Hattie Glover’s Millinery

flowers.
She really was a darling and a talented employee, but Hattie sometimes wondered if Rose was truly happy learning millinery. The woman had a penchant for green, growing things, and stitching away in a windowless room might not be how she would choose to spend her days if all options were open to her. Still, better here than the factory job Rose had left behind.
Humming a bit herself, Hattie moved around the shop, straightening things before placing the mat outside the door. She scanned the awnings and signs of neighboring shops and nodded at Mr. Carlton, the greengrocer three doors down. Across Providence Street in the park, a duck followed by a line of her offspring waddled toward the small pond.
One of the paperboard signs from yesterday’s WSPU march had been discarded near a bush. Its message “We Demand Our Rights” was smeared from last night’s rain. The blurry proclamation sent a pang of melancholy through her to match its ruined state. She thought of Jennifer Pruett, who in all likelihood was headed toward a loveless marriage not of her choosing.
Hattie shook off her mood, took a last breath of the cool air and turned to greet her first customers of the day and usher them inside.
Several hours passed with a steady flow of business. Every woman in London it seemed had chosen today to buy a spring bonnet, keeping both Hattie and Rose occupied. When Hattie recognized the pair of ladies from the previous day, who had fled at the sight of the suffragettes, she attended them personally.
“How may I help you?”
The jowly woman with an underbite giving her a rather bulldog appearance could not choose between a flat-crowned garden hat and a wide-brimmed Merry Widow. Hattie did her best to sell Mrs. Darrow’s ugly creation, but in the end, the bulldog wanted a personalized design. Her whippet-thin friend waited patiently, clutching her parcel containing a new pair of gloves.
Lady Bulldog lingered over trimmings. “I’m simply not sure. Perhaps a bird’s nest with cunning blue robin’s eggs would be the thing. What do you think, Mrs. Cratchett?” she asked her companion.
“Sweet and spring-like. However, I do think roses suit you best. A veritable garden of them all around the crown.”
“But birds… I am so fond of them. And some ostrich feathers to give it height. You’re the expert, Mrs. Glover, what is your opinion?”
Hattie would never reveal she thought the current fad for enormously wide and tall hats defied good artistic design, and they were an annoyance to anyone stuck behind one in a theater. There’d actually been a newspaper article complaining about the fashion.
Instead, Hattie mused aloud. “Flowers or feathers? Why not both, Mrs. Harris?”
“Excellent idea.” The bulldog set to choosing colors, while Hattie glanced up to see who had just entered the shop, now empty but for the women she was assisting.
Her blood froze while heat flared from deep inside, the pair mingling to create a powerful head of steam Hattie feared might leak out her ears. It was the sweet-talker from yesterday, the fellow she had planned to avoid when he came to pick up his lover’s hat, the man she most definitely did not want to talk with again.
Rose greeted him and he smiled at her, but his attention was fixed on Hattie. For a moment, their gazes locked from across the room. Hattie attempted to beam disinterest at him, but feared she only seemed moon-eyed. And his look contained an intensity that made Hattie’s steam boil even higher until she became a teakettle shrieking with desire.
Hattie took the kettle off the fire by turning her back on him to face her indecisive customer. “What about white, Mrs. Harris? Think of it. Every woman vies to have the brightest, most colorful hat, but you will attract the eyes of all who pass with the striking singularity of your vision in white. Feathers, flowers, gauze—all white.”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Cratchett breathed. “Like a spring bride.”
“You don’t think it is too maidenly? I don’t wish to appear a fool.”
“Not at all. Sophisticated and mature, I should say. Perhaps with a few black-tipped feathers mingled here and there,” Hattie said decisively. “Will you trust me, Mrs. Harris?”
“I do,” her new customer vowed.
Hattie started an account for Lady Bulldog, then ushered the woman and her companion to the door.
Mr. Hardy was in conference with Rose at the glove counter, but the moment he saw Hattie was free, he called to her. “Won’t you weigh in on the topic, Mrs. Glover?” He held up two nearly identical kid gloves. “Cream or white?”
“It is your choice, Mr. Hardy.” She started toward the back room, intent on evading the man and the unaccountable feelings he awoke in her. But her feet slowed as she neared him as if compelled, carrying her along with them.
Though Hattie’s gaze remained on the gloves in question, her focus was fully on Hardy. She felt his presence as if they touched in some invisible way.
“Both are stylish and serviceable,” she said briskly.
Rose looked back and forth between her employer and Mr. Hardy, as if she too felt the energy simmering in the air. “I will leave you to Mrs. Glover’s expert guidance. I have a hat to finish trimming.” Behind Hardy’s back, Rose lifted her eyebrows at Hattie and grinned before disappearing into the workroom.
Without her assistant’s presence, Hattie’s unaccountable nervousness grew. “Your hat is not yet ready, Mr. Hardy. I told you tomorrow,” she practically scolded.
“I know. Also, I will admit the gloves are but a pretext. I wanted to find out how that poor young woman fared yesterday. Is she quite all right?”
Hattie moved behind the display counter to put distance between them. “Yes.”
He placed the gloves on the glass surface and smoothed his finger over the soft kid leather. “What was the problem?”
“A private matter. Nothing you need concern yourself with.” Hattie found her hands putting the lid of an empty glove box on and then off again. For a few seconds, silence reigned.
“Mrs. Glover,