The Hatmaker's Heart: A Novel (14 page)

“You’re happy then designing for a nice salon and getting your name in magazines?”

“How did you know about the magazine?”

“My mother sent it to me. Said everyone in Heathdown was crowing about it.”

She gave him a playful touch on the forearm. “I’m not happy just because of the magazines, although that’s nice. It’s a combination of things. Not all women have perfect features, but they all have an inner beauty, and it’s pure bliss to see the transformation when someone with, say, plain features gets a glimpse in the mirror in one of my hats and feels beautiful. For some, I suspect it may be the first time. It’s not about my happiness, but other women discovering their own beauty and carrying themselves with poise.”

“You’ve always been passionate about hats. Remember the time you drew the Easter lambs and put a bonnet on every one of them?”

“Whatever made you think of that?”

“I saw the drawing when I went to see your grandmother. It’s in a gilded frame hanging above her writing desk.”

“I can’t believe she kept that. Oscar has promised me a couple of days after the wedding to visit her. I just hope we have enough business to keep us afloat here and stay that long.”

“You’ll be fine.” He leaned close and kissed her on the cheek.

“Aren’t you two the little lovebirds?” The waitress clucked her tongue. “I wish I could get my Johnny to look at me that way instead of that wretched bottle he’s in love with. What’ll it be? A nice tart for dessert? Some port for the gentleman?”

Quentin said, “Both sound divine, but we’d better be going.”

The night was damp but warm as they strolled on the walk and then crossed to the Marble Arch. As late as it was, people still ambled about, most of them with beagles and greyhounds and wiry-haired terriers on leads. Lovers holding hands. Frolicking newsboys still hawking the evening paper. Stooped men with canes and businessmen cutting across the park, going home to wives and children. Nell and Quentin.

Quentin talked about his family in Heathdown and King’s College in Cambridge where he had taken his accounting degree. She talked about her roommates, that she thought Calvin might be sweet on Jeanette and that she’d had a postcard from Greta, who’d finally landed a role with the vaudeville troupe and was playing Philadelphia.

“You’d like Greta, Quentin. She’s energetic and determined to make it as an actress.”

“Sounds a lot like someone else I know.”

“Do you think I’m daft for wanting to make women beautiful?”

He sidestepped something on the walk. “Not at all. Without dreams and passions, mankind would wither into nothingness.”

Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed twelve times, and Quentin asked if he would see her again.

Nell hesitated. “Not for a while. We’ve only a few weeks to make an impression and worlds of hats to make. New customers every day. I’ll call if I find a time that I’m free, when Oscar doesn’t have something arranged.”

“You do sound happy.”

“It’s what I’ve always wanted.”

As his warm hands surrounded her and his lips brushed her cheek, a figure turned up the walk to their building.
Harjo.

He eyed them, then strode up the steps without a word.

“This isn’t the hat I chartered you to make.” Lady Blythe-Perkins drew her lips tight, hands on her hips. “I’ll be ridiculed for wearing something so hideous. The style and that bilious chartreuse would make the king himself weep.”

Nell stood by, waiting for the willowy woman to finish. And to give herself time to think. She remembered the session distinctly. The woman had come on a hectic day demanding to be worked in. She’d brought neither fabric swatches nor her dress design, but said she’d send them by courier later. And she’d not so casually mentioned that her husband was an influential member of the House of Lords.

Now, as the irate woman stood before her, Nell said, “I’m ce-certain this is your order…but I w-will…check it against the o-o-others.” The all too familiar failure of her tongue to deliver the words brought a scathing look from her client.

“If I’d known I was dealing with a moron, I wouldn’t have bothered.
Highly recommended. She’s one of us,
Lady Haversham said. Just because some distant relative of yours was an earl doesn’t make you capable.”

Nell looked up to see Oscar standing in the arch between the two rooms of the salon. “A little problem?” He swept in and lifted Lady Blythe-Perkins’s hand to his lips. “I’m Oscar Fields, owner of this salon. How may I be of assistance?”

“By sorting out this mess, for starters.” She repeated what Nell had already heard.

“Yes, m’lady. The satisfaction of a beautiful woman like yourself, one of your stature, means the world to me. As I know it does to Nell. Whatever we can do to make amends—”

“You can start by finding the hat I ordered.”

