Chapter 33
Meg wandered London’s streets with the brisk pace of someone intent on arriving somewhere.
In truth, she had nowhere to be and no one to see.
Loneliness sat in her stomach like something spoiled.
No matter how many shops she considered for lease, none suited like The Golden Thimble.
Having known joy and purpose there, friendship and camaraderie, she loathed to settle for less.
Surely, she would find her footing. She was no stranger to solitude and ought to be relieved to be free to do as she pleased. Until she established herself, she had no orders to fill, no obligation to her half-brothers or Louisa. Had no valentine waiting for a reply. How to fill that void?
She strode forth, feet sore, back aching, making her way over muddy puddles, dodging street hawkers and strangers in a frenzied walk that took her nowhere.
After a few hours, the familiar sights and sounds of London blurred to a haze and hum.
But she could not sit in her rented room where the absence of Stroud circled her mind, admitting she did not want new people in her life.
She craved Louisa’s laughter, the twinkle in James’s serious face, and Samuel’s grass-stained knees.
What she would give for Miss Matilde to bounce beside her or a cup of tea from Miss Reed.
From the distance of London, her clients seemed the best in England.
Never again was she to thrill Mrs. Bosket with another gown or show Mrs. Gainsworth the latest silk straight from Lyon.
Without a purpose, it seemed some vital organ had vanished, and she waited to discover whether she would survive its absence. When had she become so weak? She did not believe in maladies of the heart. At least, perhaps, possibly, she did.
Else why the ache, the relentless pain she could not push out? Love. It was love. She had so much to give and no one to give it to. Samuel had been the recipient of her care, but his need for her had expired. She loved the Havenwood ladies, the apprentices, James and Louisa.
And she loved Peter. Loved his entire self, the whole of him.
She loved conversing with him, the way his lips twitched before he said something funny—the taste of his lips.
She loved the feel of his hand covering hers, guiding her scissors, holding on to her as he fell into his grief.
Her love, vast and tender, pushed against her ribs, expanded until breath became a gasp.
She returned to the boarding house she’d rented a room in, waving away the matron’s invitation to take refreshment as she trudged upstairs.
Her skirt had snagged and torn on her walk.
She opened her trunk and pushed aside a worn day dress to find her sewing box.
Made of unadorned rosewood, complete and perfect for her needs, the sight of it swelled in her throat.
She dropped the lid of the trunk and reclined into a pillow to stare at the ceiling and contemplate the nothingness she’d created for herself.
A knock sounded on the front door of the boarding house. Situated up the stairs from the ground floor, she could always hear what went on in the entrance hall. She listened, pointlessly tracing the floral pattern of her curtains with her eyes.
A man’s muffled voice, a child’s greeting. She sat up. Small footsteps pattered against the stairs. Her door flew open.
“Samuel!”
He flew into her, buried his face in her neck, and sobbed.
“Oh, my darling. What is the matter?”
His fingers clutched the back of her gown tightly enough that the fabric tugged at her chest.
“I’ll not go to school ever again.” His words were strained and hiccuped.
She pulled him tight, her own eyes stinging. After allowing herself a moment to feel his small frame in her arms and giving him a chance to compose himself, she asked, “What has happened, love?”
Still clinging to her, he said into her hair, “You left me.”
Her heart sank. The poor boy, too familiar with the transient nature of those he was meant to depend upon, felt abandoned. How had she not anticipated this sort of reaction?
“I did not leave you. You went to school, and I returned to London.”
“I saw James and Louisa on Sunday, but you were not there.”
She had not expected this. He’d dismissed her in favor of a horse or James time and again. Perhaps she might relocate to Gloucester. The idea blossomed. Why hadn’t that occurred to her before?
“Would you like it if I moved to Gloucester? We could be neighbors.”
His eyes flashed brightly, then dimmed. “I like your house in Stroud.”
“You may like whatever I find in Gloucester.”
He frowned. “Stroud suits you.”
The candid assessment brought a swell in her throat. It had suited her.
She kissed the top of his head. “I should ready myself and meet James downstairs.”
“James?”
“Didn’t he bring you?”
“Not him. Mr. Sloan.”
Her limbs grew heavy. Whatever was Mr. Sloan doing here? She did not wish to see him. Could not see him.
“Go and thank Mr. Sloan for his service and let him know I will return you to school.”
“He’s a capital fellow. We played cards all the way here and I won six pence.”
