The Hatmaker's Heart: A Novel

by Carla Stewart

  Mr. Fields gave the go-ahead to Harjo who handed the lad a handful of coins and asked for five pasties. They cupped the newspaper under their chins to catch the crumbs while pigeons pranced at their feet snatching every morsel that fell.

  They then turned in the direction of Hyde Park where fruit wagons and trolley carts with bottles of ale were scattered. Each had a long queue of ladies in fine hats, ruffians with holes in their pant knees, gentlemen with babies on their shoulders, young and old, rich and poor, waiting to spend a few pence on their wedding dinners. Farther down, a confectionary cart bore a sign that said, “Wedding Cake: Congratulations to Bertie and Lady Elizabeth.” Nell craned her neck but couldn’t see the end of the queue.

  Hazel said, “I still wish we’d gone to where they’re showing the real cake. Ten foot tall, that’s what I heard.”

  Marcella said, “You’d stand in line all night to see a lousy cake? You ask me, you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ’em all.”

  “Well, I’ve never seen the cake of a duke before. Who knows? He just might be the King of England someday.”

  “And I’m going to be the Queen of the Bronx.” She laughed and kept walking.

  “Hats for sale! First-rate! Finest in London!” A toothless woman with rheumy eyes walked beside a cart as a baggy-trousered man gripped the handlebars and pushed it. Ladies’ hats hung from brass poles at the corners with men’s hats lining shelves along the side. A mangy yellow dog sprawled on a ledge across the front.

  Nell stepped from the group. “Do you have anything for children?”

  “For little birdies or lads, m’lady?”

  “My younger sister. She’s five.”

  Already the man had lifted the lid from a wooden compartment and was pulling out hats. He lined up four along his arm like it was a display rack. “Ten bob apiece, m’lady. Ye won’t get naught better in all of London town.”

  Nell surveyed them and told the man she’d take the blue one—a slouched cloche the color of the sky with a daisy on the side.

  “And fer yourself, m’lady? Special today. Two fer fifteen bob. Gotta feed my mongrel, ye know.”

  She shook her head and counted out ten shillings, then dropped it in his grimy palm. “And here’s a little something for your dog.” She added another ten pence.

  “Thank ye, m’lady. Pleasant day.”

  The woman was already down the street shouting, “Hats for sale!”

  Oscar indicated they should turn into the park. After a few paces, he said, “Hope your little sister doesn’t get head lice from that.”

  “I’m not worried. Grandmama bought me one at the rose fair when I was about Caroline’s age. I wore it every day until my grandfather’s dog chewed a hole in it. It’s one of my favorite memories.”

  Oscar made a grunting sound and kept walking. Marcella tapped him on the shoulder. “I don’t mean to be impertinent, but we’ve done what we came for. Have you booked our passage back to New York?”

  “A perfectly reasonable question.” He paused, the five of them mingling in a circle. “We sail three weeks from tomorrow. It will give us time to finish any orders that weren’t for the wedding and”—he winked at Hazel and Marcella—“give you girls time to take in a few sights if you’ve half a mind to do so.”

  Hazel sighed. “I was hoping to be home by the middle of May for my Bennie’s birthday.”

  “Buy him a souvenir instead. Only I wouldn’t recommend a fleabag hat from a street trolley.” He cleared his throat. “Harjo and I have a few last-minute obligations, which we’ll take care of as soon as Nell and I return from the country. She’s desperate to see her grandmother in Gloucestershire, and I’m anxious to meet her family as well…as you might imagine.”

  Nell’s knees felt like they’d been hit from behind with a hammer.

  Chapter 22

  Nell reminded herself that there were worse things than having Oscar accompany her to Heathdown. He could have refused to give her the time off—after all, he was paying all of her expenses while she was in London. Or he could have long ago fired her over the incident with Percy. Or the New Year’s Eve disaster. He had the authority to run his salon anyway he chose. And she could choose to stay or go. She knew in the depths of her heart, though, that it was because of Oscar and a divine plan that she had been given the chance to become a milliner.

