Page 61 of The Gentlewoman Companion (The Gentlewoman #4)

The door clicked closed behind her, and Peter cracked the seal on Mrs. Gainsford’s letter, scanning the words quickly.

She requested his expertise in creating a “spectacular gown.” Not only that, but her servants required new livery, for the footmen looked “bedraggled in decades old clothing” that was “entirely worn and ill-fitting.” She “simply must have it done before the Saint Valentine festival,” which she was hosting that year.

Like a physician, tailors were accustomed to seeing women in their shifts, a mundane occurrence Peter never thought twice about.

But he did not wish to meet an unclad Mrs. Gainsford or wrap measuring paper around her…

various parts. As with other customers, her dimensions were recorded, but she specifically requested new measurements.

If Sloan Tailoring was to endure another generation, there would be no denying Mrs. Gainsford.

Already, impatient clients sought clothing elsewhere.

Peter was talented, better even than his father, but he was slow, and his capacity was further reduced by his father’s illness.

He needed help, and, begrudgingly, he knew who would be best suited to assist him.

He left his office and found his one apprentice whose stitches were both rapid and precise. “Miss Cooper, are you skilled at taking a woman’s size?”

“In my previous position, I measured women from time to time.”

If her measuring was as fastidious as her other work, she would do well.

“I received a large order: a mantua, lady’s underclothes, and livery for a fleet of servants to be complete before the Valentine festival. I would like you to accompany me when I visit the house tomorrow.” He half wanted her to decline.

“A tight turnaround. Will it be done in time?” she asked.

“With your help, I hope it will.”

***

Stars shone with a clarity that accounted for the sharp breeze biting Peter’s ears. He pulled open the door of the pub and found Lucius near the hearth beaming at a pretty barmaid. Elbowing his way through the crowd, Peter made his way toward the fire.

“Good evening, Lucius.”

“Peter! How long has it been?”

“Four days?”

“Well, it feels like weeks.” He asked for an additional mug of ale and the barmaid swayed toward the bar, flashing a smile over her shoulder.

“Another conquest?”

Lucius raised a hand in mock solemnity. “I give my word I have not attempted to woo her, yet she adores me.”

Peter laughed.

“Then exert yourself to find the right lady before that charming grin of yours loses all its shine.”

“I will if you will.” Lucius nudged Peter.

“Bah. I’ve no time for women. Not with my father the way he is. I only left home when I was certain he was deeply asleep. For all I know, he’ll saunter in here in only a nightshirt.”

Lucius’s eyes softened. “I am sorry. Parents should remain as immortal and infallible as they seemed when we were children.”

Peter nodded as memories of his father began to rise to the surface, threatening to sour his mood. He changed the subject. “How is the mill coming along?”

“Well, but I am not finished speaking of your lack of romance.”

Their drinks arrived, and they clinked their mugs.

“May your mill turn as much money as it does water and a woman scorn you enough to make you work for her affection,” said Peter, as it was their custom to make ridiculous toasts.

“May you become as entangled with a woman as with your thread.”

They each gulped as quickly as they could—an old tradition. Lucius finished first and slammed his mug on the table. “I won and thus will speak my mind.”

Peter winced as he set his mug down. “Strong stuff. Did your friend add something to it?”

Lucius shrugged. “Listen, I’ve determined that we must attend and participate in the Saint Valentine festival. You require a distraction.”

“That’s the last thing I need. Mrs. Gainsford applied for my help in outfitting her servants and wants a mantua and stays of my creation.” The ale warmed his stomach so that the pronouncement was not so painful as it should have been.

Lucius stared at him with the consoling expression only a good friend could carry. “All the more reason to find a sweetheart. Since your father’s illness and since Clara became Mrs. Gainsford, your affability is depleting. Come with me and put your name in the Valentine exchange.”

The suggestion to do anything that separated him from home and work appealed, though the Saint Valentine festival had seemed more diverting five years ago.

But sending a weekly Valentine would take little effort.

If he wasn’t interested in the lady whose name he received, he could easily withdraw from the exchange.

“You make a fair point,” Peter said. “I’ll do it, but I do not guarantee my full commitment.”

“No, no. You must promise me to keep it up until Easter.”

In years past, they had joyfully sent cards and puzzles to their assigned Valentines for a few weeks, whereupon the fun would be forgotten for some other pleasure. If a few Valentines were all that was required, Peter could do it.

“Impossible.” Peter felt compelled to remind them that their record wasn’t strong. “We’ve never made it past March.”

“We are older now, more focused. Come, let’s make a wager.”

“Last time I bet against you, I found myself sleeping in a tree. As you pointed out, we are older, too old for nonsense.”

“Let’s make it serious, then. A wager worthy of mature men.” Lucius called for more ale, turned his attention back to Peter, and slapped the table. “The first who fails to send a weekly Valentine must agree to walk home from church with a lady of the other’s choosing for a month.”

“That would raise false expectations.”

“Indeed.”

Lucius’s enthusiasm was hard to combat, as was the fuzzy warmth of the strong ale.

Under such haze, the Valentine exchange sounded entertaining.

Peter had always enjoyed engaging with puzzles and riddles.

He extended his hand. “I promise to abide by the wager, committing to send weekly Valentines to whomever I am assigned, even if it’s the Widow Tolbert. ”

“And I, Lucius Iverson, will likewise send a weekly Valentine to whomever is drawn for me, lest I am forced to take the widow’s arm and lead her home from church each week.”

“She might draw you into her cottage and bake you into a pie.”

“Doubtless that is how she lost her other husbands.”

They laughed and enjoyed one another’s company for another hour until Peter felt called home to be near his father.

As Peter lay in bed that night, a little more sober, he reconsidered the wager.

With Mrs. Gainsford’s order on top of the others and his father’s growing need for supervision, there really was no time for it.

Surely Lucius would understand if he negotiated out of their bargain when next they met.

Peter would promise to participate the following year.