Nell stepped forward. “If you have a m-moment, I’ll fetch the original receipt.”

“I don’t have all day.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Nell retrieved the purchase order file from her desk. She thumbed through the orders, the attached sketches and fabrics, and pulled out the one for Lady Blythe-Perkins.

Odd.
The description on the order sheet didn’t match the hat made for Lady Blythe-Perkins. The next form had the details for a Mrs. Fortner, but again it didn’t match the hat Hazel had made. Nell’s palms grew damp. She must have transposed them on the workroom sheets when she’d attached the swatches. Mrs. Fortner’s hat would be all wrong as well.

Nell swallowed hard and braced herself to face Lady Blythe-Perkins.

“Again, my apologies. This is indeed not the hat you ordered. We still have the swatches in the workroom and will remake your hat. Would tomorrow be c-convenient?”

“I’ll be back at nine in the morning.”

Oscar offered his hand. “And rest assured, you won’t be charged a farthing for your inconvenience.”

“I should pray not. And I’m certain Lady Haversham will be most interested in what I have to tell her. There’s no telling how many other orders you’ve gotten wrong, and my friends have been too kind to bring it to your attention. We will all think twice before securing your services in the future. Shoddy, that’s what it is.”

When she flounced out the door, Oscar asked to have a word with Nell in his office upstairs.

After Nell explained what happened, Oscar said, “You do understand the gravity of your error?”

“Of course. But she was rather beastly if you ask me.”
Tattling to Lady Haversham indeed.

“A rudimentary principle I taught you from the moment I took you on—the customer is always right.”

Nell nodded, her face still hot. “And you know I work hard to make sure every hat is up to your finest ex-ex-expec—”

“Expectations? Is that word you’re looking for? Perhaps you are a simpleton and crumble under the slightest pressure.”

“We’ve been overrun with new orders.”

“Which is always a good thing. When did Lady Blythe-Perkins come in?”

“Last week. On Wednesday.”

“The day after you were out three-quarters of the night with your childhood sweetheart.”

“Not three-quarters. And his name is Quentin.” His name was sweet on her tongue, and although she hadn’t stayed out late as Oscar implied, she’d lain awake long into the night thinking of Quentin, recalling his touch, his eyes, the catch in his voice when he chuckled. She smiled and lifted her chin.

Oscar flicked a piece of lint from his sleeve. “I know I don’t need to remind you the work here comes first.”

Nell fanned through the order forms still clutched in her fingers. “I know you’re right. It was entirely my error. I’ll work all night if I have to remaking the hat. And the one for Mrs. Fortner.”

Oscar’s eyebrows shot up. “So there are other mistakes as well?”

“Only the two. And contrary to what you say, it wasn’t my evening with Quentin that caused the error. Lady Blythe-Perkins came in while I was helping Mrs. Fortner and demanded to be seen. She had no p-patience for measurements and said she was late for a meeting at the palace.”

“Buckingham?”

“She didn’t say.”

“This is precisely why you should have exercised more caution. This is the clientele we need to cultivate.”

Grovel for, he meant. Nell nodded, knowing in her gut he had a point. “I’ll present Lady Blythe-Perkins with a bouquet of flowers when she comes in the morning for her hat. From my pocketbook.”

“We only have two weeks left. From now on, I expect you to be available day and night.” He picked up the telephone and made a shooing motion with his hand.

Lady Blythe-Perkins arrived half an hour late, but Nell quietly withdrew from the customer at the consulting table and greeted her warmly. When Nell opened the hatbox, Lady Blythe-Perkins sniffed.

“At least you got the colors right. May I try it on?”

“Please do.”

The hat truly was spectacular. Just the right mix of sophistication and flair with the brim tacked up on one side and secured with a cluster of ruby bugle beads and sparkling crystals, an embellishment that had taken Nell three hours to create. Lady Blythe-Perkins smiled at her reflection, then removed the hat and handed it to Nell to box up. She tucked the bouquet Nell had given her under one arm, grabbed the thin cord of the hatbox, and left without a thank-you.

Nell stood in the shadow beside the window and watched her step into the backseat of her driver’s car. At the intersection, the rear window was cracked open and the flowers tossed onto the street below.

