The Hatmaker's Heart: A Novel

by Carla Stewart

  Prunella’s grandfather shrugged. “No bollicking idea.”

  “I’m looking for Prunella. Have you seen her?”

  “Not this morning. I’ve had m’self a bugger of a time working on them carriage wheels.”

  Mama peered into the black hole of the cellar. “Prunella? You down there? Come out now if you are. There’s slimy, crawly things down there.”

  Prunella peeked around the tree to tell her mother she wasn’t in the cellar, but her grandfather’s squinted eyes sent her cowering back before she could utter a word.

  A biting, cold gust of wind swept down the New York street, stinging Nell’s bare hands and face. But the chill weather wasn’t the cause of the guttural sound that rose up in her chest, her tongue thick.

  A woman touched Nell on the arm. “Are you all right, miss? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I’m f-fine, I think. Just need a bite to eat.” Despite the cold, perspiration dampened her brow, the memory like a knife twisting her insides.

  Grandfather killed Gramma Jo. Nell was there and saw it. She’d never spoken of it. Ever. Because until that moment, she had no memory of it.

  She pulled her coat tight and turned in the direction of her flat. It explained the silence that descended on the room whenever Greystone Hall or the subject of her maternal grandparents arose. There must have been suspicions, and it probably explained why Nell and her mother never returned to Greystone. No one thought to question Nell, and if they had, she would have remained mum from fear she would be the next one shoved down the cellar steps.

  By the time the red-and-green awning of Sal’s came into view, Nell was convinced that somehow the buried memory was the root of her stammering.

  * * *

  Dr. Underwood confirmed Nell’s suspicions when she called and made an emergency appointment with him the following morning.

  His words were kind, soft as he told her he was sorry. “Sometimes a new trauma can trigger old wounds. I suspect that’s what happened. And it could very well be the cause of your stammering. Perhaps time will bear that out.”

  Nell had hoped he would tell her she was cured, but instead he cautioned her about deeply ingrained speech patterns that could still surface, especially in intimidating or stressful situations. And it was disturbing that such a horrid secret had followed her grandfather to the grave, not that she felt sorry for him, but that Gramma Jo had been victim to such outrage. She longed to talk to her mother about it, but it seemed cruel to bring it up over the telephone.

  Calvin was bent over his worktable when Nell arrived at the studio. She was an hour late but felt the time with Dr. Underwood was necessary. She looked over his shoulder and saw that he was working on a fedora.

  He looked up at her. “What do you think of this for summer? Perhaps in willow banded with a narrow suede strip?”

  “Very nice. Hard to believe it’s time to get the spring line ready. I’m weary of cloches and itching to do some ladies’ boaters—I think they’re going to be the r-rage this season.”

  “You may be right.” He went back to drawing, the only sounds those of the radiator clacking when it came on, the gentle hiss as it cycled off.

  Just as Nell nestled in at her own desk to work, Harjo looked in and told Nell that Mr. Fields wanted to see her in the conference room next to the executive office upstairs. He held the door and waited for her. As she left, Nell looked over her shoulder at Calvin who mouthed, “Good luck.”

  A wave of apprehension sloshed in her stomach as Harjo waved her into the conference room, then went into his office. Hazel and Marcella from assembly jerked their heads up when Nell entered.

  Hazel said, “You got any idea what this is about? I was telling Marcella that if we get the can, I’m marching straight over to Murdoch’s and putting in my application.”

  Nell shook her head. “Mr. Pritchard didn’t say.” There was no sense in speculating as they would find out soon enough. It must not be about the New Year’s Eve incident or Calvin would have been invited, and of course, Hazel and Marcella hadn’t been anywhere near the Emerald Jungle.

  Marcella, a petite woman with lavender eyes and salt-and-pepper hair, nodded to Hazel. “I’ve heard Mr. Murdoch treats his workers better anyhow. And they get an hour for lunch instead of thirty minutes. And production bonuses. We get squat.”