  The news from New York was that her spring line was selling so well that the assembly workers had been put on overtime to keep up with the demand. In her gut, Nell knew Oscar’s motive in going to Heathdown with her was to keep an eye on her every move and keep her at Oscar Fields Millinery. She just didn’t relish the intrusion on her time with Grandmama, and deeper still, her need to find out if Gramma Jo’s death had occurred as Nell’s new memory revealed.

  As the train sped through the countryside, she yawned and told Oscar she wanted to rest. She turned facing the window and watched the landscape fly by. The church spires of distant villages and rolling green hills pierced her heart. Willow trees made winding paths along the rivers, which nourished them, and as they neared Heathdown, they came upon a series of hills forested with beech trees, ancient oaks, and sweet chestnuts. Nell was surprised she still knew them all, but how could she not after all the time she’d spent on the project her governess had given her? She even remembered the title she’d given the assignment. Home in the Cotswolds.

  The porter stood at the front of the railcar and announced, “Heathdown next stop.”

  Nell’s skin tingled. Home.

  She gave a wan smile to Oscar. At least he wouldn’t be staying under the same roof since her grandmother’s house in the village was modest in comparison to the manor and had only one guest room. When Nell had called to say they were coming, she asked Jane Alistair, the lady’s maid, to reserve a room at the White Hart on the village square for Oscar.

  The first person Nell saw when she stepped onto the platform was Davenport, the old butler from Marchwold Manor. His hair was whiter around the temples, his jowls a little fuller, but his eyes lit up as he walked along the rail, then swooped her up in arms that were still strong.

  “My sweet Prunella.” He set her down and held her at arm’s length. “Your grandmother says I’m not to call you that anymore, that now you are Nell.” His sinewy hand rested on her cheek. “But you’ll always be sweet Prunella to me.”

  “And you’ll always be the best friend a scamp like me ever wanted.”

  “Aye, we’ll not have any of your tricks with bringing dogs with muddy feet and newborn lambs in the house, will we?”

  “You never know.”

  Mr. Fields cleared his throat. Nell jumped, then apologized for her thoughtlessness and made the introductions.

  She said, “We’ll drop Mr. Fields at the White Hart so he can settle in. I’d like to see Grandmama by myself for a while.”

  Oscar said it would give him a chance to stretch his legs while he explored the town. Davenport put their luggage in the trunk of the Rolls and took Oscar’s out again when they arrived at the White Hart. Oscar said he could manage from there.

  Davenport said, “I’ll be by to fetch you at seven. Lady Mira likes to retire early, so dinner will be at half past. It will only be the three of you this evening, so nothing formal is required. Unless, of course, that is your custom.”

  “I’ll be waiting.” His tone was terse, an odd look on his face. Nell smiled inwardly. Oscar wasn’t used to their country life. Or maybe he thought they were going to be inseparable the entire time.

  Jane Alistair met them at the door, her eyes fresh with tears as she held Nell by the shoulders, then gave her a long hug. “You’ve grown into a beautiful young woman with a mature elegance about you.”

  “I think your eyesight is failing. But thank you. Where’s Grandmama?”

  “Resting in the conservatory. Davenport fixed her a wee nook with a cot so she doesn’t have to climb the stairs when she’s weary. And she can keep a watch on the birds building their nests in the
arbor. Do you want me to wake her?”

  “No, let’s get my things to my room and you can tell me all the news.”

  When Nell peeked into the conservatory half an hour later, her grandmother was stirring. Nell swept across the floor and knelt beside the cot. She stroked the blue lines on the back of her grandmother’s hand, then leaned over to kiss the deep lines of her cheek. A lump grew in her throat, her eyes misting. With her handkerchief she blotted the tears.

  “You’re here.” Thin lips, parched with age, tilted into a smile. Her grandmother rolled to her side and swung her legs over the side of the cot to sit up.

  Nell helped Lady Mira into her damask slippers. “You want to sit by the window?” She held her arm for her grandmother, but Lady Mira pushed it away.

  “I may be old, but I’m still plenty capable of walking without help.”

  “I didn’t say you were old.”

  “But it crossed your mind, I’m sure.” They sat near the window in matching chairs with a cheery cabbage rose pattern and a view of the garden outside.

