Page 7

“Supper will be ready in an hour. Would you care for a cocktail before?” asked Mrs. Atkinson.

“A gimlet, please.”

In the sitting room, she set the books down on the walnut coffee table and picked up the stack of post that Mrs. Atkinson had gathered on the ridiculous silver tray Hugo insisted they use. There were several invitations to tea—two personal and one to raise funds for evacuated orphans—as well as a letter from her friend Helen, who had decamped to America with her Bostonian husband when the war started. She immediately recognized a thick buff-colored envelope addressed to her as being from Hugo’s mother, no doubt wondering if Sylvia had any news of her son.

When she saw the last envelope at the bottom of the pile, her hand froze. It had been years since she’d seen it, but she would know Izzie’s handwriting anywhere.

Keeping her eyes fixed on the address, she set down the rest of the post on the sofa next to her and then reached for her gold letter opener. Her heart pounded as she slid the sharp point underneath the envelope’s flap and, in one precise move, slit open the top.

18 November 1941

Dear Sylvia,

Mum died suddenly early this morning. Dr. Morton says that it was likely a heart condition, and there was nothing that could have been done.

She will be buried on Friday, 21 November.

Sincerely,

Isabelle Shelton

“Oh, poor Izzie,” Sylvia murmured. “Poor, poor Izzie.”

She rose and went to the cream-and-gold telephone sitting on top of a small round table in the corner of the drawing room. She lifted the receiver and gave the operator the exchange for the shop.

She could practically feel the obligation oozing off of the page of Izzie’s note, almost as though her sister hadn’t wanted to tell her but some wisp of familial feeling had forced her to sit down and write. It was the same instinct that sent Sylvia’s heart skipping with hope and dread in equal measure as the telephone rang.

Finally, the line connected and she heard her sister say, “Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions. This is Miss Shelton speaking.”

Izzie sounded wrung out.

“Izzie, it’s Sylvia.”

“Sylvia.” Izzie’s voice was flat.

“What happened?”

“It’s all there.”

“Were you… were you the one to find her?” she asked.

There was a sharp breath on the other end. “Yes.”

“Oh, Izzie. I’m so sorry.”

“She had been rising later and later. I thought it was just because she was exhausted—she was always staying up late to finish orders because it was only Miss Reid and myself helping her and, well, you know how particular she could be about finishing. When she didn’t come down yesterday morning, I went to wake her, and”—Izzie’s voice cracked—“she was gone.”

“Izzie, I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“She had been so pale recently, but we all are with the weather being what it is. But then she was out of breath sometimes too. I just—”

“Didn’t Dr. Morton say that nothing could have been done?” she asked.

“But I lived with her. I worked with her. We were around each other practically every second of the day. I knew something wasn’t right. I wanted her to see the doctor, but she wouldn’t hear of it,” Izzie said, her voice rising.

“Our mother could have a stubborn streak,” she said gently.

“I should have insisted,” Izzie continued, as though she hadn’t heard Sylvia. “If I had, maybe she would still be alive.”