Wiggins recovered from the spasm and led them in the opening exercise. He cleared his throat and looked straight at her. “Prunella, please stand and recite this week’s assignment.”
The Ten Commandments. She knew them backward and forward, but when his eyes pierced hers, she froze.
Relax, you half-wit. You can do this. She let her jaw go slack and tried not to think about the words lodged in her throat. She rose on jellied legs, biting her lip until the taste of blood filled her mouth. “Thou shalt h-have no other g-g-g…” She stared at her feet, and in her side vision she saw Simone Honeycutt stick a finger in her mouth like she was gagging.
Prunella looked straight ahead and started over. “Thou shalt have no other ga-ga-gags…g-g-gods before me.” Laughter echoed from the walls of the transept. Cold. Hollow.
The only one not laughing was Wiggins. Instead his eyes looked as if they were going to pop right out of their sockets. His chest heaved and he leaned over coughing until his face turned the color of beets. He spit great globs of phlegm into a handkerchief, pearl drops of sweat on his brow. His hands clenched the lectern in a death grip.
Prunella held her breath. Please, Lord, don’t let him die in front of us.
Stubs Pogue nudged Simone with a pencil and whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, “Pruneface is so stupid she even made Wiggins gag.”
Her face flamed as she lowered her head. Then a voice came through the fog, a whisper in her head. Grandmama’s voice. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. When you make a mistake, lift your chin and go on. Be strong.”
She gritted her teeth and lifted her chin. “May I start over p-please?”
Wiggins took off his glasses, his eyes two slits with mushy bags beneath them. In a raspy voice he said he was too ill to continue. He scooped up his satchel and left, crouching in his coat so the collar met his ears.
Prunella gathered her things, unsure what she should do. Freddy wouldn’t be back for another hour, and it was too bitter cold to walk to the manor. Maybe the vicar could help her.
Whilst she was trying to ease past Simone, Stubs put out his foot. “You have to give the code word to get by.”
“Ex-ex-excuse me, p-please.”
“Nope, that’s not it. Try again, liver lips.”
Simone snickered. “Don’t be cruel, Stubs. The princess can’t help it that her tongue is tied in knots.”
“I’m not a p-princess.” Prunella backed up and cut around the end to go the other way and came up against Jacob Rayburn, who smelled of onions and sheep manure. He was the oldest in the class. And the biggest. Prunella shuddered. He yanked one of her braids and grabbed her leather knapsack.
He hollered over his shoulder, “Hey mates, a game of Pickle in the Middle?” He tossed the bag underhand to Stubs. When Prunella lunged at Stubs, he swung it around by the straps and sailed it over to Herb Swenton who then hurled it back to Jacob.
Simone raised her arms to catch the bag, and when she did, the flap came undone, sending Prunella’s papers flying through the air.
Herb grabbed the bag and hollered, “Hey, Bledsoe, wanna have some fun? Catch.”
Prunella’s head snapped up. Quentin? What is he doing here? She looked at him with pleading eyes. He was the vicar’s son. Surely he wouldn’t torment her, too. He narrowed his eyes, the bag clutched in his hands, and looked at the papers strewn across the floor and benches of the transept. “Prunella?”
Understanding crossed Quentin’s face, giving Prunella hope that he would put a stop to the nonsense. Although her hopes were slim considering that even though Quentin was older, he was small for his age. So thin that Mama once said the breeze from a door slamming would bowl him over.
Jacob jeered, “Throw the bag, Quentin. You’re slowing down the game.”
Quentin shook his head. “Game’s over.” He extended the bag toward Prunella, but Herb lunged sideways into Quentin, knocking him down. Simone’s shriek echoed from the stone walls. Quentin jumped to his feet and took a swing at Herb, who ducked and punched Quentin in the stomach. Jacob came from the other side and shoved Quentin against the wall. “You got no right coming in here when it’s not your class and messing with the game.”
Quentin thrashed his arms. “You got no right to—”
Jacob’s fist slammed into Quentin’s nose. “That’s for interrupting and taking up for stupid.”
