Page 60 of The Gentlewoman Companion (The Gentlewoman #4)

Chapter Two

N ot wishing to wake his father, Peter Sloan removed his shoes and slid into a pair of silk embroidered slippers, a favorite indulgence.

“Deborah?” His father’s voice rang from the kitchen. “Is that you?”

Peter held his tongue, hating the daily ritual of shattering his father’s happiness. He took his time removing and brushing lint and thread from his coat.

Inside the kitchen, his father sat atop the table, legs crossed with a long piece of worn cotton over his lap.

His fingers shook as he pulled a needle and thread through superfine wool, creating uneven stitches that did little to hold the fabric scraps together.

The first time Peter had found his father like this, he’d hidden every rag in the house.

On the day that followed, his father had cut up his best nightshirt.

Since then, Peter made certain to bring home a basket of scraps for his father’s use.

This current project had been in the works for weeks.

Wilted and graying, the sight of it stung Peter’s throat.

“Who are you?” His father pressed the fabric to his chest and began trembling.

“It’s me. Peter.”

“I don’t know you.”

“What did you tell Deborah you would name your son, should you have one?”

“. . . Peter. After my brother.”

Peter stepped slowly toward the table. “I am Peter, your son.”

His father snorted and began to chuckle, just as he did most evenings. “You look like my brother, but I know he is dead.”

“Have you eaten?” Peter glanced at the hearth. It was almost cold. He added fuel and stoked the fire. Where was the housekeeper?

With knitted brows, his father pulled at his long, gray beard. “I cannot remember.”

“Where is Mrs. Call?”

“Mrs. Call?”

What had his father done to scare her off?

At times, the old man forgot to dress himself properly, or his confusion created so much anxiety that he became angry—never violent, but his anxious fits could be frightening.

Mrs. Call was not the first of his caretakers to leave, though the others had at least informed him before they’d gone.

His father returned to his sewing and began chanting, “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. If ‘ifs’ and ‘ands’ were pots and pans, there’d be no work for tinkers’ hands.”

It didn’t feel so long ago that Peter had bounced on his father’s knee, laughing to that very rhyme. He unwrapped a loaf of bread from a kitchen towel and cut two thick slices, which he speared onto toasting forks. Grilled bread and cheese. The best supper. Peter offered one to his father.

“Thank you, but I’ve eaten.”

Peter toasted both slices of bread. When he was finished, he said, “The cheese is melted to perfection.” He took a large bite, watching as his father set aside his rag and needle.

“Who are you?” his father asked.

“Not that you care when I offer such a feast.”

“Hah. That is the truth. I’ll take it with a mug of ale and would appreciate a splash of rum.” He finally slid off the table and sat beside Peter, grinning.

Crunching toast allowed Peter time to pretend beside his father that his mother’s footfall might be audible if the noise of his own chewing were not so loud in his ears.

He imagined all was as it had been before his mother’s death and his father’s illness, before the shop came under his care and orders began accumulating.

Despite his fleet of apprentices, he was behind.

He was the only person who could make a mantua, and they were in high demand.

The skill with which he constructed each gown came at the cost of time.

Miss Cooper might offer a solution to his trouble, but she was also a problem.

Miss Cooper had the potential to become every bit as good as he, perhaps better.

The shop across the street would open, and what would prevent her from pilfering his customers?

Female mantua makers were less expensive than tailors, and it seemed she was already stockpiling fabric.

He’d even seen women peak into the cracks of the shutters that hid Miss Cooper’s storefront, no doubt admiring the selection of cloth.

If she did not run Sloan’s Tailoring completely out of business, she would rob him of the most enjoyable part of his work.

She’d asked him why he didn’t teach the other apprentices mantua making. That was the reason. He enjoyed performing the bulk of the work on his own. Others helped stitch the simpler parts together, but Peter measured, cut, and adjusted until each was a masterpiece.

What bribery had induced the guild to allow her the apprenticeship?

A woman simply did not belong among tailors.

Though she was almost as capable as his most proficient apprentice, promoting her would incense those with more time under his tutelage.

He was not a stickler for convention, but a woman learning the secrets of the trade approached anarchy. It was not to be borne.

