The Hatmaker's Heart: A Novel (8 page)

Aunt Sarah said that was nonsense and then changed direction and told her about her latest project with the Louisville Women’s League. When the waiter served their dessert and Aunt Sarah took the last bite of cheesecake, she licked her lips and said, “Delicious. Not that I would put it up against the buttermilk pie the Ladies Aid serves at our church, but quite satisfactory. As I was saying, you need to come up to our suite so I can give you your mother’s package.”

Nell had forgotten her mother sent something and was cheered at the prospect. She hoped it was a new scarf or a packet of rose petals for the bath. Something she could use and not another recipe book to catch dust and clutter their already-cramped kitchen.

Nell folded her napkin. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

Wrapped in brown paper, the package was rectangular, thinner than a book. Inside the brown paper was a layer of newspaper. An envelope with her mother’s handwriting protruded between the overlapping edges. Nell opened the note first.

With trembling fingers, Nell removed the paper. Her breath caught in her throat. The embroidery that hung in Grandmama’s bedchamber above her writing desk. Nell hugged it to her chest, her eyes burning.

“Well, darling, are you going to keep us in suspense forever?” Aunt Sarah puffed on her cigarette, sending out a wisp of smoke.

Nell held the framed handiwork at arm’s length to take it in, then turned it for her aunt to see. “It’s a s-sampler Grandmama made the year before she married my grandfather.” She traced the words from Proverbs 31:
Strength and honor are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come.
The stitching was still perfect; the figure of a woman to one side dressed in a blue dress with a hoopskirt and wearing a spoon bonnet that had been fashionable in the last century.

Aunt Sarah said, “That’s lovely…and thoughtful. Not that I take much stock in ancient history. It was a happy day indeed when Eli swept me off my feet and carried me off to Kentucky. I’ve not missed the cold misery I left behind for even a moment.”

Nell shuddered and whispered, “I miss everything about it.”

“Even with your big exciting life in New York?”

“New York is swell. So was Kentucky. But they’re not the same. They’re not home.”

“Home is what you make of it, that’s what I’ve always told the girls. Of course, it’s nicer if you have a man of means to share it with.” She ground out her cigarette in the ashtray and narrowed her eyes. “Your mother would sleep better at night knowing you were at least
looking
for a husband.”

She knew now what poor Iris was up against. “Someday, if the right person comes along, I’d love to marry.” She flashed a grin. “After I’m famous, of course!” Then, unbidden, Quentin Bledsoe’s familiar grin flashed through her head. She added, “I’ve only had one beau, and that was a long time ago.”

Her aunt’s eyes widened. “That vicar’s son from the village. Oh, sugar. I thought you’d be over that long before now. Trust me, every one of us has had that first sip of forbidden nectar. Like Mittie and the farrier’s son.”

“Mother!” Mittie stood in the doorway. “I think you’re the one that’s been dipping in the forbidden nectar. What’d you do, persuade the waiter to doctor your coffee with a shot of bourbon?”

“Mittie, I do not drink. You know that. Besides, it’s illegal. I’m merely trying to pass along some of the hard-earned wisdom I’ve gained over the years. You girls know I love you more than my Victoria sterling, but even it needs polishing now and then.”

Some things never changed, Nell decided. Aunt Sarah’s insistence on marrying them all off. Her own mother’s love for roses. And it wasn’t even like she was still in love with Quentin. It was ages ago. Grandmama’s gift had merely stirred up old memories.

Nell picked up her handbag and Grandmama’s framed stitchery. “It’s getting late, and you have an early train, so I should be going.” She went to her aunt, leaned over, and kissed her cheek. “I love you just the way you are. Thank you for coming. Give Mama and Caroline hugs and kisses from me, all right?”

After their final good-byes, Nell decided on a taxi to take her home, and as it pulled away from the curb, Nell looked back at the ornate but stately Algonquin, the glow in the bay windows, the doorman at his post. She craned her neck to see the fifth floor where her aunt Sarah, Iris, and Mittie were preparing for the train ride home.

She missed them already, but Christmas wasn’t that far away.

Strength and honor are her clothing.

Nell gazed at Grandmama’s sampler and huffed out a breath. She was hopelessly without honor if she couldn’t clear her name, the shame of her carelessness with Soren’s drawings. And she hadn’t been strong, either, in finding out who was responsible.