  Both women had worked tirelessly for the Soren Michaels show and neither made snide remarks like Steiger. And they both had families who depended on them. Nell prayed they weren’t losing their jobs.

  Just then Mr. Fields entered with Harjo Pritchard and a smartly dressed woman carrying a valise.

  Mr. Fields stood at the head of the table and greeted them. “I’m sure you’re curious about the nature of this meeting. Certain factors have made it necessary to remain quiet until all the pieces of the puzzle were in place.” He stroked his mustache and smiled.

  “It appears that Oscar Fields Millinery has been offered a unique opportunity. As you all know, Nell Marchwold, our junior apprentice, has been in the news of late.”

  Nell felt every eye in the room fall on her. She had no earthly idea where this was going. The base of her spine buzzed with a strange mix of anticipation and fear. She chewed on her lower lip, waiting for Oscar to continue.

  “The opportunity of which I speak is one that happens rarely.” He picked up a copy of Couture Design. “Last fall, I felt the urge to push Nell into an arena of greater responsibility and encouraged her to work with a couture designer here. The coverage has been quite spectacular, and now my salon”—he made a sweeping motion with his free hand—“our salon has been invited by one of the finest ladies’ societies in London to set up a temporary shop in London. If they’re pleased with our work, we have the chance to design their millinery for the upcoming wedding of Prince Albert, Duke of York, to Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon.”

  Nell’s head was spinning. London? A royal wedding? She took rapid, shallow breaths, her eyes wide, afraid that if she blinked she would wake up from this dream. Oscar was going on about the management of the New York store in his absence and hiring new designers to replace those who had left. But Nell barely listened.

  London.

  Her grandmother.

  Home.

  She was getting ahead of herself. But in the next breath, Mr. Fields confirmed that those gathered would be part of the entourage that would travel to London, meet with the ladies, and if things went well, remain there until after the wedding on April 26. They would depart from New York Harbor in three weeks.

  Nell was sure that if she breathed, she would discover it was all a cruel joke. When Mr. Fields introduced Molly LaGrange, the woman with the valise, as the agent who would oversee their travel plans and secure accommodations for them in London, it slowly began to soak in.

  Nell was going to London. To design hats. Maybe see Quentin. And she dared even hope to make a trip to Gloucestershire to see her grandmother.

  Her heart overflowed.

  London

  1923

  Chapter 17

  Nell slipped a sapphire silk evening frock over her head and clipped on matching earrings that cascaded from her lobes, each dazzling with a dozen tiny stones. It was her third time to change that day, as it had been each day of the voyage. A simple day dress for breakfast, a stroll around the ship’s deck, and then time in her first-class cabin to work on sketches. And her speech exercises. Either a silk or georgette gown with gloves for tea and a social time before dusk. Formal wear for dinner in the first-class dining room each evening. And with each change of costume, she wondered how long before the bubble would burst and she would wake up above Sal’s Diner realizing it had all been a dream.

  There had been endless forms to sign and plans to coordinate with Miss LaGrange before they left. Nell had been in charge of the supply list to pack from their own inventory, items that were more practical to take along rather than order in London. It was disappointing that Marcella and Hazel had be
en given second-class accommodations, but Mr. Fields had explained it wasn’t a pleasure cruise for them, but a time to work and be ahead of schedule before their arrival. Each afternoon Nell delivered new sketches for them to work on. Their eyes twinkled, both of them quite content with sharing a room and the opportunity for their first trip anywhere beyond the boroughs where they’d grown up.

  The first evening aboard ship, Mr. Fields asked that she call him Oscar. “People expect that of colleagues, and it will put them more at ease in our company. In cultivating connections, you just don’t know which of the esteemed people we’ll be dining with might require our services.”

  Oscar it was. Although training her brain to think of him as such caused a throbbing behind her eyes. It felt peculiar somehow, and she chided herself for being suspicious of his motivations.

  Nell left a few wisps to curl about her face—the softer look Oscar thought suited her now shoulder-length hair—then put on the simple headpiece with delicate feathers in the same sapphire as the rest of her ensemble.

