The Hatmaker's Heart: A Novel (13 page)

Nell slipped a sapphire silk evening frock over her head and clipped on matching earrings that cascaded from her lobes, each dazzling with a dozen tiny stones. It was her third time to change that day, as it had been each day of the voyage. A simple day dress for breakfast, a stroll around the ship’s deck, and then time in her first-class cabin to work on sketches. And her speech exercises. Either a silk or georgette gown with gloves for tea and a social time before dusk. Formal wear for dinner in the first-class dining room each evening. And with each change of costume, she wondered how long before the bubble would burst and she would wake up above Sal’s Diner realizing it had all been a dream.

There had been endless forms to sign and plans to coordinate with Miss LaGrange before they left. Nell had been in charge of the supply list to pack from their own inventory, items that were more practical to take along rather than order in London. It was disappointing that Marcella and Hazel had been given second-class accommodations, but Mr. Fields had explained it wasn’t a pleasure cruise for them, but a time to work and be ahead of schedule before their arrival. Each afternoon Nell delivered new sketches for them to work on. Their eyes twinkled, both of them quite content with sharing a room and the opportunity for their first trip anywhere beyond the boroughs where they’d grown up.

The first evening aboard ship, Mr. Fields asked that she call him Oscar. “People expect that of colleagues, and it will put them more at ease in our company. In cultivating connections, you just don’t know which of the esteemed people we’ll be dining with might require our services.”

Oscar it was. Although training her brain to think of him as such caused a throbbing behind her eyes. It felt peculiar somehow, and she chided herself for being suspicious of his motivations.

Nell left a few wisps to curl about her face—the softer look Oscar thought suited her now shoulder-length hair—then put on the simple headpiece with delicate feathers in the same sapphire as the rest of her ensemble.

If her wardrobe had been her wedding trousseau, it couldn’t have been more elegant. She prayed no one saw beneath the lovely clothes to the trembling inside. Excitement and opportunity, yes. But more than that, the possibility of failure. Was she ready to step back on the shores of her beloved England and present herself as a designer? This time she had to do more than smile and make small talk. She had to prove herself if she would ever be Nellie March.

Oscar waited in the small reception area at the end of the hallway leading from her cabin, erect and smiling in a tuxedo and top hat. Tonight he carried a cane, she supposed so he would appear more dapper for the banker and his wife who would share their table at dinner.

He pecked her on the cheek and offered his arm. “Stunning, my dear. That color brings out the fire in your eyes.”

“Grandmama always said blue was my best color.”

“She was right.”

When cocktails were offered before dining, Nell asked for ginger water, her taste for alcohol forever ruined from her New Year’s Eve experience. Oscar ordered a gin and tonic and oysters on the half shell for their appetizer.

After feasting on boiled turbot with shrimp sauce and quarters of lamb with mint sauce, Nell was certain she couldn’t manage another morsel and that she would be letting out the seams in her dresses if she kept eating such rich food. But when the tray with desserts was passed, she couldn’t resist the Albert cake, a confection of delicate pastry with almond and raspberry filling. It reminded her of the Bakewell pudding that was Grandmama’s favorite.

Mr. Fields nudged her. “Mr. Fitzsimmons is waiting for your answer, my dear.”

Nell shook the fog of memories from her head. “I’m s-sorry. I was enjoying the Albert cake so much I didn’t hear the question.” She swallowed hard. In truth, she hadn’t heard a single bit of the conversation.

“Your family, they hail from England?”

“Yes, sir. The Cotswolds…in Gloucestershire.”

“The country then? What trade were they in? Farmers? Dairymen? The potteries?”

“Not a trade, although we did have a flock of sheep and horses for the fox hunts. My grandfather ran the Marchwold estate when he was alive.”

“Landed gentry then. Quite the mess with gentry now. I’m going to England to see about buying some properties let go to the dogs. Quite an upheaval since the war. I don’t suppose your estate’s still in the family.”

It wasn’t a question. But it
was
still in the family. Just not her branch. She explained that her uncle now ran the estate and that she was looking forward to visiting Marchwold Manor while she was in England.

She swallowed and looked at Oscar who encircled her shoulders with his arm. He nodded at Mr. Fitzsimmons. “If we get time, she means. We’re going to have our hands full in London with the royal wedding first.”

“So Miss Marchwold here got you an in with the royal family?”

Heat crawled up Nell’s neck. “We weren’t acquainted. What he m-means is that we’re meeting with a ladies’ s-society to see if they like our work. It will be grand, of course, if they commission us for their hats for the wedding. It’s quite exciting, getting to be in London in the springtime and be part of such a g-grand event.”

