After a Fashion (A Class of Their Own #1)(4)
“You take hats from the poor boxes?”
“I don’t steal them,” Harriet said quickly. “I have permission from the ministers to take whatever fancy hats or clothing I might have a use for because their donation bins were overflowing with far too many extravagant pieces.” She shrugged. “Ever since gentlemen have begun to amass such huge fortunes, their wives and daughters have become somewhat fickle when it comes to their fashions and are abandoning those fashions faster than ever. Unfortunately for the poor, though, they really don’t have any need for such luxurious items—which is why I’m permitted to take them.” She smiled. “I redesign the gowns, cut out any stains that might be marring the fabric, and then I provide ladies with limited funds a nice outfit they can wear to a special occasion, but for only a small fee.”
“Fascinating,” Mrs. Fienman exclaimed, “and a topic I’d love to explore further with you, but for now you’d best get on your way.” She waved toward the door. “Good luck to you, and don’t forget your pastry, but more importantly, the bill.”
Picking up the bill and then, reluctantly, the tart, Harriet walked out of the office, trying to ignore the broken bird bouncing back and forth against her cheek. She stopped at her worktable and took off her apron before sliding her hands into gloves. Scooping up her reticule, she stuffed the bill inside, picked up the pastry, and then nodded to the three ladies who worked with her before heading for the door.
Stepping outside, she moved to Mrs. Fienman’s carriage, the one pressed into service whenever a good impression needed to be made. When she opened the door, her gaze traveled over the stacks and stacks of hatboxes crammed into the interior. One quick glance upward explained why they weren’t attached to the carriage roof. It looked ready to rain, and since there was no room for her in the carriage, she was probably going to get wet.
She was beginning to get the unpleasant feeling that nothing wonderful was going to happen to her today.
God, it seemed, had forgotten all about her and her tiny birthday request.
“I’ve saved a spot up here.”
Harriet smiled. Timothy, a young man who worked as a driver for Mrs. Fienman, was grinning back at her with his hand held out. She took a second to throw the mangled pastry to a hungry-looking mutt sniffing around the sidewalk, moved to the carriage, and took Timothy’s offered hand. Settling in right beside him, she found her mood improving rapidly as Timothy began to regale her with stories about his new wife as they trundled down street after street.
“. . . so I made the small observation that the soup my missus served me was cold, and she hit me upside the head with a soup bowl, one that was still filled to the brim with chilly soup.”
Harriet laughed, but her laughter caught in her throat when Timothy steered the horses into a narrow alley. He pulled on the reins, and the carriage came to a halt, right in the midst of a large courtyard paved with brick, that brick leading up to the back of a formidable-looking mansion.
Craning her neck, Harriet took in the sight of four stories of superbly cut stone, inlaid with numerous stained-glass windows.
Her stomach immediately began to churn. She really was ill-equipped to deal with this particular situation, no matter that Mrs. Fienman seemed to think she’d handle it well. She wasn’t even certain if she was supposed to curtsy when she met Miss Birmingham, or maybe she was only expected to incline her head, but . . . what was an acceptable response if shoes came flinging her way?
“That sure is something, isn’t it—all that stained glass on a back of a house where hardly anyone will see it?” Timothy asked, pulling her abruptly back to the fact she was still sitting on the carriage seat while Timothy was on the ground, holding his hand out to her. She took the offered hand and landed lightly on the bricks.
“Good thing my Molly isn’t here with us,” Timothy continued with a grin. “She’d probably start getting ideas, but I’ll never be able to afford anything more than a hovel.”
Harriet returned the grin before she pulled the carriage door open. “I’ve always thought that hovels have a certain charm, whereas mansions . . . What would one do with all that space?” Turning, she stood on tiptoes and pulled out a few boxes, handing them to Timothy. She grabbed two more, wrapped her fingers around the strings tied around them, and headed toward the delivery entrance. She stumbled to an immediate stop, though, when a loud shriek pierced the air. Turning in the direction of the shriek, she blinked and then blinked again.
A young lady was storming around the side of the mansion, screaming at the top of her lungs. But what was even more disturbing than the screams was the manner in which the young lady was dressed.
A frothy bit of green silk billowed out around the lady’s form, but it wasn’t a gown the lady wore—it was a wrapper. Sparkly green slippers with impractical high heels peeped out from under the hem with every stomp the lady took, and a long, feathery scarf, draped around the lady’s throat, trailed in the breeze behind her. Her brown hair was arranged in a knot on top of her head, but pieces of it were beginning to come loose from the pins, brought about no doubt from the force of the lady’s stomps. The woman clutched an unopened parasol, and she was waving it wildly through the air.
“He’s a beast, a madman, and I’ll never have anything to do with him again,” the lady screeched to an older woman scurrying after her.