By the time Mrs. Fortner arrived that afternoon, Nell had decided there would always be people who were impossible to please. Thankfully, there were also those like Mrs. Fortner.

“Marvelous, my dear. Not everyone likes chartreuse, you know, but I’ve always felt it had a warm earthiness about it. And the poppies are lovely.”

Nell was glad she’d stayed up until four in the morning and redone the hat. The wide brim was the perfect balance for Mrs. Fortner’s heavier build. They chatted about the wedding and Mrs. Fortner’s interest in growing herbs and her work with an orphanage.

“Suitable and worthy pursuits for a matron. My mother is smiling from her window in heaven, I’m sure. But my real passion was to be a cook, a chef in one of those charming sidewalk cafés in Paris.”

“What kept you from it?”

“Marriage. Children. My own reluctance to assert myself. Running a home has given me ample practice to experiment with cuisine and such, but nothing I could fall back on should I find myself alone and my dear husband’s fortunes fallen by the wayside.”

“You sound like my mother. Only it did happen to her.”

“Oh, gracious. What did she do?”

“Sailed to America and found another husband.”

As Nell boxed up her hat, Mrs. Fortner asked, “Would you and your colleague Mr. Fields be available on Saturday before the wedding? I’m having a small party and would be delighted if you could come.”

“How k-kind of you. I’ll have to check our diaries. Any particular occasion?”

“It’s for my longtime friend Cecilia, who you may know as Countess of Strathmore and Kinghorne.”

“Elizabeth’s mother? The one who’s marrying the Duke of York?”

“The same. Just the dearest of people. I’m doing a soiree for her and a few friends. Fifty or so. If you can work it in.”

Nell’s fingers trembled as she tied the ribbon of the hatbox. “I’m honored. I’m sure we’ll be delighted to attend.” She handed over the box.

Mrs. Fortner gave her a card in return. “My number.”

“Thank you.”

When she left, Nell wobbled to the nearest chair and sat down. Lady Blythe-Perkins and all her airs had caused Nell to lose a night’s sleep while it was Mrs. Fortner she should have been concerned about. But Mrs. Fortner, bless her, would have never made such a stink.

Connections
, Oscar always said. Nell huffed out a breath. What did he know?

Nell was putting the finishing touches on a new window display when Lady Haversham dropped by the Mayfair salon.

After exchanging pleasantries, Nell said, “Oscar’s out on an errand, but I know he’s been anxious to see you. Would you care to wait?”

“Actually, it’s you I came to see. Could we have a word?”

Instantly the image of Lady Blythe-Perkins came to Nell’s mind. “I hope all is well, that your friends have found the hats to their liking.”

“Most assuredly.” She sat in the chair Nell indicated. “All except one. I think you know who I mean.”

“I hoped we’d resolved her dissatisfaction.”

“It would take more than you and all the king’s men to bring an ounce of satisfaction to the dreadful woman of whom we speak.”

Nell’s jaw started to drop, but she caught herself and chewed her bottom lip instead. “As Mr. Fields says, the customer is always right.”

“Not in this case, but that’s not the purpose of my visit. I came to tell you that, on behalf of the London Noble Women’s Society, we’d like to commission you to make our hats for the wedding. About two dozen or so if you can work us in.”

Nell’s heart soared. And Lady Haversham had come to her and not Oscar, but she knew he would be thrilled. “Absolutely. Since we’ve already done designs for a few of the women for other occasions, we have measurements on file so the consults will go much quicker.”

Lady Haversham nodded, smiling, and in that moment, Nell realized how much she reminded her of Mrs. Benchley. Gracious. A leader of her social set.
And
encouraging to Nell as a woman in business.

Lady Haversham said she was on her way to tell the society the good news.

“It’s good news for us as well. I’m most grateful. You’ve been a pleasure to work with from the moment of our arrival. I think I can speak for Mr. Fields, too, when I say how much we a-a-appreciate you.”

“You’re very kind as I suspected you’d be, well-bred and from a noble family.”

When Mrs. Haversham left, Nell spun around the room. She couldn’t wait to tell Oscar that all of their hard work had finally paid off.

Oscar stormed through the showroom and straight to Nell’s desk. “Is everything all right? I just saw Lady Haversham’s driver pulling from the curb as I was returning from the tailor. Was something amiss? Another mix-up on an order?”