  “You have a nice view here. You’ve always liked watching the birds.”

  Lady Mira waved away the comment. “Davenport said a young man was coming with you.”

  “Not a young man. My boss, Mr. Fields.”

  “I once knew a Fields or maybe it was Fielding. Lecherous old toot, he was.” Her gaze clouded and shifted from Nell to the garden. “A pair of nightingales are nesting in the yews.” She pointed a bony finger to the place she meant. “I hear them singing and caught sight of one yesterday.”

  “Would you like to go into the garden? Perhaps we’ll see your nightingales.”

  Lady Mira shook her head. “Jane fusses at me when I want to go out. Says it’s too cool. Or too damp. Or too close to dinner. I say it’s too much trouble for her to bundle me up.”

  “There is a little nip in the air, and I’m sure Jane just doesn’t want you to take a head cold.”

  “So she says.” Her voice was sharp, and it was unlike her to speak ill of Jane who’d been in Grandmama’s service since before Nell was born.

  The soft shuffle of footsteps came from the hall. Zilla Hatch entered with a tray set for tea and placed it on the table between Nell and Lady Mira.

  Nell jumped up and held out her arms for Zilla. “Oh my. You’ve not changed a whit.” It was only a small lie. The former cook from Marchwold Manor had grown plumper, her formerly streaked honey-and-gray hair now without a trace of color. But she wore the same ruffled cap and smelled of cinnamon and bacon and something sweet. Oranges perhaps.

  “Don’t you just go on, Miss Prunella? Jane told me what a vision you were, and she was right. I’m looking forward to meeting that young man of yours.”

  “As I’ve already explained to Grandmama, he’s my boss, nothing more. And he’ll be here for dinner.”

  “Aye. Davenport told me. I made your favorite.”

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess. Lamb stew?”

  Zilla’s chuckle came from deep in her belly. “I never could fool you for an instant. Go on now and have your tea.” She bent to make eye contact with Lady Mira. “Don’t forget your kidney pill, m’lady.”

  Lady Mira shooed her away, then pulled a fine silver chain that hung from her neck and withdrew a pill from the tiny silver case attached to the chain. She took it with a swallow of water and said, “For my digestion, but I can’t tell it’s made a mustard seed of difference.”

  Nell poured the tea, her mouth watering as she eyed the china plate piled with scones. She knew they’d be warm from the oven. She put one on a saucer for her grandmother and another for herself. “Quentin Bledsoe wrote that he’d been to see you.”

  “Not recently.”

  “No, a while back.”

  “It was nice of him to come, brought a sweet young girl with him. Colleen, I think. Or Corrine. We had tea in the garden.”

  Nell choked on her tea. Quentin was seeing someone? The thought had occurred to her, of course, but he hadn’t mentioned it when she saw him. An ache came in her chest.

  She bit back the urge to cry and said, “He’s quite fond of you.”

  “And I of him. When the miss went in to the powder room, I told Quentin to tread carefully in matters of the heart. Whether he paid attention or not is anyone’s guess.”

  Nell had no answer. She did know that in his letter, he’d omitted any reference to bringing a friend with him when he visited Grandmama.

  Her grandmother’s shoulders sagged as if the effort of taking tea had been too much for her. Then, just as quickly, Lady Mira straightened. “Like you. If you’d listened to me, you wouldn’t be in the scrape you’re in, Josie.”

  Josie? Gramma Jo. Grandmama’s childhood friend, and the one from whom Nell, Aunt Sarah, and Iris had gotten their fine bones and flaxen hair. The one Nell hoped to learn more about. Would Grandmama even remember? Now wasn’t the time.

  Nell patted her grandmother’s hand. “I’m Nell, remember?”

  “I know that. What do you think, I’m an imbecile and have to be reminded who you are?” Her eyes flashed, but in the next instant, her brows puckered and she gazed toward the garden where the afternoon shadows had lengthened. “He’s no good for you, you know.”

  Was she talking about Oscar? Quentin? Or had her thoughts traveled far beyond the tiny flagstone garden to a place and time from long ago?

