The Hatmaker's Heart: A Novel (17 page)

“Yes…yes. No, w-wait. I have to do something first.”

“We don’t have long.”

“It’ll only take a minute.” She dashed across the grass to the potter’s shed behind a line of yews, grabbed a pair of shears, then returned to the roses. She snipped a dozen or more blooms. The thorns bit into her flesh, but she gripped the stems anyway, took the shears back, and told Oscar she was ready. Pressed between layers of parchment, the roses would be a gift to her mother.

The good-bye to her grandmother lingered with hugs, hearts torn, tears. And more tears. When Oscar coughed to signal his impatience, Nell’s grandmother whispered, “Guard your heart, my dear. Remember, strength and honor.” Ah, the passage from Proverbs she’d read to her grandmother the night before.
Yes. Strength. And honor.

Davenport said he would come back and retrieve her grandmother once the train had come, so Nell thanked Preston and Vivian for the lunch, and on legs as heavy as lead, she walked to the waiting car.

The train was just pulling into the station when they arrived. Davenport and Oscar took the luggage to the platform, and after a quick good-bye to Davenport, Nell entered the passenger car, taking the first seat she found by the window. Davenport remained on the landing, speaking to a couple who’d just arrived. The man turned, a lock of reddish-brown hair falling across his forehead as he lifted his gaze to Nell’s compartment.

Quentin.
A young woman stood beside him. Shapely. Brunette. And beautiful.

Quentin’s arm rose in a wave as the train pulled away from the station. The chug of the engine and the blast of the horn filled Nell’s ears, the clacking on the track going faster and faster.

Ten minutes out of the train station, Oscar pulled out a sheaf of papers to discuss business. Nell balked, her stomach a cauldron of the emotions from the last two days. Self-pity didn’t suit her, but neither did she feel like talking to Oscar.

He plunged in anyway. “Leo informs me our final tally in London is on the mark, and with several new requests, we’re moving toward a successful run.”

It sounded like something they’d say on Broadway, and for a moment, Nell wished she was back in New York, catching up with Jeanette or watching Greta doing her act. She pulled out her diary and scribbled down the appointments as Oscar rattled them off. A concert at Royal Albert Hall. A dinner with the London Noble Women’s Society on Saturday.

Quentin.
She thought she would be seeing him, but the unexpected sight of him with the girl at the station gave her pause. Perhaps the comely brunette was, like Simone, a friend. Or perhaps they’d only met up on the train. Nell penciled his name in the margin of her diary. She knew his phone number by heart.

She snapped the appointment book shut. “I’m curious about the books. Mind if I see the numbers?” It wasn’t the first time she’d thought of it, and since her hats were a principal source of their income, it was only prudent for her to be informed. She’d simply never asked before.

Oscar quirked one brow. “The figures are not something I would expect you to grasp.”

“You might be surprised.” She didn’t expect Oscar to show her the accounting books, but to imply that she couldn’t understand them miffed her. “I’ve handled the ordering for the suppliers, so I’m aware of some of the costs and what we charge our clients. I think I could be an asset to you if I had a better understanding of both the debits and assets.”

“Is this another of your fanciful ideas? Your job is to make hats. For Oscar Fields Millinery. It’s quite simple, really.” He signaled for the porter and asked for a Scotch on the rocks. End of conversation.

In spare moments each day and every evening, Nell rang Quentin’s number without reaching him. When there was still no answer by Friday, she called his bank and was told employees weren’t allowed personal calls.

“Can you give him a message then? Tell him Nell Marchwold called and would like to speak to him.”

“Is it a matter of urgency?”

“You might say so, yes.” They sailed in ten days. Ten days to settle the matter of her heart. Not a moment went by that Quentin didn’t appear in her thoughts and send a flutter to her chest.

She thanked the bank receptionist and waited.

And waited. She ate an apple at her desk for fear he would call during lunch and she would miss his call.

At a quarter of five, the shop clerk peeked around the screen that separated the showroom from Nell’s office space. “Pardon, Miss Marchwold?” She extended an envelope with Cablegram stamped across the front. “This just came for you.”

“Thank you.” Nell’s stomach pinched, followed by a sigh of relief when she saw it was from New York. It wasn’t news of her grandmother or a message from Kentucky. She slit it open and read words just as disturbing.

A lump the size of Manhattan filled Nell’s throat, her eyes hot with tears. Poor Jeanette. Guilt crept over her. She’d only written two brief letters and hadn’t even asked about Jeanette’s father.

Her heart was still heavy when she and Oscar went to the promenade concert at Royal Albert Hall. On the way there, she delivered the news of Mr. North’s death to Oscar. His lips tightened, and when he said, “That’s a shame,” his tone was shallow. In the next breath, he reminded her of the meeting the next day, the preliminary sketches for a new client, and the women’s society dinner later in the evening.

