The Hatmaker's Heart: A Novel (12 page)

The night cold bit her lungs when she got outside, her arms at once freezing. Her coat, the one Mr. Fields had given her with the fox collar, was inside, no doubt ruined. Cars gunned their motors trying to get away; sirens wailed as two ambulances and a fire truck pulled up. Not a single taxicab was in sight.

“Hey, Nell! Over here!”

She rushed in the direction of Calvin’s voice, still not seeing him, but he was at her side at once, pulling her briefly into his arms. “Jeanette’s hurt. I’ve got her over here, but she’s bleeding, and I’m afraid her ankle is broken. She needs an ambulance.”

Nell dropped to her knees. Jeanette’s hair was tangled, her face streaked with blood. She cried and clutched her leg. Nell cradled Jeanette in her arms and rocked her as they waited for help to come.

The newspapers called it a “pineapple”—a bomb thrown through the front glass of the Emerald Jungle. Two people were in critical condition, dozens injured, including Jeanette who had to be stitched up at the hospital. Mrs. North, Jeanette’s mother, had come when Nell called her to take care of Jeanette. According to the article, no arrests were made, and the people interviewed surmised that it was a war between mob bosses, that perhaps the Emerald Jungle, which had been open a mere two months, infringed on a rival’s territory. No illegal liquor or contraband was found, and the identity of the owner hadn’t been ascertained. When questioned, the spokesman for the jazz orchestra gave the name of the person who’d hired him. It proved to be a fabricated name.

On New Year’s Day, Nell and Calvin went to see Jeanette at her mother’s house, glad her ankle was only sprained and not broken and that her other wounds would heal quickly. Afterward they stopped at a coffee shop and read the newspaper account again.

“We’ll be f-fired. I know it. It’s what we d-deserve. Once Mr. Fields reads Jeanette’s name in the paper, he’ll figure out we were there.”

Calvin ordered black coffee for himself, hot tea for Nell.

Nell corrected him. “C-coffee for me, too.” When Calvin gave her a curious look, she explained, “My head feels like it’s splitting in half.”

“You have a hangover. Maybe we could see if they could bring a raw egg and some Worcestershire, a little ketchup, and I could whip you up a remedy. It’ll be my mitzvah.”

Nell shuddered. “Disgusting. Drinking a mitzvah sounds as nasty as whatever that horrid man put in my cola.”

Calvin chuckled. “Ah, my
shayna maidel
, my pretty girl. A mitzvah is a good deed. I should pay penance for not paying attention to the louse who was chatting you up.”

A wavy feeling rippled through her, sending an involuntary shudder. “He was pro-provoking, but there was something else, too.” She told him about seeing the stranger in the hall and his shouts to shut the hole. “What do you think it could mean?”

“I’ve heard that the shrewd people who set up the speakeasies have trapdoors and such to stow illegal liquor. The police were too busy with New Year’s Eve muggings to do a thorough check of the premises. My guess is that once the police left, the crooks snuck back in and cleared the joint out.”

“Should I go to the police and give a description?” The thought of doing so sent cascading ripples down her spine.
No one messes with Louie and lives.

“You’d have to give your name. Place of employment. Fields will find out for sure if you do that. No use getting the salon involved.” He shrugged. “Tomorrow it’ll be old news. And I’m sure the weasel has gone underground or fled the city by now.”

“But what if it’s the right thing to do? What about the moral obligation?”

“You’d be wise to let it be.”

Nell drank the hot coffee before her. It was as bitter as the tainted drink Louie had given her. Without the fizz.
Let it be.
Calvin’s way of handling matters. She couldn’t even bring herself to admit to Calvin the man’s name was Louie. And now that time had passed, she wasn’t certain herself. The same fleeting memory from her encounter with Louie zipped through her head. When she tried to catch it, bring it to life, it was gone.

She went home alone, Calvin saying he wanted to check on Jeanette again. Something about the stranger’s eyes and his manner was familiar. Not that she’d met him before, but more that he reminded her of someone. She just didn’t know who. Uncertainty over what to do stayed with her as she rode the motor bus, but it was the fear coiled in her belly that told her to remain silent.

Nell and Calvin were summoned to Mr. Fields’s office first thing when they returned to work after the holiday. Mr. Fields paced behind his mahogany desk, his face brooding, his nostrils flared. He picked up the newspaper with the article about the Emerald Jungle. Nell’s heart was in her throat waiting for Mr. Fields to lash out at her and Calvin. They deserved it.

