The Hatmaker's Heart: A Novel (15 page)

“I’m all right. Perhaps we can find a t-taxicab now.”

Oscar stepped from the curb, hand raised, and yelled, “Taxi!” and when they’d settled into the seat, he turned to her. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“About my aspirations?” Then it hit her. Did he think she was using him to advance her career and then leave Oscar Fields Millinery?

She placed a hand on his arm. “The only thing I’ve ever wanted was to make fancy hats. And that’s still what I aspire to. But since you asked, I’ll tell you. I want my designs to stand for something—to bring out a woman’s best features and give her confidence.”

“That’s a rather lofty way of saying you want your own label.”

“A label could accomplish that. With the Oscar Fields insignia behind it, of course. Perhaps refine what I’m already doing into a distinctive style, one with a certain artistic flair so that it would be recognized as a hat that makes its owner feel beautiful inside and out.”

“It’s obvious that all the attention of late has gone straight to your head. While you’ve turned into a decent designer, I’m not interested in specializing. There’s no money in it, and I have to think about keeping the business afloat.” He huffed. “You might want to ask Nora Remming what happens when you get fanciful ideas.”

Her face flamed as if he’d slapped her. The next time he asked, she would keep her aspirations to herself.

Nell rose early on Sunday morning and made a pot of tea using the hot plate. While the leaves were steeping, she picked up the telephone and gave the operator Quentin’s number, trying to remember what it was like to sit beside him in church. If he was agreeable to joining her for the service, then perhaps they could take a walk or picnic in Hyde Park afterward. Depending on the weather, they might even venture to Westminster and stroll through the cloister gardens.

“There’s no answer for the number you requested. Have a lovely day.”

Nell dropped the receiver onto the hook and drank her tea. Well, then.

She walked to St. Mary Abbots on Kensington High Street alone, the familiarity of the service a balm for her weariness, but also a reminder of Quentin and the faith they shared. Nell joined in singing “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” her throat thick with emotion and memories of sabbaths in their tiny church in Heathdown. Only a few more days until the wedding…and then a visit with Grandmama. And now she knew, time also with Quentin and whatever possibilities God had for them. Whether she would leave Oscar and stay in London to be near Quentin or not, she didn’t know. A part of her thought she might, but jumping ahead of herself was futile.

She took her Sunday stroll on her own, and as she crossed the intersection before her block, a young boy handed her a bright yellow tulip from the bucket he carried on his arm.

She reached for her handbag to give him a tuppence, but he shook his head. “Naught for me, miss. You look like you could use some cheering up. It’s me good deed for the day.”

She touched his weathered cheek, rosy from the cool morning, and thanked him. As she walked away with her nose to the tulip, for some reason she thought of Calvin. Jeanette had written that they’d seen each other a few times. Nell had been right. Something wonderful was blossoming for them. And Jeanette had scrawled across the bottom that Greta and Spike were still traveling with the vaudeville act.

The warm thoughts vanished the moment she arrived back at her flat and found a note on her door.

Her first thought was that the note was another ploy to play with her emotions and test her loyalty, and if it hadn’t been four days before the wedding, she would have ignored it and spent the afternoon on a park bench writing letters. But the day had grown cloudy, moisture teasing the air, so she changed from her Sunday dress into a simple drop waist and low-heeled shoes, then grabbed her brolly and raincoat and walked to the bus stop.

She let herself in the Mayfair shop with her key and went to her desk to stow her things. Her feet were leaden as she climbed the stairs to Mr. Fields’s office.

Harjo Pritchard growled a “Took your sweet time getting here” as she swept past.

Mr. Fields and Lady Haversham sat relaxed with cups of tea, and Mr. Fields had a smug look about him. Lady Haversham patted the seat of the chair next to her for Nell. “I was just telling Oscar that Mrs. Fortner called with the most marvelous suggestion. As you know, I’m having the bridesmaids’ luncheon on Tuesday, and she thought—and I concur—that the young women would enjoy having a souvenir hat to remember this momentous occasion. I know it would be quite impossible to make eight new hats from scratch, but perhaps some from your stock downstairs. And it would be lovely if you could add a rose-and-silver thistle like that featured in Lady Elizabeth’s gown.”