She could not withhold a laugh but reprimanded him for gambling. On her feet, Meg observed her mussed hair and heavy eyes in the glass. “Run along and tell Mr. Sloan he is no longer needed.”
“He has something for you.”
“You can give it to me.”
Samuel sighed and shook his little head. “He’ll not go until he sees you. Best wash your face and find a cap.” The honesty of a child. “We will wait for you in the parlor.”
As soon as the door closed, hot tears spilled over Meg’s cheeks. She pressed her palms against them and stuffed her feelings into a far corner, steeling herself against Peter’s charming air. But why had he come? She’d imagined his delight when all her orders arrived on his doorstep. A rival gone.
She took her time, completing her ablutions with lingering care, prolonging the inevitable. When there was nothing else to be done, she descended the stairs.
Peter sat with his back to her. Beside him, Samuel bounced a toy soldier across the sofa, uttering a string of threats. The boarding house matron, knitting near the window, turned an encouraging eye upon Meg. What had Peter told the woman?
The scene stilled her breath. Peter and Samuel, their shoulders touching, bent over the small battalion as Samuel narrated his campaign.
Peter’s head tilted in his familiar way, the attentive angle he gave to anything that interested him.
She had seen it when he worked on chintz, while speaking with his father, while teaching her a new skill.
Samuel turned first. His face split wide in that uncomplicated grin of a child. Peter followed, and every thought she had carefully arranged during the long minutes at her dressing table scattered like pins from an upturned box.
She had forgotten. Or perhaps she remembered too well and had flattened the memory into something manageable, but the living fact of Peter Sloan could not be managed.
He was on his feet, stepping toward her.
He paused, the corrected impulse of a man who had trained himself against reaching for what he wanted.
“Mar—Miss Cooper.” Peter Sloan stood before her, his eyes tender, perhaps wary.
Her arms ached, her hands twitched for the wanting of him. She checked herself against the desire to throw herself into his chest.
She approached him, close enough that the scent of bergamot reached her. His eyes searched hers with the same expression he’d worn in the dyehouse after his father’s funeral. Not hurt. Not concern. Something raw and honest, a question beneath.
Pressure gathered at the base of her throat, heavy and insistent. If she permitted its passage, everything she had fortified would crumble. She would weep, and the crying would carry words she had no right to speak. Not to this man she had so thoroughly wronged.
Her gaze swept to his collar, the neat stitching she recognized as his own work, the thread pulled through with the steady hand of a craftsman who could not make a careless stitch.
“Thank you for bringing Samuel.” Her voice held. She marveled at its steadiness when her insides lurched as if the floor had tilted. “I should have been patient enough to visit him before I departed.”
The words rang hollow. She was speaking of Samuel when other words pressed against her. I am sorry. I left to return your life to you, to give back what I have taken. She bit them back.
“What made you leave with such haste?” Peter stepped toward her until his legs brushed her gown.
She warmed from her stomach to her toes. “Samuel said you have something for me?”
“A trade, then?” Peter retrieved a box covered in fabric. “I will give you this when you explain why your departure.” His dimples appeared, her undoing.
“I could not stay when my presence required so great a sacrifice from you.”
“But you were right. I am better suited to printing cotton. There is no sacrifice in wanting another’s success.”
She closed her eyes, the sentiment too beautiful to accept. “Those are kind words. I will treasure them.” She extended her hand, not wanting whatever the box contained but needing him gone.
He hesitated to relinquish the gift. “I am afraid your answer does not satisfy my curiosity. I have puzzled over your character for months now. Your letters revealed a woman of strength and courage, yet your desperate actions hint at a tendency for dishonesty. I spoke with James before traveling here, and you seem to have implied that you don’t believe anyone in Stroud cares for you, the most popular shop owner in the county.
” He shook his head. “I am missing some vital piece, and I will not rest until I have it.”
Meg stared at him, amazed by how much he cared to see her—the real her, as he always had as her valentine.
She bit her lip as she considered. “Samuel, would you like to take a walk with Mr. Sloan and me? We could visit Rosemary Lane, see how it’s gotten on without us.”
Samuel made a face, likely wondering why she would ever want to return to the dirty place. “I suppose. But then can we come back and open your present? Mr. Sloan wouldn’t let me peek at it.”
Meg laughed. “Of course.” She turned to Peter. “I think I know the piece you are missing. Let me show you.”