Lord Maccon rarely took an interest in his own attire. Lady Maccon could hardly believe he would suddenly take an interest in hers.
She said only, “Ah, well, I was just thinking how I did not like this hat. Not that I really require a new one.”
“Well, I certainly know someone who does,” said Floote with unexpected feeling from just behind her shoulder.
“Yes, Floote, I am sorry you had to see those grapes yesterday,” Alexia apologized. Poor Floote had very delicate sensibilities.
“Suffering comes unto us all,” quoth Floote sagely. Then he handed over a blue and white lace parasol and saw her down the steps and into the waiting carriage.
“To the Hisselpenny town residence,” he instructed the driver, “posthaste.”
“Oh, Floote.” Lady Maccon stuck her head out the window as the carriage wheeled off down the drive. “Cancel tomorrow’s dinner party, would you? Since my husband has chosen to absent himself, there is simply no point.”
Floote tipped his head at the retreating carriage in acknowledgment and went to see to the details.
Alexia felt justified in turning up on Ivy’s doorstep without announcement, as Ivy had done that very thing to her the evening before.
Miss Ivy Hisselpenny was sitting listlessly in the front parlor of the Hisselpennys’ modest town address, receiving visitors. She was delighted to see Alexia, however unexpected. The whole Hisselpenny household was generally elated to receive Lady Maccon; never had they thought Ivy’s odd little relationship with bluestocking spinster Alexia Tarabotti would flower into such a social coup de grace.
Lady Maccon swept in to find Mrs. Hisslepenny and her clacking knitting needles, keeping wordless vigil to her daughter’s endless chatter.
“Oh, Alexia! Tremendous.”
“And a good evening to you too, Ivy. How are you tonight?”
This was rather an imprudent question to ask Miss Hisselpenny, as Miss Hisselpenny was prone to telling one the answer—in excruciating detail.
“Would you believe? The announcement of my engagement to Captain Featherstonehaugh was in the Times this morning, and practically no one has called all day! I have received only twenty-four visitors, and when Bernice got engaged last month, she had twenty-seven! Shabby, I call it, perfectly shabby. Although, I suppose you would make it twenty-five, dearest Alexia.”
“Ivy,” said Alexia without further shilly-shallying, “why bother to lay about here awaiting insult? You clearly require some diversion. And I am in just the humor to provide it. For I do believe you are in dire need of a new hat. You and I should go shopping for one.”
“Right this very instant?”
“Yes, immediately. I hear there is a divine new shop just opened on Regent Street. Shall we give it our patronage?”
“Oh.” Ivy’s cheeks pinkened in delight. “The Chapeau de Poupe? It is supposed to be very daring, indeed. Some ladies of my acquaintance have even referred to it as fast.” A little gasp at that word emitted from Ivy’s perennially quiet mama, but that good lady did not offer any comment to companion her inhalation, so Ivy continued. “You know, only the most forward ladies frequent that establishment. The actress Mabel Dair is supposed to stop in regularly. And the proprietress is said to be quite the scandal herself.”
Everything about her friend’s outraged tone told Alexia that Ivy was dying to visit Chapeau de Poupe.
“Well, it sounds like just the place to find something a little more unusual for the winter season, and as a newly engaged lady, you do realize you simply must have a new hat.”
“Must I?”
“Trust me, my dearest Ivy, you most definitely must.”
“Well, Ivy dear,” said Mrs. Hisselpenny in a soft voice, setting down her knitting and looking up. “You should go and change. It would not do to keep Lady Maccon waiting on such a generous offer.”
Ivy, pressed most firmly into doing something she wished to do more than anything else in the world, trotted upstairs with only a few more token protests.
“You will try to help her, won’t you, Lady Maccon?” Mrs. Hisselpenny’s eyes were quite desperate over her once-again clicking needles.
Alexia thought she understood the question. “You are also worried about this sudden engagement?”
“Oh no, Captain Featherstonehaugh is quite a suitable match. No, I was referring to Ivy’s headwear preferences.”
Alexia swallowed down a smile, keeping her face perfectly serious. “Of course. I shall do my very best, for queen and country.”
The Hisselpennys’ manservant appeared with a welcome tea tray. Lady Maccon sipped a freshly brewed cup in profound relief. All in all, it had been quite the trying evening thus far. With Ivy and hats in her future, it was only likely to get worse. Tea was a medicinal necessity at this juncture. Thank goodness Mrs. Hisselpenny had thought to provide.
Lady Maccon resorted to painfully pleasant discussion of the weather for a quarter of an hour. None too soon, Ivy reappeared in a walking dress of orange taffeta ruffled to within an inch of its life, and a champagne brocade overjacket, paired with a particularly noteworthy flowerpot hat. The hat was, not unexpectedly, decorated with a herd of silk mums and here and there a tiny feather bee on the end of a piece of wire.
Alexia forbore to look at the hat, thanked Mrs. Hisselpenny for the tea, and hustled Ivy into the Woolsey carriage. Around them, London’s night society was coming to life, gas lights being lit, elegantly dressed couples hailing cabs, here and there a reeling group of rowdy young blunts. Alexia directed her driver to proceed on to Regent Street, and they arrived in short order at Chapeau de Poupe.
At first Alexia was at a loss as to why her husband wanted her to visit Chapeau de Poupe. So she did what any young lady of good breeding would do. She shopped.
“Are you certain you wish to go hat shopping with me, Alexia?” asked Ivy as they pushed in through the wrought-iron door. “Your taste in hats is not mine.”
“I should most profoundly hope not,” replied Lady Maccon with real feeling, looking at the flower-covered monstrosity atop her friend’s sweet round little face and glossy black curls.
The shop proved to be as reported. It was exceptionally modern in appearance, all light airy muslin drapes, with soft peach and sage striped walls and bronze furniture with clean lines and matched cushions.
“Ahooo,” said Ivy, looking about with wide eyes. “Isn’t this simply too French?”
There were a few hats on tables and on wall hooks, but most were hanging from little gold chains suspended from the ceiling. They fell to different heights so that one had to brush through the hats to get around the shop, and they swayed slightly, like some alien vegetation. And such hats—caps of embroidered batiste with Mechlin lace, Italian straw shepherdesses, faille capotes, velvet toques that put Ivy’s flowerpot to shame, and outrageous pifferaro bonnets—dangled everywhere.
Ivy was immediately entranced by the ugliest of the bunch: a canary-yellow felt toque trimmed with black currants, black velvet ribbon, and a pair of green feathers that looked like antennae off to one side.
“Oh, not that one!” said both Alexia and another voice at the same time when Ivy reached to pull it off the wall.
Ivy’s hand dropped to her side, and both she and Lady Maccon turned to see the most remarkable-looking woman emerging from a curtained back room.
Alexia thought, without envy, that this was quite probably the most beautiful female she had ever seen. She had a lovely small mouth, large green eyes, prominent cheekbones, and dimples when she smiled, which she was doing now. Normally Alexia objected to dimples, but they seemed to suit this woman. Perhaps because they were offset by her thin angular frame and the fact that she had her brown hair cut unfashionably short, like a man’s.
Ivy gasped upon seeing her.