Nell swallowed. Eight hats before Tuesday? It would be murder getting them done. Then again, it would confirm what she told Oscar. All she wanted to do was make hats. And these would be spectacular!

“What a splendid idea. I’ll call for Hazel and Marcella to come and see what we can do.”

Mr. Fields gave her a wary look. “I’ve explained that it might be quite pressing on your time.”

“Oh, I think it will be quite manageable and such a pleasure.” Nell turned to Lady Haversham. “Do you have a photograph or facsimile of some sort for the thistle? I like to be authentic whenever possible. And I believe the wedding gown has Brussels lace. Perhaps we could add a bit of that for an extra touch.” She rose and offered her arm. “Let’s go down to the salon and see what we have.”

“I’ve not had this much fun since my dear Bannister took me to India and I rode an elephant.”

As they left, Nell turned and gave Oscar a tiny wave, touched her fingers to her lips, and blew a kiss in his direction.

By first light, throngs of people streamed along the streets of London, elbowing and jockeying for the best positions along the routes that would take the Duke of York from Buckingham Palace to Westminster. Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon would be whisked with equal fanfare from her home on Bruton Street.

Mr. Fields wanted everyone in the salon together and chose Buckingham Palace as their viewing post. Bright banners were festooned from one light pole to the next, the smell of cherry blossoms and fried fish from vendors wafting in the air. Cheers went up when the palace gates opened and a charge of royal horsemen preceded the royal coach.

The duke waved to onlookers who fanned handkerchiefs in return and shouted blessings. In moments, all that was seen was the back of the two rearguard horses. The crowd shifted and moved into an ever-changing sea of faces, dressed in their finest as if they had front-row seats. Nell scanned the crowd hoping to catch of glimpse of Quentin, knowing the improbability.

Oscar whispered, “Why so melancholy?”

“Just thinking of the hats we made for this day. It’s gratifying to know we had a small part.”

“Of greater importance is knowing the lovely women wearing them have ringside seats inside the abbey. The
right
kind of people, my sweet.”

“It would be fun to see at least one of them so I could keep it as a memory of this day.”

“You weren’t being melancholy then, but sentimental.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek. “That’s what I want you to remember from this day. Our time together.”

She forced a smile. It was hard not to question his motives. She’d hoped that his seeing her joy in making the hats for the bridesmaids would send the message that she was adaptable and in love with her work. Becoming an “item” with Mr. Fields, as Jeanette might say, made her groan.

“They’re coming! They’re coming!” Shouts echoed through the crowd like water rushing through a canyon, the rumble of wheels on stone streets faint, but unmistakable as people called out to their beloved Duke of York and his bride. The horsemen, a dozen or more, sat erect on the beasts, their spears pointing to the heavens. Onlookers threw rose petals and kisses as the coach carrying the bride and groom and Lady Elizabeth’s bridesmaids passed. When the last of the processional clip-clopped inside the palace grounds, the gates were closed, but the cheers continued. Rumors that the royal couple would appear on the palace balcony crackled like electricity down a wire.

When the couple emerged a short time later, a roar went up. Nell watched in rapt attention as Lady Elizabeth, now HRH the Duchess of York, stepped to the rail, the flutter of her veil behind her. Smiling, almost shy, her groom joined her, resplendent in his RAF dress uniform with gold braids across the right side of his chest, medals pinned to the other. He tenderly helped the duchess with her veil, the look of adoration apparent even from a distance.

A hush fell across the expanse as the couple thanked everyone for their loyal support and their gracious wishes. The veil fluttered again, this time caught by Queen Mary. But Nell doubted that Elizabeth noticed. She had eyes only for her husband. And for an instant, Nell imagined the unspoken love in that gaze was between her and Quentin.

Nell brushed away a tear, feeling the fool since she’d promised herself she wouldn’t cry. Mr. Fields encircled her in his arms and said, “It’s quite contagious, isn’t it?”

She shot him a puzzled look.

“Love. The thrill of romance.” Whatever longing had been in her heart fled. Oscar was flirting with her or he had his own longings.

“A thrill, yes. My grandmother would have loved seeing this. I can scarcely wait to tell her.”

