Hattie Glover’s Millinery

sweet on a bicycle seat.”
She smiled. “I have considered buying a bicycle for the exercise and to take trips out to the country. It’s not so very far before one may leave the city behind.”
“When is your next free day? I will buy two bicycles and rent transportation to carry them, and us, to a pastoral spot. You will have a long stretch of empty road on which to learn to ride. Then we will pedal to our hearts’ content and stop for a picnic lunch by a brook or pond. How does that sound?”
Heavenly! She could picture the countryside and the intimate picnic for two in some secluded dell. “I never have a day off, I’m afraid.”
“Not even Sundays?”
“Well, yes, but I must attend church service and after that I generally do some bookkeeping, prepare advertisements for the papers, and—” She ran out of excuses, for most Sunday afternoons she did have time enough to wake a walk or read a book.
“You are inventing reasons not to go on an outing. I believe you could allow yourself one afternoon away from this metropolis. Fresh country air would do us both good. Ah, but I can see from the set of your jaw you’re going to dig in your heels and refuse. Let us leave the door open, shall we? In case you change your mind on the matter.”
Hattie did not respond, merely bent her head and continued to stitch.
Hardy rose from his chair and walked around the room, studying the various tools of her trade. “What first inspired you to design hats?”
“Necessity. There are few trades open to women. I would not have the patience to become a teacher or governess. I do not bake cakes, and dressmaking skills are beyond me. There is less outlay to opening a millinery. I have a good eye for design and keep abreast of the current fashions.”
He picked up plain straw bonnet devoid of frills and studied it. “But do you have a passion for what you do? If you could run any sort of business, would you still choose this one?”
Hattie had never considered the question. So many occupations belonged exclusively to males in this man’s world. But even if she had appropriate education or training for them, she realized she did enjoy her own venue.
“I truly enjoy creating hats. And there is more to the business than you might think. Anyone with financing can open a shop, but making it successful takes more than luck. It requires a combination of smart advertising, talent with not only the hats but the customers, and choosing a prime location. If my shop weren’t facing the park on Providence Street, I don’t know if I would have gained customers so quickly.”
A good thing or her investment money would have run out, leaving her penniless once more.
Hardy wandered back toward her. The floor creaking under his footsteps was the only sound in the room. He watched her sew, making her hand tremble. She dropped a bead which rolled across the table to fall off the edge.
“Would you stop looking at me, please?”
He stooped to rescue the bead, placing it gently on the table beside her. “I’m sorry, but it’s fascinating—such delicate work and your hands look so elegant performing it.” He abruptly changed the subject. “Did your husband support your business endeavor, or did you begin it after his death?”
Her hands stilled. She set down the headpiece to look up at him. “I started this business on my own.” Her heart pounded and sanity screamed at her to keep quiet, but suddenly she found herself blurting, “I was never married. There was no Mr. Glover. But society looks askance at a single woman living alone and running a business. I invented a husband to avoid any questions about how I possessed sufficient capital to set up shop and why I had never found a spouse. It would be assumed there was something wrong about me or some scandal in my past.” She paused. “Is this the information you’ve been angling to catch?”
“I had already surmised it. It matters not at all to me that you are an unmarried woman, and I swear I will never divulge that information to anyone.”
Why, oh, why, had she said it? He kept staring at her, and it had simply spilled out of her mouth. Worst of all, she found herself wanting to tell him so much more, everything she’d shouldered alone for so long. Oh, but he was dangerous.
A Gladwell never divulges private matters, Aunt Elaine scolded.
Hattie snatched up her sewing and spoke as nonchalantly as she could manage. “I prefer not to discuss my past further.”
“Very well. I’ll ask no more questions. But if you ever want to tell me anything, I will be a good listener.”
Hattie held up the veil’s crown at arm’s length, making certain the design of beads was perfectly symmetrical.
“Try it on and I’ll tell you how it looks,” Hardy challenged.
“I haven’t the time. I’ve set myself to finish this tonight and would like to get to bed at a decent hour.”
Why had she mentioned bed? Images of certain bedroom activities flashed through her mind. She prayed Mr. Hardy wasn’t picturing the same sorts of fantasies.
“What about your assistant?”
“Rose will work on the other hats tomorrow, but the bridal veil is mine.”
“Please, allow me to see it on you.” His voice grew huskier and it sounded more like a demand than a request. The low tone started a vibration in her that made her shiver.
Good grief, he must be casting a spell, for Hattie rose from her chair and placed the headpiece on her hair. She arranged the veil to flow around her shoulders and down past her waist.
“Of course, it will fit differently on the bride as her hair will be up and the crown nestled into it.”
Hardy came nearer. She inhaled the scent of flesh-heated cologne and a tinge of motor exhaust from the vehicle he’d arrived in. Underneath was another layer,