After a Fashion (A Class of Their Own #1)(44)
“I fear they fell off when I was, er, running.”
“Ah, I see, well, not really, but I’m not surprised your buttons popped off. That jacket is ill-fitted. Do remind me before I take my leave to give you the direction of my late-husband’s tailor. That man fits a gentleman’s clothing to perfection, and I don’t ever recall a time when my darling Charles ever lost his buttons.”
Oliver blinked, his mind churning to come up with an appropriate response to that declaration, but he was spared any response at all when Mrs. Hart let out a tsk and shook her head. “Could it be possible you’ve done something to incur the displeasure of your tailor?”
“I don’t believe so . . . but . . .”
“You might want to ask him, dear. A gentleman of your status certainly shouldn’t traverse the city in anything less than the finest of clothing. That jacket you’re currently sporting, even without the muck attached to it, does nothing to assure people you’re a leader of the business world.”
Mrs. Hart suddenly craned her neck and peered over his shoulder. “Oh look, I think that young man is bringing you back your hat.”
Oliver turned and discovered Darren running up to join them, the remains of what used to be Oliver’s favorite hat held somewhat gingerly between two of Darren’s fingers.
“I’m not sure you’re still going to want this, Mr. Addleshaw, but I rescued it from a puddle on the street, just in case you did,” Darren said, holding out the hat. Oliver reluctantly took it, swallowing a sigh as its dismal state became apparent and another glob of slime oozed through his fingers.
“Thank you, Darren. Your thoughtfulness is much appreciated.”
“Miss Peabody,” another voice called, causing Oliver to switch his attention from Darren and settle it on an older lady who was scurrying off the stoop of the peeling brown house and hurrying toward them.
He wasn’t certain, but he thought he heard Harriet release a groan right before a rather forced-looking smile tugged her lips. “Hello, Mrs. Palmer.”
“My goodness but this is exciting!” Mrs. Palmer exclaimed, coming to a stop right in front of Harriet and looking everyone over with a sharp and speculative eye. “Why, here’s the young man who brought you home just yesterday, and would you look at that? Not one but two fine carriages parked in front of my house.” She raised expectant eyes to Harriet, whose smile dimmed ever so slightly.
“Yes, it is exciting, isn’t it, and somewhat unexpected.” Harriet drew in a breath and gestured to Darren, who stepped forward and presented Mrs. Palmer with a short bow. “Allow me to present to you Darren . . . ?”
“Thompson, Miss Peabody. I’m Darren Thompson.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thompson,” Harriet said, turning back to Mrs. Palmer. “This is Mr. Thompson, Mrs. Palmer, the young man who did indeed see me home yesterday.”
Mrs. Palmer narrowed her eyes. “But you told me that he was not your suitor.”
“Well, no, he’s not, but he is standing nearest to you, so I thought I’d start the introductions with him first.”
“In the future, dear,” Mrs. Hart whispered in a voice that still carried, “it is best if you introduce the person who holds the highest social standing, which, in this case, would be me.”
Harriet’s pale cheeks flushed with color, and Oliver was about to intercede, knowing all too well that Mrs. Hart could be somewhat daunting, but Harriet lifted her chin and sent a surprisingly cool glance to Mrs. Hart. “Of course, how silly of me, and I’ll be happy to introduce you just as soon as I figure out exactly who you are and what you want with me.”
To Oliver’s surprise, Mrs. Hart let out a booming laugh, patted Harriet’s cheek again, and turned to Mrs. Palmer. “Doesn’t she have just the keenest sense of humor? I’m Mrs. Hart, by the way, but you may call me Abigail. All of my friends do, and that gentleman over there is Mr. Oliver Addleshaw, but you should probably call him Mr. Addleshaw.” She winked. “These important men of business like to hold on to their dignity.”
Mrs. Palmer seemed to struggle for a reply, but then Mrs. Hart continued on, acting as if it were a common occurrence for her to converse in the middle of a tenement slum with a lady who was wearing a shapeless gown and sported a smudge of flour on her cheek.
“I must thank you, Mrs. Palmer, for all you’ve done for my dear Harriet. Why, Reverend Gilmore has frequently declared how helpful you’ve been in keeping a sharp eye on her and making certain she doesn’t get into mischief.”
Harriet’s nose wrinkled. “You’re acquainted with Reverend Gilmore?”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Hart said, sending a fond smile Harriet’s way. “I’m a patroness of the church, albeit a silent one. Reverend Gilmore and I have known each other for years. He immediately sought me out this morning and delivered the news about you and Mr. Addleshaw, which . . . is why I’m here.”
“What news?” Mrs. Palmer asked, her tone rising ever so slightly, probably in the hopes of being heard over Harriet, who’d begun to sputter.
“Why, that Miss Peabody and Mr. Addleshaw have formed an . . . attachment,” Mrs. Hart said with another one of her beaming smiles. She turned to Oliver. “I took the liberty of sending a telegram to your grandfather. He’s already responded—which I’m not surprised about in the least—and you’ll be delighted to learn he’s coming to town, immediately from the sound of things.”