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Sincerely,

Isabelle Shelton

8 March 1942

Dear Izzie,

It is obvious that you inherited our mother’s entrepreneurial side! I am not at all surprised that you have become the de facto seamstress for the girls in your unit and across the base. If the uniforms I’ve seen are any indication, they are very lucky to have you.

What do you think of the idea of Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions going into the uniform tailoring business? There must be officers from the women’s auxiliaries in London who are in need of Miss Reid’s skills, and at least we wouldn’t have to worry about the Board of Trade’s restrictions.

I hope that you’ve also managed to find some time for fun amid all your training and sewing. Perhaps you might even meet a handsome pilot at a dance on base.

I envy you in some ways. I used to love dancing.

Yours,

Sylvia

P.S. Why do you take your shoes off when you sit inside the balloon?

12 March 1942

Dear Sylvia,

You have it all wrong. I’m not entrepreneurial at all. All I wanted to do was help out a friend and word spread. That’s all.

The money a customer would pay for a uniform is the same as the money she would pay for a dress, as far as I’m concerned.

Sincerely,

Isabelle Shelton

P.S. We take our shoes off because our boots could damage the silk of the balloon.

Chapter Eighteen

And I should like a blouse made as well,” said Mrs. Sutton, resting her hand on a brown wrapped package that she’d held on her lap since she’d entered Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions.

“Of course. May I ask what the material is?” asked Sylvia, leaning forward in her seat in the shop’s front room.

“A cotton lawn,” said Mrs. Sutton, opening up the paper as carefully as she might have if it had contained precious treasure. “My daughter sent it to me from America.”

Sylvia eyed Miss Reid, who stood at the counter behind Mrs. Sutton, pretending that she was doing something with a bit of paperwork. The seamstress raised a brow, and Sylvia instantly knew why. While it was entirely possible that Mrs. Sutton’s daughter had sent her the fabric—anyone who could get their hands on cloth these days was doing it by any means possible—the Board of Trade had only just warned them about steep penalties for businesses and customers who supported the black market.

“May I see the fabric?” Sylvia asked.

Mrs. Sutton gently lifted a length of blue-and-white-striped cotton lawn free.

Sylvia took the cloth with due respect, discreetly looking at the name on the selvage edge as she admired it. “Smythe” was printed in black. She let out a little breath of relief. It was an American producer after all.

“It’s lovely,” she said, even as Miss Reid craned her neck to see the fabric.

“Perhaps something with a chevron,” said Mrs. Sutton. “I think that would be just the thing with my linen skirt.”

“Yes,” Sylvia said hesitantly as Miss Reid began to adamantly shake her head from side to side. “Although if you wish for something that can stretch between the seasons, might I suggest a simple blouse?”

Mrs. Sutton’s face fell a little. “Yes, I suppose that would be more practical. It really is a bother having to think of these things. I wish we could go back to the days when you could have something new every season.”