“Calm down, Oscar, or you’re going to give yourself an attack of some kind. It’s not going to do any of us any good if you work yourself into a lather.” Inside, Nell trembled. She’d never talked to Oscar in such a flippant way, but Lady Haversham’s news had buoyed her spirit.

Oscar stiffened, his thin lips clamped into a straight line. “I’m not working myself into a lather. I merely asked you a question for which I’m waiting to hear your answer. What did the dear woman want?”

Nell couldn’t help herself. Her face broke into a wide grin. “We—Oscar Fields Millinery of London—have just been commissioned to do the hats for the London Noble Women’s Society for the royal wedding.” She put her hand on her hip in what she knew was a cocky pose and enjoyed watching Oscar’s eyes widen and his mouth fall open.

Nell continued, “Two dozen or so hats for the cream of London society. Hats that will grace the halls of Westminster in two weeks.”

She’d never seen Oscar speechless, nor the particular shade of beet red that his face had become. He gaped, fish mouthed, gathering his thoughts, it seemed.

He lifted his chin. “And what terms, exactly, did you agree to?”

“Terms?”

“Payment. Materials. Appointments. Details, Miss Marchwold. It’s quite one thing to receive the news, but another entirely to negotiate the terms. If we have to special order materials and pay a premium for a courier to deliver them, it will affect our net profits.”

“Of course. I’m familiar with our regular suppliers and what they carry. And I’m certain that none of the women will flinch at the cost.”

“We have to be competitive, but we don’t want to offer our services for an amount that will make us look inferior. Like I said, details. You should have insisted that Lady Haversham speak directly to me.”

“I told her you were out, but she seemed quite satisfied with speaking to me. I gave her your regards and told her you would be appreciative of the commission. You are, aren’t you?”

“But of course. And let’s hope that your giddiness doesn’t elicit errors like it did with Lady Blythe-Perkins. We can’t afford another unhappy customer.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be most c-careful and commune more closely with Hazel and Marcella.”

“See that you do.” He brushed past her on his way to the door that led to the stairwell.

“W-wait. I didn’t tell you the other exciting thing that happened.”

“What? You wait until I’ve stepped out, and then you garner one piece of good news after another. What, pray tell, could be more exciting than getting what we came to London for in the first place?”

She handed him Mrs. Fortner’s card. “We’ve been invited to a party.”

“When do you think you’ll have time for a party with the new orders?”

“This is one I think we’ll want to make time for.” She gave him the details and said Mrs. Fortner requested a reply. “I can call her with our acceptance if you wish.”

“Absolutely not. I will handle it.” And this time when he started out the door, she didn’t call him back.

The next day, Oscar had an array of dresses delivered from a couture shop around the corner. “I want you to look your loveliest for the royal family.”

“It’s not the royal family. Only the friends of the bride’s mother.”

“There’s always the chance the betrothed will make an appearance. It would be the cherry on the top of our time in London to be treated to such a surprise.”

“Lady Elizabeth wasn’t mentioned, and Prince Albert would have no reason to come without Elizabeth. But thank you for sending the dresses. They’re lovely.”

Nell chose a chiffon gown in a melon color that went with a pair of emerald earrings she already had. It was neither too provocative nor too severe, one she hoped would give the impression that she was stylish and approachable. Then she met with the first of the women’s society friends to begin their designs for the wedding.

By the night of the party, she was weary with exhaustion from the long hours of consulting, then working alongside Hazel and Marcella to give the right flair to each hat. Nell’s assistants, who’d become her friends during their time in London, offered to help her get ready.

As Hazel did the buttons up the back of Nell’s dress, she said, “It’s too bad you’re not stepping out with a beau tonight. You ask me, your beauty is wasted on the likes of Mr. Fields.”

Nell told her it was a thrill no matter who her escort was, but the truth was, Quentin had been on her mind all day. Every day, in fact. Not that he would care for such pomp and circumstance, but she did wish she had more time to spend with him. And at night, he filled her dreams, not as a childhood friend, but as someone she wanted to spend time with and let the matters of the heart take their course.

