The Hatmaker's Heart: A Novel

by Carla Stewart

  Nell rose and gave her a grandmother a kiss. “We won’t be long. I’d like to read for you when you’re all tucked in.”

  Oscar ate his lemon custard in silence, and when they’d finished, Nell asked if he was ready for Davenport to drive him back to the White Hart.

  “It’s only a few blocks. Or I could wait in the parlor until you’re finished tucking your grandmother in. We need to discuss our plans for the upcoming week. I rang Harjo to see if anything was new, and we’ve had several inquiries at the shop. I think it best that we take the afternoon train tomorrow and get back.”

  “Tomorrow? You’re joking. Not that I would keep you from something important, but I’m going to stay a few more days. Maybe even a week if you’re going to be busy.”

  “I hope you haven’t forgotten that it’s on my account you’re here at all.”

  “No, you don’t let me f-forget that. And I am g-g-gr—”

  “Grateful. Yes, well, if you are, then I expect you to be packed and ready to go when we finish this luncheon tomorrow. Perhaps you can have your servant pick us up from there.” He folded his napkin and set it on the table, then rose.

  Nell put her palms on the table, her heart in her throat. “And if I’m not ready?” She met his gaze.

  His eyes widened as the familiar clench came in his jaw. It felt like hours ticked by, but presently, he smiled and said, “You’ll be ready. If not, then your friends Hazel and Marcella will be looking for new employment the moment we dock in New York Harbor.”

  “You w-w-wouldn’t. Not after their years of service to you. Good assembly workers are hard to find.”

  “No one is irreplaceable. It would be prudent of you to remember that. We’ll discuss our new business on the train.”

  His shoes clicked on the polished oak of the dining room as he strode out the door.

  Nell clenched her own jaw, her heart turned to stone. She wouldn’t cry. Nor would she let Oscar know that she, too, might be looking for another position. She shoved hard against the table and climbed the stairs to her grandmother’s chamber.

  Chapter 23

  Outside her grandmother’s room, Nell gathered her wits and smoothed her dress, but she knew she couldn’t keep her fury from her grandmother. She turned the knob to the bedchamber and found Lady Mira already dressed for the night, sitting against the headboard as if in anticipation of Nell’s visit.

  Her grandmother patted the bed next to her. “How was your dessert?”

  Nell bit her lip, her insides still trembling. “It was lovely, as always. I’m afraid I have terrible news, though.”

  “Oh, gracious, what is it, dear?”

  “Mr. Fields just informed me that we have to return to London tomorrow.”

  “Whatever for? You just got here.”

  “A new business opportunity. When I told him I wasn’t going…” She pursed her lips, still angry about the hold Oscar kept on her life.

  “I pray that ruffian hasn’t hurt you.”

  “Not in a physical sense, no. He’s quick to point out my faults, in particular my stammering, but he’s given me a chance to succeed and brought me to England, which he reminded me of when I told him I wanted to remain here a few days.”

  “It would do my heart good to have you.”

  “I know. Mine, too.”

  “What would happen if you didn’t go?”

  “He says he’ll fire Hazel and Marcella, my assistants both here in London and back in New York. They’re both lovely and have families who depend on their income. I can’t do that to them.”

  “No, of course not. You don’t suppose he thought you might decide to stay in Heathdown, start a little business of your own here?”

  “Right now, there’s nothing I’d love more—”

  “Pffft. I wouldn’t allow it.” She lifted Nell’s chin with her finger. “You’ve a splendid career ahead of you. There will always be people who want to dictate your life, but you must learn to stand your ground. You’re a very capable young woman. Clever and beautiful.”

  “You’re my grandmother, so you’re entitled to be biased, but I’m afraid I do let him get to me. I’ve come so far with my skills and techniques, and I can’t deny that without Mr. Fields I wouldn’t be half the designer I am.”

  “It’s all you’ve ever talked about, so I know you’ve weighed the cost of accomplishment. Anything worth pursuing involves sacrifice. You’re learning that firsthand, it seems. The Lord won’t abandon you if you abide in him.”

