Page 101

Chapter Thirty

Sylvia looked up when, through the open doors of her flat’s dining room, she heard the grandfather clock by the sitting room chime ten. She put down her pencil and stretched her arms overhead, her cramped muscles relaxing with relief.

The table was a mess of newspapers, notebooks, and the afternoon post that she hadn’t yet had the chance to open. She’d come home early to work on her fashion show plans, and somewhere along the way she’d lost track of the time. If Mrs. Atkinson hadn’t placed supper in front of her with a tut before leaving for the day, Sylvia probably wouldn’t have even eaten.

She would clean it all up before she went to bed, but she still had work to do.

She looked down at her list of dressmakers with satisfaction. Half of them had ticks next to their names with notes regarding their commitment to the fashion show. Entrusted with shaping the fundraiser, she’d gone above and beyond, making notes as she assessed what each dressmaker’s skills and strengths were so that the committee could recommend what sort of garment was needed for the show and help dressmakers present their businesses in the best light. Likewise, she’d created lists of members of the press, trade publications, and ladies’ magazines she wanted to target to drum up attention and support for the charity.

At tomorrow’s committee meeting, she expected Lady Nolan to announce that the fashion show would be their next fundraiser. She would continue to work securing the agreements of her fellow dressmakers, but then she would refocus her attention on the shop once again.

“Right,” Sylvia said, placing her palms firmly on the dining table and pushing away. She needed to be sharp, so she would forgo a nightcap and make a cup of tea instead.

She started to turn, but then the post caught her eye. She swept it up and carried it with her to the kitchen, flipping through the envelopes as she went. However, she stopped when she saw the fourth letter. It was addressed to her in her sister’s hand.

Sylvia pushed open the kitchen door and set the letters on the counter, leaving Izzie’s on top. Moving deliberately, she filled the kettle and put it on to boil. Then she opened the cabinet and rummaged around for the tea tin Mrs. Atkinson did her best to keep as full as the ration would allow. She’d recently switched to Darjeeling so she wouldn’t miss the lack of real milk as much. Carefully, she spooned out a scant measure of leaves into the Royal Doulton pot that had been a wedding gift from Hugo’s parents. When she reached for a matching teacup, however, she accidentally nudged the one next to it and sent it clattering to the floor.

Cursing softly, she took the broom and dustpan from the small cabinet on the far end of the kitchen and set about sweeping up the broken china. With this done, she glanced at the letter again.

It wasn’t that she was afraid of what might be inside, exactly. It was just that Izzie’s last letter had been so brief and so abrupt.

Do not pretend that you know the first thing about what Mum was like.

Chastising herself for being afraid of a piece of paper, Sylvia tore the letter open, drawing out an unusually thick sheaf of sheets. When she unfolded it, her breath hitched. Sitting in the center of the handwritten pages was a sketch.

She touched her finger to the drawing, following the lines of the dress with modest gathers on the right side. It fell just below the knee, with long, tight sleeves that would emphasize the slimness of the wearer’s wrist. To the side, Izzie had written, “I would suggest a fine claret wool or, if that is not available, navy for autumn.”

The dress was beautiful, and Sylvia could imagine a model walking out into the middle of the crowd of onlookers at the charity fashion show, gloriously dressed in a way that showed off her sister’s talent perfectly.

Carefully, Sylvia set the sketch aside and began to read. She wasn’t even to the end of the first paragraph when she began to tear up. By the bottom of the first page, she was crying. When she finished reading, she felt completely drained.

The letter was part apology, part acknowledgment, and it was exactly what she’d wanted the moment Izzie had come back into her life.

She’d wasted too much time pushing her sister away, and she was done with that misguided part of her life. She would be glad however Izzie would take her back, and she would prove that she wasn’t the neglectful, profligate sister Izzie seemed to have thought she was for years.

Sylvia wouldn’t fail her sister.

The kettle began to scream, and she composed herself enough to lift it off the hob and pour boiling water over the tea leaves. Then she loaded up a wooden tray with the pot, a fresh cup and saucer, a teaspoon, and the post. Already she was writing a letter in her head, wanting to pour so many things out onto the page.

Perhaps that is why, as she made her way out of the kitchen and back to the dining room, she didn’t notice that anything was awry until she saw Hugo, standing next to the dining room table, peering down at her papers.

He turned to face her, his lips so thin they’d nearly disappeared.

“What is this?” he demanded, pointing at her list.

Her hackles immediately went up. How dare he go through her things?

“Good evening to you too, darling,” she said, her tone rather arch as she set the tray down next to her work and carefully moved Izzie’s sketch and letter out of the way of her tea.

“What is this?” he repeated.

“Something I’m working on for Lady Nolan on behalf of the War Widows’ Fund,” she said as she poured herself a cup.

“Why is your mother’s dress shop at the top of this list?” he asked, holding up the notebook. “We agreed that it would be best if you didn’t mention your association with the shop socially.”

She stiffened, cheeks ablaze. It was true she had once agreed to that. It had seemed more important to be accepted by the Pearsalls, the members of Hugo’s club, his friends and patients, and to do that, she knew she couldn’t be Sylvia Shelton, whose mother was a dressmaker. She had whittled away her rough edges until only a perfectly smooth acceptability was left behind, but in doing so she’d taken away all of her supposed imperfection—all of the things that made her who she was—and more and more, she found herself missing that woman.

She cleared her throat. “The fashion show is for charity. I suggested at a committee meeting that it might be a good way to raise money for the war widows given all of the recent attention on the utility scheme.”