by Karen Kirst
She quirked her eyebrows at him. “Very well. I shan’t press.” She broke away from him and gathered her sketchbook. “Thank you for approving my list and for ordering the supplies from London.”
“Not at all.” Suddenly bereft of her touch, he jammed his fists into his pockets. “You’ll be back in a week, then.”
She tossed him a blank, efficient smile. “Of course.” For a moment he thought she was going to add “Sir.” That would never do.
“I’ll hold you to it, Sid,” he pressed on.
She nodded, her coronet of braids catching the light that streamed in through the open window.
Then, with a swish of skirts, she was gone. A strange heavy feeling settled over him as the door shut behind her.
This would be the longest week of his life.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Had the shop always been this small? Hannah looked at it again, as though by blinking she could return the millinery shop to its former rightful glory. Perhaps she was just used to the grand size of Grant Park. The shop did appear rather forlorn, with the sign proclaiming Siddons Sisters Millinery Shop still propped against the outside wall. Of course, its location was never ideal. Here, on the very edge of the village where the main road trailed off, it popped up unexpectedly, like an exclamation mark at the end of a very long sentence. The building was all they had when they first arrived. Now, with its dejected appearance, it was a symbol of how very far the Siddons sisters had moved.
Hannah lowered her head and pushed open the front door. Abigail and Mercy glanced up from their work. “Good afternoon, Miss Nan,” Abigail said, laying her handiwork aside. “Did you have a pleasant journey?”
“I did.” She would have to get used to being called Nan again. No one in Tansley Village would refer to her as anything else. “I’ll take my valise upstairs and then I’d like to hear about how the business has been while I’ve been at Grant Park.”
The two girls nodded and went back to their work. Hannah hefted her valise up the stairs, remembering every creak and groan with each footstep. Her bedroom smelled musty. She dropped her valise on her woebegone cot and hurried over to the window, flinging it open. She then prepared to wash her face, but there was no water and no soap in the basin.
She resisted the urge to heave a gusty sigh, for she knew full well that returning home would mean a return to work. Not just the kind of focused, friendly labor of working with and for Jane Reed, but the heavy work of cleaning, cooking and readying herself each and every day.
In a moment, she would draw water from the well and fill her pitcher. She would find some linen in the cupboard and hang it on the line to air out so that she would be able to make her own bed this evening. For now, she needed to talk to her workers and find out how the business had been faring while she was gone.
Before she left her room, she pulled the leather box from her valise. Having it out in the shop would surely remind her that she had another existence far away from here, an existence that was hers alone. She tucked it into the pocket of her apron and trudged downstairs.
“So, how goes our sales?” Hannah sat in her usual spot, a worn-out chair near the hearth. It was a fine, warm day so there was no need of a fire, and the hearth smelled of ashes. Everything was smaller, dirtier and mustier than even she had pictured during the long carriage ride home.
Abigail, the more talkative of the two workers, spoke up. “We’ve sold one or two bonnets since you have been gone, Miss Nan.”
Had she heard aright? She sat up straight in her chair, fear charging down her spine. “One or two? That is all?”
“I’m afraid so.” Abigail put aside her work and looked over the ledger book nearby. “We did have another order come in today, though.”
One or two bonnets in a fortnight? Hannah struggled to breathe. That was a paltry sum, far worse than she had imagined. She would never gain independence, relying on one bonnet sale a week. The profit would hardly pay for her workers, much less her own wants. Dear Lord, please help me. I’ll fail for certain. She thought of John, lounging in his study. How nice it could be to go to him right now and tell him about her troubles. He might understand. He would tease her, certainly, but somehow, unburdening her fears to him might make them seem smaller and more manageable. He was back at Grant Park, though, and she was here. There was nothing to be done but to get to work. This was her problem to solve, and not his concern.
She stuffed her hand in her pocket, clasping the box for strength. She had better do well as Jane’s seamstress, otherwise she would be stuck as an old maid in Susannah’s house for certain, or playing nursemaid for her newborn niece or nephew at Becky’s house. “Who have our faithful customers been?”
“The Honorable Miss Glaspell. She ordered two fine silk bonnets. She’s remained loyal to the shop, even though everyone else seems to have deserted us.” Abigail flipped through the pages of the ledger, eyeing the columns written in Hannah’s handwriting.
“Yes. She was our first customer and really gave us our start.” Hannah resisted the urge to jump from the chair and pace. If her workers saw how agitated she was, then they might worry about their own jobs. That would never do. “So is it certain, then? Are all of our customers going to the French milliner?”
“Well, old Mrs. Hugh Holdcroft came in yesterday. She was with her son. He promised to purchase a bonnet for her within a few days. I suppose he was waiting to be paid for a job,” Mercy piped up from her place in the corner.
Hannah glanced over at Mercy. “Are you certain?” Mrs. Holdcroft usually only ordered one bonnet a year, and she had ordered one just after the Christmas holidays.
“Yes.” Mercy paused at her work, looking over at Hannah. “Not to be cheeky, but there have been very few customers. I remember every single one.”