  “I do cling to that, and I’ve never questioned that my desire to create comes from God. But you’re right, it’s not easy. What I regret is that Mr. Fields’s announcement has overshadowed something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “What is it, love?”

  “One of my clients last fall commented on my stammering and gave me the number of a clinic.” Nell told about Dr. Underwood’s unconventional methods and trying to link it to some trauma from her past. “Over the past few months, my speech has improved, and even more so since I remembered an incident that happened long ago. On my fourth birthday, to be exact.”

  Her grandmother cocked her head, her eyes drifting like they’d gone to a faraway place. A twinge of guilt knotted Nell’s insides. It had been a long day for both of them, but she should have been more considerate of her grandmother’s fragile state.

  But then Lady Mira shook her head. “You haven’t always stammered. And I’ve always thought that Josie’s death might have played some role. What did you remember?”

  Nell told her about hiding behind the tree at Greystone Hall and witnessing the exchange between her grandparents and the fatal shove given to Gramma Jo. “When Grandfather wrenched my arm and told me he would do more than hurt me, I was afraid to tell anyone. So much so that I apparently blocked it from my memory.”

  Grandmama held a frail hand over her mouth and closed her eyes. When her eyes opened, they glistened with tears. “We all knew he’d done it. You’ve no idea what my poor Josie endured at the hands of that despicable man. And your mother and Sarah and Spencer as well, though not to the same degree. There was no proof that it was anything but an accident, so what you remembered is most likely accurate. Have you talked to your mother?”

  “Not yet. It seems a ticklish subject for the telephone, but I do want to tell her the next time I’m in Kentucky. I hope it’s not too painful for her.”

  “The truth has cleansing power. She’ll be glad you talked to her.”

  “I am sorry I didn’t tell someone.” Nell shuddered. “But he was so vile…so frightening.”

  “That he was, and he would’ve called you a liar, of course. The trauma for you might have been worse. What I do know is that for several months after that, you didn’t speak at all. Gradually, with your mum and dad’s coaxing, you began to speak, but you stammered.”

  “I didn’t talk at all?”

  “Not a whit. We were so thrilled that you’d regained your speech that we were quick to overlook the stammer.” She tilted her head, that ethereal smile gracing her lips once again. “When you were a wee sprite, you knew every Mother Goose rhyme backward and forward. Once you even stood up in front of the congregation and recited, Christmas is coming, the geese are getting fat.”

  Nell laughed and finished the saying. She did remember the rhyme, but not the incident her grandmother spoke of. A deep sense of longing settled in Nell’s bones. Being here with Grandmama had filled an empty spot in her heart.

  Lady Mira dabbed her eyes with the corner of the sheet and looked at Nell. “We had some grand times, didn’t we?”

  “We did.”

  “The fox hunts. The house parties.” Her eyes gleamed, but Nell knew that something had shifted, that the grand times of which her grandmother spoke were those of long ago.

  Nell picked up her grandmother’s Bible, its pages yellowed, the cover creviced and worn. “Shall we read now, Grandmama?”

  * * *

  The early morning fog los
t its battle with the sun, leaving a glimmer on the yews in the garden. Zilla brought a fresh pot of tea, and Jane hastened with a downy lap cover for Lady Mira. Nell and her grandmother laughed and talked until the teapot was dry. Then they strolled along the path, peeking into the branches where the nightingales were nesting, but the songbirds had been clever and hidden their nest well.

  “And you, darling Nell? What will you do now?”

  “See what Mr. Fields has for me in London and explore several new ideas. I can hardly wait to sketch a nightingale for a beaded hat I want to call Lady Mira’s Songbird.”

  “At least I was good for some drop of inspiration.”

  “You’ve been good for more than that. Much more.”

  Jane stepped out from the conservatory and said it was nearly time to go to Marchwold Manor for lunch. A quiver rippled through Nell’s stomach, but she didn’t know whether it was from excitement at being in her childhood home or the dread of leaving.