And her pretty face discomfited him, though he sought it out often enough.

He knew the others in his shop were distracted by her presence as well as her looks.

Despite that soft russet hair that escaped her cap and brushed her smooth cheek, she was cold and stiff.

If she were more agreeable, her presence might be more palatable.

That was not true. Half the apprentices were in love with her, despite her frigid demeanor. If she were amiable, they would all be trailing after her, making her presence even more disruptive.

Yet, when he’d looked at her earlier that day, he’d caught a fissure in her armor.

She was angry but also desperate to learn.

He’d stepped into her shoes for just a moment, imagining the frustration of being cast aside, talent ignored, set to menial tasks.

He wasn’t being fair. But what was just?

The situation was fraught with unappealing options.

“Have you ever heard of a woman gaining a tailor’s apprenticeship?” Peter asked.

“That is against the statutes of the guild.” His father spoke with his mouth full, a slip in manners he’d never have committed a year ago.

“What if you were obliged to take a female apprentice?”

“Never. Not at Sloan’s.”

“What if you had to?”

“Nothing could induce me. Where is Deborah?”

“She stays away when you’re in your cups.”

“Bah! I’m as sober as a saint. Though I feel a little muddled.”

After a few bites, his father set aside the toast and nursed his drink. It was just as well and would settle him into the night.

“Did you always wish to be a tailor, sir?” Peter asked.

“When at three years old my father placed a pair of scissors in my hand and demanded I cut along the chalk line, I found my calling. Measure, cut, stitch. Measure, cut, stitch.”

The moment Peter’s father had placed a pair of scissors in his hand, his interest had sparked—but not quite in cutting and stitching.

He valued a finely made set of clothes better than most, but what had caught Peter’s attention was the beautiful length of stamped Indian cotton chintz, red with a gold and cherry floral pattern.

He had learned the difference between fabrics quickly, and chintz had always been his favorite.

Unfortunately, to protect England’s silk, linen, and wool industries, chintz was banned.

But on occasion, when he got hold of a smuggled bolt or an old set of curtains being recycled into clothing, he studied it, contemplated the milling and dying processes, marveled at its softness and intricate designs.

He glanced at the blue stains beneath his fingernails. He did more than merely think about chintz.

“Let me help you to your bed.” Peter stood and offered his father his hand.

“I’ll wait for my Deborah.”

“She will be a while yet.”

Peter returned his chair and stared at the fire, listening with his father for his mother’s entrance, imagining the light in his father’s eyes reigniting.

“There is a woman who wants to be a tailor,” he said, his ideas circling like his father’s often did.

“I knew a female tailor who inherited the shop after her husband died. A very talented woman.”

“Did you? I know a female tailor as well. Her stitches are impossibly even, almost as good as mine,” he laughed.

“Women are not tailors.”

It was of no use to remind his father what he’d said only a second earlier. “She wants to be a mantua maker.”

“There is not enough business for two mantua makers. Not in Stroud.”

Peter sighed and stoked the fire. “That is my fear as well.”

***

The following morning when Peter entered his office, he saw Miss Cooper slap his pattern book closed and cross her arms.

“What are you doing?” How dare she enter his private room and look through his things? He’d not yet determined how to proceed with her, but her intrusion did not ingratiate her to him.

“Waiting to begin my training.” She lifted her chin, golden eyes sparking.

“I will have you fetched when I am available.” After the violation she’d just committed, she may be waiting forever.

“No need to put yourself to the trouble. I shall be right here.” She seated herself in a small chair in the corner.

He almost laughed but remembered the piles of fabric she was hoarding in her shop. Nothing about this woman was amusing.

“Miss Cooper, you will please exit my office? Neither of us has time to dither.” He gestured to a waiting pile of mail where lay a letter covered in familiar, looping script that sent his heart to his stomach.

Mrs. Gainsford had another order for him, it seemed, and he could not hand off the request of an old friend to one of his apprentices, no matter how fiercely he wanted to.

Miss Cooper sighed, drawing his attention to the deep shadows beneath her eyes. She looked as exhausted as he felt.

She mumbled something about hating to be idle and, to his surprise, she stood. “I will return,” she warned.

He didn’t doubt that.