Mr. Fitzsimmons snorted. “If you like the soot and the fog, I guess it’s a good time.”

It was a relief when Mrs. Fitzsimmons said she had a headache and excused herself. Her husband followed, and Oscar suggested they take a walk on the promenade deck. Stars twinkled like diamonds on a velvet sky, the air crisp. At the end of the promenade, Oscar leaned on the rail and spoke into the night. “I didn’t appreciate your correcting me in front of Fitzsimmons. Let him think what he will about whom we’ll be making hats for. Your explanation added nothing to the conversation.” His voice was even, as if he’d made a comment about the constellations overhead.

“I’m s-sorry. I only thought—”

“You leave the thinking to me. And don’t get any ideas in your head about skipping all over the country visiting long-lost aunts and uncles and playmates from days gone by.” His tone was as cold as the night air.

What you have to say is important.
Dr. Underwood’s kind wisdom came back to her.

She drew a deep breath that burned her lungs. “I had hoped to c-connect with a childhood friend who’s now a banker in London. And it would be a shame to come so far and not at least visit my grandmother. A few days at most. I’m sure we can work that in.”

“Surely your grandmother could travel to London.”

“I’m afraid not. When I wired that we were coming, Jane—that’s her lady’s maid—reported back that my grandmother’s quite frail.” Nell had to see her. Even if it meant getting on the wrong side of Oscar. She never dreamed he would refuse her request.

“Perhaps after the wedding. Time will tell. We may be needed back home.”

“After the wedding then. I can accept that.” It was a small consolation, but she was certain if things went well, he would come around.

Shouts rang out when land was sighted. It was only Ireland, where they would stop first, but after Ireland…home.

A few hours later, Nell stood on deck and inhaled. She was certain she got a whiff of lavender and woodsmoke and grassy meadows, but as the dock at Southampton came into view, the smell turned to coal oil and fish odors.

Still, Nell was overjoyed when she set foot on British soil, a joy that nestled against her ribs as a hired motor car took them from Southampton to the city that awaited them.

Home
. Only it wasn’t. It was London, a live, throbbing melting pot of wealth and poverty, cobblestone and opulence, shadowed alleys and merry laughter, the clashing of Dickens and high society.

Their hostess, Lady Abigail Haversham, represented the finer circles, the ones Oscar crowed about, and she was lovely. Robust yet refined. The founder of the London Noble Women’s Society.

“You’re finding your accommodations satisfactory?” Lady Haversham lifted her glass of sherry, having dispensed with introductions and settled at a table in the Royale Hotel dining room on the day after their arrival.

Oscar returned her toast. “Splendid. We’re most grateful for your hospitality.”

Nell agreed. Her cozy one-room flat had a hot plate in one corner with a narrow bed and chest that occupied most of the room. A door that she thought was a closet revealed a private toilet and wash basin. A chintz-covered chair in a tiny alcove overlooked Hyde Park, and if she craned her neck, she could see Kensington Palace. Hazel and Marcella shared a similar arrangement across the hall with Oscar and Harjo having flats on the floor above.

But it wasn’t the room or the view that made Nell’s pulse race; it was snatches of conversation, a bit of Cockney from the driver of their car, the refined formality of the doorman of their building, the soft lilt in the voice of Lady Haversham. Nell didn’t realize how starved she was for the voices of her countrymen.

Twenty minutes into the lunch, another dawning came. She hadn’t stammered a single time.

Lady Haversham dotted her napkin to her mouth. “Nell, we weren’t exactly sure what type of studio you would need, but I think you’ll be pleased. We’ll go there straight away after we’ve had dessert.” She signaled the waiter for a menu, and when they’d made their selections, she said, “To be quite frank, you’re our secret weapon, so I hope I don’t frighten you by saying that we have great expectations. The other women and I feel it’s our responsibility to set the standard for excellence for those who’ve become, shall we say, a trifle set in their ways in regard to fashion. When I read about you in
Couture Design
, I told my husband, Bannister, that even if it took a motion on the floor of Parliament, we were getting you here, royal wedding or not.”

Her laugh was breathy, her chatter tinkling. A women who was self-assured and reminded Nell of the women who used to come for tea or dinners at Marchwold Manor. A touch of merriment as they’d gossiped about fashion and scandalous happenings they’d read in the
Tatler
.

Nell laughed along with her. “I think you’ll be pleased. And such an historic occasion.”

“There’s nothing like a royal wedding to bring out the claws of even the finest bred women. And their husband’s checkbooks, of course.”