The flat was quiet, her roommates already retired for the night, but sleep eluded Nell. Calvin had said she had integrity the day he showed her the pictures in the newspaper. Did she? And if Calvin said that, did it mean he was also a man of integrity? That he recognized it in her because he possessed it?

It was wrong to suspect Calvin without at least talking to him. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t gone straight to him when Mr. Fields accused her. She slipped to the floor and on her knees asked God to guide her, to give her strength, and say the right things to Calvin. She had to trust someone or she would never regain her honor.

Calvin sat hunched over his drawing table and nodded to Nell. No
How do you do?
No crooked smile. She couldn’t blame him. She practically ignored him all week, afraid he was responsible for the stolen designs.

Nell hung up her coat and offered a cheery hello, then looked around to see if they were alone. “Something new you’re working on?”

“Trying to.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’ve been wanting to talk to you. Could you spare a minute?”

“Anything for you, Nellie M—” He made a face. “Sorry. I know you don’t like that. What’s on your mind?”

She told him about Mr. Fields and Soren, the designs showing up at House of Price.

“I heard. Any theories about what happened?”

“No, but I intend to find out.” She told him about going to the shop and trying to make an appointment, about finding not only Soren’s dresses, but her cloche design as well.

“It was odd, though. A Mrs. Morris waited on me—Nadine, I think. She seemed familiar, like I’d seen her before. I don’t think she’s a client here, and it’s probably just that I’ve passed her on the street or seen her in the library, but it was rather unnerving.”

Calvin cupped his chin in his hand and frowned. “Nadine? You sure that was the name?”

“Nearly certain. Have you had a client with that name?”

“No, but…” He glanced over his shoulder and then at the door. “Percy’s daughter is named Nadine. He’s mentioned her. A week or two ago he said something about one of Nadine’s kids being sick.” He pointed to Percy’s desk. “The man’s crazy about those grandkids.”

Nausea welled up. The woman had looked familiar because it was like looking at the feminine version of Percy. Even the narrow gap between the front teeth.

Nell pressed her fingers to her mouth. “Percy? Do you think?” While it was true he was a loner, he’d always been pleasant enough. In the past he’d even ask about her work now and then, pointing out minor details that would help her designs—a wider brim, more crown height. But he hadn’t done so in a while. Not since her designs had started to become popular. And she didn’t remember him offering any advice about the velvet cloche like the one at the House of Price.

“I don’t know what to think. It’s eerie sometimes—remember when we first came and he showed us how to draw according to what a client described? He could whip out a design in nothing flat.”

“He is fast. Not too detail oriented, though.” Like the simple bead design on the copycat dress that lacked the intricacy of Soren’s creation. “Do you think it’s enough to mention to Mr. Fields?”

“It’s your job on the line.” Calvin raised his eyebrows. “You want me to come along?”

“Not this time.”

Nell retrieved her portfolio. She’d use it as a pretense to talk with her boss. With a prayer in her heart, she ran up the steps to the third-floor offices and asked Harjo if Mr. Fields was in.

“Last time I checked.” He nodded her in.

Mr. Fields squinted when she asked to have a word. “Come to throw yourself at my mercy?”

Words clogged Nell’s throat. She swallowed and gave a thin laugh. “If that would h-help. If what I’ve uncovered about the c-copied d-designs turns out to be wrong.”

“What? Have you added sleuthing to your list of invaluable skills? Seems to me you should be applying yourself to the honorable clients who’ve requested your services.”

“I have been doing that. P-please, hear me out.”

She laid bare her suspicions and her conversation with Calvin, the woman’s resemblance to Percy. She only stammered a few times, but enough that she knew her recent speech progress had been temporary.

Mr. Fields’s look was that of stone, his eyes narrowed. “Pure fantasy, I’m certain. And I’m appalled that you would accuse my top designer, the one whose opinion I value highly.”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t a good d-designer. Only that I think it b-bears looking into.”

“You’ve made your case. Now, skeedaddle. See if you can’t find something productive to do and quit wasting my time.”

“Yes, sir. And th-thank you.”

Her legs were as limp as linguine as she found her way out and scuttled past Harjo without a word.
Please, let him believe me. Or at least do his own inquiries.

All she could do was trust that her prayers were heard.

Nell crossed her legs, jiggling the top one as she waited for Dr. Underwood. She reached for her tea, furnished as always by Lindy Williams, but it had already grown cold. It wasn’t like Dr. Underwood to keep her waiting, and just when Nell had given up on his coming, Lindy popped back in.