Instead, in a cool, steady voice, their boss said, “Do you two know anything about this?” He stabbed at the headline.

Calvin nodded. “A bit. I escorted Nell and Jeanette there.”

Mr. Fields snorted. “I expected as much when I saw my niece’s name as one of the injured.” He glared at Nell. “You. This is how you repay me for the kindness I extended in bringing you to New York?” His eyes seared into hers. “You realize you’ve risked your own reputation by going to such a place, and by doing so, it’s a direct reflection on me, on Oscar Fields Millinery.”

He leaned across the desk and jabbed a finger into Calvin’s chest. “I expected better of you, not carousing in some juice joint.”

Calvin didn’t flinch. “I understand your position, sir. Nell and I have nothing but regrets for having chosen the wrong place to celebrate the New Year.”

“Yes, sir. What we did is r-r-regrettable. I have no d-defense for my actions.”

“No defense? Jeanette’s name is on the front page. The. Front. Page. A few questions by some nosy investigator could link the two of you and your relationship to this firm. A whisper here and there, and clients will start going somewhere else. It takes years to build a reputable business, and a single incident like this could destroy it instantly. It’s not a pretty reflection on the two of you at this point in your careers.”

He drew a deep breath, a hard edge to his jaw as his eyes rested on Nell. “You are aware that the show with Michaels set me back so that I’m not even sure we’ll turn a profit this year? No, I don’t suppose you are, having nothing in your head but fluff and not one ounce of common sense.”

Nell’s mouth was clogged with words she wanted to say, an apology for their poor judgment, a plea…but nothing would come from the honeycomb of her throat.

“Go on, both of you. I need to think this through.”

“If it’s of any w-worth, I truly am s-s-sorry.”

Mr. Fields pointed to the door.

As they scuttled from their places, Mr. Fields said, “I meant to ask, how’s Jeanette?” There was an odd catch in his throat, but his face remained stony as they told him Jeanette was home and would be fine when her ankle healed.

The following day, Mrs. Benchley and her daughters paid a visit to the salon. Nell was still on edge from the New Year’s incident when she greeted them.

“How was your costume party, Daphne?”

“Splendiferous! And I have invitations to four more balls in the next month.”

“Oh, that’s lovely.”

Mrs. Benchley added that as soon as they got in touch with Soren, they’d like to have Nell work with him on matching headpieces for Daphne’s new gowns.

“Mavis, lovely to see you.” Mr. Fields swept across the showroom lobby. “I was hoping you’d drop by soon. Has Nell seen to getting you some refreshments?” He oozed charm and manners, as if their conversation the day before had never happened.

“Nothing for us today, Oscar. We’re on a bit of a tight schedule.”

Several of Nell’s hats that she’d designed before Christmas had gone through production and were shown on a tiered display. Nell’s breath caught. She’d not seen them and they’d turned out lovely.

Claudia gasped. “Oh, Mother, I simply have to have this one.” She picked up a lemon-colored cloche with hyacinth bugle beads in a fleur-de-lis pattern.

Nell laughed. “I might have had you in mind when I was designing that one.”

When she tried it on, her brown eyes shone, eliciting a “Stunning, my pet” remark from Mr. Fields.

The girls ended up choosing two each, and Mrs. Benchley took one of the floppy-brimmed hats with a cluster of antique roses, declaring it would be perfect for her mah-jongg afternoons.

As the shopgirl wrote up the ticket, Mrs. Benchley pulled Nell and Mr. Fields aside. “I’m sure you’ve seen the news.”

“What news, Mavis?” Her boss’s manner was guarded.

Nell’s palms went clammy. There was no way Mrs. Benchley could have connected her to the Emerald Jungle incident.
Was there?

Mrs. Benchley pulled a magazine from her handbag, instant relief making Nell’s underarms damp.
Couture Design.
“Oscar, my dearest, you scoundrel. This. This!” She flipped to the coverage of the show.

Mr. Fields stroked his mustache. “Oh, that. Yes, I saw it last month. Soren sent me a copy. I’m surprised he didn’t send one to you.”