The shop in Mayfair was in a plum location in the heart of a posh shopping district. It was a small shop, two rooms on the ground floor, but another large space upstairs for the workroom, an office for Oscar with a marble fireplace and Queen Anne desk. A smaller room—a cubbyhole, really—would be for Harjo. Two local women had been hired to handle reception, retail sales, and to be Nell’s personal assistants.

An array of hats from the New York inventory was already on display in the window and scattered throughout the salon. As Lady Haversham showed them around, Nell noticed two women peering through the front glass and trying the doorknob.

“May I?” She posed the question to Lady Haversham, but Oscar nodded to go ahead. By teatime, Nell had made three sales and two appointments for later in the week. Before leaving, Lady Haversham handed her the list of consultations she’d already acquired.

“It’s a trial period, you understand, but if what I’ve seen thus far is any indication, I believe my instincts were correct.”

When Oscar took her to dinner at the hotel near their flat, he complimented Nell on her remarkable day. “Maybe all we had to do was get you on familiar turf to bring out the best in you.”

“I’ve always given my best, but thank you for bringing me to London. For everything.” She lifted her water glass. “To much success.”

Oscar stopped at her desk at the back of the consulting room as Nell organized the orders for the day. “A good day, I see. Mind if I have a look?”

She handed him the stack of work orders and receipts. Two of Lady Haversham’s friends had each ordered hats for two upcoming galas the Noble Women’s Society was hosting the week prior to the wedding. A garden tea for the eight bridesmaids of the wedding couple and their circle of friends. A dancing ball for the members of Parliament. Nell’s heart fluttered with the enormity of it. And all in just two weeks.

Oscar handed them back. “I’d like to see your sketches in the morning. This could be quite a turn of events.”

“It’s Friday. I was hoping perhaps I might call Quentin, the friend I mentioned who lives in London. I can work on the sketches tomorrow evening and Sunday when we’re closed.”

“I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that time is of the essence. You have to stay ahead of schedule to allow for those who procrastinate. We can only compete with the established businesses in London if we offer services above and beyond what they do. I’ll meet you for breakfast at seven sharp to see what you’ve done.” He started toward the door to leave, then turned around. “I almost forgot, we have tickets to a show tomorrow night. I’d like you to wear the sapphire-blue gown you wore on the ship. You never know when a reporter or one of our new clients will see us.” He popped his fedora on his head and sailed out the door.

Oscar had a point, and she did adore meeting with clients, listening to their chatter, the way they turned phrases and called her
love
. But an evening or two on her own didn’t seem a lot to ask.

The Gaiety Theatre on the Strand was magnificent with its gilded dome ceiling and curtained balconies, as was the musical revue on stage with talented singers and beautiful costumes. What Nell enjoyed most, though, was noting what the theater patrons wore. To Oscar, the evening was about being seen, but for her it was taking in ideas that she could incorporate into her designs.

As Oscar’s hand guided her deftly toward the exit, a voice rose above the crowd. “Well, if it’s not Prunella Marchwold.”

Nell would know that voice anywhere. Simone Honeycutt from Heathdown. The girl who’d taunted her in confirmation class. The girl who tried to lure Quentin away from her when they planned a picnic or walk on the village square. The last girl in England Nell wanted to see.

Simone elbowed well-dressed theatergoers like a trout swimming upstream until they were face-to-face.

Nell inhaled silently, a small tick in her jaw. “Hello, Simone. You’re looking well.” At least that was the truth. Simone’s hair was no longer in ringlets but pulled into an upsweep, a headband with iridescent peacock feathers adorning her forehead at the hairline. But her smile was the same, red lips tilted at the corners in a permanent smile. Angelic almost.

“What a shock to see you. Last I heard, you had moved to New York to be a salesclerk so you could send money home to your family. How’s your mother?”

“She’s fine. Not starving.”

Simone’s gaze traveled from Nell’s head to her feet, then a raised eyebrow as she looked at Oscar. She leaned in close to Nell’s face. “You always did go for older men, didn’t you?”

“My apologies. Oscar, this is Simone Honeycutt from my village in Heathdown. Simone, Oscar Fields, my c-colleague.”

Oscar nodded. “Always my delight to meet one of Nell’s friends.”

“Likewise. Prunella’s been one of my dearest chums since we were wee ones. So, tell me, Mr. Oscar Fields, how did a shopgirl rate a trip to London?”

Nell didn’t answer. She couldn’t. As Simone was talking, Quentin Bledsoe walked up.

His russet mop of hair had grown a shade darker, his face fuller than when he was a teen. But the smile was the same, and the glint in his eyes remained.

