The Hatmaker's Heart: A Novel (2 page)

Her mother sighed. “Dresses swept the floor when I was your age, and to show an ankle was considered risqué.”

Daphne continued swinging her foot and laughed. “Welcome to the twenties, Mother. So Nell Marchwold—shall we call you Nell or Miss Marchwold?”

“Nell is f-fine.”

“Can we try on some hats? There were a couple I had my eye on in the display out front.”

“Certainly. Choose any that you like. And I’ll have you look at f-fabrics and decorative elements to see how we can coordinate with your dresses.”

As Daphne and Claudia tried on the stock hats, giggling and cutting up, Nell noted which ones flattered them the most.

“Oh, look at this! Isn’t this just the gnat’s whistle?” Daphne donned a red satin cloche with a knot of silver beadwork that was one of Nell’s creations. It gave Daphne’s heart-shaped face an impish look. She cocked her hip and pretended she was smoking, which brought a frown from Mrs. Benchley.

Claudia, with rich coffee-colored eyes and nicely shaped lips on her slender face, tried on a black velvet cloche that was barely noticeable with her dark hair.

“The sh-shape is nice, but I think more color. Something to draw attention to your eyes.” Nell checked the swatches and designs and invited them to move along to the fabric and notions room. Already, ideas swirled in her head. Sparkles and a feather or two for Daphne, and Nell had a rich olive silk velvet in mind for Claudia. She was right. Daphne navigated toward the bin of beads and sequined appliqué pieces like it was the North Star.

They all laughed while Nell jotted notes on an information sheet for each of the girls. “One last thing. I’ll need to take some measurements and do a s-sketch of your p-profiles and a view from the front so I can get the p-proper balance.”

Daphne’s aquamarine eyes danced like sea waves as she posed for the sketch. Soren Michaels had captured the color perfectly in the beaded silk dress he’d designed for her.

The girls asked for the ladies’ room, and when they were gone, Mrs. Benchley sighed.

“You’ve been most helpful, my dear. I’m afraid you’ve got your work cut out for you with Claudia. She’s such a homely girl and upstaged at every turn by Daphne.”

“Claudia is l-lovely, ma’am.”
And she takes after her mother
, Nell wanted to say. Claudia wasn’t homely at all, just an unpolished gem, as Nell’s grandmother always said.

Mrs. Benchley waved a glove in Nell’s direction. “I only pray that one day she will be.” She pulled the glove on and knitted her eyebrows together. “I probably shouldn’t mention it, but it was difficult not to notice. Your speech impediment is quite pronounced, isn’t it?”

Nell’s face flamed. She thought the morning had gone splendidly, and now…Well, now it looked as if it had all been for naught. Mrs. Benchley was going to be difficult to please, and if Nell didn’t pass muster, the woman would no doubt let Mr. Fields know. She sucked in a big breath, putting on a casual air.

“Oh, I’ve l-lived with it my whole l-life. Gu-guess there’s no hope for me.” Her laugh was thin, squeaky.

Mrs. Benchley gave her a kind look. “Why ever would you say that? My friend’s daughter stammered worse than you do, but she went to the most marvelous clinic. Addison Avenue Speech Center. I’ll call you this afternoon and give you the number.”

“I had an e-el-elo…”

“An elocutionist? They’re quite effective in some cases, I’m sure, but I believe you’ll find this clinic quite unique.”

“Th-thank you. I’m g-grateful.”

“Pleasing my daughters is thanks enough. We look forward to seeing your creations. Heaven knows, Oscar could use some fresh ideas. He’s a simply adorable man, and so handsome, but surprisingly old-fashioned for someone so young.”

It was a matter of perspective, Nell decided. She’d always considered Mr. Fields her elder since he was over thirty. “I’m a-accustomed to old-fashioned where I’m from.”

“Kentucky?”

Nell laughed, this time with genuine warmth. “No. At the manor house where I grew up. You know the B-British, we live and breathe tr-tradition.” She winced, sorry she’d dropped a personal reference into the conversation.

The girls returned, and as they left, a knot formed in Nell’s stomach. The worker at the assembly table was right. She couldn’t talk. How foolish to think she would ever succeed in a posh salon—or be the star designer Mr. Fields promised her—when all she could do was stutter. She prayed Mrs. Benchley wouldn’t spread the word. She was a society maven and would surely have an influence. Even in New York, people talked, saw each other at galas and charity balls.

And if she complained to Mr. Fields, it could be disastrous. After Nora Remming’s experience, anything was possible. Tears of frustration stung Nell’s eyes as she gripped the folder of swatches tight in her fingers.

