It was a gray, low day, I remember, with the pot-bellied clouds hanging heavily above the earth. Londoners wove through the streets with an unusual quiet burden that took the cheer out of their faces and muffled passing conversation. When the door of my shop blew open, a strong metallic scent accompanied it, pregnant with an afternoon thunderstorm. The bell that tinkled as the door opened was not really necessary; like any good shop owner, I knew when a customer had set foot near my wares.
I won’t pretend that I owned London’s best hat shop for ladies, but I ran a decent business, and new customers always found their way back. I sold all sorts of ladies’ hats and every accessory a lady could want with them: any hat, bonnet, floater, ribbon, pin, or veil that a body could imagine. I’ll admit that my little niche wasn’t as well known as Madame Garsbury’s or Sheffield and Co., but then, people didn’t exactly get the same friendly service in those uppity places like they did in my humble shop.  I never looked down my nose at my customers or tried to force my hats on their heads. Just straight, friendly business.
As the door slapped closed, jangling the bell once more, I shot up from my place behind the sales counter. I wasn’t as thin as I used to be, and my generous form toppled over some hatboxes with an embarrassing clatter – but not before I caught the slim silhouette of a tall young woman.
“Just a mo’, dearie,” I called hastily, righting the boxes as quickly as I could. My sales girl was sick with the pox, and I never realized how much the girl did until she was gone. I didn’t have time to mess around with foolish hatboxes while a customer waited! With an impatient kick, I shoved the boxes beneath the counter and bustled around the open side.
“Any type of hat in particular?” I asked as I found her admiring my rack of poke bonnets. They were falling out of style, but her patched cotton dress told me that she could probably afford no better. My stomach sank...I’d just placed a good amount of money into some new floaters, fresh in fashion, and they needed sold. But I bravely straightened my dress and carried on; I wasn’t one to begrudge a customer just because they could afford no better than the sad little poke bonnets! The little lady needed a hat, and I would make sure she got one.
“Oh, no, nothing in particular,” came her quiet reply. It would have been natural to turn to me as she spoke, but her slim form remained firmly rooted towards my poke bonnets. Her thick, dark hair was tumbling free down her back, and it seemed a shame to hide it in a bonnet, but I supposed that it would get rather tangled otherwise…but her refusal to face me only strengthened my curiosity. My busybody Englishwoman was emerging, and, eager for a glimpse of her features, I shifted subtly to my right.
She seemed to sense my movement and spun away from the bonnets as I sent another stack of new shipments to the floor. “A boater hat, I think, if you have one,” she said abruptly, turning to the window displays.
“Of course, miss, they’re right in fashion, they are,” I said, anxious to cover up my clumsy movements…but at the same time, I ran a respectable shop, and I didn’t simply let any woman drag herself in there. Every woman had her secrets, but I had yet to meet a young lady so averse to facial confrontation.
This time, I carefully navigated around my various stands with hanging displays and ribbons. Keeping my head down, I lifted off a pretty Sunday hat that had cost me more than I’d like to admit. I would have bought it myself if I had a dress to go with it, but by the looks of it I wasn’t much better off than my customer. In vain hope, I began, “This is a splendid hat for keeping the sun off your neck, dearie; it’s quite light, and you can leave your hair up or…” my voice trailed off miserably as I turned around, and for the first time, beheld my customer full in the face.
She had been very beautiful. She still was, in a way – she had smooth, white skin, large brown eyes with thick lashes, and a full mouth. Her nose was a little small, but she had high cheekbones that gave her round, feminine face a touch of austerity. Even so, all of that wasn’t enough to detract from one raw, ropelike scar that slashed across her face, from her right temple to her left jaw, hideous and thick. It lumped across her tall forehead, over the bridge of her nose, beneath her left eye, and down her smooth jaw, disappearing down into the neck of her high-throated dress.
The hat slipped from my hands in astonishment. Her face was blank, her dark eyes staring at me with mild curiosity and…perplexity. I bent, flustered, and snatched up the hat. “Er – that’s right, miss, as I was saying, this’ll make a fine – ah – “
  “Just the boater hats, please,” she repeated. Her voice was a high, sweet soprano, but it had a certain flatness to it that told me she wasn’t a singer like myself. “It’s the best I can afford, Madam,” she admitted, with an unperturbed smile. She didn’t seem at all offended by my gawping behavior, but I was so flustered that I returned the floater to the wrong display hook, and knocked over the stand with the boater hats as I plucked off a dark blue one.
I stared deliberately at the boater as I stumbled over its qualities, talking about its sturdy yet flattering nature, the fullness of the brim, the sharpness it brought to one’s face. The curiosity that had captured me earlier was obliterated by the grotesque mutilation I had seen. Only when I was done speaking did I brace myself and look up at the young woman again. She had listened to my speech with polite interest, but she hadn’t interrupted or asked any questions like the ladies usually did. I’d rambled on a good deal longer than necessary; my nerves were rattled and my social graces were slipping away. What sort of thing could do that to someone? A knife? A claw? Maybe she was attacked in the streets – London was beautiful, but fickle as a woman; dangerous as the French guillotine if you were foolish about your habits.
“This one will do,” she said with a languid smile. I blanched as the scar lumped and twisted, further deforming her face with what she no doubt intended to be an encouraging smile. I failed to meet her eyes because the hideous thing demanded all of my attention. “But do you have one in black?” Her English accent was flawless. Obviously of a higher class than myself, that was for sure. What was she doing in a common hat shop – even if it was a reputable one?
“Er – black – yes, miss, I’ve got one in the back – give me a mo’, love – “ and, grateful for the chance to escape, I bolted towards my sales counter. It took me less time than I liked to find the black boater hat. She smiled her awful, painful smile again when I showed it to her. The scar writhed like a serpent trapped beneath her pale skin.
