Nell explained it all to Dr. Underwood.
“Yes, I see.” He set the drawing aside.
“You s-see what?” Maybe she did have some psychological disorder, but she didn’t see that drawing pictures was helping with her stammering, although she still had an odd sensation when looking at this one. From the angle she’d used, the garden shed wasn’t visible, but she’d drawn one in on the upper right side of the page. Maybe her memory of home was fading.
“I see that you’re a perceptive young woman with a keen eye for detail. The introduction of a younger sibling into the family would certainly be a life-changing experience.” He stroked his chin. “Interesting that you omitted yourself and the infant from the drawing.”
“It wasn’t that at all!” Nell’s pulse hitched up a notch. Caroline’s arrival after the death of her father had brought a spark of joy to the manor that the war had robbed from them. The doctor had come to the wrong conclusion. Dead wrong.
“Perhaps next week we can explore this further. Finding the root of one’s problem is often like peeling the layers of an onion. And the process can be painful, but necessary, to get to the heart of the matter.” He opened her folder and handed her a new packet of word exercises.
Nell thought it odd that he didn’t ask her to give a verbal recital of the ones from the week before, but there were many things she didn’t understand about her therapy. She took the list and rose from her chair, uncertain she would even return.
As the trolley lumbered along and cars whizzed by on either side, Nell’s thoughts were on that long ago day of her drawing.
While she’d rocked Caroline’s pram back and forth soothing her, the constable had come up the drive, delivering the news that her grandfather, the Earl of Marchwold, had been hit by a lorry and died instantly. The sudden loss of her kind and gentle grandfather had brought not only fresh grief upon them all, but it was also the event that sealed her destiny.
Five months later, Nell, her mother, and Caroline had boarded a ship at Liverpool and sailed, leaving all former things behind.
Chapter 7
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.
Chapter 8
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.”
The Hatmaker's Heart: A Novel Page 5