“You’re not getting the significance. This is the British edition. One of my friends went to London for the holidays and brought it back.” She nudged Mr. Fields. “All the people in London are over the moon about Nell’s hats. I think you’ve made a grave mistake in not going ahead with the Nellie March label. There’s a mention somewhere that Nell hails from England’s own shores. My friend says everyone wants to know how to get her hats. I’m surprised you haven’t been getting calls.”

Mr. Fields shrugged. “Can’t say as I have.”

Mrs. Benchley gushed, “Think of the international exposure. Looks like an opportunity to me.” She folded the magazine and returned it to her purse, then wrote out her check and told the girls to hurry up, they were late.

When they’d gone, Nell said, “It was a nice f-feature, wasn’t it?”

“Splendid, but surely you’ve better things to do than stand around hoping I’ll take Mavis’s advice and buy into that Nellie March nonsense.” He spun on his heels and left.

Yes, she did have plenty to do. But it didn’t keep Nell from dreaming.

The second week of January turned bitter cold and drizzly. Jeanette had returned to the flat, and Greta was all in a dither about an audition for a vaudeville traveling troupe. She and Spike had put together a parody of Cleopatra and Mark Antony, and their funny antics cheered Jeanette up. In her spare time, Nell transposed notes from her beginnings as a junior apprentice into her new journal. She illustrated each concept with a line drawing and dubbed the project,
The Millinery Guide for Beginners
. She’d forgotten how much she didn’t know when she came to New York and how far she’d come. She could always try and publish the handbook should Mr. Fields find her no longer suitable for his salon.

Her appointments with Dr. Underwood were canceled when he was called away on a family matter, and when she finally did see him later in the month, he commented on her increase in stuttering and asked if she had any insights on what might have caused a setback.

Nell shifted her position, then gazed at the doctor. His shirt was bright purple accented with a lime-green bow tie. How she’d missed it was a mystery, but of course, she’d been avoiding looking at him for fear he could see her shame, the actions of New Year’s Eve ever looming in her mind.

She took a deep breath and told him about the Emerald Jungle.

“Sometimes we all need an evening out. There’s nothing wrong with celebrating the New Year. Tell me more about why this bothers you.”

“I should have r-refused to go to the d-dance club and suggested a m-moving p-picture or s-something else. I was uncomfortable with where we were, and then there was the b-bomb.”

Dr. Underwood gave a tiny intake of breath. “That dance club? I remember reading about it in the newspaper.”

“See? I was s-stupid for going there.”

He held up a hand, palm out, to stop her. “First of all, I don’t allow my clients to call themselves negative names. Let me ask you, would you have thought the same if there hadn’t been a bomb?”

“Maybe not to the s-same d-degree, but there’s m-more.”

She had already decided she would tell Dr. Underwood about Louie, so she unknotted her fists, recounted his too-friendly remarks, lacing her drink, and then seeing him later in the hall. “He grabbed my arm and told me I’d b-better not tell anyone I’d seen him.”

“So you had the misfortune of being in the wrong place, of seeing or hearing something you shouldn’t have?”

“I didn’t actually see or hear anything except his saying
shut the hole
, which I didn’t understand then and still don’t. But it felt f-familiar, like it had happened before.”

“But the man was a stranger to you?”

She nodded. “He r-reminded me of s-someone.” An ache throbbed behind her eyes. “I just…don’t…know…wh-who.”

Dr. Underwood tented his fingers and went into his world behind closed eyes. Nell tried to imagine that there was a blackboard in his mind where answers appeared. But when he opened his eyes, he didn’t have an answer, but a question.

“Tell me, what is the emotion you’re feeling right now?”

She had a kettle full. Regret. Shame. Insecurity. Frustration. Fear. She sifted them through her mind and whispered, “I’m afraid.”

“I can hear it in your voice and see the tremble in your fingers. I’d like for you to close your eyes.”

Panic filled her chest. She shook her head.

“It’s all right. There’s nothing here to be afraid of.”

She chewed her lip. Shut her eyes, then opened them again quickly.

Dr. Underwood gave her a reassuring nod. “Don’t fret. Fear can only hurt you if you let it. Does this Louie know your name or where you live?”

“Of course not. I didn’t tell him anything.”

“Then the fear isn’t coming from him, but another source. Forcing it will not likely benefit you, so let’s stop for today. The good news is that this event may have sparked the deep-rooted cause of your stammering. I want to deal with that the next time you come. I’ll have you draw again. In the meantime, I want you to practice your breathing and visualizing words before you speak them.” He closed her folder and bade her good day.

