“I’m f-flattered, ma’am, and p-pleased that you like them.” Nell turned to see if Claudia was still wearing her hat, and as she did so, Mr. Fields disappeared from the doorway. Heat rose in her face. How long had he been standing there?
“If the fit is all right, I’ll get these in boxes for you and give you the t-ticket. Our receptionist will assist you with p-payment.”
As the last hat was tucked safely in a cardboard box with the Oscar Fields Millinery design on the side, Mrs. Benchley leaned in and whispered, “Have you made an appointment at the clinic?”
Nell nodded. “At four this afternoon.”
“Excellent, my dear.” They shook hands, and as the Benchleys left, Daphne turned and gave a fluttery wave. “We’ll be sure and send over some photographs when we get all dolled up.”
“Thanks. I’d love that. Have a w-wonderful time.”
* * *
“Please have a seat. The doctor will be with you in a moment.” The receptionist was the picture of efficiency, her desk tidy, her gray suit stark. The woman didn’t smile, nor did she scowl or try to make Nell feel at ease, but merely pointed to a line of wooden chairs along the wall.
Nell stared at the tips of her shoes until her name was called by a pleasant young woman in a black skirt and white blouse with a ruffled collar.
“Welcome, my love. This way, please. Dr. Underwood will be tripping along soon. I’m Lindy Williams, his assistant.” She led Nell into a studio with a window view of a dark brick building. In one corner was a child-sized table with wooden blocks and picture books. “Would you relish some coffee or a cup of tea?”
A catch came in Nell’s throat. The Yorkshire rhythm in the assistant’s voice was unmistakable, a warm sensation like a glimpse of home after a long journey. “A cup of t-tea would be lovely. With milk p-please.”
“Oh, you’re British, too.” Cornflower-blue eyes crinkled at the corners when Lindy smiled. “Have you been here long?”
“In the S-states almost four years. A tad over two in New York.”
“You’re a newcomer then. I’ve been here almost ten. I’m from Thirsk. Do you know it?”
Nell nodded. “My m-mother grew up in Yorkshire, but I was born near Heathdown in my father’s family home.”
“Heathdown?”
“A tiny v-village. Near Stow-on-the-Wold.”
“Oh yes. Lovely country. Welcome, then. I’ll run and fetch your tea. Dr. Underwood will be in directly. He’s a marvel. You’ll see.” She hurried off and returned a few minutes later with the tea and a short, round doctor in a white laboratory coat, which he wore over a bright lemon shirt with a black bow tie.
Dr. Terrence Underwood introduced himself and indicated that Nell should take a seat in a large leather chair, which sat at a right angle to his. “Lindy tells me you’re from England.”
“Originally, yes.”
“Tell me a little about yourself, your family.”
“My mother, sister, and I moved to K-Kentucky to live with my aunt after my f-father died in the war. Mama has since r-remarried, and Granville adopted my s-sister soon after. I’ve been here for two years.”
“I’m sorry to hear of your loss. That’s a lot of changes for a young woman. And New York is quite an adjustment in itself.” The doctor had a soothing voice, not probing. He opened a folder that Nell supposed was the information she’d given over the telephone, which included Mrs. Benchley’s name as a reference.
Dr. Underwood casually crossed his legs and looked directly at her. “Today, all we’ll do is get acquainted with one another. I need to obtain a general history and will do a physical exam to rule out any underlying organic reasons for your stammer. Quite often there are neurological causes, which a few simple tests will determine. From the small amount of speaking we’ve done so far, I can tell you have difficulty with beginning sounds. It’s a common pattern, and we’ll work to determine which sounds you struggle with the most. Are you agreeable so far?”
“Y-yes, sir. And thank you for s-seeing me.”
“I’m delighted to do so. I individually tailor to each client’s needs and have discovered that using exercises and a variety of prompts in an interactive process can give astounding results.”
It sounded both vague and full of promise. Nell leaned back and relaxed, sipping her tea as Dr. Underwood wrote in her folder.