Hot tears pricked the back of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Not now. Tonight, on her musty cot, she would allow herself the luxury of crying her eyes out. “Well, I am here for the entire week before I must return to Grant Park. I shall see what can be done about drumming up more business.”
Mercy raised one eyebrow but turned back to her work. Abigail nodded, her lips pursed, and picked up her handiwork once more.
Hannah rose and walked over to the window display. The bonnets in the window were faded, and a few traces of cobwebs graced the brims of one of them. This would never do. She hadn’t given much thought to displays in the past, for who cared? After all, at one time, this was the only millinery in the village. Why waste precious materials on a silly display?
Now, however, times had changed. She was engaged in a fight for her very life. She was not the only milliner in town, and her entire business was doomed if she didn’t engage in the battle. Silently, she pushed aside the table and began working, ripping down drooping fabrics, tearing away faded ribbons and sweeping aside tattered trimmings. The task at hand demanded her total absorption. She went behind the shop and drew water from the well, then began scrubbing the windows and the front table.
When they shone brightly, she went back through storage at the rear of the shop and brought out a length of rose-colored silk, which she draped from the ceiling rafter and allowed to pool on the floor. In front of the silken waterfall, she placed the table. Then she added three of the very finest bonnets from the back storage area, still left over from when Becky had indulged her artistic bent.
She stepped outside and squinted at the display through the sparkling windowpane. It was arresting, to be sure, but not ready. Something was missing.
Hannah hurried back inside and rushed up the stairs. Some of her drawings were still tucked into her valise. They were pretty sketches, but the bonnets did not pass her rigorous approval for Jane’s wear. Jane needed something delicate, almost whimsical. These bonnets were a trifle too bold for her subtle beauty.
Hannah took them downstairs and pinned them to the waterfall of silk. It was almost perfect, a delicious display of vibrant colors and textures.
“I mu
st say, Miss Nan, that looks lovely.” Abigail spoke up from her corner of the room. “A new display is just the thing.”
“I agree.” Mercy nodded. “We didn’t want to change anything, because it’s not our shop. But that makes all the difference in the world. Even just to me as I sit here and work.”
“Yes.” Abigail smiled over at Hannah. “That silk sort of filters the sunlight as it comes through the window. It gives our whole work room a rosy glow.”
Hannah glanced up. “You are right.” The whole attitude of the room had changed. It no longer had a neglected, desperate feel. It had come back to life.
She eyed the display critically once more. There was still something missing. In fact, she needed some sort of talisman, something to remind herself that she was going to be all right. She dug her borrowed handkerchief box out of the pocket of her apron and placed it on the table. She opened it slightly, tugging out just the corners of a few of her most elaborately embroidered handkerchiefs.
The leather case, richly embossed with wildflowers, added just the right touch. Any fashionable woman would want to shop at the Siddons Sisters Millinery Shop after seeing a display like that.
She still had the touch. She still had the gift.
Now she just needed to convince the rest of Tansley of that truth.
*
Sid was gone. She was gone to her shop in Tansley, and somehow, the life of Grant Park had gone with her. John eyed his sister across the dinner table. Jane had been dreamy—well, more so than usual—ever since Sid had left. It was as though no one around could talk plain sense anymore.
“I am thinking about breeding collies,” he began. Maybe Jane would help him mull over this venture.
She started as though he had stood on the table and yelled. “Beg pardon?”
He sighed. “I am thinking of raising puppies.”
“But, you are raising puppies. What about Molly?” Jane eyed him with bewilderment.
“Not just one puppy. Several. Entire litters, in fact.” He poked at the chicken on his plate with his fork. “The stock at Grant Park is excellent, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. But thank you for telling me.” Jane sank back against her chair with a sigh.
“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” Jane’s plate was still heaped with food.
“I am eating.” Jane took a tiny bite of a piece of bread. “See?”
“Honestly.” John pushed his chair away from the table. “Country life is the absolute worst. I am fairly itching for London right now.” The urge to do something, anything, was overwhelming. It was far too quiet and dull without Sid around.
“Then go to London.” Jane glanced at him evenly. She, of all people, had seen this mood come and go in him since childhood, and as always, she remained unimpressed by it. “But don’t take your lack of ability to stay calm and quiet out on the country. Grant Park is lovely. The only prettier place I’ve seen is Tansley Village.”
“I can’t go to London. You know that.” He was pacing now, like a caged tiger. “If only you would agree to go to London—”
“Not until I absolutely must,” she broke in. “You know how much I hate it. If you pursue this line of conversation, then you know full well I shall berate you about forcing me to make my London debut. Shall we venture down that path together?” Jane cocked her head to one side and glared at him.
“No.” He knew when he was beaten. He would do anything else. He could not have that discussion with Jane once more.
“Then go find something else to do,” Jane chided. “You don’t need London to have fun. You, of all people, always on the hunt for mirth, should surely be able to find it wherever you go.”
He shot Jane a baleful glare but said nothing. Instead, he picked up his plate and silver and stalked out of the room. Better to eat alone, really. Jane was in quite a mood and he was no better. Sid, it seemed, brought a great deal of balance to their home.