Oscar was resplendent in his tuxedo when they met in the foyer of their building. Handsome enough to turn the heads of any unattached woman. He still fussed at her over each detail of the hats and grumbled about the cost of the French ribbon and special flowers she ordered for some of them. Listening to him was a small price to pay for the experience and respect she was gaining as a designer.

In the cab, she took in the lights of London until the driver pulled onto a street lined with carriages and automobiles, chauffeurs assisting well-dressed passengers from their conveyances. The walks on both sides of the street teemed with onlookers.

The cabbie thumbed toward the crowd. “Royalty gawkers. Snip in the paper this morning about all the hobnobbing spots. Got me and the missus a spot picked out to watch the fanfare come wedding day. She wouldn’t miss it for naught.” He pulled up beside a Rolls-Royce, then came and opened the door for them.

While Oscar settled the fare, Nell looked at the long row of soot-stained brick homes, each one distinguished by a stoop with tall, heavy doors and gaslights on either side. Modest, but with a special elegance like Mrs. Fortner herself. Oscar put his arm around her shoulders and leaned in close. “It’s not the dress I would have chosen, but your perfume is quite alluring.”

Nell turned her head toward him, their faces close. Someone stepped from the shadows and held up a black box, a blinding flash lighting the night air. Nell stumbled, her shoe catching on the hem of her dress, but the photographer reached out and caught her by the arm.

“Sorry, miss. Didn’t mean to make you take a tumble. If I could just have your name, please, for the caption in the paper.”

Oscar answered for her. “This is Nell Marchwold and I’m Oscar Fields. My assistant and I are guests of Mrs. Fortner.”

With the camera slung over his back, the man—a reporter, Nell now realized—wrote it all down and said, “Got it. Name sounds familiar. You’re not British, are you?”

“American, but my lovely Nell is a born and bred Englishwoman.”

Someone shouted that the Duchess of Sibley had arrived. The reporter tipped his hat and dashed up the walk. Nell smiled to herself. Oscar was always trying to get his name in the paper for publicity. Nell was quite content to remain in the shadows.

Mrs. Fortner greeted them and invited them to make themselves at home. Nell had never been keen on circulating in a roomful of strangers, but she encouraged Oscar to go and visit with some of the men clustered around an elegant buffet. Nell skirted the room and sat on a brocade settee next to a woman with chestnuts for knuckles and loose skin under her chin that swayed like a velvet drape as she sipped her champagne.

“Tell me again, love, how you’re related to our Prince Albert.”

“I’m not related. I’m a hatmaker, a milliner.”

“So you’re German then. I didn’t know Cecilia knew any Millers.” A maid with a tray in her hand walked past, and the elderly woman signaled for a fresh champagne.

Poor dear. Her memory and hearing were both gone, but not her taste for champagne. All attempts at engaging in conversation were met with the same misunderstanding, and for once Nell was glad when Oscar rescued her.

With his arm around her waist, he led her to a group of women gathered near the ornate fireplace. “Here you are, ladies. Miss Marchwold, my apprentice whom I was telling you about.” To Nell, he said, “We were discussing the bride’s gown, and I knew you’d want to hear all about it.”

While Nell had been keeping the tipsy octogenarian company, Oscar had no doubt been working the room. She turned her attention to the ladies who gave an animated description of the simple gown made of a deep ivory chiffon moiré embroidered with pearls and silver thread.

One said, “Madame Seymour created it and has even sewn in a strip of Brussels lace that’s been in the family for generations.”

A sprightly woman with dark hair interrupted. “I’ve heard it’s from the gown of one of Lady Elizabeth’s ancestors who wore it to the grand ball of Bonnie Prince Charlie. Isn’t that the loveliest thing?”

“Are you certain about that? I don’t believe I recall hearing that.”

“Yes, Cecilia told me herself. Of course, Lady Elizabeth doesn’t want to make a grand showing, sweet like she is and not taken to all the fuss.” The woman turned to Nell. “Are you married? Or promised to some bright young man?”

“M-married? No…I have…”

Oscar clutched her hand and drew it up. “What Nell means to say is she’s dedicated to her career. At least for now. Isn’t that true, dear?”

One of the women clucked her tongue. “I don’t understand the ways of today. Women and their careers. Who will run our homes if the women are all in offices and wearing business suits every day?”

