Nell turned her head toward him, their faces close. Someone stepped from the shadows and held up a black box, a blinding flash lighting the night air. Nell stumbled, her shoe catching on the hem of her dress, but the photographer reached out and caught her by the arm.
“Sorry, miss. Didn’t mean to make you take a tumble. If I could just have your name, please, for the caption in the paper.”
Oscar answered for her. “This is Nell Marchwold and I’m Oscar Fields. My assistant and I are guests of Mrs. Fortner.”
With the camera slung over his back, the man—a reporter, Nell now realized—wrote it all down and said, “Got it. Name sounds familiar. You’re not British, are you?”
“American, but my lovely Nell is a born and bred Englishwoman.”
Someone shouted that the Duchess of Sibley had arrived. The reporter tipped his hat and dashed up the walk. Nell smiled to herself. Oscar was always trying to get his name in the paper for publicity. Nell was quite content to remain in the shadows.
Mrs. Fortner greeted them and invited them to make themselves at home. Nell had never been keen on circulating in a roomful of strangers, but she encouraged Oscar to go and visit with some of the men clustered around an elegant buffet. Nell skirted the room and sat on a brocade settee next to a woman with chestnuts for knuckles and loose skin under her chin that swayed like a velvet drape as she sipped her champagne.
“Tell me again, love, how you’re related to our Prince Albert.”
“I’m not related. I’m a hatmaker, a milliner.”
“So you’re German then. I didn’t know Cecilia knew any Millers.” A maid with a tray in her hand walked past, and the elderly woman signaled for a fresh champagne.
Poor dear. Her memory and hearing were both gone, but not her taste for champagne. All attempts at engaging in conversation were met with the same misunderstanding, and for once Nell was glad when Oscar rescued her.
With his arm around her waist, he led her to a group of women gathered near the ornate fireplace. “Here you are, ladies. Miss Marchwold, my apprentice whom I was telling you about.” To Nell, he said, “We were discussing the bride’s gown, and I knew you’d want to hear all about it.”
While Nell had been keeping the tipsy octogenarian company, Oscar had no doubt been working the room. She turned her attention to the ladies who gave an animated description of the simple gown made of a deep ivory chiffon moiré embroidered with pearls and silver thread.
One said, “Madame Seymour created it and has even sewn in a strip of Brussels lace that’s been in the family for generations.”
A sprightly woman with dark hair interrupted. “I’ve heard it’s from the gown of one of Lady Elizabeth’s ancestors who wore it to the grand ball of Bonnie Prince Charlie. Isn’t that the loveliest thing?”
“Are you certain about that? I don’t believe I recall hearing that.”
“Yes, Cecilia told me herself. Of course, Lady Elizabeth doesn’t want to make a grand showing, sweet like she is and not taken to all the fuss.” The woman turned to Nell. “Are you married? Or promised to some bright young man?”
“M-married? No…I have…”
Oscar clutched her hand and drew it up. “What Nell means to say is she’s dedicated to her career. At least for now. Isn’t that true, dear?”
One of the women clucked her tongue. “I don’t understand the ways of today. Women and their careers. Who will run our homes if the women are all in offices and wearing business suits every day?”
“The same ones who always have. Our housekeepers and governesses.”
Nell said, “Until misfortune strikes. Sometimes women are forced to work. Having a skill to rely on can come in handy.”
“You speak from experience?”
She nodded. “When my father was killed in the war, my mother was displaced from the position she would have had as the next Countess of Marchwold. Lucky for us, her sister invited us to move to America to be near them.” Lucky for us. An icy finger ran down Nell’s spine. She’d never considered her mother’s choice good fortune. Only one that had taken Nell from all that she loved. She willed herself to look at the dark-haired woman who’d posed the question.
“Marchwold? You must be related to Vivian Marchwold then.”
“She’s married to my uncle.”
“The daughter of Constance and Oxley Wentworth?”