A few moments before the concert began, the scent of Quentin’s cologne wafted by. Nell froze, afraid of an encore from the night of the Gaiety Theatre and seeing Quentin with Simone. Only this time the vision Nell had was of the girl at the train station. She held her breath, afraid to look around, but when the scent grew stronger, she slowly pivoted her head. The woodsy smell was that of the man next to her. Bald and rotund.

She scarcely heard the music nor Oscar’s bantering during the dinner that followed.

“Tomorrow should be a lively evening with the Havershams and the ladies’ society. And of course you and Hazel and Marcella will be needed in the workroom early in the morning. It’s vital we end this trip on a positive note.”

Nell’s shoulders sagged, but she forced a positive tone in her voice. “It will all be done. You know I’m always p-prepared.”

“And for which I pay you a pretty penny.” He rattled off a few other last-minute engagements that Harjo had put on the calendar. Time was running out to see Quentin, but as long as they were in London, she wouldn’t keep from trying to contact him no matter how much Oscar grumbled.

Oscar called for the check. “You’re not ill, are you?”

“Just tired.”

When the cab delivered them to their Hyde Park address, Nell forced herself to walk the few steps to the entrance. Oscar stopped suddenly and drew her arm tightly into the crook of his. Nell snapped to attention and saw a figure in the shadows step from the recessed entry. She knew before he spoke that it was Quentin.

“Nell, I’d almost given up.” His voice was strained. He took a tentative step toward her, but stopped when Mr. Fields held up his free hand, the other still clamped tight around her.

“What do you mean, lurking about? And what do you want with Nell?”

“It’s Quentin Bledsoe, sir. I was hoping to speak with her.”

“She’s not feeling well.”

Nell tried to shake off Oscar’s hold on her to no avail. “I’d like to talk to Quentin for a few minutes.”

“Nell, it’s late, and we have an early day tomorrow.” To Quentin, he said, “I don’t take kindly to this sort of intrusion. And certainly not at this hour.”

“My apologies. I’ve been here most of the evening.” To Nell, he said, “I received your message, but too late, I’m afraid. The shop was already closed. The bank receptionist said it was urgent.”

“Not urgent. I just dearly hoped to see you before we sailed.”

Oscar said, “Perhaps you should call at a decent hour.”

He ignored Oscar, and in the dimness of the gaslight, Nell couldn’t read Quentin’s expression, but her heart soared at the nearness of him. She only hoped he could read in her eagerness how truly glad she was to see him.

“Yes, Nell, I’d love to see you. Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”

“I have appointments beginning at one, but I could meet you at the Plum Tree Restaurant across from the shop. Noon?”

“I’ll be there.”

Nell’s stomach was a swarm of butterflies all morning, but Oscar hadn’t hovered like she expected him to, nor had he mentioned her lunch with Quentin. She kept an eye on the clock, groaning as the minutes crawled by. Finally, at half past eleven, she collected her bag and told the clerk she’d be back after lunch.

Quentin was waiting when she arrived and stood to welcome her with a handshake and a quick peck on the cheek. She had to remind herself to breathe. “You’re early.”

“Anxious, I suppose.”

“Me, too. I thought the c-clock had s-stopped.”
Calm. Let the words come naturally.

“It’s been a while.”

“I saw you getting off the train in Heathdown. Family visit?”

He shrugged. “Of sorts. Just overnight.”

She waited, her eyes riveted on Quentin’s face, his strong jaw and wide mouth. His freckles had dimmed with age, but his boyish charm was more endearing than ever.

“We’re here now.” He cleared his throat and sipped his water. “I’m sorry if this seems awkward. We’ve always had an easy way between us, and I know things have changed.”

“We both grew up.”

“I’m not here to make things difficult for you…and your boss. I guess that’s the proper term.”

She nodded.

“Like you said, we grew up. While I nursed the hope that things might remain as they did when we were younger, I do understand that things don’t always happen the way we imagine they will. Sometimes God leads us in a direction we didn’t expect.”

“What are you saying?”

A pained look settled in his eyes. “Nell, I’m glad you called. I’ve wanted to call you, but quite frankly, I’ve not known how to tell you my news.” He took a deep breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “The truth is I’m engaged to be married.”

The air in the restaurant grew thin, the space between them a chasm.

“Oh.” Her voice was a squeak, all the conversations she’d imagined now thick on her tongue, unspoken.

