After a Fashion (A Class of Their Own #1)(3)
For a second, Harriet remained frozen in place, but since Mrs. Fienman was now waving the pastry determinedly at her, she had no choice but to rise to her feet and accept the woman’s offering. A sticky mess of frosting immediately coated her fingers. “Thank you. I’m sure this will be delicious.”
Mrs. Fienman beamed back at her. “You’re most welcome. Now then, you’d best be on your way.” She put a finger to her jowl. “Tell you what, don’t bother coming back to finish Mrs. Wilhelm’s hat today. You can come in early tomorrow morning and finish the job. Won’t that be lovely?”
Not giving Harriet an opportunity to respond, Mrs. Fienman gestured toward the door. “Timothy should be out front by now. Remember, be pleasant, and duck if you see shoes flying your way.”
“Ahh . . .”
“No dawdling now, Miss Peabody. Unpleasant matters are best dealt with quickly. Enjoy your tart.”
Harriet couldn’t find the incentive to move. She looked at Mrs. Fienman, who was once again thumbing through the magazine, then at the mess of a pastry clutched in her hand, and swallowed a sigh when she remembered her prayer only that morning.
It was a tradition, her birthday prayer.
Every year—well, for the past six years—she’d asked God to send her something wonderful. He hadn’t always sent what she asked for, but one year He’d sent her unexpected money to pay the rent when she’d thought she’d be out on the streets. Another year, He’d led her to Mrs. Fienman, which had given Harriet stable employment. Last year, when she’d turned twenty-one, she’d asked for a gentleman, and while she hadn’t received that particular request, her aunt Jane had given her—rather grudgingly, of course—a gown that had once belonged to her mother. Since she’d never met her mother, had never even seen a portrait of her, the gown had afforded her a glimpse of her mother’s slender figure. The fact that the silk was a delicate shade of violet had given Harriet no small sense of delight, given that violet was her very favorite color.
This year she’d decided to keep her prayer simple and had only asked God to send her something of His choosing, something she would find wonderful.
Surely His idea of wonderful couldn’t constitute a half-eaten tart and dealing with an overly emotional society lady, could it?
“Miss Peabody!” Mrs. Fienman suddenly yelled, raising her head from the magazine and causing Harriet to jump. “Oh, you’re still here . . . Good. Although I would have thought you’d gone to fetch your reticule, but . . . no matter. I almost forgot something.”
She pushed aside some papers, extracted one and held it up. “I need you to present Miss Birmingham with the bill—unless, of course, Mr. Addleshaw is in residence. He wasn’t in town when I met with his fiancée last week, but was off doing whatever it is important gentlemen do to earn their vast amounts of money. Make certain you make it clear that full payment is expected in a timely fashion.”
“You want me to give this bill to either Mr. Addleshaw or Miss Birmingham and inform them to pay it promptly?”
“Neither one of them will take issue with the request, if that’s your concern.” She glanced at the bill, smiled, and then lifted her head. “Good heavens, you’ll need to change that hat.”
“Change my hat?”
“Indeed. Not that there is anything remotely wrong with the hat you’re wearing, other than it’s entirely too tempting a piece to be anywhere near Miss Birmingham. I wouldn’t put it past the lady to snatch it right off your head, and we wouldn’t want that, would we? Especially since it’s your birthday.” Her expression turned calculating. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. You may give me your hat in exchange for the one you so carelessly sat on. That way, I won’t be forced to extract your hard-earned money from you. You may think of it as yet another birthday treat.”
Pushing aside the pesky notion that the day was quickly turning disappointing, Harriet turned and eyed what remained of the hat she’d squashed. “Are those . . . birds?”
“They were,” Mrs. Fienman corrected, “before you sat on them. Now I’m afraid they resemble mice, and sickly looking ones at that.”
“And you believe it would be for the best if I dealt with Miss Birmingham while wearing sickly looking mice on my head?”
“Miss Peabody, you’re stalling again.”
“Too right, I am,” she muttered before she set down the remains of the tart on the edge of Mrs. Fienman’s desk. Reaching up, she pulled out a few hat pins, lifted her hat off, handed it to Mrs. Fienman, and turned and scooped up what remained of the bird hat. Plopping it on her head, she made short shrift of securing it, refusing to shudder when a mangled bird dangled over her left eye, obscuring her view.
“I don’t believe you’ll need to worry about Miss Birmingham snatching that hat off your head,” Mrs. Fienman said as she began twirling the hat Harriet had been forced to part with. “This really is a creative design, Miss Peabody. It’s the perfect size for a lady who wants to look fashionable, yet it won’t hinder a lady as she goes about her day. Tell me, would you happen to have other hats crafted in this particular style, ones that might be put up for sale here at the shop?”
“I’m afraid that even though I do have an abundant supply of hats at home, none of them would be appropriate to sell here. The materials I use are scavenged from hats society ladies have abandoned to the poor boxes in churches throughout the city.”