All manner of hats, p.1
All Manner of Hats, page 1
ALL MANNER OF HATS
ELVA BIRCH
CONTENTS
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Author’s Note from Elva Birch
Kalikoi; Stories About Women Loving Women
More by Elva Birch
Writing as Zoe Chant
The Book I Wasn’t Writing
FOREWORD
All Manner of Hats is a short, sweet lesbian romp of manners with magic, ghost horses, and cunning hats, in a steampunk-flavored world of dirigibles, duels, and cityships.
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1
The first thing that Valentina Briggston noticed about Charlotte Jones was her hat.
This wasn’t unusual; as a milliner, Valentina had a special interest in hats. But beyond that, Charlotte Jones was sporting a very fine silk man’s hat, one that was clearly designed to call attention to her, perched on top of her russet curls.
It was, of course, terribly unsuitable, but then almost everything about Charlotte Jones was.
Valentina narrowed her eyes as she crossed the ballroom. The wooden floor rumbled beneath her feet from the straining of the great engines below, and the doors were all open to let the evening ocean breeze cool the crowded room.
Charlotte was at the top of Valentina’s list of rivals, the most likely to catch the eye of Lord Jamison. Rumors from the mainland suggested she wore trousers to ride horses, not just split skirts, and that she had dueled with a man who had insulted her family’s honor. There were even stories that she had attempted to enlist in the dirigible cavalry, under her brother’s name. She was wearing a sword, though Valentina thought that the hat was far more of a fashion stumble than that.
Charlotte was drinking something smoky in a tumbler, holding court in a cluster of appalled-looking women clutching wine glasses, and grinning men drinking brandy. She stood with one leg rakishly up on a chair, her skirt casually hiked up to show part of her shapely leg and a boot with a mannishly high heel. She was telling a story that was eliciting a great deal of embarrassed giggling from the female half of her audience and appreciative chuckles from the rest.
Lord Jamison looked particularly amused and Valentina knew she should move quickly. She eased towards the group carefully, pausing just at the edge of the circle as if she were considering moving on to another conversation.
She curved her thoughts carefully, thinking in particular about one of the older women who happened to be wearing one of her hats.
Inevitably, Mrs. Smithers’ gaze slowly moved to her. “Oh!” she said, as if surprised to see Valentina there. “Letty, darling! Come and hear Charlie’s story! A horse race, can you imagine? You will never believe Miss Jones’ audacity! Have you met everyone? This is Valentina Briggston; she is the only one I will ever buy a hat from.”
As she had intended, Valentina instantly became the focus of the little group, including Lord Jamison. She blushed and smiled as if she were grateful and humbled to be invited to their circle. “My lord,” she greeted him, when introductions had gotten there. “Your dear wife was a client of mine, and you and I had a chance to speak briefly at the opening of the new port clock.” She extended a gloved hand for him to shake and gave him a direct look, glancing shyly away at the last moment.
Friendly and shy had always been her most devastating combination; no man could help but think that meant she was flirting, while no one could fault her manners or accuse her of being forward.
“Mrs. Briggston,” Lord Jamison said politely. “Yes, I remember! We walked along the port and talked at some length regarding business law.”
Lord Jamison was handsome enough and a widower of considerable wealth, but one of Valentina’s primary criteria for a husband was that he didn’t chatter incessantly. She had secured a good opinion of him on that walk; he had struck her particularly as someone who knew when to be quiet. But she had been in mourning at the time, and although hers had been a marriage entirely of convenience, she gave her late husband all the respect that custom required. The interlude had given her plenty of opportunity to research Lord Jamison, decide that he was an ideal replacement for her previous husband—neither cloying nor controlling—and coordinate her plan to win him. He was the perfect, practical solution.
“It is Ms. Briggston, now,” she said with a proper combination of sorrow, firmness, and invitation. “I am several months out of mourning.”
She didn’t have to scan their audience to know that she’d just set loose a flurry of gossip and speculation...and undoubtedly a considerable amount of jealousy.
She had neatly presented herself as available and acceptable, given herself just a sheen of tragedy and interest, and opened the gates for polite conversation that centered exactly where she wished it: on her.
Lord Jamison murmured a polite regret and Valentina raised her gaze to his again. “Thank you, I am finding my feet again,” she said without falsehood. “It is shocking to lose a life partner, of course, but I’m sure you know.” A little reminder of their similarities would go a long way.
They shared an intimate little moment, murmuring the usual platitudes, and Lord Jamison quickly glanced around for a seat to offer her.
The only one available was the one that Charlotte Jones was using to display her boot.
“Ms. Briggston,” Charlotte drawled, her emphasis on the “Ms.” just strong enough not to cut. “Would you like a seat?”
In one smooth move, Charlotte had removed her foot and twirled the chair on its back legs to rest in place next to Lord Jamison’s. She stood easily in place, looking poised and full of energy, but somehow not restless. Her confidence made Valentina feel uneasy and even a little envious, but perhaps she could use Charlotte’s grandstanding as a foil for her own more refined manners.