“It wasn’t an easy decision, but one fate seems to have thrown in my path. I’ve prayed earnestly for God’s answer, and he’s been faithful. When I saw how you’ve bloomed and the joy on your face in doing what you love, it was confirmation. I’d been seeing Colleen a while before I got the telegram that you were coming to London. She was ready to advance our relationship, but I was hesitant. I’ve always had a soft spot for you, and I wanted to make sure I wasn’t making a mistake. There was just something in your voice and the glow on your face that told me you’d found your calling. And it wasn’t me.”

Nell gripped the edge of the table. “Oh. Oh.” She bit her lip to keep from crying.

Quentin was getting married. But not to her. Her love for him had rekindled or perhaps it had been there all the time, but now it was too late.

She gathered every bit of courage she could find and smiled. “Colleen is a very lucky girl, I hope she knows that. Congratulations, Quentin.” His name on her tongue was like honey, and she wanted to reach across and kiss him on his lips that were full and always so inviting. And it grieved her that she would never have that chance.

Quentin leaned back, relaxed now that he’d broken the news. “So tell me, have you had a successful trip?”

“Beyond our wildest expectations.”

“I always knew you were something special.”

Nell was unaware of how she made it back to the salon, but she did remember Harjo opening the door for her and asking if she’d had a nice lunch. He could have been sitting at the next table and she wouldn’t have noticed. The afternoon was a blur, the chatter of the client and her sister who she’d brought along for company nerve-racking. Oscar stood silently in the background, his manner approving, but his presence like a needle under her fingernail.

That evening, Sir Haversham asked for champagne, and when the waiter popped the cork, Nell jumped like she’d been shot.

Lady Haversham said, “You’re a bit skittish tonight. Has dear Oscar been working you too hard?”

Nell forced a laugh and denied it, then steeled herself to have a good time. After all, Quentin and Colleen were probably sipping their own champagne at that very moment.

Glass raised, Lady Haversham proposed a toast. “To goodwill between our countries and the success of the royal wedding.”

Nell let the bubbles fizz on her tongue, the bite welcome, as their hostess continued, “We can only hope there’ll be another such occasion in the near future for which you’ll always have an open invitation.”

Mr. Fields said, “Hear, hear. To the London Noble Women’s Society. To good business and much, much more.”

Nell hoisted her glass. “To good business.” She let her narrowed eyes rest squarely on his gaze without flinching. “Wherever it may take us.”

His face looked frozen in a smile. He drained the glass and held it out for the waiter to refill.

Along with the women, Nell laughed at the men’s jokes and made glowing comments about the food. They dined on escargot, asparagus soup, fillet of sole, and gâteau cake with brandied fruit. It was rich and opulent, each course accompanied by the appropriate wine. Nell took a sip of one, willing it to settle her stomach and her nerves. It did neither. Nor did it ease the sadness that skirted the fringes of her heart.

As they stepped from the restaurant into a drizzly night air, Sir Haversham approached Oscar. “Glad to have you here, chap. My wife has spoken highly of you.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to burden you, but there is a small matter of compensation.”

When Oscar gave a small jerking motion with his head to Nell, she slipped away a few steps, but not so far that she couldn’t hear the low tones of the conversation.

Oscar said, “I thought we were flush.”

“Up to a point, yes. Real estate’s taking a thrashing right now. Leasing rates increasing, and we did set you up in a higher price bracket in Mayfair at your request.” Sir Haversham handed Oscar an envelope. “I’ve estimated the expenses until your sailing date. Some of the figures ran a little steeper than projected, but with your good return, I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”

Nell rubbed her arms to chase away the chill, but it wasn’t from the night air.

The last few days were spent packing the workroom, putting supplies in trunks, and seeing a couple of late, straggling customers who had to choose from the stock inventory. Mr. Fields came in as they closed the lid on another trunk, and Nell told him she had an errand to run and would be back by five o’clock when they closed the door for the final time.

“I’d be happy to accompany you, stretch my legs a bit.”

“It won’t be n-necessary.”

“Not going to say good-bye to your friend? What was his name?”

She shook her head and said nothing, then left before Oscar could make any objections. Without any concrete plans, she clipped along the street in Mayfair, turning corners when the mood struck. She drank in the sights, memorizing the sounds of people’s voices and breathing her last of London. After a while, she slowed her pace and took notice of the shops. A bookstore with a yellow tabby curled in the window. And in the reflection of the glass, she saw Harjo across the street milling about.

A slow burn started under her ribs. Oscar didn’t trust her to even take a simple walk around town. An image flashed in her head of Harjo holding the door for her after her lunch with Quentin. A coincidence? She didn’t think so. What was Mr. Fields afraid of? That she would decide to stay in London? Or maybe it was just a sick thrill for him. Well, she could play games, too.