“You know I’m just lousy with women swarming around me waiting for a date.”
“Perhaps you need to let them know you’re available.”
“Easy for you to say, Miss Talk of the Town.” He picked up a folded newspaper and held it behind his back.
“Are you mad? I lead a quiet and very boring life.” Nell shook her head. Except for going to church with Felice on Sunday morning, Nell had spent the entire weekend practicing the lists Dr. Underwood had given her. She’d been an utter failure and had even driven Jeanette and Greta from the flat just to get away from her.
Mr. Mister misses his mistress.
Polly Parrot picked a peanut from the parlor floor.
Fudd Phillips found a feather floating by the ferry.
“Not anymore, you won’t. Guess you haven’t seen yesterday’s newspaper?”
“No, I haven’t. Is that what you’re hiding behind your back?”
“Give me a kiss and I’ll show you.”
“Calvin Gold, stop this instant. If I did want to kiss you…and I don’t…I wouldn’t do it because you b-bribed me.” Embarrassed, she glanced at Percy. He was old enough to be their father, but he seemed to have no interest whatsoever in their conversation.
“Hey, you can’t knock a fella for trying,” Calvin said as he shoved the paper at her, folded so that a photograph peered up at her.
Claudia and Daphne Benchley. Wearing the hats Nell had made. “Oh. Oh, goodness. Aren’t they g-g-gor—”
“Yeah, gorgeous would be about right. Read what it says.”
Daphne and Claudia Benchley, daughters of New York’s most sought-after architect, Porter Benchley, lit up Saturday’s dedication ceremony of the newly opened Stottlemeir Club.
The Beaux-Arts Classicism–inspired building will house not only the exclusive club, but also offices, shops, and restaurants. Porter Benchley and his associates were on hand to receive the plaque presented by Mayor John Hylan, but all eyes were on Benchley’s daughters, who some in the crowd described as ravishing.
The girls, clad in ensembles from Soren Michaels House of Design and Oscar Fields Millinery, had young men asking for introductions and debutante hopefuls scrambling to get the numbers of the girls’ designers.
Nell knew her mouth was hanging open, but she couldn’t seem to close it. She read the short piece again and looked at the top to see what section had covered the story.
Calvin said, “Yes, the front of the society section. I’m surprised a hoard of people haven’t stormed the shop downstairs. Chances are we’ll be out of Nellie March hats by the end of the day.”
“Don’t say that!”
“What? That business will be picking up?”
“No. The Nellie March part. I was fortunate, that’s all. Fortunate that Mr. Fields trusted me with his pet Mrs. Benchley. And if you had read more carefully, my name’s not even mentioned.”
“Guess I missed that.”
“Besides, you had three requests last week.”
“Yeah, from old maids and senile octogenarians.”
“Rich old maids. Don’t f-forget that.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” He reached for the paper, but Nell hugged it to her chest. Yes, she knew her place; Mr. Fields was always clear about that. But this. This! She’d been right about Claudia’s hat, the one Mr. Fields had sniffed at.
A shiver raced across her shoulders. It was most likely overplay by an eager reporter.
Nell shoved the paper back at Calvin. “Vanity is fleeting, a sounding gong. That’s what my grandmother always says when the Tatler reports an occasion. Nothing to get all in a dither about.”
“Not to dispute your wise grandmother, but I wouldn’t bet my last nickel on it. Someone with your talent and integrity will go places.” Calvin tossed the paper on Nell’s desk.
Scarcely an hour later, Harjo popped his head in the studio. “Mr. Fields’s office. Now.” He left without saying whether she and Calvin were to both go or just one of them.
Calvin told her to go ahead, it was her party.
“No. You come, too. It might not even be about the newspaper article.”
“Are you loony? Of course that’s what it’s about, but I’ll go and hold your hand.”
Nell glared at him. “You needn’t bother. I’m perfectly able to talk to Mr. Fields alone.”
Calvin held up his hands, palms facing her, signaling a truce. “I’m going—not to hold your hand—but because I don’t want to miss out on the fun.”
