“What if she says no?”
“Then I will be no worse off than if I hadn’t shown them to her, right?”
“What if she takes the brides from you?”
“She won’t.”
“But how do you know?”
“I don’t think she’s that kind of person. Besides, I won’t let her. I won’t let anyone take my drawings from me, okay?”
Julia nodded but a trace of doubt lingered on her face. It was as if she already knew good things had a way of being taken from someone—especially in a time of war.
“What about those?” Julia pointed to the rejects on the bed.
“How about while I am gone, you give those brides some bouquets to carry? You can use my colored pencils and put flowers in their hair and bouquets in their hands. Yes?”
Julia seemed pleased with this assignment. “What ifI want to give them something else to carry? Does it have to be flowers?”
Emmy kissed the top of her sister’s fair head. “It can be whatever you want. Give them kangaroos to hold if that suits you.”
Julia laughed and Emmy pushed herself off the bed. “Do I look all right?”
“You look like Mum.”
Emmy nodded. Good enough. “I’ll be right back. Keep the door locked. Don’t answer the bell. Just work on those brides.”
She tucked the box under her arm and headed for the front door, her feet lifting slightly out of Mum’s too-big shoes with every step.
Four
THEbroken glass had been swept away and several long sections of wood had been nailed to the window frame at Primrose Bridal. Emmy stepped inside the shop and the tinkling of two silver bells attached to the handle announced her arrival. Mrs. Crofton looked up from a white French provincial writing desk situated along the left wall. Two Queen Anne chairs upholstered in cobalt blue velvet sat opposite her. Emmy imagined one was for the bride, and the other for the bride’s mother or sister or maid of honor. Mrs. Crofton had probably consulted with a thousand brides from behind the desk.
“Flip the Closed sign, will you?” she said. “And set the latch.”
Emmy turned back to the door and did what Mrs. Crofton asked, using the few seconds to still the niggling nervousness that had suddenly bloomed inside her chest.
“Please have a seat, Miss—I’m sorry I’ve forgotten your name,” Mrs. Crofton said as Emmy completed the task. “Too maddening of a day.”
“Emmeline. Emmeline Downtree.” Emmy closed the distance between them and sat down on one of the chairs.
Mrs. Crofton finished making notations in a leather-covered ledger and closed it gently with a bandaged hand. “Eloise Crofton. If it’s not a drunkard crashing his car into my window, it’s daft suppliers who think just because there is a war, women aren’t getting married.”
Emmy had said as much to Mum earlier that day and nodded.
Mrs. Crofton set her pen down. “War makes brides as easily as it makes widows, Miss Downtree. And do you know why?”
“Because people still fall in love?” Emmy said hopefully.
“Because people need to believe love is stronger than war. A soldier marries before he marches off so that the ring on his finger will remind him who he is when he’s crouched in a trench with his weapon raised to kill. You don’t want to forget who you are then.” She opened a drawer and slipped the ledger inside it. “Now, then. Tell me how long you’ve been admiring my shop?”
“I guess as long as we’ve lived in Whitechapel. We moved here two summers ago when my mother got a new job.”
The woman waited for more and Emmy knew in an instant she’d probably already said too much. To mention a mother’s new job and say nothing of the father meant there was something amiss.
“Oh. I see. How very nice.” Mrs. Crofton tipped her head and Emmy saw the unspoken question in her eyes.
“Yes, I’ve walked past your shop every Saturday morning since then. I love your gowns. They’re just so beautiful. And... so full of promise.”
