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She shut her eyes, praying to be delivered from the ten-minute discussion currently raging about whether the tablecloths at the next War Widows’ Fund tea should be white or ivory. Surely what mattered was that the charity raised as much money as possible to supplement fallen soldiers’ pensions and help their grieving families.

She opened her eyes again, willing herself to focus. She’d almost skipped this committee meeting, but charity work was the anchor upon which her entire social calendar was built, and she couldn’t let go of it. Not when she felt so very adrift.

“Thank you for that fascinating insight into linens, Mrs. Harwell,” said Lady Nolan, their chairwoman, finally cutting the speaker off with her usual air of authority. “I’m sorry to say that we have gone past our time.”

All around Sylvia, ladies with perfectly coiffed hair and patriotic red lips nodded.

“We shall pick up the matter of the tablecloths at our meeting in two weeks’ time. Until then, ladies,” Lady Nolan dismissed them.

Dread soured Sylvia’s stomach. Much as she’d wanted the meeting to end, now that it was over, she would have to go home. Home to an empty flat and them.

Slowly she closed her notebook and capped her Parker pen, slipping them both into her crocodile handbag. Then she pushed her chair back from the table and rose to her full height, enhanced by leather heels, avoiding everyone’s eyes.

If only she could slip out and—

“Shall we walk out together?”

Sylvia managed to arrange her features into a soft smile before turning to Claire.

Married to Sylvia’s husband Hugo’s school friend Rupert Monroe, Claire had been the first of Hugo’s set to welcome Sylvia into their circle. Claire too had been the first to share a knowing look with her when the gentlemen said something a little risqué at supper, the first to compliment one of her gowns at a ball, and the first to congratulate her on her engagement. It had been natural, then, that when Hugo’s mother had urged her to consider asking Claire to be a bridesmaid, Sylvia had said yes without hesitation, asking Claire before anyone else.

It was because of this shared history that Sylvia heard herself say, “I’d like that very much.”

As soon as they had collected their coats, Claire leaned in and asked in a low voice, “Did you see Lady Winman’s hat? It was positively bizarre.”

“It was rather avant garde for a charity committee meeting on a Wednesday afternoon,” Sylvia admitted, thinking back to the geometric configuration that had bobbed on the head of the slightly aloof Lady Winman, the newest member of the committee.

“It was positively bizarre, that’s what it was. Someone really should take her aside and remind her that we’re at war.” Claire sniffed. “I’m shocked the dowager hasn’t done it herself, but—even now—they don’t like one another.”

“At least the hat was black,” Sylvia said because she simply didn’t have it in her to rise to the bait of asking why the Dowager Countess of Winman and the current Lady Winman did not see eye to eye.

Claire nodded to the housekeeper holding open the front door of Lady Nolan’s Mayfair home and, as soon as they were out of earshot, said, “It wouldn’t have mattered if it was bright red and covered in spots. It looked as though she had a deranged stork perched on her head. I suppose that’s what happens when you marry up.”

Sylvia felt heat creep up the back of her neck, even as she silently scolded herself. Claire was her friend and would never say those sorts of things about her. Besides, as far as anyone knew, Sylvia’s father had been a barrister, making the Sheltons unremarkably middle class. It was a truth, just not the entire truth.

“Are you walking home?” asked Sylvia as they reached the corner of South Audley and Tilley Streets.

“Yes. It’s doing simply awful things to my shoes, and it’s so difficult to find a decent cobbler these days. Every time my maid thinks she’s discovered a new one, he’s called up to serve. It’s incredibly inconvenient,” said Claire.

“Then I’ll have to leave you here, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll see you in a fortnight, unless some thrilling invitation comes along sooner. Ta-ta, darling!” Claire trilled with a wave.

Sylvia returned the gesture and then doubled back on herself past Lady Nolan’s house and north on South Audley Street.

There had been a time when she would have balked at the idea of walking the nearly twenty-five minutes from Lady Nolan’s home to her flat in Marylebone. If she hadn’t been able to borrow Hugo’s driver, Phillip, for the day, she would have taken a cab. However, Phillip had been called up along with seemingly every cabdriver in London. Women were climbing behind the wheel now, but with the petrol ration firmly in place it hardly made sense to take the short, thoughtless jaunts she used to indulge in. After all, they were all meant to be doing their part for the war effort.

Her feet were beginning to ache when she finally turned onto Beaumont Street. The quiet grandeur of Nottingham Court rose above her, and if it hadn’t been for the silent silhouette of a barrage balloon floating in the distance she might have been able to forget about the war for a moment.

Ever since she first walked inside on her wedding night, she’d loved the comfort of returning to the block of mansion flats where she and Hugo lived. She knew exactly how heavy the entryway door was and how the lift gave a little shudder when it reached the third floor, where she would alight and take the short walk down the corridor to her front door.

However, as she performed the familiar ritual that day, she couldn’t fight the wave of exhaustion that overwhelmed her. She let herself in, the warm scent of beeswax and lemon furniture polish wrapping around her. The soft step of Mrs. Atkinson announced the cook-general’s arrival before Sylvia spotted the hem of the woman’s black dress.

“Mrs. Atkinson, hello.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pearsall. May I take your coat?” asked Mrs. Atkinson.

“Thank you.”