After a Fashion (A Class of Their Own #1)(12)
The sheer arrogance of the man as he’d blithely suggested she listen to a business proposition from him was enough to set her teeth on edge. He knew absolutely nothing about her, except that she was fetching and spoke in a refined manner, which made it difficult to comprehend what type of business arrangement he’d even been suggesting.
She stumbled to a stop. Perhaps Mr. Addleshaw simply needed a secretary, someone to record all the business ideas he had. If that was the case, she might have been a little hasty in her refusal. She was soon to be out of work and . . . No. There was no reason for a secretary to be fetching and well-spoken, not unless Mr. Addleshaw spent his time gazing and conversing with his secretary, which didn’t make a bit of sense. Men of his station normally employed other men. Besides, Mr. Addleshaw had insulted her, and she needed to remember that.
She started off down the sidewalk again, her steps turning to stomps when the conversation she’d had with the infuriating Mr. Addleshaw—the part about a “wonderful opportunity for someone like you”—kept rolling over and over through her mind.
The man had actually been smiling when he’d said those unfortunate words, as if he expected her, the poor, desperate hat lady, to fall on her knees in gratitude and thank him for his generosity.
Unfortunately, given that Mrs. Fienman had warned her about sullying the good name of the business, she truly was going to be desperate in the not too distant future. Maybe, just maybe, she should turn around and at least hear Mr. Addleshaw out.
“Don’t even think about it,” she argued aloud, glancing around to see if anyone had heard her. To her relief, since she’d reached Fifth Avenue, the rain had increased and the sidewalk was currently free of people.
“He’s enough to turn a person into a lunatic,” she muttered, trudging through a deep puddle and then shivering when water began seeping into her undergarments and through her stockings. She pushed aside the discomfort, allowing temper to replace it.
Mr. Addleshaw had questioned whether or not she’d had any schooling.
An unladylike snort escaped through her nose.
Her education had been obtained through slightly irregular means and could never be considered normal by any stretch of the imagination, but she had received one.
She’d lived throughout her childhood with a woman who’d somehow become responsible for Harriet after her mother died in childbirth. Though the woman never spoke of Harriet’s mother, Harriet had always called her Aunt Jane.
Aunt Jane disliked staying in a place for any length of time, and vigorously proclaimed her dislike for mothering. Because of that, Harriet most often found herself in the care of an odd assortment of complete strangers—their willingness to take her in brought about by Aunt Jane’s willingness to pay them. These strangers would occasionally send her to school, but more often than not, given that the people her aunt left her with were usually educated, although eccentric, they simply shared their knowledge with her. She’d learned mathematics from an elderly man who’d once taught at Yale, science from another who’d lectured at Harvard, and literature from a man all the way from England who adored everything Shakespearian. Dancing instruction, along with deportment, came from numerous ladies, many of them aging wallflowers who’d never secured a match but knew, in theory, everything a lady needed to know to secure a gentleman and move about in society.
Harriet’s love of fashion and talent with a needle and thread came about when she was twelve and found herself deposited rather abruptly with a lady by the name of Mrs. Brodie. Mrs. Brodie owned a small dress shop and lived above that shop. She hadn’t exactly seemed thrilled to have Harriet thrust on her, but once she realized Harriet had an interest in clothing, she soon set her to work stitching hems and sewing on buttons. Harriet loved the feel of the fine fabrics and enjoyed perusing the latest fashion plates. She’d been more than distraught when Aunt Jane had shown up out of the blue months later to inform her they were moving on . . . again.
The next two years passed in a blur, with different cities every few months, and Aunt Jane growing more hostile toward Harriet with every city they left behind. Harriet had always instinctively known that Aunt Jane didn’t care for her, but as she grew older, the woman’s dislike seemed to turn more and more to outright hatred. Questions had begun consuming Harriet’s every thought, and when she’d had the audacity to ask Aunt Jane how they were related and how she earned a living, she’d received a slap across the face, and her questions had remained unanswered.
Matters began to make sense a few months later when they were in Chicago and Harriet woke up in their rented rooms to the sound of Jane arguing with an unknown gentleman. That gentleman was yelling about confidence schemes and how he would see Aunt Jane behind bars. Harriet then heard a loud thud, and her aunt appeared moments later. After tossing Harriet’s belongings into a carpet bag, Jane had cautioned her not to look at the motionless man lying on the floor before she hustled her out of Chicago. Aunt Jane then told her they needed a place to lay low for a while, that place turning out to be the circus.
Harriet had adored the circus—loved learning the art of tumbling, and loved the people who worked there. Her aunt encouraged her to participate in the shows, riding ponies and waving to the crowds while Aunt Jane took tickets and cozied up to the owner. Harriet had just begun instruction on how to walk across a wire when she was pulled from a sound sleep, dragged to the nearest train station, and informed by Jane, who possessed a reticule stuffed with bills, that they needed to go to a large city this time, one where they could lose themselves amongst the masses.