  * * *

  Nell’s grandmother changed into a gown of polished silk with a high neck and lace at the cuffs. She was still the picture of elegance, her silver hair framing her face. Nell, too, had changed from her traveling clothes into a navy frock with a sheer scarf, one end thrown over the shoulder.

  Oscar greeted Nell with a kiss on the cheek and one on the back of Lady Mira’s hand when Nell introduced them. They lingered in the parlor until Davenport came in and bowed, announcing dinner.

  Nell’s pulse throbbed in her neck at the sight of her grandmother’s china, the crystal candlesticks that had graced every formal dinner at Marchwold, a bit surprised that Aunt Vivian had let the china go. Even the flowers reminded her of days gone by, the vast urns that graced the rambling halls and great dining room of Marchwold.

  After Davenport served the first course of leek soup, Oscar commented about his walk about the town. “I noticed you only had a mercantile for clothing. And no millinery shops.”

  Lady Mira said, “It’s not our custom. Those who like fine dresses—couture, you would say—take the train to London and frequent the shops there.”

  “That must be difficult for you.”

  “It would be tiresome, I’m sure. But a local dressmaker knows what I like and does quite elegant work. Jane, of course, still makes my hats.”

  “Jane?”

  “My lady’s maid—the one who saw Nell’s talent when she was a wee girl and taught her all that she knows.”

  “Ah, yes. Nell told me about her. Of course, I’d like to take an ounce of credit for helping refine Nell’s skills and blending in my firm’s model for success.” He cleared his throat. “I would even imagine that you might be interested in investing in Nell’s continued success at Oscar Fields.”

  “In what capacity would that be?”

  “A shareholder, perhaps. A capital investment, so to speak. We’re privately held and give dividends to our investors.”

  “And how many investors are we talking about?”

  “Myself, of course, as the majority owner. Business owners and a few of my trusted staff hold shares as well. I would be happy to discuss it with your business manager. It would be a nice token for Nell’s future, which is quite promising, I assure you.”

  Lady Mira scoffed. “Indeed. Perhaps you’d like me to sign over Nell’s inheritance to you as well.”

  Oscar laughed softly. “You make it sound as if I’m ruthless. It wasn’t that at all. It was only for her sake I even mentioned it.”

  The leek soup, so delicious moments ago, now churned in Nell’s stomach, giving her
the urge to heave. Oscar’s motives crystallized in that moment. He’d kept Nell on even though she made grave errors because she was from a noble family, one of means whose coffers he might tap. All he had to do was cultivate the right relationships. His recipe for success.

  Lady Mira stirred the lamb stew that Davenport served and said, “I’ve no idea if you’re ruthless or not, but I can clearly tell you’re cheeky. My sincere hope is you treat my granddaughter well. With her skills, she would be in high demand, I would imagine.”

  Nell’s throat constricted. An argument wouldn’t do her grandmother’s liver or stomach or whatever it was she took the pills for any good. Oscar, though, seemed nonplussed.

  “I feel confident Nell is quite content where she is.” He wiggled his brows again. “Aren’t you, darling?”

  “For now, yes. And I’m shocked—dumbfounded, really—that you would even suggest such a thing to Grandmama.” Nell knew she shouldn’t have said it, but she wasn’t a piece of property to be argued over. Let him simmer in his own juices for a while.

  The lamb stew was everything Nell remembered, but the mood had been shattered and a pall hung in the air. When Davenport brought in the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with its golden puffed crust, Mr. Fields said, “This certainly is a feast. I didn’t expect to be treated in such a grand manner.”

  Davenport nodded. “Thank you, sir. I’ll convey your appreciation to Mrs. Hatch. Nothing is too grand for our Prunella.”

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself.” He lifted his wineglass. “To Nell. And I’m sure that a meal at Marchwold Hall couldn’t hold a candle to the one we’ve just eaten.”

  Lady Mira said, “Manor. It’s Marchwold Manor. You can make your own comparison after our luncheon there tomorrow. Their new cook is some wonder chef from Paris who makes dishes that are impossible to pronounce. I just hope he doesn’t serve that wretched eel again.” She folded her napkin and asked Davenport to ring for Jane. “I’ll leave you young people to have dessert on your own.”