Nell nodded, the conversation taking a turn that made her neck itch. Vivian and her mother, Constance Wentworth, had a lot in common with Lady Blythe-Perkins, not the least of which was putting Nell in her place. Both Vivian and her mother treated Lady Mira like she was an object that stood in the way of Vivian’s rightful place. What future would Nell have had in such a house? Had her mother, in fact, done the noble thing, the one that required strength, by moving an ocean away?
Choice words about Vivian lolled on her tongue, but she wouldn’t speak ill of her. Her grandmother’s voice whispered softly in Nell’s head. We all have a bit of good and evil in us. Let your words and your deeds show the world what dwells in your heart.
As Nell tried to think of something nice to say about her aunt Vivian, the woman leaned in and whispered, “No wonder you moved to America.” She turned her attention to Mr. Fields. “How about you, Mr. Fields? Is there a Mrs. Fields?”
“There was. She was a victim of the Spanish flu in nineteen.”
“Then you’re surely in need of another wife.”
Relieved to have the spotlight off her, Nell said, “If you know of any prospects, I’m certain Mr. Fields would be delighted to have an introduction.”
The woman with dark hair said, “You don’t have eyes on him yourself?”
Nell chuckled. “Oh no, ma’am. Like he said, my career is my priority for the moment.”
One of the women who’d been silent throughout the conversation said, “I just might know of someone. Perhaps I could give you her number.”
Oscar’s Adams apple bobbed up and down. “I certainly didn’t expect to happen upon a group of matchmakers. I do appreciate the kind offer, but I’ll only be in London a few more weeks; then it’s back to New York and the old grind of running a salon.” He pulled Nell into the crook of his arm. “With Nell, of course.” He graciously extricated them from the clutch of women and asked Nell if she’d care for a glass of champagne.
“No, but a drink of water would be nice.”
Mrs. Fortner intercepted them as they made their way across the drawing room. “Oh, good, here you are. Cecilia would like to meet you before she leaves. She’s making it an early night so she can save her strength for the big day.”
They spoke briefly to Cecelia, who was both charming and gracious and said she was happy to make their acquaintance. When Cecilia had gone, others began to leave as well. Oscar said he’d changed his mind about the champagne, and together they thanked Mrs. Fortner for the invitation and stepped out into the cool, clear night. Oscar offered his arm and suggested they walk for a bit.
Nell kept her arm tucked into the crook of Oscar’s arm, the warmth through his jacket welcome. After a time, he asked if she was chilled, and when she admitted she was, he removed his coat and draped it around her shoulders.
After another block of walking, he said, “You certainly made it clear to that bag of old gossips that you’ve high aspirations.”
“If you mean becoming a designer, yes. You’ve been more than gracious in taking me in, keeping me on even when I’ve made terrible mistakes, and teaching me about the business. Perhaps I’ve not shown my appreciation, but I’m sincere when I say that it means a lot.”
“And what other aspirations do you have?”
In the dark, it was difficult to tell what he was implying. Did he think she was going to beg to get the Nellie March label? Perhaps he thought she had aspirations toward him. That she wanted to be the next Mrs. Fields.
The traffic was heavier now as they came upon a section of nightclubs and eateries. A gas lantern above the sign of a small estab
lishment caught Nell’s eye. Plutino’s Ristorante. In smaller letters beneath the name, it read: Ravioli and Manicotti. The place Quentin said was just around the corner from his flat. Her knees went weak, and Oscar took her faltering for being too tired to go any farther and offered to buy her a warm drink or a bite to eat.
“I’m all right. Perhaps we can find a t-taxicab now.”
Oscar stepped from the curb, hand raised, and yelled, “Taxi!” and when they’d settled into the seat, he turned to her. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“About my aspirations?” Then it hit her. Did he think she was using him to advance her career and then leave Oscar Fields Millinery?
She placed a hand on his arm. “The only thing I’ve ever wanted was to make fancy hats. And that’s still what I aspire to. But since you asked, I’ll tell you. I want my designs to stand for something—to bring out a woman’s best features and give her confidence.”
“That’s a rather lofty way of saying you want your own label.”
