by Turano, Jen
“You take hats from the poor boxes?”
“I don’t steal them,” Harriet said quickly. “I have permission from the ministers to take whatever fancy hats or clothing I might have a use for because their donation bins were overflowing with far too many extravagant pieces.” She shrugged. “Ever since gentlemen have begun to amass such huge fortunes, their wives and daughters have become somewhat fickle when it comes to their fashions and are abandoning those fashions faster than ever. Unfortunately for the poor, though, they really don’t have any need for such luxurious items—which is why I’m permitted to take them.” She smiled. “I redesign the gowns, cut out any stains that might be marring the fabric, and then I provide ladies with limited funds a nice outfit they can wear to a special occasion, but for only a small fee.”
“Fascinating,” Mrs. Fienman exclaimed, “and a topic I’d love to explore further with you, but for now you’d best get on your way.” She waved toward the door. “Good luck to you, and don’t forget your pastry, but more importantly, the bill.”
Picking up the bill and then, reluctantly, the tart, Harriet walked out of the office, trying to ignore the broken bird bouncing back and forth against her cheek. She stopped at her worktable and took off her apron before sliding her hands into gloves. Scooping up her reticule, she stuffed the bill inside, picked up the pastry, and then nodded to the three ladies who worked with her before heading for the door.
Stepping outside, she moved to Mrs. Fienman’s carriage, the one pressed into service whenever a good impression needed to be made. When she opened the door, her gaze traveled over the stacks and stacks of hatboxes crammed into the interior. One quick glance upward explained why they weren’t attached to the carriage roof. It looked ready to rain, and since there was no room for her in the carriage, she was probably going to get wet.
She was beginning to get the unpleasant feeling that nothing wonderful was going to happen to her today.
God, it seemed, had forgotten all about her and her tiny birthday request.
“I’ve saved a spot up here.”
Harriet smiled. Timothy, a young man who worked as a driver for Mrs. Fienman, was grinning back at her with his hand held out. She took a second to throw the mangled pastry to a hungry-looking mutt sniffing around the sidewalk, moved to the carriage, and took Timothy’s offered hand. Settling in right beside him, she found her mood improving rapidly as Timothy began to regale her with stories about his new wife as they trundled down street after street.
“. . . so I made the small observation that the soup my missus served me was cold, and she hit me upside the head with a soup bowl, one that was still filled to the brim with chilly soup.”
Harriet laughed, but her laughter caught in her throat when Timothy steered the horses into a narrow alley. He pulled on the reins, and the carriage came to a halt, right in the midst of a large courtyard paved with brick, that brick leading up to the back of a formidable-looking mansion.
Craning her neck, Harriet took in the sight of four stories of superbly cut stone, inlaid with numerous stained-glass windows.
Her stomach immediately began to churn. She really was ill-equipped to deal with this particular situation, no matter that Mrs. Fienman seemed to think she’d handle it well. She wasn’t even certain if she was supposed to curtsy when she met Miss Birmingham, or maybe she was only expected to incline her head, but . . . what was an acceptable response if shoes came flinging her way?
“That sure is something, isn’t it—all that stained glass on a back of a house where hardly anyone will see it?” Timothy asked, pulling her abruptly back to the fact she was still sitting on the carriage seat while Timothy was on the ground, holding his hand out to her. She took the offered hand and landed lightly on the bricks.
“Good thing my Molly isn’t here with us,” Timothy continued with a grin. “She’d probably start getting ideas, but I’ll never be able to afford anything more than a hovel.”
Harriet returned the grin before she pulled the carriage door open. “I’ve always thought that hovels have a certain charm, whereas mansions . . . What would one do with all that space?” Turning, she stood on tiptoes and pulled out a few boxes, handing them to Timothy. She grabbed two more, wrapped her fingers around the strings tied around them, and headed toward the delivery entrance. She stumbled to an immediate stop, though, when a loud shriek pierced the air. Turning in the direction of the shriek, she blinked and then blinked again.