“Don’t let me interrupt, Miss Jones,” Valentina said shyly. She demurely took the chair and sat at Lord Jamison’s side. Clearly, they were going to dispense with introductions. “You were telling a tale. About...horse racing?” She made herself look vaguely scandalized, but not so disapproving as to seem prudish.
Charlotte grinned and launched back into a tale as outrageous as Valentina had braced for.
She was more beautiful than Valentina had expected, with strong features that didn’t overwhelm her lively face. She was wearing clever makeup, just a touch of lip rouge and a little smudge of kohl around the eyes to emphasize her pale blue gaze. She had no blush on her high cheekbones. Had she, like Valentina, studied Lord Jamison’s preferences and made herself accordingly?
She certainly didn’t look like someone who did anything according to convention or to anyone else’s desires, Valentina thought wistfully.
But that hat.
Valentina would never have put her in such a hat.
It was the wrong size for her face and it looked like it would topple off her curls at any moment.
Valentina touched her own hat, even though she knew it was well-settled on her own rather mousier brown waves. It was a cunning number of felt and feathers, imbued with the magic of attraction.
She had made it with great care; attraction was one of those tricky spells, with plenty of room for mischief to take root if the stitching wasn’t done with just the right intention.
She didn’t want to encourage the wrong attention, or attention from the wrong person. A carelessly set attraction spell might draw bees or bad weather. All of her hats were subtle and careful, and this was one of her greatest pieces; it would catch the attention of exactly whom she chose. All she had to do was think of him diligently throughout the evening to set the snare.
She couldn’t make Lord Jamison love her, or any of the silly girls who heard rumors and came to her shop begging for her spells, but that wasn’t at all what she wished. Love was messy and unnecessary.
All she needed was to obtain a husband, and to do that, she merely needed to catch his attention long enough to convince him that she would suit him. She had confidence in her own considerable charms to do the rest.
Valentina frowned, realizing abruptly that she was failing in her goal.
Lord Jamison was chuckling earnestly, watching Charlotte Jones mime stabbing someone; her horse racing tale had turned to a duel, apparently, and her animated story had everyone completely engrossed.
Valentina eyed Charlotte clinically as she covered her mouth in feigned shock. It was hard to overcome that much natural flair, and her own hat was subtle magic.
This was going to require a more forward approach.
2
Charlotte was keenly aware of the newcomer to their circle. Ms. Briggston had pulled every eye, including Lord Jamison’s. Mrs. Smithers was patting her hand, as if in sympathy, and several of the gentlemen in attendance were giving her appraising sideways looks. Charlotte had heard of her—who hadn’t?—but had not anticipated her presence, or expected her to be vying for the same prize. Did she want him for the same reasons? Valentina Briggston was supposed to be fabulously wealthy; it seemed unlikely that she was after the lord’s riches like Charlotte was. Charlotte couldn’t imagine what she might see in the man, who had proven more boring and spoiled than Charlotte
She was so dainty and demure that Charlotte thought she must be insipid, but her slow, dark-eyed glance suggested a wit more cunning than her hat. She was turned out like a fashion bookplate, everything about her feminine and fit, every line of her makeup perfect, every pleat just where it should be on a woman. Careful dark brown curls framed a face that might have been quite plain if it weren’t so oddly interesting.
Charlotte wondered what she’d be like with her hair down loose, her expressions unguarded. Would she be demure in bed, or would she live up to the stereotype of a vixen in velvet gloves?
But Charlotte was not going to let herself be distracted. “I couldn’t very well stab the man,” she said dramatically, pausing for a little gasp from her audience. “It would be entirely too messy,” she added with a wink, “and bloodstains are so challenging to get out of white gloves.”
The men guffawed and the women tittered, exactly as she’d meant them to, and Charlotte was glad to see that they were watching her again, not Ms. Briggston.
“So I kissed him, of course,” she said boldly, looking first at Lord Jamison, with a daring lick to her lips, then around to glance last at Valentina, who briefly glared daggers back. “Naturally, he conceded the duel to me!”
Everyone gasped and laughed and clapped, even Valentina, with a masterful mask of her anger.
Charlotte’s triumph was short-lived, as Valentina suddenly touched her hat, then swept her hand over her eyes as if dizziness or grief had unexpectedly overcome her. She gave Lord Jamison’s knee a swift squeeze—barely within the bounds of propriety, but definitely not an accident—and shot him a look of entreaty, then stood and stammered an apology, fleeing the room for one of the balconies surrounding the ballroom.
All of the momentum of Charlotte’s story was lost in Valentina’s melodrama. Lord Jamison looked around helplessly, as if he might rise and follow her but wasn’t sure he should.
That was the last thing Charlotte wanted, so she quickly declared, “Poor dear, I’ll go after her,” and beat him to the punch by virtue of already being standing. She managed a backwards quip, “It was unkind of me to upset her.” She gave the words just a little scorn, reminding her audience that Valentina was the weak one.