“A label could accomplish that. With the Oscar Fields insignia behind it, of course. Perhaps refine what I’m already doing into a distinctive style, one with a certain artistic flair so that it would be recognized as a hat that makes its owner feel beautiful inside and out.”
“It’s obvious that all the attention of late has gone straight to your head. While you’ve turned into a decent designer, I’m not interested in specializing. There’s no money in it, and I have to think about keeping the business afloat.” He huffed. “You might want to ask Nora Remming what happens when you get fanciful ideas.”
Her face flamed as if he’d slapped her. The next time he asked, she would keep her aspirations to herself.
Chapter 21
Nell rose early on Sunday morning and made a pot of tea using the hot plate. While the leaves were steeping, she picked up the telephone and gave the operator Quentin’s number, trying to remember what it was like to sit beside him in church. If he was agreeable to joining her for the service, then perhaps they could take a walk or picnic in Hyde Park afterward. Depending on the weather, they might even venture to Westminster and stroll through the cloister gardens.
“There’s no answer for the number you requested. Have a lovely day.”
Nell dropped the receiver onto the hook and drank her tea. Well, then.
She walked to St. Mary Abbots on Kensington High Street alone, the familiarity of the service a balm for her weariness, but also a reminder of Quentin and the faith they shared. Nell joined in singing “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” her throat thick with emotion and memories of sabbaths in their tiny church in Heathdown. Only a few more days until the wedding…and then a visit with Grandmama. And now she knew, time also with Quentin and whatever possibilities God had for them. Whether she would leave Oscar and stay in London to be near Quentin or not, she didn’t know. A part of her thought she might, but jumping ahead of herself was futile.
She took her Sunday stroll on her own, and as she crossed the intersection before her block, a young boy handed her a bright yellow tulip from the bucket he carried on his arm.
She reached for her handbag to give him a tuppence, but he shook his head. “Naught for me, miss. You look like you could use some cheering up. It’s me good deed for the day.”
She touched his weathered cheek, rosy from the cool morning, and thanked him. As she walked away with her nose to the tulip, for some reason she thought of Calvin. Jeanette had written that they’d seen each other a few times. Nell had been right. Something wonderful was blossoming for them. And Jeanette had scrawled across the bottom that Greta and Spike were still traveling with the vaudeville act.
The warm thoughts vanished the moment she arrived back at her flat and found a note on her door.
NM, Needed at once at the shop. OF
Her first thought was that the note was another ploy to play with her emotions and test her loyalty, and if it hadn’t been four days before the wedding, she would have ignored it and spent the afternoon on a park bench writing letters. But the day had grown cloudy, moisture teasing the air, so she changed from her Sunday dress into a simple drop waist and low-heeled shoes, then grabbed her brolly and raincoat and walked to the bus stop.
She let herself in the Mayfair shop with her key and went to her desk to stow her things. Her feet were leaden as she climbed the stairs to Mr. Fields’s office.
Harjo Pritchard growled a “Took your sweet time getting here” as she swept past.
Mr. Fields and Lady Haversham sat relaxed with cups of tea, and Mr. Fields had a smug look about him. Lady Haversham patted the seat of the chair next to her for Nell. “I was just telling Oscar that Mrs. Fortner called with the most marvelous suggestion. As you know, I’m having the bridesmaids’ luncheon on Tuesday, and she thought—and I concur—that the young women would enjoy having a souvenir hat to remember this momentous occasion. I know it would be quite impossible to make eight new hats from scratch, but perhaps some from your stock downstairs. And it would be lovely if you could add a rose-and-silver thistle like that featured in Lady Elizabeth’s gown.”
Nell swallowed. Eight hats before Tuesday? It would be murder getting them done. Then again, it would confirm what she told Oscar. All she wanted to do was make hats. And these would be spectacular!
“What a splendid idea. I’ll call for Hazel and Marcella to come and see what we can do.”
Mr. Fields gave her a wary look. “I’ve explained that it might be quite pressing on your time.”