  Davenport took her bags to the car and settled them in the back of the Rolls, then drove to the town square to White Hart. While they waited for Davenport to collect Oscar, Nell drank in every detail—Heathdown’s cobblestone streets, the lampposts with their gas lanterns, the rose garden at the center of town where two old men sat on a bench throwing crumbs to the pigeons, the corner tobacconist where her grandfather sometimes took her to pick up his favorite cherry-laced pipe tobacco. She wondered if the stooped man behind the counter still had the macaw that called her pretty girl.

  The hair on Nell’s neck prickled when Oscar slid onto the leather seat beside her, a hint of whiskey on his breath. She still seethed over his threat to fire Hazel and Marcella, but making a scene would accomplish nothing. Determined to remain aloof, Nell remarked on points of interest as Davenport drove through the village.

  “The church where I was confirmed. Quentin Bledsoe’s father has been the vicar as long as I can r-remember.”

  “Your friend from London with the striking girlfriend?”

  “That’s the one. And straight ahead is the entrance to the estate.” The iron gates stood open, the rolling green of the grounds unfurling like an emerald sea, the rooftops of the barns in the distance. The oak-lined road curved until it crested the hill and the walls of Marchwold came into view, stately and solid. An unfamiliar footman opened the door and ushered them into the drawing room. Nell blinked, the familiarity of it gone, replaced with furniture and wallpaper and draperies of modern design. Stark and geometric, the warmth no longer there. The great fireplace, at least, bore some resemblance to the one she remembered, orange flames flickering in the firebox beneath the carved stone of the mantel. The painting above, though, was a massive framed artwork of misshaped animals and people in colors that hurt her eyes.

  “I see you’re admiring our latest acquisition.”

  Nell turned. “Hello, Uncle Preston. Thank you for having us. And yes, I was observing your painting. An original?”

  “A piece of rubbish, that’s what.” Her grandmother removed her gloves and asked where Vivian was.

  “She’ll be down shortly.” Preston extended his hand to Oscar. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Lord Preston Marchwold, and apparently my mother and I have different tastes in art.”

  “Oscar Fields. And as they say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. My lovely Nell has told me much about your fine home.”

  “Nell? Oh, you mean my niece, Prunella. She’s blossomed from the frightfully awkward child I remember. No doubt you’re responsible, my good man.”

  “I would like to claim the credit, but—”

  Vivian swept in and made a beeline for Nell. “Oh, you darling girl. I’m so glad it worked out that Preston and I were here for your visit. We just returned from the royal wedding yesterday. I would have never guessed that’s what would bring you back to England.”

  Nell nodded toward her boss. “It was all Mr. Fields’s doing. Come, let me introduce you.”

  After the introduction, Vivian rested her hand on Oscar’s sleeve. “We’ll have to compare notes about the wedding. I hope you got a good view of the ceremony. What section were you in?”

  He cleared his throat. “We preferred to observe the return of the bride and groom to the palace. Not so stuffy, and it gave my staff an opportunity for a holiday.” He took a champagne flute from the footman’s tray. “To the royal couple.”

  Vivian returned his toast. “Indeed. Duchess Elizabeth is quite charming. I met her at the bridesmaids’ luncheon a few days before the ceremony.”

  “You weren’t a bridesmaid yourself, were you?”

  “Aren’t you charming? My mother’s in London and was most fortunate to secure us an invitation. A delightful time, and it seems Prunella might’ve had a wee part.”

  Nell nodded. “The bridesmaids’ hats? I hope the girls liked them.”

  “They adored them. I’m almost tempted to have you make something for me, but I couldn’t dare hurt anyone’s feelings at Malone’s Salon. Their designers are from Paris…and you know what superior materials the French use.”

  A bubble under Nell’s ribs that started as irritation now boiled. Aunt Vivian might have changed Marchwold Manor into a place Nell no longer recognized, but she hadn’t changed herself a bit.

  Nell swallowed, gathering words in her head, but they tumbled out of her mouth unchecked. “Whatever makes you think our hats are inferior? Mr. Fields has always insisted on only the most superb quality, not just in his m-materials, but also in his d-designs.”

