The Hatmaker's Heart: A Novel (5 page)

Even though Soren Michaels had a touch of silver at his temples, he didn’t look a day over thirty. He breezed into the consultation room, and after the minimum of small talk, he pulled his designs from a leather tube case and tacked them to the cork wall for Nell and Mr. Fields to survey. Nervous energy radiated from him as his piercing blue eyes darted from the sketches and back to Nell and Mr. Fields, judging their reactions.

“I call this one Persimmon Enchantment. The bodice will be a rich but muted shade of burnished orange lace with intricate beading at the waist that will be repeated in the band at the hem.”

Nell and Mr. Fields both nodded as Mr. Michaels proceeded to the next dress, a dark brown drop waist made of crinkly georgette with a wide satin band where the bodice and skirt met.

The designs were detailed and stunning to look at, much like Mr. Michaels himself with his sleek dark hair parted slightly off-center. He oozed with confidence, bordering on arrogance. A gifted designer to be sure—an up-and-coming star in the world of couture—but Nell wasn’t altogether sure she liked him. She knew she could learn from him, though, and concentrated on the designs, mentally choosing millinery styles and fabrics that would bring out the best features of each gown.

He concluded with a cocktail dress with netting that flared from the back waist in a half peplum, which he called Pink Froth. He made a half bow and said, “For your pleasure. What do you think?”

“You do b-beautiful work, Mr. Michaels. I can see why Claudia and Daphne are so fond of you.”

Mr. Fields stroked his mustache. “An interesting mix. Slanted more toward younger women than I had hoped.”

“Ah, do you not find that all women want to be thought of as eternally youthful? I strive to establish the illusion and yet make each of my designs in such a way that they disguise the minute flaws of a woman’s figure.” He pointed to a deep green gown with seed pearls circling the neckline. “You’ll notice the ruching at the waist here. The gentle tucks at the midriff are for the curvy woman who would desire to minimize a minor flaw. And yet quite suitable for someone young like Nell here.”

Mr. Fields shrugged and gave an almost imperceptible nod of agreement, then pulled a sheaf of papers from his briefcase. “Sorry to rush, but I’ve had Pritchard, my secretary, work up some figures, what we’re willing to invest in this trial venture. Since this is your first formal show and experimental at best, you may find the figures lower than you expected. Not to mention that we will be in a bit of a bind while Nell is pulled from her routine duties to work with you.”

Soren Michaels gave a cursory glance at the papers Mr. Fields handed him. “I’m sure we can work out the details. The Stottlemeir Club has been quite generous in their arrangements, and the world is holding its breath to learn more about you and your creative designs. When Mrs. Benchley suggested the name for the hat line, I was quite taken with it. The time Nell takes will return to you tenfold, I can assure you.”

Mr. Fields scoffed. “That remains to be seen. And to be clear, the hats will carry the same label as always. The name Oscar Fields means something. Nellie March does not.”

Mr. Michaels held up his hand. “You’re aware, I’m sure, that milliners are finding dedicated lines quite popular with their customers. Murdoch’s has their Mother Goose line for children, and Benton’s in Boston has the delightful Nantucket line for fashionable young women.”

Mr. Fields sniffed. “Unless this show is a smashing success and there’s some reason besides ‘Everyone else is doing it,’ we’ll not be jumping on the bandwagon. Miss Marchwold has proven she can please a handful of clients, not the countless men and women who have come through these doors for more than thirty years.”

Mr. Michaels narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. “Very well. Time will tell.”

Mr. Fields nodded. “Indeed.”

As Mr. Fields neared the exit, Nell said in a cheery tone, “The designs will be s-stunning, you’ll see.”

When Mr. Fields had gone, Mr. Michaels said, “Mavis told me to expect Fields to be starchy. She didn’t mention skeptical and tightfisted.”

“He m-means well. And this is a new v-venture for all of us, Mr. Michaels.” She couldn’t believe how easily she came to her boss’s defense, but he was giving her an opportunity. One where she meant to excel.

He pulled the designs from the corkboard, rolled them up, and told her he would have duplicates sent to her by the following morning. “And please, I’d prefer that you call me Soren.”

“Soren, it is.”

By Friday, Nell had a dozen rough sketches for her meeting with Soren. Lovely hats with enough traditional air about them that she was sure even Mr. Fields would approve.

Soren looked them over, and after a cursory glance, he tossed them aside. “Mundane. Not quite the flair I had expected from you.”

