Page 115

22 May 1942

Dear Sylvia,

I am at a loss for words. I won’t pretend that I have ever liked Hugo, but I never imagined that he would betray you. I hope you know that, no matter what he told you, you deserve better.

I cannot pretend to be surprised at his scorn for your background, but I hope you no longer feel it is shameful. Mum did what she had to do in order to feed us and house us, all while paying down Dad’s debts. She was skilled and talented, and although she might not have had the ambitions of some, she turned Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions into something special. There is nothing dishonorable or common about that, and I’m sorry Hugo ever made you feel ashamed of any of it.

With regard to the rest of your letter, I’m left with more questions than answers. Why did you never tell me about what happened between you and Mum after Dad’s death? I knew that things were strained between you two while we were growing up, but I thought that was due to a clash of personality more than anything else. A part of me cannot believe that she would have been so cruel as to blame you for our father’s death. Yet another part knows that Mum was… Mum.

I know you think I believe she could do no wrong, and perhaps I did for a time. However, I saw more than you know. I remember the way she could snap when she was tired, and she was always tired. I recall the long nights poring over paperwork in the office. I know she worried about everything from taxes to the price of fabric.

I think that all of those worries culminated when the war started, and it became too much. She refused to let go of the shop when she should have. I should have pushed harder. I should have been more insistent that she listen to me and allow me to try some of the things that you’ve had such success with.

I have not always been gracious or told you how much I appreciate everything you have done these months. I understand now that you are trying your best to save a dying business and, although we haven’t always agreed, that your heart is in the right place.

Yours,

Izzie

P.S. It seems as though, after sending you the sketch of the claret dress, I cannot stop sketching while sitting in bed in our hut while the other girls read or play games. I have enclosed several new designs that I thought might be useful for you and Miss Reid. You should, after all, have some things to sell after your fashion show is a roaring success.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Izzie tilted her head back, watching from her spot along the south edge of the beach parade as her unit’s balloon reached its peak.

“Balloon flying thirty feet!” Molly shouted.

“Stop winch!” Nancy called back.

“Stop winch,” Molly replied.

The engine shuddered to a stop and the balloon pulled lightly on its cables in the direction of the light wind along the Norfolk coast.

The day was hot, and Izzie could feel the sweat rolling down her back as the sun beat down on her.

“How much trouble do you think we would find ourselves in if we took off all our clothes and jumped into the water?” asked Alexandra as she stopped next to Izzie.

“A fair bit, I would think,” said Izzie with a laugh.

“What if we left all of our clothes on?” asked her friend.

Izzie pretended to consider this and then shook her head. “Probably still a fair amount. Besides, how would we keep the fabric from snagging on the barbed wire?”

“I suppose we’ll just have to stay hot and sticky then. Shame,” said Alexandra, gazing out over what once must have been a beautiful strip of white sand but was now dotted with beach scaffolding, barbed wire, and other invasion defenses. An anti-aircraft tower loomed in the near distance, punctuating the entire scene. It was impossible not to remember that they were at war.

“Can you imagine it before all of this? It must have been filled with families holidaying,” said Izzie.

“I’ve never been on a holiday to the English seaside,” said Alexandra.

“Never?” Izzie asked with incredulity.

“Mummy always liked going to the Continent. We did spend some time in Biarritz. I wonder if the hotel we used to stay at will still be standing by the end of the war,” Alexandra mused.

The longer she knew Alexandra the more comfortable Izzie became with the difference between their backgrounds. Her friend was not, as she once might have feared, a snob. Alexandra was unfailingly kind, curious, and open with everyone she met, and when she thought about it, Izzie found herself more than a little ashamed that she’d ever thought the earl’s daughter might be anything but.

“Once a summer, I would go to the seaside with my sister. It was usually Brighton, although once we went to Margate,” she said, recalling the trips with a smile. The sisters would wait all summer for the perfect combination of hot weather and Mum’s willingness to release them from their duties at the shop with an exasperated yet indulgent “You keep talking about it so much, you might as well go.”

There would be a scramble to pack a picnic lunch, gather up swimming costumes and blankets, and find sunglasses and straw bags. Then, with all of their kit assembled, the Shelton sisters would troop off to Victoria Station and board the train for Brighton that was brimming with fellow holidaymakers.