“Here you are, Simone. I lost you in the crowd.” When his eyes met Nell’s, his face faded to the color of paste. “Nell…Nell…You’re here. In London.”

An awkward moment passed, a flapping of butterflies in Nell’s stomach at the sight of Quentin and Simone together. She nodded. “We’ve been here a couple of weeks. You l-look well. How are you?”

Mr. Fields cleared his throat, his grip on her elbow firm.

She apologized and made the introductions again. Simone crossed her arms, a pouty look that Nell remembered all too well.

Quentin ignored Simone and opened his arms. “How about a hug for your old friend?” He took her in his arms briefly, but it was long enough to catch a whiff of his cologne. Woodsy. Warm.

They were blocking the flow of people exiting the theater, so Oscar suggested they move along, and Quentin fell in stride beside Nell. “I can’t believe you’ve been here two weeks and not called me.”

“I did plan to. We’ve been very busy getting organized. And we’ve had quite the rush of clients already. I would like to see you, though…and Simone, too, if we can find a time.”

“You have a shop here?”

“Yes. Oscar Fields Millinery of London. On Clifford.”

“It’s providential seeing you here,” he said. Simone tugged him toward an exit door. As people streamed between them, he looked over his shoulder. “You look smashing. Give me a call. You have my number.”

When Nell and Oscar made it outside, Nell looked up and down the sidewalk, hoping to catch up so they might talk further with Quentin. She hadn’t expected her fondness for him to surge through her like it did. And she certainly hadn’t expected to see him with Simone. The two of them, though, had disappeared into the damp night air.

As the cab pulled away from the curb, Oscar said, “Was that the boyfriend you were telling me about?”

“I…I don’t re-re-recall saying he was m-my b-boyfriend.”

“Good thing for both of us that he won’t be a distraction from your work. Although I do question his taste in women. Did you notice your friend’s ensemble? Simone, wasn’t it? Cheaply made. From one of the street fairs, I would imagine. Tell me, did you enjoy the theater?”

Nell ignored the question and watched the fog gathering in the trees of Hyde Park.

Gloomy, wet days followed, and instead of walking to the shop in Mayfair with Hazel and Marcella, Nell took the bus with them. Her assistants joked and pointed out sights along the way. The horses on their morning exercises in Hyde Park. The street markets. Bobbies with their rounded hats and whistles. Hazel giggled and asked if they remembered to bring a
jumper
and a
brolly
. A sweater and an umbrella.

Riding the bus, Nell scanned the streets for an incidental sighting of Quentin. She debated whether she should call him. He’d said she should, but perhaps he was merely being polite. He hadn’t contacted her. The thing that galled was that he’d chosen Simone. Or perhaps it was just a friendly relationship. Nell wanted to know more, but then again, she didn’t. And she knew that’s why she wouldn’t call him. He knew where she was. She would wait.

She did, however, enjoy talking to her grandmother on the telephone every Sunday afternoon. Nell smiled when she remembered the first telephone being installed at Marchwold Manor and her grandmother’s amazement at the “newfangled” invention. Her grandmother still hadn’t gotten over shouting into the mouthpiece.

“You don’t have to shout, Grandmama. I’m not on the other side of the Atlantic, you know.”

“I know you’re not, dear. But you’re not here, either. Why don’t you put that dear man you work for on the line so I can have a word.”

“His room is on another floor. And besides, we’re building our client base, hoping to get some commissions for those who’ve been invited to the royal wedding. A lovely woman was just in the shop yesterday who I think is close to engaging us for her royal wedding hat. It’s quite exciting, isn’t it?”

“Such a to-do. Your aunt Vivian’s got herself worked into a right lather about it. Fretting she and Preston wouldn’t be invited, and now stewing like a pot of prunes that her gowns won’t arrive from London in time to get alterations done if they’re needed.”

“If she comes to London, be sure and give her my number. Maybe I could make a hat for her.” She knew that would never happen. Aunt Vivian, a London socialite before marrying her uncle Preston, had always treated Nell like she was an orphan someone left on the doorstep.

“And one for Josephine. She looks lovely in a hat. Something in blue to match her eyes.”

Josephine?
Gramma Jo had been dead since Nell was four years old. Just the mention of her name brought a sour taste in her mouth. Had Grandmama gone daft? Jane had mentioned frail, not that her mental faculties were failing, too. And Nell desperately hoped Grandmama would be able to verify if what Nell remembered—or thought she remembered—held any truth.

“Grandmama, don’t worry. It will be perfect, I promise. I have to run now. I love you.”

“I’ll see you next week then.”
Click.

No, not next week. The wedding wasn’t for another month, and there was still work to be done.