A young lady was storming around the side of the mansion, screaming at the top of her lungs. But what was even more disturbing than the screams was the manner in which the young lady was dressed.
A frothy bit of green silk billowed out around the lady’s form, but it wasn’t a gown the lady wore—it was a wrapper. Sparkly green slippers with impractical high heels peeped out from under the hem with every stomp the lady took, and a long, feathery scarf, draped around the lady’s throat, trailed in the breeze behind her. Her brown hair was arranged in a knot on top of her head, but pieces of it were beginning to come loose from the pins, brought about no doubt from the force of the lady’s stomps. The woman clutched an unopened parasol, and she was waving it wildly through the air.
“He’s a beast, a madman, and I’ll never have anything to do with him again,” the lady screeched to an older woman scurrying after her.
“You’re allowing your emotions to cloud your judgment, Lily,” the older lady returned in a voice more shrill than soothing. “Mr. Addleshaw was simply surprised by our unexpected appearance in his home. I’m sure once we explain matters to his satisfaction, he’ll be more than mollified, and then the two of you will be in accord once again.”
The lady named Lily stopped in her tracks. “I have no desire to be in accord with that man.”
“That’s ridiculous,” the older woman argued. “You know your father and I are determined to see a union between our families.”
“You marry him, then, Mother, because I certainly never will,” Lily railed as she shook the parasol in her mother’s direction before plowing forward.
“If I were a few years younger and not married to your father, believe me, I’d consider it.” Lily’s mother hustled after her daughter, grabbing the young lady’s arm when she finally caught up with her. “You need to be reasonable about this, dear. We have a lot at stake here.”
“I’m not feeling in a reasonable frame of mind, Mother.” Lily shrugged out of her mother’s hold, whacked the poor woman with the parasol, and then charged forward again. She came to an abrupt halt when her gaze settled on Harriet. Her lips thinned, her nostrils flared, and her brown eyes turned downright menacing. “Who are you?”
Harriet summoned up a smile. “I’m Miss Peabody.”
Lily’s eyes narrowed. “Are you here to see Mr. Addleshaw?”
Harriet took a step back. “Certainly not. I’m here at Mrs. Fienman’s request to deliver hats to Miss Birmingham.”
Lily looked Harriet up and down. “You’re a hat girl?” She let out a grunt as her attention settled on Harriet’s hat. “You’re obviously not a very good one.”
Reminding herself she desperately needed to keep her job, Harriet continued smiling. “I am indeed a . . . ah . . . hat girl, although I didn’t create the hat I’m . . . Well, never mind about that. All you probably want to know is that I’m here to help you sort through your purchases, if you are, in fact, Miss Birmingham.”
“Of course I’m Miss Birmingham.”
“Wonderful. May I say that it’s lovely to meet you, and—”
“I don’t exchange pleasantries with the help,” Miss Birmingham interrupted as she moved closer and jabbed a finger at one of the hatboxes. “Show me what’s in there.”
Glancing up at a sky that was turning more threatening by the second, Harriet was about to suggest they seek out a drier place to inspect the hats, but before she could speak, a gentleman’s voice distracted her.
“Miss Birmingham, you need to repair back into the house i
mmediately. You’re certainly not dressed in a manner acceptable for strolling around in the open.”
Looking past Miss Birmingham, Harriet discovered a gentleman striding in their direction with a large hound of undetermined parentage loping at his side. Her eyes widened as she took in the man’s height, the breadth of his shoulders, and . . . the careless cut of his jacket, which strained against his chest and certainly hadn’t been cut to suit his powerful frame.
Strange as it seemed at that particular moment, she found herself contemplating who his tailor was and how much he’d given said tailor to create a jacket that fit him so poorly.
Shifting her attention to the gentleman’s face, she took in hazel eyes and a sharp slash of a nose that gave the gentleman the appearance of a hawk, that appearance heightened by the fact his hair was nearly as black as her own. His lips appeared to be firm—what little she could see of them, considering they were currently drawn in a straight line—and his jaw was strong but rigidly set, giving testimony to the fact he was livid.