  Vivian batted her eyelashes. “Gracious, you’re just as prickly as you were when you were a child. I’d hope that a few years might have transformed you into a swan. Preston, would you ring the footman and see if lunch is ready?”

  “Yes, dear.” And as Nell passed him with her grandmother on her arm, Preston said, “You’ll have to pardon Vivian. She’s under a great deal of strain managing the staff and planning the summer season of guests right on the heels of the royal wedding.”

  Lady Mira gave him a steely look. “I can only imagine.”

  At lunch, Preston engaged Oscar in conversation about business, and Nell held her breath, hoping her boss didn’t hit him up for an investment on Nell’s behalf. Her uncle would laugh them right out of the manor. The conversation, though, veered toward real estate prices and the fluctuating economy. When the footman brought dessert, Nell declined and said she’d like to amble about the garden.

  Vivian said, “If you would wait a few minutes, we could all enjoy our coffee in the garden together.”

  “No thanks, I’d like to be alone, if you don’t m-mind.”

  “Well, of course, we mind, but I suppose you’ll do whatever you want the same as always. Would you like for me to ring the footman to escort you?”

  “I remember the way.”

  Nell stepped into the glow of the afternoon and across the flagstone to the rose garden that had been her mother’s favorite place. Melancholy stirred in her chest as she wove her way among the paths, the fragrance intoxicating. A cloud drifted across the sun disorienting her for a moment. The beds were laid out around the fountain with water bubbling through a cherub’s fingers as it always had. Memories flooded her thoughts. Mama’s endless work tending the roses. It must’ve been her refuge, too, the place she grieved her own mother’s death and her abhorrent childhood.

  Nell knew now that she’d somehow woven the two gardens together in her drawing for Dr. Underwood. They both bore sorrow, the rose petal drops of blood that appeared when Nell had let her fingers draw what her mind commanded. Nothing comes without sacrifice. Grandmama’s words whispered to her spirit. Gramma Jo’s life was cut short, but she gained eternity where pain and sorrow were no more. Mama’s sorrow was transformed into a new life in America, choosing to take her daughters into an unknown future.

  For Nell, heeding the demands of an impossibly difficult man ensured the jobs of two dear friends. Tears beckoned and she offered no resistance. Nell lowered herself to a nearb
y bench and wept, letting the tears wash away her own deep sorrow.

  “Are you all right? You look wretched.” Mr. Fields hovered over her.

  “I’m fine. Just reliving a few memories of this place.” She sniffed, then slid her handkerchief from her pocket and blotted away the drip on her nose.

  “We don’t have time for you to go on a crying jag if we’re going to catch that train.”

  “Yes…yes. No, w-wait. I have to do something first.”

  “We don’t have long.”

  “It’ll only take a minute.” She dashed across the grass to the potter’s shed behind a line of yews, grabbed a pair of shears, then returned to the roses. She snipped a dozen or more blooms. The thorns bit into her flesh, but she gripped the stems anyway, took the shears back, and told Oscar she was ready. Pressed between layers of parchment, the roses would be a gift to her mother.

  The good-bye to her grandmother lingered with hugs, hearts torn, tears. And more tears. When Oscar coughed to signal his impatience, Nell’s grandmother whispered, “Guard your heart, my dear. Remember, strength and honor.” Ah, the passage from Proverbs she’d read to her grandmother the night before. Yes. Strength. And honor.

  Davenport said he would come back and retrieve her grandmother once the train had come, so Nell thanked Preston and Vivian for the lunch, and on legs as heavy as lead, she walked to the waiting car.

  The train was just pulling into the station when they arrived. Davenport and Oscar took the luggage to the platform, and after a quick good-bye to Davenport, Nell entered the passenger car, taking the first seat she found by the window. Davenport remained on the landing, speaking to a couple who’d just arrived. The man turned, a lock of reddish-brown hair falling across his forehead as he lifted his gaze to Nell’s compartment.

  Quentin. A young woman stood beside him. Shapely. Brunette. And beautiful.

  Quentin’s arm rose in a wave as the train pulled away from the station. The chug of the engine and the blast of the horn filled Nell’s ears, the clacking on the track going faster and faster.