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“I will say, it’s poor form of him to go about it in public like that. It’s almost as though he wants to be caught. Of course, if Caroline has been having her own fun on the side, that is another matter. I shouldn’t be surprised if the daughter’s not Gerald’s at all, although we’ll likely never know. Caroline’s intelligent enough not to conduct her affairs in public.” He paused. “Are you all right, darling? You look pale. I haven’t shocked you, have I?”

He laughed again, which made her feel silly, so she shook her head.

“No, no. I was simply surprised to see them, that’s all,” she said.

Hugo’s eyes softened and he grabbed her hand. “These things happen, darling. As you see a little more of the world, you’ll become used to it soon enough.”

“But you wouldn’t, would you, darling? I don’t think I could bear it.”

He gathered her close to him. “Silly duck, of course I wouldn’t, because no one could be quite like you. You’re so refreshing. It’s good for me.”

Now, sitting at her husband’s desk reading the evidence of his infidelity, she felt like a fool for how smug his reassurances had made her. How blind.

She’d discovered the letters when she’d been trying to find, of all things, a stamp. She’d finished her weekly letter to Hugo and discovered that she’d run out of postage in her writing desk. Without thinking, she’d gone into his study, opened the desk drawer, and seen the letters sitting there plain as day. She’d peeked at one out of curiosity and realized immediately what they were. A compulsion had come over her, driving her to read more and more intimate details of her husband’s relationship with another woman. When she’d finished the final letter, she’d stared into space. She hadn’t cried. She hadn’t raged. She’d sat with a sickness in her stomach and wondered.

Now she was forcing herself to go back every day and read one letter at a time, hunting for answers.

Who was this other woman?

When had it started?

Was it still going on?

How had she lost him?

After fourteen years of marriage, that was the question that frightened her the most.

With a sniff, she carefully replaced the letter in its envelope and slid it into its place in the drawer. Then she stood, smoothed down her skirt, and let herself out of Hugo’s study.

By the time Mrs. Atkinson appeared with the tea tray, Sylvia had wiped any trace of distress from her perfectly powdered face.

Chapter Three

Tuesdays were always a nightmare, but this one really was the limit.

The telephone had rung at half past eight in the morning, and Izzie had only just managed to race down the stairs half-dressed in time to catch it. A chipper man on the other end had told her that not only would the cloth Mum had ordered the previous week be delayed that morning because of an issue with the lorry delivering it, it would be short ten yards of tweed and five of cotton lawn.

“I do have orders I’m meant to be fulfilling,” she’d snapped down the telephone in an uncharacteristic show of spirit.

“Don’t we all, miss?” asked the man with a laugh.

“Well, when can I expect the driver this morning?” she asked, fumbling with the buttons on her brown cardigan.

“He’ll show up when he shows up, won’t he?” the man replied.

The whole thing had thrown her morning off because instead of heading back upstairs to pull on her shoes and finish pinning up her hair, she’d gone straight to the appointment book and tried to figure out what fittings they might need to move around due to the missing materials.

Through all of it, she couldn’t help but feel the situation spiraling out of control. This was a far cry from what she wanted to be doing—sketching designs and making beautiful clothes for women who could appreciate a touch of modernity in their wardrobes—but, as Mum liked to remind her, it was a part of running a dress shop so Izzie bit her lip, put her head down, and carried on because to show reluctance or resentment might undo all of her good work to prove to Mum that she was capable of managing Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions.

When she’d finally wrestled her morning under control again, the fabric delivery showed up just before the ten o’clock opening—a blessing—but it was all wrong—a curse. There was no tweed at all, but boiled wool and all in the wrong colors. Instead of cotton lawn, there was yards of the kind of heavy canvas commonly used for kit bags. It had taken the driver half an hour and two calls to his depot on the shop’s telephone to work out that they’d assigned the wrong order to their address. When finally he realized that Mrs. Shelton’s order was mislabeled in the very back of the lorry, it was nearly eleven and Izzie was already exhausted.

She was just thinking how very much she would like to lie down and have a nap when a tap came on her shoulder. She turned to see Miss Reid, concern clear on her face.

“Have you seen your mother this morning?” Miss Reid asked.

Izzie looked around as though Mum would somehow materialize in front of them. “Not yet.” She paused. “That’s unlike her.”

“Why don’t you look in on her?” asked Miss Reid in an unusual display of consideration.