Prunella covered her face with her hands to stop the scream that rose in her throat. When Quentin didn’t answer, she spread her fingers and chanced a look. Blood poured from Quentin’s nose, splattered on the front of his jacket, dripping onto the cold stone floor.
Hot tears stung Prunella’s eyes, her insides a boiling cauldron. But her feet wouldn’t move, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
Jacob growled, “I oughta slam you with another one. Just let that be a lesson to you.” He grabbed his coat and looked at the others. “What are you waiting for? Let’s get out of here before his old man shows up.”
The transept emptied, the shuffling of feet the only sounds. All except Quentin who held a handkerchief to his nose and walked between the benches, gathering Prunella’s papers with his free hand. He stuffed them in her knapsack and handed it to her without a word.
“Thank you, Qu-Qu-Quentin. And I’m s-sorry.”
He shook his head. “It was nothing.”
* * *
It had been more than ten years, but it felt like yesterday. Quentin said it was nothing. But it was the beginning. He’d stayed with her the remaining time until Freddy picked her up. Nell gave Quentin her hankie, and when the bleeding stopped, he asked what happened and clenched his fists when she told him of her embarrassment.
“I’ll report it to my father, see if he can straighten it out.”
Nell had shaken her head and told him it wouldn’t matter, they would find ways to get back at her.
“Not when I’m around.” A sheepish grin creased Quentin’s freckled face, already growing lopsided with swelling. Nell licked her finger and reached up to wipe away a smear of dried blood.
The beginning of a friendship and had she remained in England, perhaps much more.
Chapter 12
On Friday morning, Nell found a notice on the studio door to report at once to the workroom. The entire design and production staff were assembled with Mr. Fields standing at the head of the table. He cleared his throat when she entered. “So glad you could join us, Miss Marchwold.”
His vinegar tone compounded the feeling that he’d meant to dismiss her in front of the entire staff. She offered a wan smile and took the remaining seat next to Hazel.
“Now that we’re all present, I will be brief. As you’ve no doubt heard, some of the designs for our recent show at the Stottlemeir Club fell into unscrupulous hands. I’ve my own theories about how that transpired”—Mr. Fields pinned Nell with a sharp look—“and am grieved that our salon has been humiliated, our integrity brought into question.”
For being brief, Mr. Fields was taking a long time to fire her. Perhaps he wanted her to suffer the same agony he no doubt had. Nell shifted in her seat, ready to hear the news.
Mr. Fields continued, “Careless behavior and compromising trusted designs is cause for dismissal. Not just here, but in any reputable salon.” Mr. Fields let the gravity of that settle. “We have, however, found our culprit and discharged him immediately. Ed Percy is no longer an employee of Oscar Fields Millinery. And should any of you ponder such an idea in the future, you will be met with a similar fate. Now, get back to work. We have a lot of new orders to fill.” He strode erect from the workroom without even a glance in Nell’s direction.
She felt as wrung out as a dishrag, and when the usual hubbub started around the table, Nell rose and went silently to the studio to start her day. Her prayers were heard. And answered.
At noon, Calvin caught up with her in the consulting salon as she finished with her last client of the morning. “Glad all that’s done with. Want some lunc
h to celebrate?”
“Sure, what did you have in mind?”
“How about clam chowder? There’s this little place I know—”
“Perfect. I’m starving.”
They laughed and talked like they hadn’t in weeks, but she reminded Calvin that it wasn’t really a celebration—she was to blame for not taking proper security measures.
“Snakes like Percy will always find a way. At least it’s behind you.”
But it wasn’t. She still needed to make amends to Soren. She called as soon as she got back to the salon and apologized.
Soren was quiet on the other end. “It nearly made me cry when I went by and saw the gowns. Shoddy. Disgraceful. And that weasel Price will be laughing every time his cash register rings.”
“I wish there was something I could do to make it up to you.”
“You’ve probably suffered enough from Oscar’s wrath. Remember what I told you—it’s a cutthroat business. You can never exercise too much caution.”
“Thank you. I’ll remember that.”