This would give her a chance to assess her upstart rival in private and decide on her plan of attack. She had known that her bid for Lord Jamison’s hand wouldn’t go unchallenged, but Ms. Briggston might be more than she had bargained on.
Charlotte paused at the doorway and took in the tableau that Valentina had carefully made, leaning on the railing overlooking the dark ocean. There was a little color left in the sky, and she was standing just past the pool of gas lamplight, looking wistfully off into the wake of the cityship. Charlotte took note of how she managed to stand at the railing; if she attempted such a pose, she would only appear to be slouching, but Valentina looked like she was modeling for an artist attempting to paint noble suffering, if rather more windswept. The brisk ocean breeze and the slow forward momentum of the groaning cityship made eddies of wind that blew Charlotte’s hair into her face. She wasn’t sure how Valentina managed to make it look romantic when Charlotte was having to drag locks from the corners of her mouth every time she opened it. The moon was newly full, giving Valentina an ethereal edge, like she was frosted in silver light.
Charlotte had a moment of doubt. She was hopelessly outclassed in this competition and she had no hope of winning Lord Jamison against such a contender. She should count her losses and fold while she still had any chips before her.
When Valentina glanced back and saw Charlotte, the lines of her posture turned to defiance. “Miss Jones,” she said flatly.
“Not who you were expecting?” Charlotte teased her, enjoying the flash of disappointment and anger that livened Valentina’s face. She had never been able to resist a challenge; that was part of the reason she needed so desperately to win this one. “I told Lord Jamison you were having female problems.” She hadn’t, of course, but it was worth the white lie to watch Valentina’s eyes widen in horror. She had to come quite close, almost unseemly so, in order to speak to the milliner without shouting.
“How crude,” Valentina said coldly.
“It wasn’t terribly sporting of me,” Charlotte said. “But all is fair in love and horse racing.”
“You’re in love with Lord Jamison?” Valentina scoffed.
“No more than you are,” Charlotte said confidently, taking a wild guess. “But I have a need for a wealthy husband. Good horses are expensive and I like a certain standard of life that my trust won’t provide. Lord Jamison has an established tolerance for independent women; his late wife was a senator in the parliament.”
Valentina blinked at her and licked her lips, as if surprised by her frankness, though Charlotte suspected that none of the information was new. Charlotte still wasn’t sure how Valentina managed to keep the loose locks of her hair from sticking to her mouth. “He is...a desirable candidate for many practical reasons,” she said slowly.
She didn’t mention love, either.
“But you don’t need his money,” Charlotte pointed out. “I do.” She knew about Valentina, of course. Everyone had heard of Mrs...Ms. Briggston’s stunning hats. Even Charlotte, who shopped defiantly at men’s hatteries, knew about Valentina’s fashions. Royalty clamored for her hats, ladies bragged of having her custom work on their heads. She was considered the very model of a successful tradeswoman and there had been several profiles in respectable magazines.
“I do not need his money,” Valentina conceded. “I make the finest hats on the mainland, and my business is sought by all the cityships of the world. But I am in need of a husband, and I have settled on this one.” She let a flavor of ice-edged warning flow into her words, but Charlotte only grinned. Games were more worth winning against players of skill.
“Then we are in agreement,” she said merrily, settling her hat upon her head again after a particularly good gust of wind. “It is to be a battle for the hand of Lord Jamison.”
“I couldn’t possibly duel with you,” Valentina said. She managed to look both shocked at the idea and just a little intrigued.
“Duels don’t have to be with swords,” Charlotte said with a wink.
“In a contest of wit, you will not have the advantage of a sharp blade,” Valentina said viciously.
Charlotte felt herself flush in outrage and detested Valentina in that moment for being as clever as she was beautiful. It wasn’t that she minded a challenge, but that she hated the idea she might lose.
Charlotte drew her chin up and gave a tight, brief bow, deliberately masculine. “On the battlefield, then?”
Valentina tipped her head the barest amount. “For the prize,” she agreed, settling herself back over the railing like a waif waiting for rescue.
“He won’t come for you,” Charlotte pointed out. “Not and leave the comfort of the warm ballroom. Whatever qualities our quarry has, putting himself out for others is not among them.”
“Maybe he wouldn’t come for you,” Valentina said off-handedly, but Charlotte thought she looked a little doubtful.
Charlotte turned on her heel, feeling garish in her high-heeled men’s footwear next to the petite and effortlessly-feminine Valentina, but reminded herself that pride had never helped a horse win a race.
She let her feet fall a little harder than she otherwise might have, re-entering the ballroom, to make a point to herself, and to bring the attention of the crowd back to her.
Her footsteps, however, were quiet compared to the unexpected sound of hooves on the ballroom floor. She was just in time to watch a smoky black horse materialize in the center of the room.