  If her wardrobe had been her wedding trousseau, it couldn’t have been more elegant. She prayed no one saw beneath the lovely clothes to the trembling inside. Excitement and opportunity, yes. But more than that, the possibility of failure. Was she ready to step back on the shores of her beloved England and present herself as a designer? This time she had to do more than smile and make small talk. She had to prove herself if she would ever be Nellie March.

  Oscar waited in the small reception area at the end of the hallway leading from her cabin, erect and smiling in a tuxedo and top hat. Tonight he carried a cane, she supposed so he would appear more dapper for the banker and his wife who would share their table at dinner.

  He pecked her on the cheek and offered his arm. “Stunning, my dear. That color brings out the fire in your eyes.”

  “Grandmama always said blue was my best color.”

  “She was right.”

  When cocktails were offered before dining, Nell asked for ginger water, her taste for alcohol forever ruined from her New Year’s Eve experience. Oscar ordered a gin and tonic and oysters on the half shell for their appetizer.

  After feasting on boiled turbot with shrimp sauce and quarters of lamb with mint sauce, Nell was certain she couldn’t manage another morsel and that she would be letting out the seams in her dresses if she kept eating such rich food. But when the tray with desserts was passed, she couldn’t resist the Albert cake, a confection of delicate pastry with almond and raspberry filling. It reminded her of the Bakewell pudding that was Grandmama’s favorite.

  Mr. Fields nudged her. “Mr. Fitzsimmons is waiting for your answer, my dear.”

  Nell shook the fog of memories from her head. “I’m s-sorry. I was enjoying the Albert cake so much I didn’t hear the question.” She swallowed hard. In truth, she hadn’t heard a single bit of the conversation.

  “Your family, they hail from England?”

  “Yes, sir. The Cotswolds…in Gloucestershire.”

  “The country then? What trade were they in? Farmers? Dairymen? The potteries?”

  “Not a trade, although we did have a flock of sheep and horses for the fox hunts. My grandfather ran the Marchwold estate when he was alive.”

  “Landed gentry then. Quite the mess with gentry now. I’m going to England to see about buying some properties let go to the dogs. Quite an upheaval since the war. I don’t suppose your estate’s still in the family.”

  It wasn’t a question. But it was still in the family. Just not her branch. She explained that her uncle now ran the estate and that she was looking forward to visiting Marchwold Manor while she was in England.

  She swallowed and looked at Oscar who encircled her shoulders with his arm. He nodded at Mr. Fitzsimmons. “If we get time, she means. We’re going to have our hands full in London with the royal wedding first.”

  “So Miss Marchwold here got you an in with the royal family?”

  Heat crawled up Nell’s neck. “We weren’t acquainted. What he m-means is that we’re meeting with a ladies’ s-society to see if they like our work. It will be grand, of course, if they commission us for their hats for the wedding. It’s quite exciting, getting to be in London in the springtime and be part of such a g-grand event.”

  Mr. Fitzsimmons snorted. “If you like the soot and the fog, I guess it’s a good time.”

  It was a relief when Mrs. Fitzsimmons said she had a headache and excused herself. Her husband followed, and Oscar suggested they take a walk on the promenade deck. Stars twinkled like diamonds on a velvet sky, the air crisp. At the end of the promenade, Oscar leaned on the rail and spoke into the night. “I didn’t appreciate your correcting me in front of Fitzsimmons. Let him think what he will about whom we’ll be making hats for. Your explanation added nothing to the conversation.” His voice was even, as if he’d made a comment about the constellations overhead.

  “I’m s-sorry. I only thought—”

  “You leave the thinking to me. And don’t get any ideas in your head about skipping all over the country visiting long-lost aunts and uncles and playmates from days gone by.” His tone was as cold as the night air.

  What you have to say is important. Dr. Underwood’s kind wisdom came back to her.