Nell fished in her handbag and pulled out a lipstick and compact to freshen up the pink on her mouth and powder her nose. She checked her hair in the mirror. The part was straight and no locks had come loose from the chignon at her nape, so she snapped the compact shut and offered her arm to Calvin.
When Harjo opened the door for Nell and Calvin to enter, Mrs. Benchley’s throaty laugh bubbled out.
“Oh, there’s our darling hatmaker.” Mrs. Benchley swooped over and planted ample hands on Nell’s shoulders, giving a soft squeeze. She gave a brushing glance at Calvin. “And who might you be?”
“Calvin Gold. Nellie March and I share a studio.”
All eyes turned to Calvin, but it was Mrs. Benchley who said, “Nellie March? Nellie…oh, you mean Miss Marchwold. What a sly and witty man you are, giving her a pet name.”
Nell knew her face had turned as bright as the lipstick she’d applied only moments before. “Calvin is such a t-tease.” She inhaled deeply to steady her voice. “It’s lovely to see you again. How was the dedication?”
“Splendid. Simply splendid. Have you seen the article in the newspaper?”
“I did. Just this morning.”
The phone on the credenza rang, and Harjo jumped quickly to answer it. He handed the base and receiver to Mr. Fields.
“Yes, certainly, that would work just fine. Two o’clock.” Mr. Fields returned the receiver to the cradle and nodded to Nell. “Mrs. Benchley has come to thank us for the hats we designed for their gala evening.”
Nell thought perhaps she should curtsy to Mrs. Benchley, but that would be overly gratuitous. She merely said, “The p-privilege was mine.”
Mrs. Benchley waved away the comment. “I was telling Oscar I gave your name to no less than a dozen people at the unveiling and could have easily supplied it to more, but one has to be careful, you know, not to encourage the wrong sort of clientele.”
Mr. Fields rose and spoke to Mrs. Benchley. “Forgive me. Can I offer you a drink? Some coffee perhaps? Or a glass of sherry?”
“Heavens, no. I can only stay a moment, but I wanted to tell all of you that Soren Michaels just called with the most marvelous idea. He would like to collaborate with Nell—or is it Nellie?—and do a small show at the Stottlemeir Club. Now that it’s fully opened and christened, it’s the ideal opportunity.”
The phone rang again. After a brief conversation, Mr. Fields told the caller three o’clock would be fine. Mrs. Benchley’s friends already?
Mr. Fields cleared his throat. “A collaboration, you say? Perhaps at some time in the future, I would take it under consideration.”
“Time is of the essence, Oscar. A single mention of your salon is one thing, but having it associated with an event would be pure gold. People will be clamoring for Nell’s designs.”
“For Oscar Fields’s designs, you mean. I would never give all the work to a lone millinery designer. Miss Marchwold could contribute, of course, but having the entire responsibility would undoubtedly put her under pressure to perform and might very well send the entire operation spiraling into disaster.”
Mrs. Benchley put her palms on the desk and leaned over, meeting Mr. Fields eye to eye. “Soren specifically asked for Nell. It’s an opportunity, Oscar. For the salon. For both of you.” She straightened and tilted her head toward Nell. “Nellie March. That’s quite catchy, isn’t it?”
Mr. Fields mumbled something unintelligible and then in a calm voice said, “What you’re suggesting is that I give Miss Ma
rchwold an exclusive. Next thing, you’ll be saying I should give her her own label.”
“Why, Oscar, I didn’t say that at all, but it’s a brilliant idea. Inspired, no less.” She looked at her diamond-encrusted wristwatch. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid I have another engagement, but I do believe you’re onto something, you clever man. Nellie March. Can you just imagine?”
Mr. Fields clamped his lips, his mustache twitching. “No, I can’t. I have no intention of giving a label to a junior apprentice. And certainly not one of the female variety. It would go against everything this company stands for, the years my father toiled in building a respectable business.”
Nell almost chuckled at Mrs. Benchley’s clever manipulation of Mr. Fields, but the “female variety” remark grated. Seeing her mother, Evangeline Marchwold, struggle to find her place in Kentucky with no competence or experience had taught Nell that women could and should equip themselves with education and skills to make it in the world.