They sped through her history. He did a brief physical exam, tapped on her knees and elbows with a small triangular rubber hammer, checked the strength in her grip, and instructed her to walk along a black line painted on the oak flooring. Next, he shone a light in her mouth, had her stick out her tongue and swallow. He had Lindy assist by holding up printed cards with everyday words, which progressed from simple to multisyllabic. On her chart, he made notes, then flipped to the first page where he’d taken her history before speaking.
“You are a milliner’s apprentice, correct?”
Nell confirmed that she was.
“As such, you do a good bit of drawing, I presume?”
Another yes.
“Excellent. Fortunately for you, I don’t find any abnormalities to indicate a neurological basis for your malady. Can you remember any times you might have fallen or suffered a blow to the head during your childhood?”
“None that I know of, s-sir. I’m su-sure I t-tumbled down the stairs a f-few times when I was s-small, maybe a p-plaster or two on my knees. No head injuries that I’m aware of.”
Dr. Underwood leaned back and closed his eyes like he was drawing up the courage to tell her that she was a hopeless case, that he couldn’t help her. After a moment, though, he opened his eyes and said, “May I assure you there is no shame in stammering. Many famous people such as Aristotle and Isaac Newton were prone to it. Breathing exercises and desensitization techniques are often of great benefit.”
Nell latched onto the possibility as he continued speaking.
“Great strides have been made in the science of human behavior, and I believe you are the perfect candidate for my program. When you return next week, I’ll have an easel prepared, and we’ll talk about your childhood, what might be the source of your stammering. I’d like you to draw scenes from the prompts I give you. I’m certain we’ll find the root of your problem in no time.”
It seemed too good to be true. The behavioral issue was something she didn’t quite follow, but Dr. Underwood’s confidence that he could help her carried her like a feather on a wind current as she clipped along the sidewalk, then darted between oncoming automobiles to cross the street. Just in time, too, as the clang of the approaching trolley rang out. She grabbed the post to board and found an empty spot on the bench. She leaned back and caught her breath. If it were as simple as a childhood trauma, she would be thrilled, but the worst trauma in Nell’s life had been leaving Heathdown. She’d been stammering long before that.
Chapter 4
“A psycho doc? That’s who’s going to stop your stuttering?” Jeanette lounged on the settee Gloria Swanson–like with one leg draped over the end. The silent film star had nothing on Jeanette when it came to drama.
Nell cringed. She’d waited until the day after her visit with Dr. Underwood to tell Jeanette and Greta. Jeanette always made such a fuss that she thought dropping it casually into the conversation best.
Greta had said, “Attagirl, Nell!” and went back to drawing red lipstick on her mouth while looking into the compact from her purse. She gave a kissy motion, then snapped the gold case and slipped it in her bag. “If you pick up any hints on how to project your voice, let me know.” She put on a wool beret and tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “I have to dash, my darlings. My destiny awaits.”
Greta sailed out the door to attend an acting class her theater manager had recommended. With Greta gone, Jeanette grilled Nell like she’d committed a crime, and Nell told her about the advanced methods of Dr. Underwood. She just hadn’t expected Jeanette to be so blunt.
“Don’t call him a psyc
ho doc. He’s not a psy-psychiatrist. He’s a specialist in speech development. There are exercises for me to do.”
“But you said he’ll have you draw pictures and delve into your childhood. It sounds like that free association nonsense Freud advocates, only with pictures instead of words.” Jeanette’s foot kept time with the beat of Billy Murray singing on the Victrola. “Hey, here’s a song for you.” She sat up and moved her shoulders.
Nell threw a pencil at her. “You know I hate that song.” Stupid Billy Murray singing “You Tell Her, I Stutter” like it was some joke.
“I didn’t say I liked it. I’m simply saying I don’t think stuttering is the Mount Everest you make it out to be. Some hills aren’t meant to be climbed.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who stutters.”
“I’m not sure an analyst is your answer. He’ll be probing and asking you if you hate your mother or if your father was cruel and made you eat Brussels sprouts.”