  She drew a deep breath that burned her lungs. “I had hoped to c-connect with a childhood friend who’s now a banker in London. And it would be a shame to come so far and not at least visit my grandmother. A few days at most. I’m sure we can work that in.”

  “Surely your grandmother could travel to London.”

  “I’m afraid not. When I wired that we were coming, Jane—that’s her lady’s maid—reported back that my grandmother’s quite frail.” Nell had to see her. Even if it meant getting on the wrong side of Oscar. She never dreamed he would refuse her request.

  “Perhaps after the wedding. Time will tell. We may be needed back home.”

  “After the wedding then. I can accept that.” It was a small consolation, but she was certain if things went well, he would come around.

  * * *

  Shouts rang out when land was sighted. It was only Ireland, where they would stop first, but after Ireland…home.

  A few hours later, Nell stood on deck and inhaled. She was certain she got a whiff of lavender and woodsmoke and grassy meadows, but as the dock at Southampton came into view, the smell turned to coal oil and fish odors.

  Still, Nell was overjoyed when she set foot on British soil, a joy that nestled against her ribs as a hired motor car took them from Southampton to the city that awaited them.

  Home. Only it wasn’t. It was London, a live, throbbing melting pot of wealth and poverty, cobblestone and opulence, shadowed alleys and merry laughter, the clashing of Dickens and high society.

  Their hostess, Lady Abigail Haversham, represented the finer circles, the ones Oscar crowed about, and she was lovely. Robust yet refined. The founder of the London Noble Women’s Society.

  “You’re finding your accommodations satisfactory?” Lady Haversham lifted her glass of sherry, having dispensed with introductions and settled at a table in the Royale Hotel dining room on the day after their arrival.

  Oscar returned her toast. “Splendid. We’re most grateful for your hospitality.”

  Nell agreed. Her cozy one-room flat had a hot plate in one corner with a narrow bed and chest that occupied most of the room. A door that she thought was a closet revealed a private toilet and wash basin. A chintz-covered chair in a tiny alcove overlooked Hyde Park, and if she craned her neck, she could see Kensington Palace. Hazel and Marcella shared a similar arrangement across the hall with Oscar and Harjo having flats on the floor above.

  But it wasn’t the room or the view that made Nell’s pulse race; it was snatches of conversation, a bit of Cockney from the driver of their car, the refined formality of the doorman of their building, the soft lilt in the voice of Lady Haversham. Nell didn’t realize how starved she was for the voices of her countrymen.

 
Twenty minutes into the lunch, another dawning came. She hadn’t stammered a single time.

  Lady Haversham dotted her napkin to her mouth. “Nell, we weren’t exactly sure what type of studio you would need, but I think you’ll be pleased. We’ll go there straight away after we’ve had dessert.” She signaled the waiter for a menu, and when they’d made their selections, she said, “To be quite frank, you’re our secret weapon, so I hope I don’t frighten you by saying that we have great expectations. The other women and I feel it’s our responsibility to set the standard for excellence for those who’ve become, shall we say, a trifle set in their ways in regard to fashion. When I read about you in Couture Design, I told my husband, Bannister, that even if it took a motion on the floor of Parliament, we were getting you here, royal wedding or not.”

  Her laugh was breathy, her chatter tinkling. A women who was self-assured and reminded Nell of the women who used to come for tea or dinners at Marchwold Manor. A touch of merriment as they’d gossiped about fashion and scandalous happenings they’d read in the Tatler.

  Nell laughed along with her. “I think you’ll be pleased. And such an historic occasion.”

  “There’s nothing like a royal wedding to bring out the claws of even the finest bred women. And their husband’s checkbooks, of course.”

  The shop in Mayfair was in a plum location in the heart of a posh shopping district. It was a small shop, two rooms on the ground floor, but another large space upstairs for the workroom, an office for Oscar with a marble fireplace and Queen Anne desk. A smaller room—a cubbyhole, really—would be for Harjo. Two local women had been hired to handle reception, retail sales, and to be Nell’s personal assistants.