* * *
Thanksgiving was a quiet day. Jeanette and Greta had both gone to family dinners, and since Nell hadn’t grown up with the custom of Thanksgiving, she was content to spend the day sketching at the kitchen table.
By three that afternoon, her neck ached and she needed fresh air, but just as she donned her jacket, the telephone rang.
The operator said, “Long distance for Nell Marchwold.”
“Speaking.” Clicks sounded through the earpiece, then her mother’s voice on the other end.
“Mama! I’m so glad you called when you did. I was just on my way out the door. How are you? And Caroline…did Aunt Sarah give the hugs she promised?”
“Yes, she did. And we’re fine. All of us.” She said her newest rose cultivar was chosen for a trial at the university where Granville, Nell’s stepfather, taught and that Caroline was doing well in school. “You just won’t believe how she’s grown. She’s already lost two of her front teeth and working hard for her first piano recital. She can hardly wait to show off for you.”
“Oh, that’s lovely…I can hardly wait myself.”
“How’s the hat making?”
“Busy. Since the runway show I have quite a few of my own clients now, and several are asking for special holiday hats. We’ve also lost a principal designer so it makes more work for the rest of us.”
“I hope it won’t interfere with your trip home.”
“It shouldn’t, although it may only be for a few days.”
“We’re yearning to see you, and it would be a shame to miss Iris’s party. And you never know what eligible young men will be there.”
“You sound like Aunt Sarah. You know my dream is to make hats, and I’ve worked hard to get to this point.”
“Yes, you have, dear. I just don’t want you to miss out on love, either.”
“Someday, Mama.”
“One minute,” the crisp voice of the operator cut in.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes. I have to go now. I love you.”
“And we love you.” An audible sigh came from the other end. “The telephone is such a poor substitute for visiting in person. Pray tell, where are you off to?”
The line clicked, cutting off the call. To the silence on the other end, Nell whispered, “Just out for a walk, Mama.” She put the earpiece in the cradle and dropped to the settee. Her mama missed her. She blinked back the tears that threatened. Another whole month before she would see them. It seemed an eternity.
* * *
On Saturday afternoon Nell curled up on the settee with a hat and an array of beads she was stitching into detailed curlicues. Jeanette turned on the Victrola, but instead of dancing around the room, working on her fox-trot steps, she slumped into a chair. She’d been in somewhat of a mood since Thanksgiving, saying only that everything was fine. Nell suspected it wasn’t.
“Want to talk about what’s bothering you?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.” She let the cloche she was working on rest in her lap.
Jeanette twirled a strand of hair and chewed on the end of it. “My dad’s sick. Dying, if you ask me.”
Nell sucked in a breath. “No. What happened?”
“Nothing new. Just weak lungs from the war. Mustard gas is what Mother says. Stupid man smokes likes a coal train, saying if he’s going to die anyway, he might as well go out doing something he enjoys.”
“I’m sorry.”
“When I was little, he’d bring me jelly beans from work and take me for carriage rides in Central Park on Sundays. Now he sits at the kitchen table and stares out the window and smokes.”
Nell wanted to tell Jeanette that at least she still had a dad, that she would give anything if her own dad hadn’t been on a boat that the Germans sank into the North Sea. Her father would still be alive, and she’d still be at Marchwold Manor, going to endless hunt parties and doing charity work. She might have even married Quentin unless her parents had decided she should do a season in London to find a suitable husband. She shuddered.
Jeanette said, “You look like you’re a million miles away.”
“Sometimes it feels like it. I was just thinking that I wouldn’t be in New York living with you and Greta if my dad had survived the war.”
“And I don’t even want to think what life would be like without you. Who would make my hats?” She laughed and sat upright. “Truth is, I can’t do anything about my dad. Pray and hope for the best, Mother says.”
“Your mother’s right.”
Jeanette frowned. “I’d rather kick some sense into him.” She stalked off and closed the door to her room, leaving Nell to her own thoughts and a puddle of beads on her lap.