A young lad walked past, calling out, “Pasties for sale! Only a shilling. Get your beef ’n’ onion pasties while they’re hot!” He reached into the covered tin box hung around his neck and fished out two newspaper-wrapped pasties for a customer.

Hazel pulled on Harjo’s arm. “Buy us gals some lunch, okay?” She looked back at Nell. “You two hungry?”

Mr. Fields gave the go-ahead to Harjo who handed the lad a handful of coins and asked for five pasties. They cupped the newspaper under their chins to catch the crumbs while pigeons pranced at their feet snatching every morsel that fell.

They then turned in the direction of Hyde Park where fruit wagons and trolley carts with bottles of ale were scattered. Each had a long queue of ladies in fine hats, ruffians with holes in their pant knees, gentlemen with babies on their shoulders, young and old, rich and poor, waiting to spend a few pence on their wedding dinners. Farther down, a confectionary cart bore a sign that said, “Wedding Cake: Congratulations to Bertie and Lady Elizabeth.” Nell craned her neck but couldn’t see the end of the queue.

Hazel said, “I still wish we’d gone to where they’re showing the real cake. Ten foot tall, that’s what I heard.”

Marcella said, “You’d stand in line all night to see a lousy cake? You ask me, you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ’em all.”

“Well, I’ve never seen the cake of a duke before. Who knows? He just might be the King of England someday.”

“And I’m going to be the Queen of the Bronx.” She laughed and kept walking.

“Hats for sale! First-rate! Finest in London!” A toothless woman with rheumy eyes walked beside a cart as a baggy-trousered man gripped the handlebars and pushed it. Ladies’ hats hung from brass poles at the corners with men’s hats lining shelves along the side. A mangy yellow dog sprawled on a ledge across the front.

Nell stepped from the group. “Do you have anything for children?”

“For little birdies or lads, m’lady?”

“My younger sister. She’s five.”

Already the man had lifted the lid from a wooden compartment and was pulling out hats. He lined up four along his arm like it was a display rack. “Ten bob apiece, m’lady. Ye won’t get naught better in all of London town.”

Nell surveyed them and told the man she’d take the blue one—a slouched cloche the color of the sky with a daisy on the side.

“And fer yourself, m’lady? Special today. Two fer fifteen bob. Gotta feed my mongrel, ye know.”

She shook her head and counted out ten shillings, then dropped it in his grimy palm. “And here’s a little something for your dog.” She added another ten pence.

“Thank ye, m’lady. Pleasant day.”

The woman was already down the street shouting, “Hats for sale!”

Oscar indicated they should turn into the park. After a few paces, he said, “Hope your little sister doesn’t get head lice from that.”

“I’m not worried. Grandmama bought me one at the rose fair when I was about Caroline’s age. I wore it every day until my grandfather’s dog chewed a hole in it. It’s one of my favorite memories.”

Oscar made a grunting sound and kept walking. Marcella tapped him on the shoulder. “I don’t mean to be impertinent, but we’ve done what we came for. Have you booked our passage back to New York?”

“A perfectly reasonable question.” He paused, the five of them mingling in a circle. “We sail three weeks from tomorrow. It will give us time to finish any orders that weren’t for the wedding and”—he winked at Hazel and Marcella—“give you girls time to take in a few sights if you’ve half a mind to do so.”

Hazel sighed. “I was hoping to be home by the middle of May for my Bennie’s birthday.”

“Buy him a souvenir instead. Only I wouldn’t recommend a fleabag hat from a street trolley.” He cleared his throat. “Harjo and I have a few last-minute obligations, which we’ll take care of as soon as Nell and I return from the country. She’s desperate to see her grandmother in Gloucestershire, and I’m anxious to meet her family as well…as you might imagine.”

Nell’s knees felt like they’d been hit from behind with a hammer.

Nell reminded herself that there were worse things than having Oscar accompany her to Heathdown. He could have refused to give her the time off—after all, he was paying all of her expenses while she was in London. Or he could have long ago fired her over the incident with Percy. Or the New Year’s Eve disaster. He had the authority to run his salon anyway he chose. And she could choose to stay or go. She knew in the depths of her heart, though, that it was because of Oscar and a divine plan that she had been given the chance to become a milliner.