“These are pr-pr-pre—”

“Preliminary. Is that what you’re trying to say? My philosophy is to go for the daring right out off the top. If you want to make it in this cutthroat business, you have to stand head and shoulders above the rest. Fresh. Original. Not boring.” He handed her a sheet of paper with a list. “These are my final selections for the show. Eight ensembles, and I’ve included two extras for good measure. Two weeks should be adequate time for you to come up with dazzling, agree?”

She nodded, miffed somewhat that he hadn’t given her any direction one way or the other about his expectations. Mind reading wasn’t a skill she possessed. Fresh? Original? She thought she’d done that.

“I’ll be by on Monday morning to see what I hope will be designs more inspiring than these.” He ripped the parchments in two and handed them back, then spun around and left.

Nell’s face flamed. What nerve. All her work ripped in half. Perhaps she should tell Mr. Fields the collaboration wasn’t a good idea.

Her stomach knotted. Giving up now would only prove that her boss was right and would likely lead him to say she didn’t have what it took. He would never give her another chance.

Soren Michaels wouldn’t be the first obstinate person she encountered in the fashion world. She looked at the tattered pages. Soren was right. They were mundane.

Dazzling he wanted. Dazzling she would give him.

Dust motes danced in the sunrays bathing the tiny kitchen table in Nell’s flat with natural light. She’d been at work since dawn on Saturday after working until well past midnight making new sketches. After a few false starts, she took a new direction and went for the more dramatic. Basic shapes but delicate beadwork and sparkle. More intricate patterns and unusual fabric choices. Her hours at the library poring over fashion books paid off.

She refreshed her tea and surveyed her work so far. A good beginning. She doodled on one of the discarded sketches, writing Nellie March in a fancy script, then block letters. It was silly, she knew, to even dream that someday she’d have her own line. She scratched out the block letters.

Jeanette ambled by and peeked over her shoulder. “Nellie March?” She squinted her eyes and leaned over closer.

“Oh, I see! Nell Marchwold. Nellie March. A stage name, like Greta wanting to be called Greta Leona.”

“Something like that. I didn’t know Greta wanted a stage name.”

“Are you two talking about me?” Greta strolled into the kitchen, her silk robe hanging open, her hair matted to the sides of her head like a golden retriever in need of grooming.

Jeanette said, “Morning, sunshine. Have fun last night or is that subject off-limits?”

Greta got a bowl from the corner shelf and Post Toasties from the cupboard. “Complete bust. The director who promised he’d give me an audition in his new drama never showed. I wore silk stockings and everything to make a good impression.”

“That stinks. Guess we’re both pathetic. I got my anthropology midterm back. C minus.” Jeanette thumbed toward Nell. “Get this. Nell’s thought of a keen stage name for herself. Nellie March.”

“It’s not a stage name. And Calvin Gold’s the one who thought of it.”

Greta spooned in a mouthful of cereal. “Nellie March. Catchy.”

“That’s what Mrs. Benchley said. She and Calvin think I’ll get my own label after the show with Soren Michaels.”

Jeanette snorted. “Shows how much they know. Trust me, Uncle Oscar would never in a million years let you have your own label.”

“He hasn’t actually said he would, but he did promise when he hired me that he’d make me a top designer. It never hurts to dream, does it?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s promised to take you to the moon and back, too. Anything to make sure his little company keeps selling hats, and he keeps getting credit.” Jeanette flicked a curl from her forehead.

“H-how…wh-why are you saying this?”

Jeanette and Greta exchanged a look that Nell didn’t understand.

Greta said, “What Jeanette is trying to say is that Mr. Fields is stringing you along, making grand promises when what he’s really interested in is what you’re willing to do for him.” She tilted her head and gave a coy smile.

Nell shook her head. “That’s terrible. I would never…and you shouldn’t, either.” What was even more terrible was the realization that Greta might have already done just that in her desperation to land a part. “You…you didn’t?”

Greta grimaced. “No, but I was this close.” She held her thumb and forefinger up to where they were almost touching, but not quite. “If the creep would’ve shown up last night…”

“I’m glad for you that he didn’t. You’ll make it. You need a lucky break, that’s all.”

Greta picked up her bowl and slurped the milk from it. “You make your own breaks, that’s what everyone says.” She put her bowl in the sink and said she was going to take a bubble bath and soak away her sorrow.

“Greta’s right. You think you’ve got this swell deal going with Uncle Oscar.”

“I didn’t say I had anything going
with
him.”

“Same as.” Jeanette offered Nell a hand and pulled her to her feet. “Let me tell you a little story about your dear Oscar.”

Nell’s stomach did a funny dance. Jeanette was serious. Or seriously trying to make something out of nothing.

Jeanette sat Nell down on the love seat. “Here’s the truth, my innocent dove. Oscar Fields is out to get whatever he can from whomever he can. Aunt Anna would have been the first in line to tell you that.”