The next day she went to early Mass with Felice, the day cold and dreary. At the conclusion of the service, she told Felice she wanted to light a candle and say a prayer. Felice linked her rough, calloused fingers in Nell’s and walked quietly beside her to the side of the sanctuary. Nell dropped two coins in a box, lit a candle for Jeanette’s dad and another in memory of her own dad, then knelt to pray. A calm came over her, the air heavy with the smell of candle wax. When she rose, her cheeks were damp with tears.
* * *
By Monday, Nell was anxious to get back to the salon and show Mr. Fields her latest designs. Harjo wasn’t at his secretary post, but her boss’s door was ajar so Nell gave a brief rap and looked around the corner.
“Busy?”
“Of course I’m busy. And where’s Harjo?”
“He must have stepped out. May I have a word, p-please?”
“Since you’re already here, I suppose. You’re early today, aren’t you?” He leaned forward. “You have some hats, I see. Couldn’t this wait? I’ve not even had coffee.”
“I have an eight thirty appointment.”
“As you wish.”
She opened the hatbox and presented her latest cloches. “Some things I t-took home over the weekend.”
“Such dedication.” The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Nell, but he did add, “I trust you had a happy Thanksgiving.”
“Quite good, thank you. And you?”
“Of course. The club always puts on quite a feast.”
A trickle of sympathy went through Nell. She’d not once considered what Mr. Fields had done for Thanksgiving. No parents. And his wife deceased. She wondered why he’d never sought someone else. Perhaps he preferred it that way.
He stroked his mustache. “I’m glad you stopped in, actually. We have a busy month ahead.” He opened his diary and asked her to do the same. She penciled in the new appointments as he dictated. Several were for New Year’s Eve occasions, which she would have to scramble to get done early.
He leaned back. “I’ve been thinking we need to improve your image. You’re seeing more clients and will remain an apprentice, of course, but there are occasions where it would be beneficial for you to be seen in public, an image
of the forward-thinking Oscar Fields Millinery. A new hairstyle for starters. Your bun or whatever you call that wadded-up hair is too severe. And you need something softer for your day wear and an evening gown or two. I’ll have dresses sent over.”
“Goodness. That’s very kind.”
“Image. That’s what it’s all about. Which brings me to another point. Your unfortunate speech defect. When we’re out, I can’t have you mumbling like you have marbles in your mouth.”
A modern version of Stubs Pogue and Jacob Rayburn from catechism class popped in her head. While Mr. Fields wasn’t as cruel as they were, his words still cut.
Concentrate. Look the person you’re speaking to in the eye.
“I understand. I’ll see if Dr. Underwood can see me more often or try something new.”
“Perhaps fish a miracle out of his bag of tricks.” He looked at his appointment diary. “We need six new designs by next Tuesday for a women’s luncheon. You’ll be accompanying me. The ones here look promising, so four more by Friday. I’ve put Hazel and Marcella back on assembly, but I’m sure you can manage.” He snapped his diary shut and bid her good day.
She hurried out, hatboxes in tow. In the stairwell she stopped to catch her breath. He had both ridiculed her and complimented her within the same breath. Should she be furious or flattered? And the way he mentioned her stammer prickled as always. At least he was giving her opportunities to prove herself and providing some new wardrobe choices. She didn’t have money like her aunt to splurge every time there was a new moon. It was generous, and for that, gratitude nestled in the hard corner of her heart with his name on it. She made a mental note to take coffee the next time she barged into her boss’s office first thing on a Monday morning.
* * *
The day of the women’s luncheon, Mr. Fields offered his arm. “You look fetching today. Is that one of the new outfits I had sent over from Saks?”
She took his arm, happily surprised at his chipper mood. “Yes, they’re all lovely. Thank you.” She did feel posh in the aquamarine dress with French lace at the neckline and the new coat, a nubby wool with a fox collar. She knew they were expensive, but she felt elegant and confident, ready for the lunch at the Forty-Second Street Ladies Club, where a group of society wives were hosting a fashion day. Other designers of haute couture and millinery would be there. It was an honor for the salon. And for Nell.
The Hatmaker's Heart: A Novel Page 9