“This will do nicely,” she said as she took the hat with her long, white fingers, and perched it on her nest of hair. She beamed at the mirror without any hesitation. The woman must have had the scar for a while, and was quite used to seeing her reflection with it.
“Would you like a – veil, dearie?” I blurted, my voice much higher and more wobbly than usual. I wrung my sun-spotted hands with nervous chagrin as the young woman looked down at me in surprise. “A nice black veil, you won’t hardly know it’s there – “
“Why, whatever for?” she interrupted with that airy soprano. The young woman looked utterly perplexed by my suggestion. “That would look rather silly, wouldn’t it, walking around with a veil all the time? I’m not going to a funeral, you know.”
Her blatant dismissal of my suggestion made me falter. She had a naïve disregard for the subtleties of conversation, and her childish response led me to stammer, with complete lack of tact, “Just thought you m-might want to – hide your…”
“My what?” she asked with a delicate frown. There was genuine curiosity in her soft brown eyes, studying me carefully, trying to solve my hints.
“The – scar, dearie,” I blurted, as my mother turned over in her grave – all of my proprieties vanished like ash in the wind. Why was the foolish woman acting like it wasn’t there? She might wish it was gone – no doubt it had repelled many a suitor - but pretending solved nothing! Her foolishness emboldened my courage as I plowed on, “It’s a right pretty way to cover a scar, miss, I’ve seen ladies use their veils in most creative ways, if they’ve got a lazy eye or a wart or a s-scar like that.” Well, not that I’d ever quite seen a scar like that before, but she didn’t need to know that.
By now my customer was giving me a very blank look. A frown slightly creased her brow. “I’m not sure what you’re talking of, Madam,” she said with a wary laugh. “Is this some sort of jest that you normally give your customers?” she lifted the black boater hat from her head and shook her mane of magnificent brown locks. “I’d just like the hat, please – none of this nonsense about veils.”
“But…” I hesitated as her hair caught in the cloudy light from my shop window. Those thick waves were so beautiful; no one was likely to notice her face. I forced my eyes to her features - well, maybe it wasn’t as bad as I initially thought…no, the scar was quite thin, I was sure of it, and it was not much of a contrast with her natural creamy skin. I just wasn’t used to seeing scars on women of high society. “You’re sure you don’t want a veil?” My voice hadn’t sounded so small since I was a frightened little girl.
“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.” She still appeared politely perplexed, but it was obvious her amusement was waning.
“The…” I faltered, drawing my eyes across the scar. Well, perhaps she was right, it was hardly worth mentioning.
The woman gave a small, light laugh. “You’re a strange one,” she said. Her gaze sparkled when she said it, and this time I noticed her eyes. It was easy to ignore, now, even when she smiled and the thing bunched up around her left cheekbone. “But I’ll not hold it against you. I’m not very good at understanding these sorts of jokes, you see; I’m sure it’s normally very funny, but I’d just like the hat, please.” She handed the hat box to me so I could take it to my sales counter. She had such pretty, doe-brown eyes, with thick lashes…they sparkled with so much spirit that it was a pity the scar ran right between them…but when I stared into those eyes long enough, I hardly saw the ugly thing. I only saw a sparkle; distant, but warm and comforting, even if it was indubitably beyond my reach.
“Oh – of course, dearie,” I quickly recovered, snatching the hat into my grasp and wading through my shop to the sales counter. “I’m sorry; I’m just all out of sorts today.” I was not quite sure why I was apologizing…I looked at my neatly organized list of prices and told her the number while I wrapped it in a brown package and tied it securely with twine. While I did this, I made small conversation and did my best to hold those brown eyes of hers. She seemed very fond of her father and her sister when she spoke of them, but her eyes dulled a little when she told me that her mother had died many years ago. The woman wanted a new hat before she sailed to France in the morning with her family. Her voice really was quite lovely, even if it was a little flat. I found myself noticing the way her full mouth curved when she talked about her sister, and the way her smooth brow bunched when she mentioned her father, who often had ill spells.
I barely noticed when I took her money and tucked it into my apron. Maybe she was right – there wasn’t a scar at all – nonsense, it was there, plain as day, but I hardly noticed it now. “Thank you for coming, dearie – make sure you visit me again, now, when you’re back from France!” I called as she left the shop. She laughed in that flat soprano – maybe she could sing, if she got a proper teacher; a lovely high voice like that could make an opera – and said she surely would do her best to remember. As she went from my shop with a soft tinkle from the bell, one of my usual customers, Mrs. Pernish, swept imperiously through the door. When Mrs. Pernish passed the tall young woman, she glanced up into her face and gave a violent start. I thought it was terribly rude. Besides, she shouldn’t be staring, not when she had that mole perched on the end of her nose, sprouting bristles.
The young woman either did not notice my rude customer or did not care. She swept into the street, turned left, and disappeared around the corner with my hatbox tucked beneath her arm.
“Good heavens,” Mrs. Pernish huffed indignantly, as if she’d just been greatly insulted. “How did she get such a hideous scar like that?” She looked at me for a prompt explanation: I was usually on top of my game and knew my customers’ life stories when they left the shop, but at that moment I dumbly looked at Mrs. Pernish.
“What – what scar?” I stammered, earning an astonished look from the older woman.
Mrs. Pernish never mentioned that customer again. There was hardly any need to; I never learned the young woman’s name, and she never returned to my shop as long as I lived. Twenty-three years later as I sit with my grandchildren, knitting a blanket for the newest one on its way, I try to picture her face again – but for the life of me, I cannot remember if she had a scar or not.