Scents of yeast and garlic and olive oil filled the air as Nell neared her flat. The welcome aromas of the cafés and
ristorantes
of her neighborhood embraced her, her steps lighter when the red-and-green awning of Sal’s Diner came into view. Nell was tempted to slip into Sal’s back entrance and have a cup of tea with Felice, the owner’s wife, before going up to the flat she shared with Jeanette North and Greta Edwards. Felice, though, would be busy serving up manicotti and heaping plates of linguine at this hour. She and Angelo had come from Italy, the
old country
, Felice always said with a faraway look in her eyes. Twenty years and she still missed her homeland.

The prototype cloche had taken longer than Nell intended, but the satisfaction at the finished creation outweighed the ache between her shoulder blades from the long hours at the worktable. If she was going to make it at Oscar Fields and someday make a name for herself, she had to sacrifice, no matter how long the hours. Gone was the illusion that she would be Mr. Fields’s next star designer, the promise with which he’d lured her to New York. While it was true she’d learned construction techniques and gotten a grasp of the variety of materials available, it was also clear she was far from moving past the junior apprentice level. She understood that much better now, but it was fun to dream. Patience. And practice. Her twin watchwords.

Nell climbed the stairs to her second-floor flat and turned the key in the door. The Victrola’s blaring filled the small sitting room. Jeanette floated by, her eyelids fluttering like she was dancing with some beau, as Billy Murray sang “The Dardanella Blues” on the phonograph record. When the music stopped, Jeanette did a little spin and came face-to-face with Nell.

“Oh! I didn’t know you were home. I just talked to Greta, and she’ll be here in fifteen minutes. Hey, doll, put your things down and get changed. We’re stepping out tonight.”

“What on earth? It’s Tuesday night. I just got home.”

“And I’m over the moon that you’re here and can go with us.”

“Where? You want to go get something to eat? That new deli over on Houston?”

“Not the deli, but food is involved, among other things.”

“What other things?” Nell dropped her portfolio on the nearest chair and sat down to take off her heels and rub a sore spot on her toe.

“Fun things. Maybe some hip bumping and cute fellas, ya know?” Jeanette grabbed a Coca-Cola from the icebox and dug in the drawer for the bottle opener.

“Are you daft? It’s after eight o’clock. Where is this place?”

Jeanette poured the cola in a glass and took a long sip. “Over on Broome Street, and I hear it’s the berries. Jazzy music and everything.” She slumped into a chair. “I could use a little fun after the day I had.”

“What happened?”

“I missed the motor bus and had to take the subway. Some bum landed on my lap so I’ve smelled like a goat all day. And then my prof gave us a quiz I’d forgotten about.”

“Don’t worry. You’ve still got worlds of time left this quarter to make it up. But you won’t even make it to campus tomorrow if you stay out half the night.”

“We won’t be out late. Besides, I’m starving. Tonight I’m having lamb shish kebabs and something to lift my spirits.” She held up her empty glass in a mock toast before setting it in the kitchen sink. “Come on, help me pick out a dress, one that will swing with the music.”

Dancing.
That’s all Jeanette thought about. Not finishing her education or finding a job. She didn’t even seem to care about finding a husband, although Nell was right behind her there. Jeanette went to Columbia University, but before that had attended business school and taken two semesters at NYU. And she was Mr. Fields’s niece, which put Nell in the position of having to explain Jeanette’s lack of direction to her boss.

Greta had been Jeanette’s best friend since grammar school, but her aspirations were to be onstage. In the meantime she worked as a file clerk at a theater on Broadway. Nell was lucky to have them. Luckily they’d been amenable to Nell living with them when Mr. Fields made the arrangements. Otherwise, Nell’s mother would have never consented to Nell moving to New York.

Nell sighed. “I know you love dancing.”

“Oh, you know it. I’m thinking about wearing the organza with the beads along the neckline. You know, the one you made the cloche for.”

“I thought you were saving that for the fraternity dance.”

“Piffle. Ernest asked a girl in my anthropology class. What a flat tire he turned out to be.”

“I’m going to pass tonight. I met with an important client today and want to start on the sketches tonight.” Ernest wasn’t the only one who was a flat tire, but Nell wasn’t stupid, either. The blind pig joints served illegal liquor. Bathtub gin, the newspapers called it. Sipping wine on holidays wasn’t the same as outright breaking the law. The thought of going to the places Jeanette and Greta did sometimes frightened her.

Jeanette stomped off to change clothes and reemerged just as Greta came breezing in.

Greta dropped her bag and gloves on top of Nell’s portfolio. “Jeanette, I’m not sure about this place. Ever since we talked, I’ve been thinking about it. Are you sure tonight’s a good night?”

Jeanette threw up her arms. “Not you, too. Nell doesn’t want to go, and now you’re trying to back out.”