“So sorry for the wait. Dr. Underwood should be here in just a tick.” She perched on the arm of Dr. Underwood’s chair. “Have you had a good week?”

Lindy meant well, trying to engage her in conversation, but Nell evaded the question. An entire day had passed without a word from Mr. Fields, although Nell had little time to dwell on it with her numerous consultations. The design work would keep her busy all weekend and the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday as well. Lindy smiled, waiting for an answer.

“Not too bad. I’m curious, though. Do you observe Thanksgiving? I find it peculiar since it’s not one of our English traditions.”

“It did seem strange at first, but my husband’s family makes it quite the frolic with the bird and all. And I get an extra two days off to be with my wee ones.”

“I didn’t realize you had children.”

“Two little cherubs. My mum lives in the flat next door and watches after them. Like I said, it will be a merry time.” Lindy glanced at the clock. “I’ll run on now and check on Dr. Underwood.”

Moments later, Dr. Underwood came in, and without ado, he asked how she was.

“My stammering is better, at least when I’m with friends.”

“You’ve always related well to your peers then?”

“I’m not sure. I wasn’t around that many growing up. I had a g-governess at the manor, so the only time I was with other children was at the village church.”

“Ah, yes. Makes sense. Did you have a best friend?”

“Not when I was younger. I spent a lot of time with Jane Alistair, the lady’s maid to my grandmother. She’s the one who first taught me about hats.”

“So you always lived in a predominantly adult world. Interesting, I’d like to explore this area. Perhaps you could draw a church picnic or a Sunday school class.”

Nell sighed. It was a waste of time. Her drawings of her grandmother, one of her father on his Royal Navy ship, and the garden had done nothing but stir up longing for her family and England. And yet, Dr. Underwood’s current suggestion had unearthed a scorching memory.

It took longer than usual to do the sketch, and when she’d finished, Dr. Underwood studied it for a moment and pointed to a figure in the corner. “Is this you?”

Nell smiled. “It is. And now that you pointed it out, I know I always choose to sit in an obscure place, my b-back to the wall.”

“Any particular reason?”

“It’s what I’ve always done, a way to observe p-people and stay on the f-fringe.”

“I prefer that myself, so I’m not being critical, just clarifying. But I did notice that you’re faltering again. Perhaps an old wound. Think it over and we’ll talk about it after Thanksgiving.” He tucked the sketch in her folder and wished her a happy holiday.

On the trolley, Nell stared at the throng out the window. Dusk had come quickly, and with it a chill wind. Through the blur of glass, she thought of the picture she’d drawn and of that day long ago.

A light snow had fallen overnight, the temperature sinking as the day wore on. As she ran to the carriage house, ten-year-old Prunella’s breath came out in puffs like the ones from her papa’s pipe. Freddy held the door for her to get in the back of Grandfather’s car for her weekly confirmation class. The minute Freddy pulled to a stop in front of St. John’s Church, Prunella jumped from the Rolls-Royce and ducked her head into the wind. She hated arriving in the car and the jabs from the children who had to walk from school to attend the class.

Prunella the Princess.

What’s the matter, your legs broken so you have your chauffeur drive you to catechism school?

If she answered, they ridiculed her stammer. If she remained silent, they taunted,
Cat got your tongue?

The transept was frigid that day, but it was a relief to get in from the wind, and an even bigger relief that she’d made it without an encounter. She took her spot on the far end of the back row, the stone bench like ice through her woolen dress. Her stomach twisted when Wiggins, the teaching elder, entered, eyeing her with a frown. He turned his back and coughed into his fist, a loud rattle deep in his chest.

With her attention on Wiggins, she didn’t see the others come in. Simone Honeycutt slipped next to her. Prunella’s stomach wrung itself into a knot. Anyone but Simone. She quirked her mouth into a smile, determined not to let Simone, with her innocent violet eyes and hair that fell to her shoulders in ringlets, unsettle her.

Wiggins recovered from the spasm and led them in the opening exercise. He cleared his throat and looked straight at her. “Prunella, please stand and recite this week’s assignment.”

The Ten Commandments.
She knew them backward and forward, but when his eyes pierced hers, she froze.

