After a Fashion (A Class of Their Own #1)(40)
“Then you’re going to have an uncomfortable few weeks, because people always watch me.”
She slowed her steps. “Do they really?”
“I’m a very wealthy man, Harriet—with that comes attention.”
“I loathe attention.”
“I’m not exactly thrilled with it all the time, but it’s the price demanded of a gentleman of my social and business status.” He smiled. “But uncomfortable notions aside, would you care to take a short stroll before we return to the carriage, or do you need to get back to your home?”
“Don’t you need to get back to business?”
“Strangely enough, I’m in no mood for business today.”
“Why do I have the feeling that’s a first for you?” Harriet asked before her attention was suddenly drawn to a small girl peddling flowers. “Good heavens, there’s little Clarice, but . . . where’s her mother?” Propelling Oliver into motion, she hurried over to Clarice. “Hello, darling.”
Clarice’s small face lit up, and she grinned at Harriet, showing a huge gap between her front teeth in the process. “Miss Peabody, what are you doing in such a fancy place and with . . .” Her nose wrinkled, and she stopped speaking as she gawked at Oliver.
“I had some shopping to do, but tell me, where is your mother?”
“She’s home with my baby brother. Donnie isn’t feeling well today, so Mama couldn’t leave him with Mrs. Golhem, the lady that takes care of us.” She puffed out her little chest. “I told her I was big enough to sell the flowers, and since we won’t have milk if . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she began scuffing her battered shoe in the dirt.
“I was just telling Mr. Addleshaw how I adore flowers,” she said, catching Oliver’s eye. “Doesn’t Clarice have some lovely flowers today?”
Oliver, to her extreme disappointment, looked at the basket of flowers Clarice was holding and frowned. “They look wilted, and I—”
She stomped on his foot.
“Ouch, you stomped on my foot.”
“And I’ll do the same to the other one if you don’t . . .” She nodded at Clarice, who wasn’t looking at either one of them but was staring at the puffs of dirt her scuffing was making.
Oliver blinked. “Oh, yes, quite right. You’d like me to buy you a flower.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his billfold. “How much.”
Clarice held up five fingers.
“You expect me to pay five dollars for a wilted flower?”
Harriet stomped on his other foot and gave his arm a forceful squeeze for good measure. “It’s cents, Oliver, five cents.” She dropped her hold on him and squatted down next to Clarice, opening her reticule as she did so. She took out five dollars, pressed them into Clarice’s little hand and gave the child a kiss on her forehead. “You take that back to your mama now, darling, and you can tell her you sold all of your lovely flowers.”
“It’s too much money,” Clarice whispered.
“No, it’s not,” Harriet said firmly, rising to her feet and taking all the wilted flowers out of Clarice’s basket. “Tell your mama I hope Donnie gets better soon.” She narrowed her eyes at Oliver, turned on her heel, and began marching down the sidewalk, hoping the man wouldn’t feel compelled to follow. Unfortunately, it quickly became clear he didn’t take kindly to being dismissed, because he caught up with her a few seconds later.
“You’re upset,” he said as he fell into step beside her.
“And you’re a genius.”
“That wasn’t well done of me, was it?”
Harriet stopped in her tracks. “No, it wasn’t. Clarice is just a child, Oliver, with a sick baby brother at home, whom I know her mother can’t take to a doctor because they can’t afford it. I find it vastly disturbing to learn you don’t have so much as an ounce of compassion for those less fortunate than you.”
“I’ve never really taken notice of street vendors before or contemplated their plight in life,” he admitted slowly.
Harriet gestured around. “Then open your eyes. Look at all of these people just trying to scrape by. See that woman over there selling apples? Her name’s Martha and she once gave me an apple when I was practically starving to death right after I found myself on my own. She takes care of an elderly relative, and all the money she has in the world is earned by selling apples or whatever else she can manage to beg from the fine restaurants that are going to throw out the produce that’s less than perfect.” She pointed to a man pushing a cart. “That’s Herman, and he sells sandwiches out of that cart—sandwiches, I might add, that are the best I’ve ever tasted.”
Oliver stepped closer to her. “You think I’m a snob.”
“You are a snob.”
Watching Oliver’s face darken, Harriet thought he was going to start yelling, but then, to her surprise, he took her by the arm and began to escort her from one street vendor to another.
Fifteen minutes later, with her arms filled with a variety of goods, from Martha’s apples, to Herman’s sandwiches, and even a few beaded bracelets a blind woman had been selling, Harriet was feeling a little more charitable toward the man. He’d obviously been very uncomfortable at first, interacting with the people hawking their wares, but then, once they’d reached Herman’s cart, something had changed. Herman had whipped him up a special sandwich, and after the first bite and a very loud groan of appreciation, Oliver took to chatting with the man, asking him everything from where he got his ingredients to what type of traffic he saw on a daily basis. When Herman finally told them he needed to go find other customers, Oliver had given the man an outrageous tip and told him he’d be sure to tell all of his business associates, as well as family and friends, to come try Herman’s food.