Mrs. Benchley pulled on her gloves and smiled sweetly at Mr. Fields. “You do have an impeccable reputation, but a girl of Nell’s talent will be quite in demand.” She extended a hand to Mr. Fields. “I understand Murdoch’s is looking for a new designer.” She let that morsel hang in the air, then said, “Good day, Oscar.”
She gave Nell a quick hug, then looked at Calvin. “What sort of designs do you do?”
Calvin chuckled. “Oh, mostly things for mature women who prefer plums and cherries on their hats instead of beads and baubles.”
Mrs. Benchley threw back her head and laughed. “We may need to talk, my son.”
The telephone rang as she was leaving, so Nell asked if there was anything else Mr. Fields wanted to discuss.
Mr. Fields shook his head. “Not at the moment, but you have appointments at two and three o’clock this afternoon in the consulting salon.”
“Thank you, s-sir. I’ll be there.”
Harjo stood with the telephone extended toward Mr. Fields, who grumbled and clamped his fingers around the base, then spoke into the mouthpiece. “Mr. Fields speaking. How may I assist you?”
As Nell and Calvin stepped into the hall, Nell heard Mr. Fields say, “Yes, Mr. Michaels. My club or yours?”
Chapter 6
Mr. Fields didn’t mention Soren Michaels until Thursday. As Nell came from the consulting salon with yet another new client, Mr. Fields stepped from the showroom and fell in stride with her.
“I trust you’ve had a good day.”
“Why y-yes, I have. Thanks for asking. Two of Daphne Benchley’s f-friends want hats for a s-sorority dance.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Could we have a word, please?”
Nell stopped, unsure if he meant to speak to her in the hall or his office.
“Not here. I’ll catch the elevator with you and come to the studio where we can speak privately.”
In the studio, Nell switched on the light and produced a stack of new orders and the accompanying sketches she assumed Mr. Fields would want to see.
He sat in the tall chair at her slanted work desk and surveyed each one, making only a comment or two about the choice of materials or suggesting minor changes. Nell made mental notes, pleased that her boss found her work passable.
“This one.” Mr. Fields tapped his finger not on the design, but the work order with the client’s name—Bette Andover. “I had a call from her after she’d seen you. While she had no quarrel with your ideas, she did mention your…your difficulty in speaking.”
Nell swallowed hard. Mrs. Andover was the one who’d been difficult, interrupting and finishing every word and sentence Nell stumbled over.
Nell nodded. “She was in a h-hurry and got impatient with me. She did seem p-pleased with my suggestions and that I could have her hat done by n-next week.”
“Don’t bother. She canceled, said she was taking her business to Murdoch’s.”
“That’s t-too bad. I looked forward to making her hat.”
“You didn’t hear what I said. Murdoch’s. That’s where she’s going.” His voice was a low growl, and it dawned on Nell the implication. Murdoch and Mr. Fields were rivals. Enemies even, if the workroom babble was true.
Nell gulped and nodded, words clogging her throat. Sometimes the best response was silence.
“This is exactly what concerns me about you, Nell. You have a bit of talent, still raw, not yet refined, but pushing you in the limelight might not be in your best interests.”
“Most of the c-clients have been quite g-gracious.”
He picked up a colored pencil and tapped it on the desk. “I did promise your mother I would watch out for you.” Mr. Fields’s manner was guarded. Hesitant. “The collaboration with Michaels would be beneficial to the firm, and I can’t keep you sequestered forever. Mavis has seen to that. I’m going forward with Michaels, but it’s your neck that’s on the line.”
An audible catch came in Nell’s throat as she caught her breath. “That’s w-wonderful. When? Is he coming here? Today?”
“Not so fast. That’s what I’m talking about. You need to remain calm…and businesslike.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.” She stopped herself. “I’m honored.”
“He’ll be here Monday morning. You might want to brush up on your speech and put together a few of your best designs before he arrives.” He rose from the chair and stepped to her, his fingers reaching to her chin. He tilted her head so their eyes met. “Don’t disappoint me.”
“I w-won’t, Mr. Fields.”
His hand fell to her shoulder as he brushed her aside and left.