Relax, you half-wit. You can do this.
She let her jaw go slack and tried not to think about the words lodged in her throat. She rose on jellied legs, biting her lip until the taste of blood filled her mouth. “Thou shalt h-have no other g-g-g…” She stared at her feet, and in her side vision she saw Simone Honeycutt stick a finger in her mouth like she was gagging.

Prunella looked straight ahead and started over. “Thou shalt have no other ga-ga-gags…g-g-gods before me.” Laughter echoed from the walls of the transept. Cold. Hollow.

The only one not laughing was Wiggins. Instead his eyes looked as if they were going to pop right out of their sockets. His chest heaved and he leaned over coughing until his face turned the color of beets. He spit great globs of phlegm into a handkerchief, pearl drops of sweat on his brow. His hands clenched the lectern in a death grip.

Prunella held her breath.
Please, Lord, don’t let him die in front of us.

Stubs Pogue nudged Simone with a pencil and whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, “Pruneface is so stupid she even made Wiggins gag.”

Her face flamed as she lowered her head. Then a voice came through the fog, a whisper in her head. Grandmama’s voice. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. When you make a mistake, lift your chin and go on. Be strong.”

She gritted her teeth and lifted her chin. “May I start over p-please?”

Wiggins took off his glasses, his eyes two slits with mushy bags beneath them. In a raspy voice he said he was too ill to continue. He scooped up his satchel and left, crouching in his coat so the collar met his ears.

Prunella gathered her things, unsure what she should do. Freddy wouldn’t be back for another hour, and it was too bitter cold to walk to the manor. Maybe the vicar could help her.

Whilst she was trying to ease past Simone, Stubs put out his foot. “You have to give the code word to get by.”

“Ex-ex-excuse me, p-please.”

“Nope, that’s not it. Try again, liver lips.”

Simone snickered. “Don’t be cruel, Stubs. The princess can’t help it that her tongue is tied in knots.”

“I’m not a p-princess.” Prunella backed up and cut around the end to go the other way and came up against Jacob Rayburn, who smelled of onions and sheep manure. He was the oldest in the class. And the biggest. Prunella shuddered. He yanked one of her braids and grabbed her leather knapsack.

He hollered over his shoulder, “Hey mates, a game of Pickle in the Middle?” He tossed the bag underhand to Stubs. When Prunella lunged at Stubs, he swung it around by the straps and sailed it over to Herb Swenton who then hurled it back to Jacob.

Simone raised her arms to catch the bag, and when she did, the flap came undone, sending Prunella’s papers flying through the air.

Herb grabbed the bag and hollered, “Hey, Bledsoe, wanna have some fun? Catch.”

Prunella’s head snapped up.
Quentin? What is he doing here?
She looked at him with pleading eyes. He was the vicar’s son. Surely he wouldn’t torment her, too. He narrowed his eyes, the bag clutched in his hands, and looked at the papers strewn across the floor and benches of the transept. “Prunella?”

Understanding crossed Quentin’s face, giving Prunella hope that he would put a stop to the nonsense. Although her hopes were slim considering that even though Quentin was older, he was small for his age. So thin that Mama once said the breeze from a door slamming would bowl him over.

Jacob jeered, “Throw the bag, Quentin. You’re slowing down the game.”

Quentin shook his head. “Game’s over.” He extended the bag toward Prunella, but Herb lunged sideways into Quentin, knocking him down. Simone’s shriek echoed from the stone walls. Quentin jumped to his feet and took a swing at Herb, who ducked and punched Quentin in the stomach. Jacob came from the other side and shoved Quentin against the wall. “You got no right coming in here when it’s not your class and messing with the game.”

Quentin thrashed his arms. “You got no right to—”

Jacob’s fist slammed into Quentin’s nose. “That’s for interrupting and taking up for stupid.”

Prunella covered her face with her hands to stop the scream that rose in her throat. When Quentin didn’t answer, she spread her fingers and chanced a look. Blood poured from Quentin’s nose, splattered on the front of his jacket, dripping onto the cold stone floor.

Hot tears stung Prunella’s eyes, her insides a boiling cauldron. But her feet wouldn’t move, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

Jacob growled, “I oughta slam you with another one. Just let that be a lesson to you.” He grabbed his coat and looked at the others. “What are you waiting for? Let’s get out of here before his old man shows up.”

The transept emptied, the shuffling of feet the only sounds. All except Quentin who held a handkerchief to his nose and walked between the benches, gathering Prunella’s papers with his free hand. He stuffed them in her knapsack and handed it to her without a word.