“Oh, I think it will be quite manageable and such a pleasure.” Nell turned to Lady Haversham. “Do you have a photograph or facsimile of some sort for the thistle? I like to be authentic whenever possible. And I believe the wedding gown has Brussels lace. Perhaps we could add a bit of that for an extra touch.” She rose and offered her arm. “Let’s go down to the salon and see what we have.”
“I’ve not had this much fun since my dear Bannister took me to India and I rode an elephant.”
As they left, Nell turned and gave Oscar a tiny wave, touched her fingers to her lips, and blew a kiss in his direction.
* * *
By first light, throngs of people streamed along the streets of London, elbowing and jockeying for the best positions along the routes that would take the Duke of York from Buckingham Palace to Westminster. Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon would be whisked with equal fanfare from her home on Bruton Street.
Mr. Fields wanted everyone in the salon together and chose Buckingham Palace as their viewing post. Bright banners were festooned from one light pole to the next, the smell of cherry blossoms and fried fish from vendors wafting in the air. Cheers went up when the palace gates opened and a charge of royal horsemen preceded the royal coach.
The duke waved to onlookers who fanned handkerchiefs in return and shouted blessings. In moments, all that was seen was the back of the two rearguard horses. The crowd shifted and moved into an ever-changing sea of faces, dressed in their finest as if they had front-row seats. Nell scanned the crowd hoping to catch of glimpse of Quentin, knowing the improbability.
Oscar whispered, “Why so melancholy?”
“Just thinking of the hats we made for this day. It’s gratifying to know we had a small part.”
“Of greater importance is knowing the lovely women wearing them have ringside seats inside the abbey. The right kind of people, my sweet.”
“It would be fun to see at least one of them so I could keep it as a memory of this day.”
“You weren’t being melancholy then, but sentimental.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek. “That’s what I want you to remember from this day. Our time together.”
She forced a smile. It was hard not to question his motives. She’d hoped that his seeing her joy in making the hats for the bridesmaids would send the message that she was adaptable and in love with her work. Becoming an “item” with Mr. Fields, as Jeanette might say, made her groan.
“They’re coming! They’re coming!” Shouts ec
hoed through the crowd like water rushing through a canyon, the rumble of wheels on stone streets faint, but unmistakable as people called out to their beloved Duke of York and his bride. The horsemen, a dozen or more, sat erect on the beasts, their spears pointing to the heavens. Onlookers threw rose petals and kisses as the coach carrying the bride and groom and Lady Elizabeth’s bridesmaids passed. When the last of the processional clip-clopped inside the palace grounds, the gates were closed, but the cheers continued. Rumors that the royal couple would appear on the palace balcony crackled like electricity down a wire.
When the couple emerged a short time later, a roar went up. Nell watched in rapt attention as Lady Elizabeth, now HRH the Duchess of York, stepped to the rail, the flutter of her veil behind her. Smiling, almost shy, her groom joined her, resplendent in his RAF dress uniform with gold braids across the right side of his chest, medals pinned to the other. He tenderly helped the duchess with her veil, the look of adoration apparent even from a distance.
A hush fell across the expanse as the couple thanked everyone for their loyal support and their gracious wishes. The veil fluttered again, this time caught by Queen Mary. But Nell doubted that Elizabeth noticed. She had eyes only for her husband. And for an instant, Nell imagined the unspoken love in that gaze was between her and Quentin.
Nell brushed away a tear, feeling the fool since she’d promised herself she wouldn’t cry. Mr. Fields encircled her in his arms and said, “It’s quite contagious, isn’t it?”
She shot him a puzzled look.
“Love. The thrill of romance.” Whatever longing had been in her heart fled. Oscar was flirting with her or he had his own longings.
“A thrill, yes. My grandmother would have loved seeing this. I can scarcely wait to tell her.”
A young lad walked past, calling out, “Pasties for sale! Only a shilling. Get your beef ’n’ onion pasties while they’re hot!” He reached into the covered tin box hung around his neck and fished out two newspaper-wrapped pasties for a customer.
Hazel pulled on Harjo’s arm. “Buy us gals some lunch, okay?” She looked back at Nell. “You two hungry?”
The Hatmaker's Heart: A Novel Page 16