She looked back at Miss Birmingham, expecting her to be trembling on the spot, but instead, the woman was fairly bristling with rage as she swept the feathered scarf over her shoulder and sent the gentleman a look of deepest disdain.
“You dare presume to order me about?” Miss Birmingham screeched. “You forget yourself, Mr. Addleshaw. I am Miss Lily Birmingham, daughter of the esteemed Mr. John Birmingham. And as such, I’ll stroll around outside dressed however I please.”
“You’re in a wrapper,” Mr. Addleshaw shot back. “Your father would hardly approve, and it’s rich you bring up presumption, considering you took it upon yourself to move into my home without my knowledge. I told you and your parents I’d secure you more than adequate rooms at a reputable hotel.”
Miss Birmingham lifted her pointy chin in the air. “This is exactly why I will no longer be marrying you. You’re a complete boor.”
“Forgive me, Miss Birmingham, but we’re not engaged, nor did I ever suggest we were soon to be. I invited you to the city for the express purpose of attending a few society events in the coming weeks, and I was completely upfront with you when I told you why I needed you in New York. If you will recall, the Duke of Westmoore will soon be in town, and I requested your company so that you could help me entertain the gentleman while I go about the delicate matter of negotiating a business deal with him. The very idea that you took it upon yourself to arrive in the city earlier than we discussed and took up residence in my home boggles my mind.”
Panic began pounding through Harriet’s veins.
They were not engaged, had never been from what Mr. Addleshaw was saying. That meant the day was destined for disaster, since Harriet had the feeling neither of the two people arguing right in front of her was going to be receptive to her presenting them with a bill at this awkward moment in time.
“. . . and you can forget about me helping you with the duke,” Miss Birmingham howled. “You’re mean and rude, and you’ve been yelling at me ever since you stepped foot in the house.”
“Of course I’ve been yelling,” Mr. Addleshaw said between lips that barely moved. “You converted my home office into your personal dressing room.”
“The lighting suits my complexion better in that room than the dismal excuse for a room I was given by that dreadful housekeeper of yours.”
Harriet watched as Mr. Addleshaw’s mouth opened, closed, opened, and then closed again, as if he couldn’t decide what he should say next.
She really couldn’t say she blamed him.
It was quickly becoming clear Miss Birmingham was not a lady with whom one could reason with in a sensible manner.
“You! Hat girl!” Miss Birmingham suddenly snapped. “Make yourself useful and show me what you’ve got in those boxes you’re holding.”
“You want to look at hats right now?” was all Harriet could think to respond.
“That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes, of course, but . . .”
“Stop being difficult, Miss Birmingham,” Mr. Addleshaw interrupted before he nodded to Harriet. “You, my dear, may take yourself and your hats straight back to the shop you came from. Miss Birmingham will send for them once she gets settled into a hotel.”
Before Harriet could respond, Miss Birmingham began screaming at Mr. Addleshaw—nasty, horrible accusations that really had no business spewing out of a lady’s mouth. Realizing it would not serve her well to remain in the woman’s presence another minute, Harriet decided to take Mr. Addleshaw’s suggestion and return to the shop. She knew she’d be facing Mrs. Fienman’s wrath once she arrived with no bill delivered and a carriage stuffed to the gills with expensive hats, but couldn’t see any benefit staying there, especially since Miss Birmingham’s screaming was escalating. She turned on her heel and had barely taken five steps when stars erupted behind her eyes. Her head began throbbing right before she felt what she thought was Miss Birmingham’s parasol poking her in the back.
“You’re not going anywhere with those hats,” Miss Birmingham hissed. “They’re mine, and I demand you give them to me.”
Harriet wasn’t afforded the simple courtesy of handing the boxes over to the obviously deranged Miss Birmingham. The woman took care of acquiring the hats on her own by ripping the boxes straight out of Harriet’s hands as she thrust the parasol directly into Harriet’s stomach. With her hands flapping wildly, Harriet tried to find her balance, but before she could get her feet firmly beneath her, a large furry form flew through the air, hit her squarely in the chest, and sent her tumbling backward. Hard bricks greeted her right before the sound of snarling settled in her ears.