“I never should have brought it up.”
“Speaking of food, I’m starving.”
“We weren’t.”
“Weren’t what?”
“Speaking of food.”
“I was, and I’m going to be late to my mother’s birthday luncheon if I don’t put on some speed. You sure you don’t want to come?”
Nell shook her head. She knew she should accept the invitation, but Jeanette’s mother made her uncomfortable. Mr. Fields had been married to Mrs. North’s sister, Anna, who had been a victim of the Spanish flu epidemic. Mrs. North was nice enough, but her questions always seemed like she was prying. Who’s Oscar dating now? Any juicy gossip?
Rumors certainly reached Nell’s ears that some of the women who came into the salon had other motives than buying hats when they requested a consultation with Mr. Fields. He was, without question, an attractive, eligible man, and his mustache was said to give him verve.
Out of respect for her boss, though, these weren’t things Nell would dare mention to Mrs. North. Once Jeanette had left, Nell waited until the noon rush had settled, then went to the back entrance of the diner that led to the Salvatores’ quarters. Felice answered Nell’s knock on the first rap.
“Ah, tesoro mio. Come in.” Felice wiped her hands on her apron and pushed a damp curl from her forehead with the back of her hand. “You’ve come not too late to have a little gnocchi. Angelo make it fresh this morning. He must have been thinking in his head that you were coming.”
“Mmmm. Sounds delicious, but just a small bowl. What I really want is ravioli. Does Angelo make that?”
“Ach! Are you coming down with the fever? You ask always for gnocchi.” Felice lay a plump hand that smelled of garlic and basil on Nell’s forehead.
Nell laughed. “No fever. A friend recommended ravioli so I want to try it.”
“This friend, she comes here?”
“Not a she—it’s a boy. A man. And no, he hasn’t come here, but I know he’d love to.”
Felice looked unconvinced and disappeared through the swinging doors that went to the kitchen. As she returned with the ravioli and the gnocchi, a boisterous group came in the diner asking if it was too late for lunch. Felice greeted them like they were long-lost relatives and scurried off, leaving Nell to her thoughts that were an ocean away.
* * *
Dr. Underwood wore a tangerine-colored shirt with a deep turquoise bow tie when Nell arrived for her next session. Nell wondered if his wife picked out his clothes or if the bright colors were meant to appeal to the children he treated. They did match his affirming personality, but Nell was wary, unsettled.
After only a moment of small talk, Dr. Underwood said, “Let’s get started. You mentioned that you moved to America when your father died. Today I want you to think about your father and draw anything that comes to mind about him. What was his physique, his mannerisms? Was he jovial or stern? What was your relationship like?”
“I-I…my f-father…he was nice, w-wonderful, in fact. And I can assure you, he n-never made me eat Brussels sprouts, and even if he had, I like them.”
“Miss Marchwold…what an unusual thing to say.”
Nell balled her fingers into a fist, her nails biting into her flesh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to blurt that out. It’s j-just that my r-roommate said you would ask questions like that.”
“Like what?”
“About my childhood, whether I l-loved my p-parents. Psy-psycho…”
“Psychoanalysis? Is that what you meant?”
Nell nodded, heat rising in her cheeks.
“While behavioral principles are at the core of my program, I assure you, I have no intention of doing such a thing. As I explained to you, I will be merely prompting you to draw scenes from your life in an attempt to bring your emotions to the surface. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
He closed his eyes the way he had on the first visit like there were pictures inside his head that would give him inspiration. His voice was mellow when he opened them and continued.
“Disregard what I said. For today, I’m not giving you a prompt. Simply draw whatever comes to your mind. Would you prefer to work at the easel or a desk?”
“The d-desk, please.”
“Very well. I’ll have Lindy bring you some tea.”
When Lindy slipped in quietly and set the tray with a pot of tea on the desk, Nell had already sketched the outline of her first drawing. Not of her papa, so if Jeanette asked, Nell could assure her Dr. Underwood wasn’t interested in the nonsense of Freud.
