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Izzie couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She was standing in the middle of the workroom, Alexandra at her side, staring at a spread of her own sketches covering half the table. It looked as though they had been cut out of one of her sketchbooks with a penknife, which would explain why the clothbound cover sitting on the edge of the table was starting to collapse in on itself a bit. And if that wasn’t enough, the other half of the table was taken up by pattern pieces cut from draft paper and what looked like part of a muslin toile.

Miss Reid, who had clapped her hand over her mouth at the sight of her the moment she’d walked through the shop’s front room, now stood with her back plastered against the wall next to Mum’s office while Sylvia looked stunned in the doorway.

“What is this?” Izzie asked, snatching up a sketch of two women wearing skirts that hit just below the knee topped by short jackets, each with a narrow lapel.

“Izzie, I was going to write to you—”

“What is this?” she demanded, shaking the paper at Sylvia.

It only made her angrier when Sylvia lifted her chin as though she were preparing herself to speak to one of those bloody women’s committees she served on.

“I found them on the bookshelf in the office,” said Sylvia. “Miss Reid tells me they’re yours.”

Izzie rounded on Miss Reid.

“They’re very good, Miss Shelton,” Miss Reid started, her eyes downcast.

“When I realized that many of them suit the new Board of Trade utility scheme, I asked Miss Reid to do what she could to try to translate them to patterns,” Sylvia continued.

“You’re making them?” Izzie hissed.

“I don’t understand, I thought you would be pleased to see your sketches become real clothing we sell,” said Sylvia.

It was what she had wanted for so long, but not like this. Not with her sister digging up sketches that Mum had already rejected. She was not going to put work that would make her mother ashamed out into the world. She wouldn’t do it.

“Izzie, what’s the matter?” asked Alexandra in a low voice.

Her friend’s question barely registered. “You have no right, Sylvia. No right!”

“I was only trying to help,” said Sylvia.

“You were supposed to mind the shop. Perhaps take an order or two. That is all,” said Izzie fiercely. She knew she was being unreasonable. From her letters, it sounded as though Sylvia had done a great deal to sort out the shop’s books and draw in new business, but using her sketches without Izzie’s permission was beyond the pale.

“Miss Shelton,” Miss Reid cut in, “your sister has worked hard these last months. She is here every day to open up the shop, and I know that she stays on well beyond when I leave for the evening. She’s delivered parcels and sorted out lost orders. She takes consultations, and she even had a new telephone installed.”

“You would defend her after everything you know she did?” asked Izzie.

Miss Reid drew herself up to her full height. “Your sister is no longer an eighteen-year-old girl. She grew up.”

“Miss Reid,” Sylvia whispered.

“I cannot believe you are taking her side,” Izzie said in disgust. “You were here for all of it. You saw how fast she was out that door as soon as that husband of hers came along. She couldn’t wait to turn her back on Mum because she never had one bit of respect for Mum or this shop.” Izzie’s gaze cut over to Sylvia, who was standing pale and pinch-lipped. “Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? You hated Mum. You hated this shop. You hated all of us.”

The truth hung heavy as fog in the middle of the room, and for a moment no one dared to breathe.

“There are no sides here,” Miss Reid finally said. “All that matters is that your mother’s shop stays open.”

“It is supposed to be my shop now.” Tears began to prick behind Izzie’s eyes, but she wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t let her anger and her frustration win. “I am supposed to know everything that happens here. That was the agreement, Sylvia.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t write to you first,” said her sister. “Miss Reid and I didn’t want to get your hopes up before—”

“My hopes up? These are private,” she said, her voice cracking. “I never meant for anyone to see them.”

It was a lie but she couldn’t stop herself. Seeing her sketches spread out in front of her and patterns made from them didn’t give her the joy she’d once dreamed of. Instead, she felt violated. Exposed.

“Izzie, the sketches really are perfect,” Sylvia tried to reason.

“They are, Miss Shelton,” said Miss Reid with a weak smile.