After a Fashion (A Class of Their Own #1)(6)
They were not engaged, had never been from what Mr. Addleshaw was saying. That meant the day was destined for disaster, since Harriet had the feeling neither of the two people arguing right in front of her was going to be receptive to her presenting them with a bill at this awkward moment in time.
“. . . and you can forget about me helping you with the duke,” Miss Birmingham howled. “You’re mean and rude, and you’ve been yelling at me ever since you stepped foot in the house.”
“Of course I’ve been yelling,” Mr. Addleshaw said between lips that barely moved. “You converted my home office into your personal dressing room.”
“The lighting suits my complexion better in that room than the dismal excuse for a room I was given by that dreadful housekeeper of yours.”
Harriet watched as Mr. Addleshaw’s mouth opened, closed, opened, and then closed again, as if he couldn’t decide what he should say next.
She really couldn’t say she blamed him.
It was quickly becoming clear Miss Birmingham was not a lady with whom one could reason with in a sensible manner.
“You! Hat girl!” Miss Birmingham suddenly snapped. “Make yourself useful and show me what you’ve got in those boxes you’re holding.”
“You want to look at hats right now?” was all Harriet could think to respond.
“That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes, of course, but . . .”
“Stop being difficult, Miss Birmingham,” Mr. Addleshaw interrupted before he nodded to Harriet. “You, my dear, may take yourself and your hats straight back to the shop you came from. Miss Birmingham will send for them once she gets settled into a hotel.”
Before Harriet could respond, Miss Birmingham began screaming at Mr. Addleshaw—nasty, horrible accusations that really had no business spewing out of a lady’s mouth. Realizing it would not serve her well to remain in the woman’s presence another minute, Harriet decided to take Mr. Addleshaw’s suggestion and return to the shop. She knew she’d be facing Mrs. Fienman’s wrath once she arrived with no bill delivered and a carriage stuffed to the gills with expensive hats, but couldn’t see any benefit staying there, especially since Miss Birmingham’s screaming was escalating. She turned on her heel and had barely taken five steps when stars erupted behind her eyes. Her head began throbbing right before she felt what she thought was Miss Birmingham’s parasol poking her in the back.
“You’re not going anywhere with those hats,” Miss Birmingham hissed. “They’re mine, and I demand you give them to me.”
Harriet wasn’t afforded the simple courtesy of handing the boxes over to the obviously deranged Miss Birmingham. The woman took care of acquiring the hats on her own by ripping the boxes straight out of Harriet’s hands as she thrust the parasol directly into Harriet’s stomach. With her hands flapping wildly, Harriet tried to find her balance, but before she could get her feet firmly beneath her, a large furry form flew through the air, hit her squarely in the chest, and sent her tumbling backward. Hard bricks greeted her right before the sound of snarling settled in her ears.
2
Oliver Addleshaw preferred to manage his life exactly as he managed his many businesses. Calmly, organized, and with a sense of purpose. Unfortunately, due to the antics of an exasperating lady, he was smack in the midst of one of the most chaotic and dramatic situations he’d ever witnessed, let alone participated in.
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, sir,” the hat lady called, “I could use a bit of assistance over here.”
Directing his attention back to the poor woman—whose face his unruly dog, Buford, was licking a little too enthusiastically—Oliver resisted a sigh. “My apologies, miss, of course . . . you need assistance.” He trudged back into the chaos. “Buford, it’s not good manners to knock a lady over, let alone slobber all over her face. Get down.”
Buford, being Buford, barely paused in his licking, but before Oliver had a chance to grab him, the sound of heels tapping across the bricks captured his dog’s interest. Buford raised his head and a second later bounded away, his enthusiastic yelps echoing around the courtyard.
Turning, Oliver winced when he discovered the source of Buford’s latest fixation. With her mother scampering behind, Miss Birmingham was tottering away on her ridiculously high-heeled slippers, swinging her hatboxes victoriously, apparently having forgotten her vow to never enter his house again since she was tottering straight toward it. The fluffy piece of nonsense she’d thrown around her neck was fluttering behind her, the fluttering the source of Buford’s fascination.
“Buford, no,” he yelled, but Buford was already sailing through the air. When the dog landed back on the ground, Miss Birmingham’s scarf was clamped between his large teeth.
“Give that back to me.” Miss Birmingham drew back her arm and, to Oliver’s dismay, swung a hatbox directly at Buford’s head. Buford let out a whine, dropped the scarf, and then, because he was constantly craving affection, he lifted his paw and gave Miss Birmingham a look that should have melted her heart.
Miss Birmingham ignored the look as well as the offered paw, snatched up her scarf, looped it twice around her neck, and picked up the hatbox she’d dropped to the ground. With a huff of disgust toward Buford, she swiveled on a high heel and flounced away.