The news from New York was that her spring line was selling so well that the assembly workers had been put on overtime to keep up with the demand. In her gut, Nell knew Oscar’s motive in going to Heathdown with her was to keep an eye on her every move and keep her at Oscar Fields Millinery. She just didn’t relish the intrusion on her time with Grandmama, and deeper still, her need to find out if Gramma Jo’s death had occurred as Nell’s new memory revealed.

As the train sped through the countryside, she yawned and told Oscar she wanted to rest. She turned facing the window and watched the landscape fly by. The church spires of distant villages and rolling green hills pierced her heart. Willow trees made winding paths along the rivers, which nourished them, and as they neared Heathdown, they came upon a series of hills forested with beech trees, ancient oaks, and sweet chestnuts. Nell was surprised she still knew them all, but how could she not after all the time she’d spent on the project her governess had given her? She even remembered the title she’d given the assignment.
Home in the Cotswolds.

The porter stood at the front of the railcar and announced, “Heathdown next stop.”

Nell’s skin tingled.
Home.

She gave a wan smile to Oscar. At least he wouldn’t be staying under the same roof since her grandmother’s house in the village was modest in comparison to the manor and had only one guest room. When Nell had called to say they were coming, she asked Jane Alistair, the lady’s maid, to reserve a room at the White Hart on the village square for Oscar.

The first person Nell saw when she stepped onto the platform was Davenport, the old butler from Marchwold Manor. His hair was whiter around the temples, his jowls a little fuller, but his eyes lit up as he walked along the rail, then swooped her up in arms that were still strong.

“My sweet Prunella.” He set her down and held her at arm’s length. “Your grandmother says I’m not to call you that anymore, that now you are Nell.” His sinewy hand rested on her cheek. “But you’ll always be sweet Prunella to me.”

“And you’ll always be the best friend a scamp like me ever wanted.”

“Aye, we’ll not have any of your tricks with bringing dogs with muddy feet and newborn lambs in the house, will we?”

“You never know.”

Mr. Fields cleared his throat. Nell jumped, then apologized for her thoughtlessness and made the introductions.

She said, “We’ll drop Mr. Fields at the White Hart so he can settle in. I’d like to see Grandmama by myself for a while.”

Oscar said it would give him a chance to stretch his legs while he explored the town. Davenport put their luggage in the trunk of the Rolls and took Oscar’s out again when they arrived at the White Hart. Oscar said he could manage from there.

Davenport said, “I’ll be by to fetch you at seven. Lady Mira likes to retire early, so dinner will be at half past. It will only be the three of you this evening, so nothing formal is required. Unless, of course, that is your custom.”

“I’ll be waiting.” His tone was terse, an odd look on his face. Nell smiled inwardly. Oscar wasn’t used to their country life. Or maybe he thought they were going to be inseparable the entire time.

Jane Alistair met them at the door, her eyes fresh with tears as she held Nell by the shoulders, then gave her a long hug. “You’ve grown into a beautiful young woman with a mature elegance about you.”

“I think your eyesight is failing. But thank you. Where’s Grandmama?”

“Resting in the conservatory. Davenport fixed her a wee nook with a cot so she doesn’t have to climb the stairs when she’s weary. And she can keep a watch on the birds building their nests in the arbor. Do you want me to wake her?”

“No, let’s get my things to my room and you can tell me all the news.”

When Nell peeked into the conservatory half an hour later, her grandmother was stirring. Nell swept across the floor and knelt beside the cot. She stroked the blue lines on the back of her grandmother’s hand, then leaned over to kiss the deep lines of her cheek. A lump grew in her throat, her eyes misting. With her handkerchief she blotted the tears.

“You’re here.” Thin lips, parched with age, tilted into a smile. Her grandmother rolled to her side and swung her legs over the side of the cot to sit up.

Nell helped Lady Mira into her damask slippers. “You want to sit by the window?” She held her arm for her grandmother, but Lady Mira pushed it away.

“I may be old, but I’m still plenty capable of walking without help.”

“I didn’t say you were old.”