Quentin finally did call to invite Nell to dinner. She arranged to meet him at a tiny restaurant across from the Marble Arch she’d seen from the bus, in easy walking distance from her flat. She arrived at eight thirty, half an hour past when she told him she would be there, but a flurry of customers and a surprise visit from Lady Haversham had kept her late. When Oscar popped his head in to say he would be joining the Havershams for dinner, it was an unexpected stroke of good fortune. Nell had fretted all day about what to say should Oscar invite her to eat with him. She’d decided she would tell him the truth—she was dining with an old friend.

A friend. Her emotions were a knot, and now her calves ached from walking too fast. Quentin might have even given up. She ducked into the doorway under the awning, the smell of the wood fire overtaking her. Candles flickered on heavy oak tables, an aproned hostess greeting her. She explained that she was to meet someone, but she was late. Her words caught on her tongue, her stammering so frightful it was any wonder she was understood at all.

“Ah, yes, the gentleman over here. He’s just having a pint while he’s waiting.”

Quentin rose to meet her and held the chair for her to sit next to him rather than across. Their knees bumped as they settled into their chairs and the hostess said, “The cook is featuring prawns and scallops in lemon sauce and shepherd’s pie. Or if you fancy, our regular plate with bangers and mash.”

Nell and Quentin asked for the seafood dish at the same time. A pot of tea for Nell. Another pint for Quentin.

“Quaint little place. Don’t know as I’ve ever seen it.” Quentin adjusted the tie at his throat.

“I hope it wasn’t in-in-inconvenient.” She took a deep breath. What was wrong with her? She never stammered around Quentin.

“Too far, you mean?”

“Well, it is late, and you have to work tomorrow.”

“I work late most evenings, so this isn’t unusual, if that’s what you’re asking.” His voice was deeper than she remembered, the tone that of his father in the pulpit.

“I suppose. So you like your job? Tell me about it.”

“Let’s see. I’m an overseer for a few accounts but am acquiring more each week. The atmosphere is lively with the economy soaring like the wind one month, crashing against the rocks the next, but as long as people have money or can borrow it, I have a job. And yours?”

The waitress brought the tea and the ale with a cheery “’Ere you go, loves.”

She shrugged. “A lot like yours, actually. Busy. And I’m working very hard to build my reputation, and as you say, it can have its ups and downs.”

“So busy you didn’t even have time to call your oldest friend?”

Ouch.
It was the sort of thing he might have teased her with when they were younger, but even though he had the old, good-natured grin on his face, the words had a bite to them.

“I should have called, and I even told Oscar—Mr. Fields—that I wanted to spend time with you. The truth is, this is a very important assignment. It could mean international exposure for the salon as well as a boost to my career.”

“Do you fancy coming back to England then?”

“I’m not sure. Mama’s in Kentucky, so it would be hard to leave the States. With me in New York, we can visit a couple times a year. If an opportunity came along, I don’t know. I would have to weigh the options.”

He studied her, his gaze the one she remembered. Thoughtful. Caring. Her insides tumbled. She was blathering on, not giving him a chance to tell her about Simone. Or perhaps he was encouraging her so he didn’t have to deliver bad news.

The taste of copper lolled on her tongue from biting her lower lip. “Sorry, I carry on so. I haven’t even let you get a word in. How’s Simone? She looks well. Bright and quite lovely.”

“Same old Simone. She talked me into going with her to the theater.”

“So, you’re not…umm…I thought p-perhaps…”

“Perhaps what? That I’d finally given in to her wiles after all these years? She’s swell, don’t get me wrong, but…no. There’s nothing going on with Simone and me except in her head.”

Nell laughed, her shoulders relaxing. “That’s a relief. You had me worried. You deserve someone much nicer.”

Their food arrived, the seafood swimming in a rich, creamy sauce, the smell of citrus enticing. Quentin gave her hand a squeeze and bowed his head, asking a simple blessing for the food and for God to find their hearts worthy.

Nell whispered, “Amen,” more in gratitude about Simone than the blessing of the food.

“How about you? Any beaus in New York?”

“I’m afraid not, much to Mama and Aunt Sarah’s chagrin. It’s not that they don’t applaud my career as long as it doesn’t interfere with finding the right husband.”

Quentin spooned in a mouthful of the seafood concoction. “Oscar seems like a decent chap, watching out for your best interest. Taking you to the Gaiety for a show.”

“He thinks it’s important to circulate in the right crowd.”

“And you? Do you enjoy that?”

“Occasionally. It gives me inspiration to see the current fashions and hairstyles, what elements might work in a hat.”