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She could see Miss Reid’s eyes slide over to covertly examine her. It hadn’t escaped her attention that something had slowly shifted between them since Izzie’s deployment. Miss Reid seemed, of late, far more willing to pitch in for the front-of-house work than she had when Sylvia arrived. Gone too were the sly comments about Sylvia’s character. She hadn’t known whether it had been her new policies around payments, the advertisements, or her enthusiasm about tackling every problem from missing deliveries to the austerity announcements. However, Lady Winman’s appearance seemed to be the final confirmation Miss Reid needed to believe that Sylvia really was invested in the shop’s future.

“Well, I suppose some good came out of that lorry splashing you then,” said Miss Reid.

“I suppose it did.”

“Will you tell your sister about Lady Winman?” asked Miss Reid.

“Yes. I owe her a letter about the fashion show. I meant to ask her if she had ideas of whom to approach as well.”

“Will you tell her that the countess chose one of her sketches?” asked the seamstress.

Sylvia hesitated. “That I’m not so certain of. She hasn’t forgiven me for pulling the sketches in the first place. I can’t imagine she’ll be delighted with the news that I’ve sold one of them.”

“But you’ve apologized.”

“I’ve written letter after letter. Nothing seems to make a difference.”

She could see now what a mistake her last letter had been. Izzie held her anger with Sylvia too close to her chest for simple apologies and explanations to heal the wounds around her sister’s heart.

“Why don’t I put the kettle on, and we can go over the week’s orders together?” she suggested.

“Yes, madam,” said Miss Reid.

Sylvia stopped short. “Miss Reid, you’ve known me since I was eleven. You really don’t need to call me ‘madam.’ ”

Miss Reid lifted her chin. “So long as you’re the owner of this shop, that’s exactly what I’ll call you. I won’t hear any argument against it.”

Sylvia couldn’t entirely hide her grin at the sort of olive branch her old rival appeared to be offering. “Thank you, Miss Reid. That means the world to me.”

“Oh”—Miss Reid batted a hand in front of her—“don’t turn sentimental on me. Your mother never was the sentimental type.”

“No,” said Sylvia with a little laugh. “I don’t suppose she was.”

May 6, 1942

Dear Izzie,

There is nothing in the world that could interest me more than whatever it is that you wish to tell me. If that is about your sister and the shop, I am happy to listen.

I will call for you at the gates at five on Friday. I cannot wait to see you.

Yours,

Jack

P.S. Do not think for one second that I missed the fact that you left out your answer to my question about your first kiss.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Such excitement fizzed in Izzie’s stomach that she could almost forget about the unopened letter from Sylvia tucked into her tunic pocket. It was five o’clock on Friday, and Jack was waiting for her. Jack, who’d told her that he couldn’t stop thinking about her and whose last letter had mentioned first kisses.

She spotted him leaning against a post just outside the gate of her base, and when they locked eyes he pushed off of it with a grin, stooping to pick up the long strap of a khaki bag that was sitting on the ground next to him.

“Hello,” she said as she approached.

“Hello to you. Aren’t you just the prettiest girl in the world?” he asked.

She blushed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”