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Sylvia could feel appreciation bloom in her chest as she took a step closer to finger the fine wool. She lifted the hem of the dress to examine the nearly invisible stitches.

“You didn’t tell me you were making this up,” she said.

“I wanted to see how it turned out before I told you. I…” Miss Reid cleared her throat. “I didn’t want to disappoint you if it didn’t work.”

Wasn’t that the same excuse she’d given Izzie?

“Where did you find the fabric?” she asked.

“The inventory room. It’s too good not to use. And technically, you own it, so it’s off coupon,” said Miss Reid.

“I suspect that the Board of Trade would find that a rather creative bending of the rules, so perhaps we won’t tell them. Just this once.” Sylvia smiled at the older woman. “Do you think it will fit me?”

The seamstress’s cheeks flushed. “Well, I didn’t make it for you, but yes. I should think so.”

She thought about thanking Miss Reid, but she suspected it would only cause more embarrassment for them both so instead, she asked, “Well, why don’t I go try it on and see?”

She picked up the dress to carry it to the fitting room, but she didn’t miss the look of pride on Miss Reid’s face as she went.

Chapter Twenty-Five

A few hours later, Sylvia held her breath as Lady Nolan’s housekeeper opened the drawing room door for her a full twenty minutes after that day’s meeting of the War Widows’ Fund committee meeting had started. Once again, every lady in attendance swiveled to look as she strode in, and once again she lifted her chin to brazen her way through their stares.

She knew that she should have left the shop earlier, but she’d lost time trying on the black dress Miss Reid had magicked out of nowhere. When the seamstress had insisted on taking the hem down slightly to account for Sylvia’s height, she could hardly have said no. Sylvia knew an olive branch when she saw one.

She’d gone through the week’s invoices while waiting for Miss Reid to finish the alterations, and then a new customer had walked in with no appointment but with two daughters, fifteen and seventeen, in tow, sending Miss Reid and her scrambling to serve all three women in what would prove to be the shop’s biggest order in a fortnight.

After the customers left, Sylvia had grabbed her handbag and only just made her bus, congratulating herself on managing to do it all. However, the bus had to be rerouted because a work crew had hit a water main while repairing bomb damage, forcing a main road to close and snarling traffic.

And so, yet again, she was late.

“Mrs. Pearsall, I see you have decided to join us after all,” said Lady Nolan as Sylvia rounded the back of the circle of chairs and settled into a seat next to the newest member of the committee, Lady Winman.

“My apologies,” she said, settling her handbag next to her chair.

“Mrs. Pearsall, I should hate to have to remind you that our work is important and deserves our full attention. Can we be reassured that you intend to be prompt in your attendance to these meetings from now on?” asked Lady Nolan.

The barb was finely honed, and once it might have hit her right in the softest part of her insecurity that any misstep might see the door to this world close in her face. However, now she found herself balking at her hostess’s words. The War Widows’ Fund committee work was important, but there were a dozen ladies on the committee. Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions only had Miss Reid and her. The shop had bills that had to be paid, and customers had to be served. If she didn’t do those things, no one else would.

“I apologize for my tardiness,” she said, fighting to keep her voice level.

“I should hate to think that you are making lateness your new hobby, Mrs. Pearsall,” Lady Nolan continued to needle.

“Perhaps I should, as time seems to be the only thing not rationed at the moment,” Sylvia snapped.

Soft scoffs of disbelief peppered the room along with one stifled giggle next to her. Sylvia slid her gaze over to Lady Winman, who had raised an index finger to her lips, clearly trying to keep her laughter in.

“Well,” said Lady Nolan, shifting in her seat and looking down at her notes, “since you are here, perhaps you would like to start our discussion of ideas for our next fundraising event, Mrs. Pearsall.”

Damn. With Hugo’s return and the argument with Izzie, Sylvia had hardly given the fundraising event a single thought even though Lady Nolan had prompted all of them to bring ideas at the end of their last meeting.

“Well, I should hate to preempt anyone who wishes to go first,” she hedged, glancing around the room at a dozen expectant, judgmental faces. She caught Claire’s gaze, and her friend shook her head slightly.

“Please, do go on, Mrs. Pearsall,” said Lady Nolan. “We have discussed at great length the fact that we have exhausted the reasonable bounds of our usual efforts. We are in need of new ideas, which I’m certain you have in abundance.”

Sylvia smoothed a hand over the skirt of her dress, and suddenly she had it.

“A fashion show.”