Like her thoughts, the trolley was crowded on the way home. She was glad she’d told Dr. Underwood about Louie, but the netting of apprehension clung to her. It wasn’t as simple as just letting go of the fear, although she whispered a prayer asking for the courage to do so.

As she stepped from the trolley, a car honked and whizzed past. Her heart pounded. She hadn’t even seen it. She waited for a break in the flow of traffic and made a dash between two cars and looked over her shoulder, half expecting to see someone behind her. When her feet hit the sidewalk, she stumbled, her legs watery. A stocky man in a business suit grabbed her arm before she tumbled to the ground, his grip firm on her forearm. Wrenching almost.

When she thanked him, he tipped his hat and strode away. She rubbed her arm where his touch had been, tears smarting her eyes. The urge to run rose in her chest, but the smell of apple turnovers from a cart vendor sent her reeling. Her head felt as if it were spinning, her heart thundering hooves. She shuffled to the nearest building and leaned against its harsh bricks until she could collect herself. Instead, she felt swept into another time, another place, another man’s steel grip on her arm.

It was autumn. The smell of apples crisp in the air. Leaves clumped in piles against the cellar door and along the rock wall of the rose garden. Mama had shooed her out the door so she could finish the birthday luncheon.

A breeze picked up the leaves and swirled them as Prunella crouched behind a tree, her knees skinned from a fall on the rocks in the rose garden. She was trying not to cry, trying not to notice when her grandfather stomped past and grabbed Gramma Jo by the arm, hissed something at her.

Her grandmother lifted her chin, walked over to the cellar, and lifted the heavy door. “If you want another jug, get it yourself. Drink yourself into a stupor and see who gives a tick.”

He charged at her grandmother. Burly but not tall. Whiskers on his face that burned Prunella’s cheek when he’d given her a kiss. He raised his hand and smacked across Gramma Jo’s face. He growled in a low voice, but Gramma Jo crossed her arms and shook her head. He raised his arm again, but she shielded herself and lowered her chin. That’s when he pushed her into the blackness of the cellar.

Prunella cried out, then tried to suck the sound back in, shrinking into herself, hoping to become invisible. She didn’t dare breathe. But then, reaching around the tree trunk, a beefy hand grabbed her wrist. Face close to hers, he said, “You didn’t see anything, you hear me? You breathe a word, and I’ll do more than bloody hurt you.” He looked toward the cellar, a sneer on his lips. He shoved her away, then heavy boots stomped to the tool shed and slipped inside. Mama came from the house and said she heard a scream. Grandfather stepped from the shed and said he heard it, too. Mama glanced at the cellar. “What’s that doing open?”

Prunella’s grandfather shrugged. “No bollicking idea.” 

“I’m looking for Prunella. Have you seen her?”

“Not this morning. I’ve had m’self a bugger of a time working on them carriage wheels.”

Mama peered into the black hole of the cellar. “Prunella? You down there? Come out now if you are. There’s slimy, crawly things down there.”

Prunella peeked around the tree to tell her mother she wasn’t in the cellar, but her grandfather’s squinted eyes sent her cowering back before she could utter a word.

A biting, cold gust of wind swept down the New York street, stinging Nell’s bare hands and face. But the chill weather wasn’t the cause of the guttural sound that rose up in her chest, her tongue thick.

A woman touched Nell on the arm. “Are you all right, miss? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m f-fine, I think. Just need a bite to eat.” Despite the cold, perspiration dampened her brow, the memory like a knife twisting her insides.

Grandfather killed Gramma Jo.
Nell was there and saw it. She’d never spoken of it. Ever. Because until that moment, she had no memory of it.

She pulled her coat tight and turned in the direction of her flat. It explained the silence that descended on the room whenever Greystone Hall or the subject of her maternal grandparents arose. There must have been suspicions, and it probably explained why Nell and her mother never returned to Greystone. No one thought to question Nell, and if they had, she would have remained mum from fear she would be the next one shoved down the cellar steps.

By the time the red-and-green awning of Sal’s came into view, Nell was convinced that somehow the buried memory was the root of her stammering.

Dr. Underwood confirmed Nell’s suspicions when she called and made an emergency appointment with him the following morning.

His words were kind, soft as he told her he was sorry. “Sometimes a new trauma can trigger old wounds. I suspect that’s what happened. And it could very well be the cause of your stammering. Perhaps time will bear that out.”