“But it crossed your mind, I’m sure.” They sat near the window in matching chairs with a cheery cabbage rose pattern and a view of the garden outside.

“You have a nice view here. You’ve always liked watching the birds.”

Lady Mira waved away the comment. “Davenport said a young man was coming with you.”

“Not a young man. My boss, Mr. Fields.”

“I once knew a Fields or maybe it was Fielding. Lecherous old toot, he was.” Her gaze clouded and shifted from Nell to the garden. “A pair of nightingales are nesting in the yews.” She pointed a bony finger to the place she meant. “I hear them singing and caught sight of one yesterday.”

“Would you like to go into the garden? Perhaps we’ll see your nightingales.”

Lady Mira shook her head. “Jane fusses at me when I want to go out. Says it’s too cool. Or too damp. Or too close to dinner. I say it’s too much trouble for her to bundle me up.”

“There
is
a little nip in the air, and I’m sure Jane just doesn’t want you to take a head cold.”

“So she says.” Her voice was sharp, and it was unlike her to speak ill of Jane who’d been in Grandmama’s service since before Nell was born.

The soft shuffle of footsteps came from the hall. Zilla Hatch entered with a tray set for tea and placed it on the table between Nell and Lady Mira.

Nell jumped up and held out her arms for Zilla. “Oh my. You’ve not changed a whit.” It was only a small lie. The former cook from Marchwold Manor had grown plumper, her formerly streaked honey-and-gray hair now without a trace of color. But she wore the same ruffled cap and smelled of cinnamon and bacon and something sweet. Oranges perhaps.

“Don’t you just go on, Miss Prunella? Jane told me what a vision you were, and she was right. I’m looking forward to meeting that young man of yours.”

“As I’ve already explained to Grandmama, he’s my boss, nothing more. And he’ll be here for dinner.”

“Aye. Davenport told me. I made your favorite.”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess. Lamb stew?”

Zilla’s chuckle came from deep in her belly. “I never could fool you for an instant. Go on now and have your tea.” She bent to make eye contact with Lady Mira. “Don’t forget your kidney pill, m’lady.”

Lady Mira shooed her away, then pulled a fine silver chain that hung from her neck and withdrew a pill from the tiny silver case attached to the chain. She took it with a swallow of water and said, “For my digestion, but I can’t tell it’s made a mustard seed of difference.”

Nell poured the tea, her mouth watering as she eyed the china plate piled with scones. She knew they’d be warm from the oven. She put one on a saucer for her grandmother and another for herself. “Quentin Bledsoe wrote that he’d been to see you.”

“Not recently.”

“No, a while back.”

“It was nice of him to come, brought a sweet young girl with him. Colleen, I think. Or Corrine. We had tea in the garden.”

Nell choked on her tea. Quentin was seeing someone? The thought had occurred to her, of course, but he hadn’t mentioned it when she saw him. An ache came in her chest.

She bit back the urge to cry and said, “He’s quite fond of you.”

“And I of him. When the miss went in to the powder room, I told Quentin to tread carefully in matters of the heart. Whether he paid attention or not is anyone’s guess.”

Nell had no answer. She did know that in his letter, he’d omitted any reference to bringing a friend with him when he visited Grandmama.

Her grandmother’s shoulders sagged as if the effort of taking tea had been too much for her. Then, just as quickly, Lady Mira straightened. “Like you. If you’d listened to me, you wouldn’t be in the scrape you’re in, Josie.”

Josie?
Gramma Jo. Grandmama’s childhood friend, and the one from whom Nell, Aunt Sarah, and Iris had gotten their fine bones and flaxen hair. The one Nell hoped to learn more about. Would Grandmama even remember? Now wasn’t the time.

Nell patted her grandmother’s hand. “I’m Nell, remember?”

“I know that. What do you think, I’m an imbecile and have to be reminded who you are?” Her eyes flashed, but in the next instant, her brows puckered and she gazed toward the garden where the afternoon shadows had lengthened. “He’s no good for you, you know.”

Was she talking about Oscar? Quentin? Or had her thoughts traveled far beyond the tiny flagstone garden to a place and time from long ago?

