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He sighed. “Sometimes, Sylvia, I really wonder whether you have a clear thought in your head.”

She jerked back. “I beg your pardon?”

“What would happen if someone connected the shop and your sister back to you?” he asked, as though speaking to a child.

“Then they would know that my sister is a very talented dressmaker.” They would see the beautiful work Miss Reid had produced of late, as Lady Winman had. They would discover a place that was a beacon of style in a time when women desperately needed something chic in their lives.

“Shouldn’t Isabelle have been conscripted anyway?” he asked, tossing the notebook down on the table. “She’s about the same age as the Wrens they keep sending us.”

She stared at him. She’d written to him and told him that Izzie was being sent away to train in the WAAFs. When he’d rolled in one night, half-tight after being at his club, she’d mentioned to him that her sister had been dispatched to East Anglia. He’d made a noise in the back of his throat—an acknowledgment that he’d heard her—but nothing more.

“Izzie is with her barrage balloon unit in Norfolk,” she said, trying to keep a measure of calm in her voice.

He screwed up his face in confusion. “Then who is running the shop?”

“I am. I own half of it, after all.”

Hugo stilled. “You told me that you were selling to her.”

She lifted her chin. “The sale didn’t come through in time for Izzie’s deployment, so she asked me to take over.”

“But you don’t speak to your sister.”

That stung, but she held her husband’s gaze.

“Sylvia, what do you really know about running a business?” he tried again.

“I know a great deal more than you think, Hugo. I was doing the accounts and running orders for my mother long before I met you. It isn’t something a woman readily forgets.”

“Be reasonable.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “I am being perfectly reasonable.”

“No.” He bit out the word so hard she almost flinched. “I will not have any wife of mine playing at running a shop.”

“I’m not playing at anything. If you ever came home for supper, you’d realize that I was spending more time at the shop than I am here. I’m working harder than I’ve ever worked before—”

“You are my wife, and you will not work!” he exploded.

She stared at the red-faced man in front of her and realized for the first time in her marriage that she had no idea who he was—not really—because the brilliant young doctor who had swept her off her feet with promises of love and comfort was gone.

“You have no idea what it took to convince my mother and father that you were worth marrying,” he gritted out, clearly trying to pull his temper back under control. “They agreed that you were beautiful, but they didn’t think I could mold you into an acceptable wife. I did that. I brought you into this world, and I taught you everything.”

“They didn’t?” she whispered, feeling almost sick as she remembered how kind Mrs. Pearsall had been to her. How much she’d looked to the older woman for guidance before the wedding.

“No one did. I took you away from that miserable shop and your miserable little life with those miserable people.”

“Those people were my family.”

He scoffed. “Don’t pretend that you ever gave them a single thought. You wanted to leave, Sylvia. You practically begged me to take you away from that place.”

He was right. He was right, and she’d never felt so ashamed of that fact. She’d thought that he would be her knight in shining armor, taking her away from all of the unhappiness that tainted her life at Glengall Road. But over the years something had shifted. It had been slow at first, almost imperceptible, but ever since she’d found the letters in his desk it had been clear. At first, she’d been convinced that the change had been in him, but he was the same man she’d married—charismatic, charming, obstinate, and imperious. She’d been wrong.

She was the one who was different now.

“I have spent years trying to be the perfect wife for you,” she said slowly. “I’ve entertained your friends. I’ve joined the committees that you thought would be advantageous for your practice. I’ve kept your home. I changed everything about myself, from how I wear my hair to where I shop, to suit you, and I didn’t complain. Not once. But it isn’t enough any longer.

“I love my mother’s shop. It wasn’t always like that, but it is now. I love helping customers and chasing down missed deliveries. I find an immense amount of satisfaction in sitting down at my mother’s desk and sorting through the accounts. I even like Miss Reid.