gained from running Sloan Tailoring and investigating their financial records, she’d calculated the future income of The Golden Thimble.
Even with conservative estimates, she felt certain of her ability to support Samuel.
Today, she would finally invite him back into her care—for good.
She flung the bedcovers aside and stretched into the light of morning.
Dressing quickly, she crossed the hall and opened the door she planned to offer Samuel.
A fine linen coverlet in sea green embraced the bed, a thick carpet for cold feet covered the floor, a desk large enough for himself and his tutor rested in the corner.
The furnishings compared poorly to the Halverton household but offered a great deal more comfort than their home on Rosemary Lane.
She inhaled the sharp scent of lavender and lemon, a warm tingle filling her.
She almost heard Samuel’s feet clattering against the floor, his laughter down the halls.
In the kitchen, an apron around her, Meg combined barm, flour, butter, sugar, eggs, and currants.
Her hands delighted in cool stickiness, a relief from needlework.
She formed a ball and kneaded, cut the dough into cakes, and covered them to bake after church.
Then she prepared Samuel’s favorite apricot jam biscuits and left them to rise.
In the cool of the stone church, Meg sat beside her Havenwood girls. She scanned the crowd for Peter, and their gazes collided like a clap of thunder. He offered a half-smile, turned, and began speaking to Johnathan. Time would make things easier between them.
Back at home, Miss Reed arranged cakes and jam biscuits in neat rows. Bread and cheese lay sliced and ready. Meg placed flowers here and there about the parlor to give it a refined feel.
At last, the clop of horses on cobblestone drew Meg to the window.
James and Samuel arrived on horseback. Samuel swung his leg over his monstrously sized pony with the ease of one born to the exercise.
Meg’s heart fell. Buying a pony remained out of reach, but she aspired to surprise Samuel with a fine horse someday.
Samuel ran to the door and met her embrace, his wiry arms flung tight around her waist. She welcomed her two half-brothers, surprising herself by kissing James as well as Samuel on the cheek.
“Louisa is not well?” she asked.
“She didn’t sleep last night.” James sat in the offered chair, Samuel on the sofa.
The room smelled of cakes and powdery woodsmoke, warm and well-lit, quiet and orderly. She kept a proper parlor, complete with superfluous cushions and a large fireplace, its sole purpose to entertain, a luxury foreign to her life before Halverton found her.
They ate and chatted nonsense, Samuel explaining to Meg how to string a fishing line and where to find the fattest worms. But he did not touch the jam biscuits.
“The biscuits are for you, Samuel.” She dropped one on his plate.
His mouth twisted to one side.
“What is it?” she asked him, but he took a bite.
James put his knuckles to his lips, hiding a smile.
“He doesn’t like apricot preserves,” James said.
“He does,” she insisted.
“It’s the furry blobs,” Samuel said apologetically.
Such a silly thing to plunge Meg’s heart right to her feet. “What kind of jam do you prefer?”
“Raspberry. But no chunks,” Samuel said.
“I shall remember that.” She winked at him, but stiffness prevented a smile.
“I have something to tell you.” The moment had arrived, but why did her heart thud?
“I am ready for Samuel to move back with me. My business, though new, is successful, and I have enough money to pay a tutor.” She turned to Samuel, swallowing to keep her voice steady.
“It shall be the two of us, together again.”
Samuel stared at his plate.
“Aren’t you pleased?” Her chest constrained the rapid tick of her heart.
“Can I speak with you in the other room, Meg?” James asked.
She recalled herself, withdrew her attention from Samuel’s working jaw. Her feet pressed against the floor, and she led James from the room into the shop.
“Just as impressive as it was on opening day.” James opened his hands to the room. “Perhaps more so. It’s larger when not packed with customers.”
Meg crossed her arms and leveled what she hoped was an intimidating stare at him. “What is amiss?”
James sighed. “Samuel has expressed to me how well his school suits him. I’ve offered him to live with me and Louisa, reminded him he always has a home with you, but more than anything, he wants to return to Foxmill.”
“I’m returning him to where he belongs.”
James’s face softened, his eyes heavy as though examining something wretchedly broken.
“You’ve ruined him,” Meg said, feeling a sting behind her eyes. “You don’t know what I’ve sacrificed to afford the possibility of keeping him.”
“Whatever do you mean, Margaret?”