Nell’s grandmother changed into a gown of polished silk with a high neck and lace at the cuffs. She was still the picture of elegance, her silver hair framing her face. Nell, too, had changed from her traveling clothes into a navy frock with a sheer scarf, one end thrown over the shoulder.

Oscar greeted Nell with a kiss on the cheek and one on the back of Lady Mira’s hand when Nell introduced them. They lingered in the parlor until Davenport came in and bowed, announcing dinner.

Nell’s pulse throbbed in her neck at the sight of her grandmother’s china, the crystal candlesticks that had graced every formal dinner at Marchwold, a bit surprised that Aunt Vivian had let the china go. Even the flowers reminded her of days gone by, the vast urns that graced the rambling halls and great dining room of Marchwold.

After Davenport served the first course of leek soup, Oscar commented about his walk about the town. “I noticed you only had a mercantile for clothing. And no millinery shops.”

Lady Mira said, “It’s not our custom. Those who like fine dresses—
couture
, you would say—take the train to London and frequent the shops there.”

“That must be difficult for you.”

“It would be tiresome, I’m sure. But a local dressmaker knows what I like and does quite elegant work. Jane, of course, still makes my hats.”

“Jane?”

“My lady’s maid—the one who saw Nell’s talent when she was a wee girl and taught her all that she knows.”

“Ah, yes. Nell told me about her. Of course, I’d like to take an ounce of credit for helping refine Nell’s skills and blending in my firm’s model for success.” He cleared his throat. “I would even imagine that you might be interested in investing in Nell’s continued success at Oscar Fields.”

“In what capacity would that be?”

“A shareholder, perhaps. A capital investment, so to speak. We’re privately held and give dividends to our investors.”

“And how many
investors
are we talking about?”

“Myself, of course, as the majority owner. Business owners and a few of my trusted staff hold shares as well. I would be happy to discuss it with your business manager. It would be a nice token for Nell’s future, which is quite promising, I assure you.”

Lady Mira scoffed. “Indeed. Perhaps you’d like me to sign over Nell’s inheritance to you as well.”

Oscar laughed softly. “You make it sound as if I’m ruthless. It wasn’t that at all. It was only for her sake I even mentioned it.”

The leek soup, so delicious moments ago, now churned in Nell’s stomach, giving her the urge to heave. Oscar’s motives crystallized in that moment. He’d kept Nell on even though she made grave errors because she was from a noble family, one of means whose coffers he might tap. All he had to do was cultivate the right relationships. His recipe for success.

Lady Mira stirred the lamb stew that Davenport served and said, “I’ve no idea if you’re ruthless or not, but I can clearly tell you’re cheeky. My sincere hope is you treat my granddaughter well. With her skills, she would be in high demand, I would imagine.”

Nell’s throat constricted. An argument wouldn’t do her grandmother’s liver or stomach or whatever it was she took the pills for any good. Oscar, though, seemed nonplussed.

“I feel confident Nell is quite content where she is.” He wiggled his brows again. “Aren’t you, darling?”

“For now, yes. And I’m shocked—dumbfounded, really—that you would even suggest such a thing to Grandmama.” Nell knew she shouldn’t have said it, but she wasn’t a piece of property to be argued over. Let him simmer in his own juices for a while.

The lamb stew was everything Nell remembered, but the mood had been shattered and a pall hung in the air. When Davenport brought in the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with its golden puffed crust, Mr. Fields said, “This certainly is a feast. I didn’t expect to be treated in such a grand manner.”

Davenport nodded. “Thank you, sir. I’ll convey your appreciation to Mrs. Hatch. Nothing is too grand for our Prunella.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” He lifted his wineglass. “To Nell. And I’m sure that a meal at Marchwold Hall couldn’t hold a candle to the one we’ve just eaten.”

Lady Mira said, “Manor. It’s Marchwold Manor. You can make your own comparison after our luncheon there tomorrow. Their new cook is some wonder chef from Paris who makes dishes that are impossible to pronounce. I just hope he doesn’t serve that wretched eel again.” She folded her napkin and asked Davenport to ring for Jane. “I’ll leave you young people to have dessert on your own.”

Nell rose and gave her a grandmother a kiss. “We won’t be long. I’d like to read for you when you’re all tucked in.”