“The same ones who always have. Our housekeepers and governesses.”

Nell said, “Until misfortune strikes. Sometimes women are forced to work. Having a skill to rely on can come in handy.”

“You speak from experience?”

She nodded. “When my father was killed in the war, my mother was displaced from the position she would have had as the next Countess of Marchwold. Lucky for us, her sister invited us to move to America to be near them.”
Lucky for us.
An icy finger ran down Nell’s spine. She’d never considered her mother’s choice good fortune. Only one that had taken Nell from all that she loved. She willed herself to look at the dark-haired woman who’d posed the question.

“Marchwold? You must be related to Vivian Marchwold then.”

“She’s married to my uncle.”

“The daughter of Constance and Oxley Wentworth?”

Nell nodded, the conversation taking a turn that made her neck itch. Vivian and her mother, Constance Wentworth, had a lot in common with Lady Blythe-Perkins, not the least of which was putting Nell in her place. Both Vivian and her mother treated Lady Mira like she was an object that stood in the way of Vivian’s rightful place. What future would Nell have had in such a house? Had her mother, in fact, done the noble thing, the one that required strength, by moving an ocean away?

Choice words about Vivian lolled on her tongue, but she wouldn’t speak ill of her. Her grandmother’s voice whispered softly in Nell’s head.
We all have a bit of good and evil in us. Let your words and your deeds show the world what dwells in your heart.

As Nell tried to think of something nice to say about her aunt Vivian, the woman leaned in and whispered, “No wonder you moved to America.” She turned her attention to Mr. Fields. “How about you, Mr. Fields? Is there a Mrs. Fields?”

“There was. She was a victim of the Spanish flu in nineteen.”

“Then you’re surely in need of another wife.”

Relieved to have the spotlight off her, Nell said, “If you know of any prospects, I’m certain Mr. Fields would be delighted to have an introduction.”

The woman with dark hair said, “You don’t have eyes on him yourself?”

Nell chuckled. “Oh no, ma’am. Like he said, my career is my priority for the moment.”

One of the women who’d been silent throughout the conversation said, “I just might know of someone. Perhaps I could give you her number.”

Oscar’s Adams apple bobbed up and down. “I certainly didn’t expect to happen upon a group of matchmakers. I do appreciate the kind offer, but I’ll only be in London a few more weeks; then it’s back to New York and the old grind of running a salon.” He pulled Nell into the crook of his arm. “With Nell, of course.” He graciously extricated them from the clutch of women and asked Nell if she’d care for a glass of champagne.

“No, but a drink of water would be nice.”

Mrs. Fortner intercepted them as they made their way across the drawing room. “Oh, good, here you are. Cecilia would like to meet you before she leaves. She’s making it an early night so she can save her strength for the big day.”

They spoke briefly to Cecelia, who was both charming and gracious and said she was happy to make their acquaintance. When Cecilia had gone, others began to leave as well. Oscar said he’d changed his mind about the champagne, and together they thanked Mrs. Fortner for the invitation and stepped out into the cool, clear night. Oscar offered his arm and suggested they walk for a bit.

Nell kept her arm tucked into the crook of Oscar’s arm, the warmth through his jacket welcome. After a time, he asked if she was chilled, and when she admitted she was, he removed his coat and draped it around her shoulders.

After another block of walking, he said, “You certainly made it clear to that bag of old gossips that you’ve high aspirations.”

“If you mean becoming a designer, yes. You’ve been more than gracious in taking me in, keeping me on even when I’ve made terrible mistakes, and teaching me about the business. Perhaps I’ve not shown my appreciation, but I’m sincere when I say that it means a lot.”

“And what other aspirations do you have?”

In the dark, it was difficult to tell what he was implying. Did he think she was going to beg to get the Nellie March label? Perhaps he thought she had aspirations toward him. That she wanted to be the next Mrs. Fields.

The traffic was heavier now as they came upon a section of nightclubs and eateries. A gas lantern above the sign of a small establishment caught Nell’s eye. Plutino’s Ristorante. In smaller letters beneath the name, it read:
Ravioli
and
Manicotti
. The place Quentin said was just around the corner from his flat. Her knees went weak, and Oscar took her faltering for being too tired to go any farther and offered to buy her a warm drink or a bite to eat.