‘Evelina?’
She turned and found her mother standing there again, her face as white as a sheet.
‘Take this,’ she said. ‘It will get you to Paris, and pay for a boarding house for a few nights at least.’
Evelina wanted to refuse, to remind her of the sharp slap that she’d dispensed only minutes earlier, or her silence that had clung to Evelina like a cloak. But she wasn’t too proud to take the money offered to her. It came with no hug or kiss, no tears or fanfare, and certainly no apology; her mother simply pressed the francs into Evelina’s palm and then turned to walk silently through the hall and back down the stairs.
Evelina imagined that her father had returned to the fields, that she may have already seen him for the very last time, and so she went to the window to look for him, to see his retreating figure one last time. As much as she hated everything he stood for, it hurt to know that she’d never see him again; that he hadn’t even tried to understand what she’d spent her entire life dreaming of. He was there, wearing his sturdy boots and jacket, his back bent from all the years he’d spent on the farm from when he was a young boy, and it wasn’t lost on her that he’d followed in his father’s footsteps and was already stooped from the life he’d been expected to lead. She only wished that he understood why she didn’t want to live the same life as him, thatshe could change her own destiny. That she was brave enough to imagine something different.
But as work-broken as he appeared, the gardens around him were magnificent. They may have been a beautiful prison to her, but she imagined that to someone who hadn’t seen them before, the property she’d grown up on would have looked storybook-perfect.
Evelina’s heart cracked open a little more as she heard one of her sisters sobbing behind her, but she kept her shoulders squared when she turned from the window, walking down the stairs and into the kitchen. She placed her bags on the floor and took an apple from the bench, before cutting herself two thick slices of bread and then wrapping some cheese in a cloth. She expected to be told not to take anything that didn’t belong to her, but her mother simply sat rigid, silent in her chair at the table as Evelina packed the food into her satchel.
She kissed and hugged Margot and Caitlyn one last time, wiping their wet cheeks before bravely collecting her bags and walking out of the door. Once she’d stepped out into the sunshine she didn’t stop, because if she did, she knew there was a chance she would turn back round. She didn’t call out goodbye or look over her shoulder; didn’t wait for someone to tell her not to go. Because as much as she hadn’t been ready to leave, she also wasn’t ready to stay for the life that was waiting for her. She only wished she’d had time to plan how she was going to start the life she wanted, instead of being turned out into the afternoon with little sense of what to do or where to go.
The only time she stopped was to pick a white rose from the garden. Her father’s roses were beautiful, with hundreds of colours and varieties growing on their farm, and she tucked it into the pocket of her jacket as she began her long walk down the road to the train station. If she was lucky, someone would stop and give her a ride.
‘Goodbye,’ she whispered under her breath, as the sun beat down on her blonde hair, the breeze lifting it ever so lightly from her neck as the dust from the road clung to her skin.One day, when everyone in Paris knows my name, I’m going to come back here.They won’t turn their backs on me then.
6
PRESENT DAY
‘I was told you might be able to help me,’ Blake said, as she reached into her bag and took out the box.
Mathilda’s eyebrows lifted, and she leaned forward. ‘You have something you’d like to sell me? I have to warn you that we’re very selective about the pieces we stock here, but we’ll consider most genuine vintage items.’
‘Unfortunately, I don’t have anything to sell. I was actually hoping you might be able to point me in the right direction,’ Blake said, unfolding the paper and placing it on the counter. ‘I’ve recently come into possession of this sketch, and so far, no one has recognised the signature at the bottom. It’s a long shot, but I would very much appreciate you taking a look.’
Mathilda laughed. ‘You thought you’d try the oldest woman in fashion and see if she recognised it?’
Blake grimaced. ‘Sorry, that came out wrong! What I meant to say was that someone told me you were an expert in vintage designs, which led me to believe that you might recognise the designer.’
‘My dear,’ the older woman said, as she reached for her glasses, ‘you haven’t offended me in the least. All the young men and women who work in fashion, they don’t recognise anythingfrom the past unless it’s from one of the big houses and has a designer name splashed all over it. Let me take a look.’
Blake realised she was holding her breath as Mathilda lifted the paper, her face changing slightly as she studied the design.
‘This is from the ’30s,’ she said almost immediately, holding the paper even closer to her face. ‘From the way the waist is drawn and the figure-flattering style, I can confidently estimate late 1930s. It’s most definitely pre-war.’
‘That’s the most information I’ve been able to ascertain since I began searching,’ Blake said. ‘Thank you.’
‘I presume you’re aware that it’s French?’
‘French?’ Blake shook her head. ‘I thought it was an English designer. What makes you say French?’
‘The French have always had a distinct design flair,’ Mathilda said, as she let the paper flutter back to the counter and moved around to search through a drawer. After a few minutes she triumphantly held up a magnifying glass. ‘In the ’30s, Paris was the epicentre of the fashion world, even more so than it is now, and I suspect this would have been a risqué design. It’s quite something.’
Mathilda leaned forward over the paper and moved the magnifying glass back and forth, before holding it steady and staring down. Blake found herself unable to breathe all over again as she waited for her to say something, hoping that perhaps she was going to recognise the signature, or another clue that she’d missed herself.
‘Unfortunately, this is not a signature I personally recognise, although that doesn’t mean that someone else won’t.’
Blake felt her heart sink. ‘I don’t have anyone else to ask,’ she admitted. ‘You were my last port of call.’
‘How badly do you want to know who the designer is? Does it hold sentimental value?’
‘I believe that the person who sketched this was my great-grandmother,’ Blake said. ‘So yes, it holds great sentimental value to me.’
The older woman’s eyebrows rose. ‘Well, that certainly makes things more interesting. And you have no clue?—’