“I thought she was happily married to Mr. Fields.”

“At first, yes. I was pretty young then and didn’t know anything except that Aunt Anna made the most darling bonnets for me and my cousins. She was an apprentice like you, but under Oscar’s father. From what I’ve heard Oscar was only eighteen when his dad died and he inherited the business. He knew next-to-nothing about design, but Anna did. Oscar courted her and said if she’d marry him, he’d make her the principal milliner, give her a line of hats, and make her a star. Ha! All he wanted was her talent.”

Nell inhaled through her nose, the familiarity of it nibbling away at her. Jeanette’s words were nearly identical to Mr. Fields’s promises to her in Kentucky. Without the marriage thrown in.

After securing an introduction to Nell at the Kentucky Derby, Mr. Fields had quizzed her about her experience and arranged to meet her the next day at her rented shop on Bardstown Road. Her mother, skeptical and protective, accompanied her. Mr. Fields had been flattering and oozing with charm, examining her workmanship and her designs.

“You’re the kind of designer who could go places in New York, and I would consider it an honor if you would come to Oscar Fields Millinery.” Nell would have left with him that day if her mother hadn’t stepped in and said that suitable arrangements would have to be made first.

Nell was pleased at her mother’s interest, but she got the impression that, once Mr. Fields had presented a plan and spoke privately with her mother, Evangeline Marchwold was glad to hand her daughter off. She was already working with Granville Larson, a botany professor, and Nell suspected her mother was in love with him. Shuffling Nell off to New York would ease any hurt Nell might feel that her father was being replaced. Indeed, six months later, her mother and Granville had married. Unfortunately, the lavish praise from Mr. Fields stopped long before that. In two years, Nell could count on one hand the number of times her boss had given her a compliment. The “going places” now seemed as remote as Jupiter.

“It’s not the same thing. He’s not
after
me, not trying to get fresh or anything.”

“But he’s not giving you proper credit, is he?”

“Not yet, but maybe he’s just waiting to see if things go well with Soren.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. Marrying Anna for her talent was just the beginning. He started spending more time at his club, and Anna suspected he might be having an affair. She began to feel trapped, unable to advance her career and stuck in a crummy marriage.”

Something was off. If there were bad feelings between Mr. Fields and Jeanette’s family, then it made no sense for Jeanette to have agreed to let Nell room with her.

When she asked about it, Jeanette jumped up and put a phonograph record on the Victrola. “I had my reasons.”

“And?”

“I needed help. You know we don’t have much, Mother and me. And Dad…well, you know.”

Jeanette seldom talked about her dad, but Nell knew Mr. North had been injured in the war and suffered from nerve damage and breathing problems. Nell didn’t want to embarrass her roommate by prying. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“It’s all right. You asked. The truth is I didn’t want you to live with us even though Uncle Oscar offered to pay my part of the lease if I agreed. I thought you’d be some pathetic little thing—whiny or demanding or flighty—but I really needed the money.”

“It sounds like you’re trying to get rid of me.”

“No, gracious no. Greta and I love having you here. We just didn’t expect to like you is all. And you make spiffy hats. No one’s done that for me since Aunt Anna died.”

“It’s nice to be appreciated.” She scrunched her nose. “And to be your personal milliner.”

“Thing is, you’re good. And you have an inner strength. Integrity, I guess. You deserve to get your own label, but it’s going to be tough with Oscar. Anything I can do?”

“Say a prayer that I get everything done on time.”

If Soren didn’t like her designs, then it was all moot anyway.

On Monday, Nell met Soren in the salon at ten o’clock. He kissed her on the cheek like they were longtime friends, then asked to see the sketches. Nell’s stomach was a swarm of nerves, her palms sweaty, when she handed them over.

Soren narrowed his eyes and examined each one without a word. His expression was unreadable, but when he’d finished, a wide smile graced his face, his eyes like star sapphires.

“Stunning. Mesmerizing. Perfect!” He tapped on one of the sketches. “The most unusual pattern of beading I’ve ever seen. Fit for royalty.”

“Thank you. And thanks for the nudge. I’ve wanted to do more experimenting, but…”

“Yes, I know. Fields is stodgy, which isn’t uncommon in the fashion industry. His way appeals to the masses and pays the bills. He’ll give you a little leeway to see if what you design catches on. If it does, he’ll want to keep a close eye on you so you remain loyal to him.”

“Why wouldn’t I? He’s giving me a chance.”

“Take it from me. When you’re young, it’s easy to confuse your dreams with vanity and get ahead of yourself. I learned that the hard way.”

Nell waited, but he didn’t elaborate. “And if my designs don’t catch on?”