A tiny spider of uncertainty crawled up her spine. Had she received a compliment or a warning? Either way, it was a test. One in which she had to excel.
Soren Michaels. Yes! She closed her eyes and did a spin around the room the way Jeanette always did when the Victrola was playing. When Nell stopped and opened her eyes, Calvin was leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, smiling.
“Let me guess. You’ve been promoted from junior apprentice to belle of the ball.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Something good must have happened.”
“Yes. And no. I was fired by Mrs. Andover, but Soren Michaels has asked to work with me on creating ensembles.”
“Shucks. Guess I’ll never get a chance with you if Soren’s moving into my territory.”
“Calvin Gold. I’ve told you I’m not interested in anything but designing hats.”
“Yeah, I know. And you’re saving your heart for some dandy in England who hasn’t even bothered to come across the ocean and visit you.”
“Quentin? We were childhood friends, that’s all. And Quentin can’t afford to come even if he wanted to.”
“You ask me, he can’t afford not to.” Calvin went to his desk and pulled out a sketch he’d started that morning. He gave it a quick look, then balled up the paper and threw it in the wastebasket.
Nell bit her lip. “Bad day?”
“I’ve had better. And I’m not sore at you. Just frustrated. All my ideas stink, and all I’m doing is proving my dad was right. I’ll never make it as a designer.”
“Maybe you just need some new inspiration.”
“And I suppose you have that in a bottle in your desk?”
“No, but you need to get out, do something fun.”
His dark eyes grew wider. “You’re asking me out? For a date?”
“No. I already have a date this weekend.”
“And who’s the lucky fella?”
“Two of them, actually. The twin lions at the New York Public Library. I want to spend some time in the stacks looking at bead designs—inspiration for working with Soren Michaels.”
“You had me going there for a sec.”
“You got me off track. What I wanted to say is that Jeanette and Greta—my roommates—have been after me to go to a dance club. You could go with us, and we could see what people are wearing, get ideas.”
“Which sounds li
ke another way to help you with your work with Michaels, but what good would it do me? I don’t even dance.”
“I don’t, either. Just a waltz or two, not what they do at Lily’s Place, I’m sure.”
“Lily’s Place? Over on Broome?”
She nodded.
“I’ve heard of it. You’re on. When are we going?”
“Not this weekend, like I said, so I’ll let you know.” She curved her lips into a kittenish smile. “You and Jeanette just might get along fine.”
“Dancing, you mean?”
“Maybe. Or inspiration of the romantic sort.”
“Get out! You’re my inspiration in that department, Nellie March.”
“And that’s another thing. Stop calling me that. I don’t want Mr. Fields to think I’m pushy. I’d rather impress him by doing a good job with Mr. Michaels.”
Calvin picked up his pencil and doodled on his sketch pad. “Spoilsport.”
* * *
Dr. Underwood held Nell’s latest drawing at arm’s length for their end-of-session chat. He adjusted his bow tie, black with pink dots today, and scrutinized the drawing through narrowed eyes.
“Very nice. You’ve quite an artistic flair. This is your mother?”
“Yes, sir. In the r-rose garden at our home in England.” He’d prompted Nell to think of a time of change in her life.
“Was there a reason she was wearing black? Her gardening dress, perhaps, or was this during her mourning period following your father’s death?”
“The d-dress is actually d-dark gray, the one she often wore when tending the roses.”
“I see. And the shadows, the boiling clouds, the field in the background? Those were black, too?”
Nell glanced at her work. From a distance it was dark with only a few splotches of red for the roses her mama was tending. She could see now they were the only bright things on the paper and looked almost like drops of blood. And the layout of the garden was wrong. How had that happened?
Nell shuddered. She supposed Dr. Underwood would assign some theory of anger or fear of death to the drawing. It hadn’t been her intention, but she now realized that both had simmered under the surface as she’d drawn. It had been a gloomy day with storm clouds gathering. Her mother wanted to finish pruning the roses so Nell offered to push Caroline in the pram. Her baby sister had horrible colic and had worn the nurserymaid to a frazzle so they’d brought her outside.
The Hatmaker's Heart: A Novel Page 4