But where to go? If he went to his study, he could work. Should he write Sid a letter? No, she wouldn’t receive it until the end of her stay. He could send a runner up to Tansley with a message, but that might make her feel as though she should hurry back. Part of their bargain was that she could return home and work on the shop without interruption. He must uphold his part of the agreement.
Instead, he walked across the house to the library. He hadn’t been in that particular room in years. It was his father’s favorite place. If he met Father in the library, he was usually being called to task for his failings.
“Have you met a young woman yet?” Father would say.
“Oh, I’ve met many,” he would reply, stuffing his fists down deep in his pockets.
Father would glare disapprovingly and then shrug his shoulders.
“Decent women, I should say.”
“A fair few, but none who suited me.” Then on and on the interview would stretch, as Father reminded him of all that was expected of him as the heir.
The walls would close in on him, and the portraits lining the wall would glare disapprovingly down at him.
Why was he going there, then, if all he had were bad memories of the place?
He opened the door with great caution, as though Father might still be there, waiting for him.
Father wasn’t there, though. The room was empty. Even so, a fire flickered in the grate, warding off the spring evening’s chill. Out of habit, he wandered over to the chair that was usually his seat during his father’s many lectures. He balanced his plate precariously in his lap and stared, brooding, at the fire.
“You have too much fun,” Father would reprimand.
“Better than having none at all,” he would return, his temper beginning to rise.
That’s when the conversations would end. Father knew when not to push the envelope. That is how matters ended as they did, with Jane allowed to indulge her passion for violin and with John allowed to fritter away his existence in London. Father knew his boundaries well.
John forced himself to look at the ancestral portraits on the wall. They were all well-dressed and well-taken-care-of people. More to the point, they knew how to take care of others. Responsibility and duty were the hallmarks of Grant Park.
He eyed them carefully, forcing himself to confront his family. Had they ever wanted to run away? Had they ever wanted to be done with obligation? No, that was hardly likely. He passed a weary hand over his forehead.
There was one portrait he couldn’t look at, and it hung on the opposite wall. It was Mother’s picture, painted just after she and Father had married. The likeness was so realistic, Mother looked ready to speak. The gentleness of her character was evident in every line. Even when he would come in to get a lecture from Father, he couldn’t bear to raise his eyes to hers.
She knew all too well the price one had to pay for caring for others, for because of him she died an early death.
He lived, while the light dimmed in her beautiful eyes. He lived and he continued to thrive through selfishness. It would be better to examine the issue as he would an algebraic equation. Assuming there was a God, why did He play so fast and loose with John’s life? Why did God take her when He allowed John to live?
A pang of self-loathing shot through him like an arrow. His debts were so great, he could never begin to make amends. That was one of the reasons why he had turned away from the Lord. If he couldn’t forgive himself, surely God wouldn’t either. Over time he convinced himself that there was no God, because at least that way, there was no eternal Father looking down on him in disapproval.
He was better off in the study.
He took his plate and left the room, leaving it to its silence and its painful memories.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Hannah stifled a yawn as she toiled away at a bonnet. Already she had been in Tansley long enough. She would leave tomorrow, in fact. Yet her brave attempt at refashioning the millinery shop had not made any difference, at least as far as she could see. No customers had come in while sh
e had been home, and she finally dismissed Mercy and Abigail, giving them a respite while she was in residence. No sense in paying the girls to be bored, when she could do that quite well on her own. She would bring them back to the shop when she returned to Grant Park.
She was utterly alone in her feeling of misery, for no one else seemed to care. Of course, her sisters had been no help. Totally absorbed in their own families and their own troubles and triumphs, neither sister had offered any wisdom about the current state of affairs. Becky, becoming prettier and rounder with each day of her pregnancy, had simply said, “Perhaps the other milliner is more artistic, and it is her calling to dress the women of Tansley. Your calling may lay elsewhere, Nan.”
Susannah had rolled her eyes as she chased after her scampering son, Charlie. “Nan, you are being far too dire about the situation. There are ups and downs with every business. You’ve enjoyed success for many years. Adversity is good for you. It keeps you from resting on your laurels.”
Fine words for both sisters to say. They had roofs over their heads, and security in knowing their own place in life. While she, Hannah, still floundered about, trying to keep her precarious foothold.
So absorbed was she in these gloomy thoughts that she hardly noticed a flutter of activity outside. The door to the shop opened and an older woman stepped over the threshold, followed by a tall young man, so tall he had to duck under the door frame.
“Mrs. Holdcroft,” Hannah said with a smile. “I was told you might come in soon for a bonnet.”
“Upon my word, yes,” Mrs. Holdcroft replied. Her bearing was graceful and her smile charming. Funny, one couldn’t tell right away that Mrs. Holdcroft was from a poorer background than some of their genteel clients. Hannah’s practiced eye caught the finely mended hole in one of her sleeves and the lack of truly extravagant trimming on her bonnet. Of course, she had made that bonnet and remembered how much it had cost, down to the last penny. “Timothy has insisted on buying a new one for me, though I daresay I don’t need it. The one you made me earlier this year is just lovely.”