Nell had hoped he would tell her she was cured, but instead he cautioned her about deeply ingrained speech patterns that could still surface, especially in intimidating or stressful situations. And it was disturbing that such a horrid secret had followed her grandfather to the grave, not that she felt sorry for him, but that Gramma Jo had been victim to such outrage. She longed to talk to her mother about it, but it seemed cruel to bring it up over the telephone.

Calvin was bent over his worktable when Nell arrived at the studio. She was an hour late but felt the time with Dr. Underwood was necessary. She looked over his shoulder and saw that he was working on a fedora.

He looked up at her. “What do you think of this for summer? Perhaps in willow banded with a narrow suede strip?”

“Very nice. Hard to believe it’s time to get the spring line ready. I’m weary of cloches and itching to do some ladies’ boaters—I think they’re going to be the r-rage this season.”

“You may be right.” He went back to drawing, the only sounds those of the radiator clacking when it came on, the gentle hiss as it cycled off.

Just as Nell nestled in at her own desk to work, Harjo looked in and told Nell that Mr. Fields wanted to see her in the conference room next to the executive office upstairs. He held the door and waited for her. As she left, Nell looked over her shoulder at Calvin who mouthed, “Good luck.”

A wave of apprehension sloshed in her stomach as Harjo waved her into the conference room, then went into his office. Hazel and Marcella from assembly jerked their heads up when Nell entered.

Hazel said, “You got any idea what this is about? I was telling Marcella that if we get the can, I’m marching straight over to Murdoch’s and putting in my application.”

Nell shook her head. “Mr. Pritchard didn’t say.” There was no sense in speculating as they would find out soon enough. It must not be about the New Year’s Eve incident or Calvin would have been invited, and of course, Hazel and Marcella hadn’t been anywhere near the Emerald Jungle.

Marcella, a petite woman with lavender eyes and salt-and-pepper hair, nodded to Hazel. “I’ve heard Mr. Murdoch treats his workers better anyhow. And they get an hour for lunch instead of thirty minutes. And production bonuses. We get squat.”

Both women had worked tirelessly for the Soren Michaels show and neither made snide remarks like Steiger. And they both had families who depended on them. Nell prayed they weren’t losing their jobs.

Just then Mr. Fields entered with Harjo Pritchard and a smartly dressed woman carrying a valise.

Mr. Fields stood at the head of the table and greeted them. “I’m sure you’re curious about the nature of this meeting. Certain factors have made it necessary to remain quiet until all the pieces of the puzzle were in place.” He stroked his mustache and smiled.

“It appears that Oscar Fields Millinery has been offered a unique opportunity. As you all know, Nell Marchwold, our junior apprentice, has been in the news of late.”

Nell felt every eye in the room fall on her. She had no earthly idea where this was going. The base of her spine buzzed with a strange mix of anticipation and fear. She chewed on her lower lip, waiting for Oscar to continue.

“The opportunity of which I speak is one that happens rarely.” He picked up a copy of
Couture Design
. “Last fall, I felt the urge to push Nell into an arena of greater responsibility and encouraged her to work with a couture designer here. The coverage has been quite spectacular, and now my salon”—he made a sweeping motion with his free hand—“
our
salon has been invited by one of the finest ladies’ societies in London to set up a temporary shop in London. If they’re pleased with our work, we have the chance to design their millinery for the upcoming wedding of Prince Albert, Duke of York, to Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon.”

Nell’s head was spinning.
London?
A royal wedding?
She took rapid, shallow breaths, her eyes wide, afraid that if she blinked she would wake up from this dream. Oscar was going on about the management of the New York store in his absence and hiring new designers to replace those who had left. But Nell barely listened.

London.

Her grandmother.

Home.

She was getting ahead of herself. But in the next breath, Mr. Fields confirmed that those gathered would be part of the entourage that would travel to London, meet with the ladies, and if things went well, remain there until after the wedding on April 26. They would depart from New York Harbor in three weeks.

Nell was sure that if she breathed, she would discover it was all a cruel joke. When Mr. Fields introduced Molly LaGrange, the woman with the valise, as the agent who would oversee their travel plans and secure accommodations for them in London, it slowly began to soak in.

Nell was going to London. To design hats. Maybe see Quentin. And she dared even hope to make a trip to Gloucestershire to see her grandmother.

Her heart overflowed.