Hattie Glover’s Millinery

spoke. “Mr. Randall Frederick James. Born in Chesterfield to a Reverend Frank and Mrs. Prudence James, respectable, plain folk. Father is the local vicar. Son left home taking the steeple fund with him. Seems no one set the law on him and he didn’t really cover his trail. Since relocating to London, he’s worked at a haberdasher’s and several other businesses, never keeping a job for long.”
Guy shook his head in amazement. “You were able to learn all that in two days? How?”
Looking like a pugnacious dragon, Rumsfield puffed another cloud of smoke. “Don’t ask about my methods and I won’t ask your secret for luring women into bed.”
Guy huffed, “I don’t lure. They just like me.”
But why, one had to ask? His good looks, his flattery, his sexual techniques? Surely there ought to be more to a man’s character, and on his deathbed he should be able to point to more important achievements in his life than sleeping around.
“Could be he loves the girl, but more likely he knows who she is and what she’s worth,” Rumsfield continued. “Surprised he hasn’t talked her into eloping already.”
“Perhaps he has by now. I haven’t spoken to the girl’s confidante in two days. The young lady may well have gone off with James.”
Rumsfield tamped out his pipe and clicked his tongue. “Sad thing—young ones in love. I can give you the man’s current address, although he might not be there long. Seems to drift from one boarding house to another just ahead of the month’s rent.”
Guy debated with himself, while Rumsfield jotted down the address and passed it to him. “What about the other search?”
“For a Mrs. Harriet Glover. Do you think I’m a miracle worker? One case at a time! It took all my resources to track down this James fellow so quickly.” Rumsfield paused. “Maybe you should simply ask the lady about herself.”
“I plan to, but…” Guy fell silent. Nothing he could say would paint him in a good light.
“But you’re not that patient,” the old man concluded. “Go on with you then, and don’t forget to pay Mrs. Worthy on the way out. I need to keep the lights on and that blasted telephone operational.”
Guy left the office both triumphant at having information to offer Hattie, and disappointed in himself for pressing Rumsfield to continue his investigation of her. He should’ve stopped it. Maybe he’d call tomorrow to say he’d changed his mind, before curiosity killed this tomcat.
Hattie’s millinery would be closed by now, but surely such important information ought not wait until tomorrow. Miss Pruett risked making a disastrous choice. Mrs. Glover probably lived above her storefront like most shop owners. If he rang her bell and remained on the doorstep while relaying the news, there was nothing untoward about that.
Another taxi brought him to the now familiar Providence Street with its neat row of shops facing the deserted park.
“Do you want me to wait, sir?” the cabbie asked.
Guy hesitated before shaking his head. “I may take a while.”
The gaily painted sign announcing Hattie Glover’s Millinery was as dark as the shop windows. A streetlight several doors down wasn’t sufficient to illuminate it well. Guy looked to the first floor where one of the windows glowed. He imagined Hattie up there, relaxing after a hard day’s work, perhaps in her nightgown and slippers already.
Just then a light went on in the back room on street level, a glimmer seen through the curtains which hid the entry to the workroom. She must be working late, so he needn’t feel as if he were disturbing her privacy too greatly.
Guy walked down the alley to the delivery entrance and rapped on the door. He waited a long time. Mrs. Glover might not answer a knock this late. A woman alone could not be overly careful about strangers in the night.
Guy had started to walk away, when the door opened to the length of a chain. Mrs. Glover peered through the crack. “Who is it?” she demanded.
“Guy Hardy. I’m sorry to call so late. It is unpardonably rude of me, but I just received news from my detective and wanted to share it with you immediately.”
“Oh, Mr. Hardy.” Was that relief in her voice, and maybe something else—possibly excitement?
The door closed followed by the sound of the chain being removed. The proprietress opened to let him in. In the quiet light of the spacious room, an abundance of color caught the eye. This was a creative realm of shining silks, satins, spangles, feathers, fluff, and frou-frou. Systematic stacks of boxes and racks of sundries revealed the owner’s structured nature. But after scanning the room, Guy saw the lady herself was not so well-organized tonight.
Hattie’s hair was down from its customary Gibson style, disheveled and spilling over her shoulders in glossy brown waves. Her green eyes glinted in the muted light, and her lips parted, rosy and plump. She tightened her dressing gown around her, but not before he spied a white linen nightgown beneath it.
“P-please sit. I’ll make some tea.” She indicated several chairs drawn up to a large table cluttered with hats in various stages of development.
Guy removed his hat and coat. She took them from him, and led the way.
He continued to survey her domain, then the woman herself as she moved about, pouring tea from a pot warming on a small stove. Her movements were graceful and assured. Her robe flowed around her tall frame, enticing him to imagine the body beneath it. This was Harriet Glover stripped of formality and revealing her private side. He wanted even more of it.
She placed a steaming teacup before him and sat across the table from him. “What news do you have?”
“Randall James comes from respectable people, but is himself far from reputable.” Guy repeated all Rumsfield had told him. “Naturally, Miss Pruett’s family would never approve such a match.”
“Unless she elopes with him and they are forced to accept it.” She blew lightly across her cup, pursing her lips in such