Nell drew her grandmother—Lady Mira she was called—dowager countess of Marchwold. Her hand moved quickly, making long strokes of her grandmother’s dressing gown as she reclined on a chaise by the window. She filled in the details of the room, the ornate furniture, the marble fireplace, and the rolling green fields beyond the glass. Seated on a nearby stool, Nell drew an image of her younger self, plaited hair, watercolors resting on a nearby table, and a sketchbook propped up on her knees.
“Observe everything, my sweet Prunella,” her grandmother often said. “The sky. The earth. The changing seasons. But most of all, study people. Watch the tilt of the head, the way the chin juts up when a person would like to disagree. Inhale the sweet breath of a baby and the sour fumes of a man who likes tinned sardines, and you will learn about life.”
Observation by listening was in a category all its own. The cadence of boots on polished oak floors. The tone of the voice. The inflection. What people say to make themselves look more important than they are.
Grandmama would deliver these jewels, then resume her gaze at the world outside her window. Even then, observing and listening had suited Nell, for the more she took in the world through her eyes and ears, the less she had to speak.
Memories of Grandmama flitted through Nell’s thoughts. Her velvet cheeks. The tears that carried sadness at the loss of Nell’s father and then her grandfather. The day they left to come to America, Grandmama had cradled her cheeks in doe-soft hands and smiled. In that moment, Nell felt her grandmother’s belief in her as fully as if she’d taken out a page in the London Times.
Nell had never veered from the promise she made to herself that day, that no matter where she went or what she did, her quest would be to make her grandmother proud.
Lost in thought, Nell didn’t hear Dr. Underwood enter the room, and when he spoke, she jumped. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” He raised his eyebrows and looked at her picture.
“I didn’t f-finish.” She pointed to the reclining figure. “This is my grandmother in England.” A catch came in her throat. “She’s always b-believed in me.”
“And you miss her, is that it?”
“V-very much.” Nell took a deep breath.
“It’s a positive sign that you’ve had people in your life who’ve encouraged and inspired you. I think you’ll find our sessions most insightful in helping you overcome your speech difficulties.” He handed Nell a packet. “Inside you will find the exe
rcises you are to practice each day. Read them aloud a dozen or more times. They’ve been specifically ordered with your difficulties in mind. You may speak the words or sing them, but the main goal is repetition and completing a phrase without faltering.”
He showed her the door. What Dr. Underwood expected was a miracle. Nell wished for one, too, but like the miracle it would take to ever see her grandmother again, she didn’t hold out a great deal of hope. With heavy steps, she stepped from the Addison Avenue office building onto a crowded street and waited for the trolley.
Chapter 5
Nell removed her scarf and hung it on the coatrack inside the design studio she shared with Calvin Gold and Ed Percy. And until two weeks ago, Nora Remming. Situated at the opposite end of the corridor from the boisterous second-floor workroom, the studio offered respite and quiet so Nell and the other designers could concentrate and create. And it was here where Nell first sat in rapt attention as Mr. Fields talked of the elements of design; the principles of composition; and giving a hat contrast, balance, and rhythm. Nell had taken copious notes in a journal and studied them at night. It was six months before she was given a drafting table and set free to make her own designs.
Now, her table stood next to Calvin’s, with Percy’s spot and Nora’s former one on the opposite wall. Nell thought it was to distinguish the senior designers from the apprentices, but in truth, Percy seemed to like keeping to himself and had a high productivity level with the arrangement. He had a keen eye for color and could sketch like the wind. When Nell had asked him about it, he said it came from experience, something Nell was miles short on.
Now he sat hunched over a sketch, not even looking up to say good morning. As Nell took the pins from her brimmed hat, she caught a glimpse of Calvin strutting around with his thumbs hooked in his armpits like he was a chicken.
“You must have had a fun time over the weekend. Want to tell me her name?”
The Hatmaker's Heart: A Novel Page 3