“You’ll be looking for another job.”

Like Nora Remming.

It felt like a warning of some sort, that failure was possible. And in a strange way, an echo of what Jeanette and Greta had said. Were they all telling her not to get her hopes up? Or did they think she wasn’t capable of success? Maybe getting her own label wasn’t imminent, but it was certainly worth going after.

That afternoon Nell tacked the sketches for both the dresses and the hats on the workroom wall so Hazel and Marcella, the other assembly workers who’d volunteered to help with the beadwork, could get a feel for the projects.

Nell retreated to her usual corner, back against the wall, as she crafted new foundations, added the outer fabrics, and supervised both of her helpers. Steiger had been snippier than ever since she’d gotten the show with Soren. The word was he was miffed that he was wrong about her getting fired. She couldn’t let Steiger get the best of her. Nor Percy who’d been decidedly cool since she’d gotten the project. Besides, there was really no time with the runway show coming up so soon, and she wanted everything to be perfect.

When the evening arrived, Nell felt ready. When she arrived at the Stottlemeir Club, she found Soren pacing and fretful, not oozing confidence like he normally did.

“Stage fright,” he told her. “The house is packed.”

Nell peeked around the curtain. Servers in black tails and starchy shirts weaved through the crowd—yes, swarms of people. Potential customers, but finicky critics as well if they didn’t like what they saw. In the wings, Soren fussed over the mannequins—“models” they were called in America—tucking a lock of dark hair behind one’s ear, running around with a rouge pot and adding more color to cheekbones, cooing that they were going to be simply marvelous.

When the girls were lined up and the president of the club had given the welcome, Soren gripped Nell’s hand. “You run on, darling, and sit with Oscar so you can gauge people’s reaction. I can handle the script.”

She wished him luck, thankful that with her stammer, she wasn’t called on to help with introducing the ensembles. Nell slipped into the chair between Mr. Fields and Calvin, took a deep breath, and noticed that Mrs. Benchley and her daughters shared their table. Cozy, like a family. Candles flickered on each of the tables, the effect that of a kaleidoscope with the reflections of the silver place settings and lovely rose centerpieces. Nell’s mother would’ve approved, crazy as she was over roses.

Calvin took her trembling hand and gave it a squeeze. “Nice dress.”

It was a nice dress—one of Soren’s “extra” designs. The buttercup silk moved with her, and the headpiece she’d designed for it made her feel elegant with its headband of pearls and a center medallion with emerald, topaz, and peridot stones. She wore it across her forehead and let her blonde hair tumble to her shoulders.

Mr. Fields leaned over and whispered, “I hope this isn’t much ado about nothing.”

Nell did a hesitant thumbs-up at the edge of the table and turned her attention to the introduction of Soren Michaels.

The staging area had twinkly lights like stars on the black curtain at the back and swags of greenery with hurricane lamps before the footlights. The girl modeling Persimmon Enchantment stepped out and struck a pose.

“Our first selection is a rich silk gown with contrasting velvet cording and a waist treatment of decorative embroidery accented with cerulean beadwork. The banded hemline echoes the waist. A dress fit for royalty, but it will be appreciated by the charming hostess or guest at a late autumn dinner party.” Soren’s voice was as enchanting as the auburn-haired mannequin who pivoted onstage as he spoke. A photographer with his black box atop a tripod was stationed at the side of the stage and captured the moment.

Soren continued, “Topping off the ensemble is a silk velvet cloche with metallic beading and an appliquéd design that complements the gown.” Applause exploded as the mannequin glided down the carpeted aisle between the tables and exited through the rear entry. When the murmur died down, Soren introduced the next ensemble in the collection. Mr. Fields’s face was wooden as he reached for his glass and took a sip. Mrs. Benchley, though, leaned across Mr. Fields and gave Nell a glowing smile.

The fifth dress of the evening was a merlot gown that shimmered as if it were a second skin on the pert blonde woman modeling it. When she turned and gave a coquettish look over her shoulder, spontaneous applause broke out. The crowd loved it, and as Soren completed the description of the bejeweled hat that completed the ensemble, Mr. Fields draped his arm casually behind Nell, his thumb idly running up and down the back of her bare arm. She stiffened but kept her eyes on the stage.

Soren saved his favorite for last. The mannequin’s straight dark hair swung just above her shoulders as she entered and posed. “Midnight Masquerade is our final gown of the evening. Whether dancing with your sweetheart or being the life of the party as you welcome in the New Year, this chiffon chemise features an overblouse with smoky glass bugle beads. The fluid swing of the rhinestone-studded strips of the skirt will guarantee every eye is on you as you dance the night away.”