2
Oliver Addleshaw preferred to manage his life exactly as he managed his many businesses. Calmly, organized, and with a sense of purpose. Unfortunately, due to the antics of an exasperating lady, he was smack in the midst of one of the most chaotic and dramatic situations he’d ever witnessed, let alone participated in.
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, sir,” the hat lady called, “I could use a bit of assistance over here.”
Directing his attention back to the poor woman—whose face his unruly dog, Buford, was licking a little too enthusiastically—Oliver resisted a sigh. “My apologies, miss, of course . . . you need assistance.” He trudged back into the chaos. “Buford, it’s not good manners to knock a lady over, let alone slobber all over her face. Get down.”
Buford, being Buford, barely paused in his licking, but before Oliver had a chance to grab him, the sound of heels tapping across the bricks captured his dog’s interest. Buford raised his head and a second later bounded away, his enthusiastic yelps echoing around the courtyard.
Turning, Oliver winced when he discovered the source of Buford’s latest fixation. With her mother scampering behind, Miss Birmingham was tottering away on her ridiculously high-heeled slippers, swinging her hatboxes victoriously, apparently having forgotten her vow to never enter his house again since she was tottering straight toward it. The fluffy piece of nonsense she’d thrown around her neck was fluttering behind her, the fluttering the source of Buford’s fascination.
“Buford, no,” he yelled, but Buford was already sailing through the air. When the dog landed back on the ground, Miss Birmingham’s scarf was clamped between his large teeth.
“Give that back to me.” Miss Birmingham drew back her arm and, to Oliver’s dismay, swung a hatbox directly at Buford’s head. Buford let out a whine, dropped the scarf, and then, because he was constantly craving affection, he lifted his paw and gave Miss Birmingham a look that should have melted her heart.
Miss Birmingham ignored the look as well as the offered paw, snatched up her scarf, looped it twice around her neck, and picked up the hatbox she’d dropped to the ground. With a huff of disgust toward Buford, she swiveled on a high heel and flounced away.
Crouching down, Oliver let out a whistle, and for a second, it seemed Buford was going to come to him, but then . . .<
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“Stupid mutt,” Miss Birmingham tossed over her shoulder.
The hair on Buford’s back stood straight up right before he lunged for Miss Birmingham again.
“Oh . . . dear,” the hat lady muttered as the sound of ripping silk suddenly filled the air.
In the blink of an eye, Miss Birmingham was standing in the middle of the courtyard, dressed only in her unmentionables with her scarf still around her neck as Buford scampered away with the green wrapper.
“This is hardly the time to dither, Mr. Addleshaw,” the hat lady admonished as she pushed up from the ground in a surprisingly agile move and dashed past him.
“I’m not dithering,” he argued under his breath. He began running after his dog right as the hat lady jumped at Buford with her arms spread wide.
Buford skittered to the right, her arms meeting nothing but air, and she tumbled to the ground as Buford galloped away, straight toward Miss Birmingham.
Oliver changed direction as Miss Birmingham began shrieking, but her shrieks came to a rapid end when Buford dropped the wrapper and grabbed onto the scarf, his tugging effectively cutting off Miss Birmingham’s voice as the scarf tightened around the lady’s throat.
Picking up his pace, Oliver made it to within a few feet of the mayhem but came to an abrupt stop when Miss Birmingham sent him a look filled with rage.
“Stay back,” she rasped.
“Really, Miss Birmingham, this is not the moment for such nonsense, considering you’re not properly clothed and obviously need some . . .”
“You’re not helping matters,” the hat lady interrupted before she darted past him and grabbed Buford by the collar. “Drop it.”
To Oliver’s surprise, the end of the scarf popped out of Buford’s mouth. His dog then plopped down on the bricks and rolled over to his back, where he immediately began to whimper.