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The outfit was far more pared down than most of her mother’s designs. The skirt was simple and slim, ending just below the knee. The jacket was single-breasted, with deep, thin lapels more reminiscent of a man’s suit but with more shaping through the waist than the usual boxier designs that her mother favored.
There were no notes written next to the suit, but she knew without a doubt that this was not her mother’s work.
Sylvia flipped to the next page, her lips parting. The suit was just the beginning. She began to page through the book faster and faster. There were blouses, skirts, coats, and even ladies’ trousers, which Sylvia was certain Mum would never have approved of. Some of the clothing was fanciful—bias-cut ballgowns with plunging necklines and sweeping trains and none of the loose drop waists that her mother had always insisted ladies of a certain age felt most comfortable in. There was a level of restrained glamour in this book that Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions had never seen before.
This. This was the sort of clothing that Mrs. Shelton’s should be offering its customers.
The shop’s doorbell rang, pulling her attention away from the sketchbook.
She pushed away from the desk and hurried to the front. She edged the blackout curtain back and found herself staring at William. He gave her a little wave.
Quickly, she unlocked the door. “Hello.”
“Hello, Mrs. Pearsall.”
Sylvia laughed. “Oh, come now, William. I’ve known you since I was eleven. It sounds ridiculous, you calling me Mrs. Pearsall.”
“Well, in that case, hello, Sylvia,” he said with a half smile. “May I come in? I don’t want to be the reason that you’re scolded by the air raid warden for breaking the blackout.”
She opened the door, letting light spill out into the twilight, and shut it swiftly behind him.
“How are you?” he asked, removing his hat.
“I’m well,” she said.
A silence settled between the two of them until he said, “I wasn’t sure whether you would still be here.”
“I was just going through some things in the office,” she said, not wanting to let on how late she had intended to stay.
“I thought maybe you would be off to some dinner or the theater,” he said with a smile.
“Oh, I thought I’d take the night off from the Dorchester and The 43,” she said, although she hadn’t set foot in either in what felt like ages. “Are you on your way home?”
“I have my fire-spotting shift tonight.” He looked down at his hat, seemed to notice that he was playing with the brim, and stilled. “I thought I would stop by. To see how you’re doing.”
Something warmed in her at his awkwardness. “That’s incredibly kind of you. Won’t you come back? I could put the kettle on.”
He swayed forward a fraction, almost as though he wanted to cross the threshold of the door to the back of the shop, but then he smiled apologetically. “No. No, thank you. Not tonight. I did want you to know that I received this from the Inland Revenue.”
He dipped a hand into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. Sylvia’s heart leaped into her throat when he held it out.
“I’m not certain I want to open it,” she confessed.
“The news won’t be any better or worse for leaving it unread,” he said softly.
She swallowed. “You’re right—I know you’re right—and yet…”
“Would you like me to open it?”
She felt a little ridiculous, but nodded nonetheless.
He slipped a finger under the flap and tore the envelope open. She watched his face, cool with professionalism, as he skimmed the contents, his eyes flicking efficiently over the page.
When he looked up, she held her breath, but then he grinned. “It appears that the tax liability for Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions is all in order.”
Sylvia sagged against the shop’s counter. All of that worry—all of that time wondering if she was going to receive a dreaded letter in the post saying that Mrs. Shelton’s owed far more in back tax than she knew the shop’s meager accounts could pay—was gone.
“Sylvia, are you all right?” asked William.