“You don’t even know what sort of place it is, and I’ve finally gotten my boss to get me an audition. It’s a small speaking part, but I was hoping to read over the lines tonight.”

Jeanette’s lips flattened. “It’s called Lily’s Place, as in lily-white reputation. Their lamb shish kebabs have been compared to the ones they serve at the Ritz.” She twisted one of her brown curls around her finger. “I hear they play the latest dance tunes, and you could brush up on your steps in case your audition calls for a routine or something.”

“It is a musical, but I don’t think I’m a candidate for the chorus line.”

“You never know.” Jeanette turned her back to Nell and pointed to the buttons of her dress. “Do me up, okay?”

While Nell worked the buttons, Greta went to change like Nell knew she would. Jeanette had a way about her that made people want to follow along as if she were a pied piper.

When Jeanette and Greta left, it was like the air had been sucked from the flat. Nell went to the kitchen, which was just a space at the end of the sitting room. She put the kettle on the two-burner gas stove and carved two slices of ciabatta from Sal’s and put them in the new electric toaster Jeanette’s mother had given them.

While the bread toasted, she grabbed her shoes and went to find her slippers. A tiny hall led to two bedrooms and a bath the size of a matchbox. It wasn’t the eighteen-bedroom manor Nell had grown up in or even the sprawling country house of her aunt Sarah and uncle Eli in Kentucky, but she did have her own cozy room. While perched on the edge of the bed putting on her slippers she saw a letter propped against the lamp on her bedside table.

Quentin Bledsoe. Nice. She hadn’t heard from him in a while. She tucked the letter under her pillow to read later and pulled out her sketch pad. First things first.

Two hours later, Nell surveyed the sketches for Claudia and Daphne Benchley that fanned across her damask coverlet. For Daphne, a black velvet cloche with a beaded butterfly set slightly off-center. A deep aquamarine color would enhance Daphne’s eyes, but Nell would be cautious and make sure the butterfly wasn’t so large it overpowered and was too garish. Just the right amount of sparkle to suit Daphne. Nell gathered the ones she’d done for Daphne and stacked them with the butterfly sketch on top.

She spread the ones for Claudia out, rearranged them, tilted her head to get a different angle. The problem with sketches was they were two-dimensional with only the imagination to fill in what would be seen from the back and either side. Oscar Fields had stressed in their many sessions that when considering each angle, time-honored precepts had to be followed. Every view had to be a part of the whole so that the eyes traveled along the lines intended by the milliner who designed the hat. Though Mr. Fields knew what constituted good design, Nell suspected he leaned more toward the traditional styles and wasn’t particularly creative.
Old-fashioned
, according to Mrs. Benchley. Until today, he’d never acknowledged Nell as creative, and even at that, he’d done so reluctantly. Still, it was a first step. One she didn’t regard lightly.

Nell’s eyes returned again and again to one particular sketch that broke the rules of standard design. A cloche, yes, but one with an unusual combination of fabrics and embellishment. Her heart pounded as she wondered if she should dare, but her soul told her she must. Mrs. Benchley’s tall, awkward daughter with dark eyes would be transformed when she wore such a creation. Quickly, Nell assembled the Claudia sketches and tucked them all into a clasped portfolio.

She leaned against the headboard and reached for her tea, long grown cold, the toast beside it barely nibbled. She set the cup down and pulled Quentin’s letter from beneath her pillow. Quentin had been her best childhood friend from her tiny town of Heathdown in the Cotswolds. Her only friend, really, and the one whose friendship she’d grieved when leaving England. With Quentin it didn’t matter that she came from a titled family or that Marchwold Manor employed a dozen servants. To him she was just Prunella, a girl who liked to draw hats and steal kisses from him. Mama had said he was just a passing fancy and her grandmother assured her there would be other boys. They were both wrong. There hadn’t been other boyfriends, and Nell still missed the childhood capers, but she had her hats now and a bright career ahead. It was all she wanted and needed.

He wrote about the Cotswolds and the golden glow of late summer on the limestone cottages. He gave news of his four brothers, their wives, and the eight nieces and nephews who filled two entire rows of the village church where his father was still the vicar. And then he told her of the visit with her grandmother.

Nell bit her lip and held the letter to her chest, her heart bruised afresh with the memory of her grandmother. Of Quentin. Of holding his hand and strolling the cobblestoned streets of Heathdown with no thoughts of what the future might hold. Tears filled her eyes, but she brushed them away. This was no time to get weepy over the past. She had to think about today. And tomorrow. And all the days that followed. She had a different life now, one that challenged her and had set her on the path to being a real designer. It wasn’t Paris as she’d once dreamed, but Manhattan was closer to her mother and bursting with opportunity. Now, if only her boss and the Benchleys liked what she’d done.