“My mother is making me leave. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Crofton. I had no idea this would happen when I took this job.”
The woman nodded once and cast her gaze to the sketches in Emmy’s hand. “I really thought I could pretend there was nothing to worry about as long as I just went about my business and sold wedding dresses to happy young women.”
Emmy hadn’t rehearsed a response from Mrs. Crofton that had nothing to do with her, so she had no words at the ready.
“Do you still want me to send these to my cousin?” Mrs. Crofton’s voice was void of emotion and strength,as though it really didn’t matter anymore that she had met Emmy and liked her sketches and wanted to help Emmy embark on a future as a wedding dress designer.
“I most certainly do. The evacuation doesn’t change anything.”
Mrs. Crofton looked up at Emmy. “Except that you won’t be in London.”
“But I am going to return as soon as I can. I very much want you to send the sketches to Mr. Dabney and I want to know when he will be returning to the city.”
The woman laughed, a short little chortle shrouded in lassitude. “Oh, the confidence of the young! You would have us all drinking victory champagne by Christmas. My neighbor’s son is in the British navy and she told me he has no idea how long this will last. I’m not getting any more dresses from my suppliers in Paris. It will be hard to sell wedding gowns when I haven’t any to sell. And if all the London designers head to the hills, where will that leave me?”
“You could sell mine.”
Her laugh this time was full and loud. “Made from what, hospital sheets? And who’s going to spend money on a wedding dress if food gets really scarce like they’re saying it will? Or if bombs are dropping every night? Don’t they teach you current events in school?”
“School’s not in session. And war makes brides as easily as it makes widows. You told me that yourself.”
“But not as plentifully. I’ve had no customers yesterday or today, except for the young woman who bought that veil.”
“Give your cousin the sketches, Mrs. Crofton. Please? I promise I will come back as soon as I can. War or no war.”
She exhaled heavily. “All right.”
“And you’ll let me know when he returns to London.”
Mrs. Crofton nodded. “Send me your address when you’re situated.”
They stood there for a moment looking at each other.
“I don’t have any work for you today, Emmeline,” Mrs. Crofton finally said.
“You can teach me how to line a bodice.”
She lifted up the corners of her mouth in a half smile. “I almost envy you. Getting out of here like you are. Away from all this. You don’t know how good you have it.”
“I’ll trade places with you.”
Mrs. Crofton laughed gently. “If you were my daughter, Emmeline, I would do the same as your mum. I’d send you away to safety, too. I had a daughter once, you know.”
Emmy didn’t.
Mrs. Crofton stared at the wall behind her as if it were a window to the past. “She died of a fever when she was six.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Crofton.”
Her employer hovered there, on the edge between the present and past, and then she turned toward the wall and plugged in the electric teakettle that sat on a little table by the door to the loo.
Emmy waited to hear more about the daughter who had died, but Mrs. Crofton only said she was terribly sorry that she’d run out of sugar and there wasn’t any more at the grocery.
Eight
THEday Emmy and Julia left London, the June sun spilled cheerfully out of the sky, dousing everyone with extravagant and unnecessary warmth. A somber fog would have suited Emmy better, or a pelting downpour. She didn’t want the heavens affirming this plan as she and her sister trudged to Julia’s school, suitcases in hand, nor as they waited in a sunny sea of emotional mothers, wide-eyed tots, and uniformed officials pretending that what they were doing was perfectly normal. From the school, the sisters would continue by bus, then by train, and lastly by motor car or delivery truck or gypsy cart—who really knew?—to wherever it was they were to call home.
Emmy’s solitary consolation as she packed her satchel was that she had discovered the key to Primrose’s back door, which she had forgotten to return to Mrs. Crofton when they said their good-byes. It was like an omen thatshe would have to come back to London to return it to Mrs. Crofton. She slipped the key into her skirt pocket, letting her fingers linger over its shape before she withdrew her hand.
