Emmy bent to kiss her forehead. Julia was already on the edge of sleep.

  “Mum will be home in no time.”

  “Okay,” Julia whispered.

  “Don’t open the door to anyone unless you hear Thea come home, okay? Stay right here on the sofa.”

  “Mmm.”

  Emmy stood and her sister did not move. “I love you, Jewels.”

  But Julia was asleep.

  Now that Emmy could concentrate solely on herself, she realized how disheveled she probably looked. She went into Mum’s room to borrow a dress that she hoped her mother wouldn’t miss. She found one near the back, a red jersey knit patterned in tiny geometric designs and three-quarter sleeves. Mum had not worn it in a long while. As Emmy slipped out of her wrinkled dress to put on the fresh one, she figured out why. It was a bit snug, even on her. But it was ten times better than what she had been wearing, and definitely a woman’s dress. She smoothed her hair in her mother’s mirror, using one of Mum’s hair combs to tame her curls. Then she took her wrinkled dress, folded it, and went into Julia’s and her room and laid it on her bed. Back in the front room, Emmy gave her sleeping sister one last peck on her forehead. Then she retrieved her satchel from where she had stowed it by the front door and left the flat, putting the key back under the mat where she had found it.

  Knightsbridge was two miles away: a walkable distance if Emmy had not already covered five miles that day and had more time.

  She made for the Tube station, drawing no more stares from passersby. Having Julia in tow had made them noticeable. Now that she was traveling alone, she knew she didn’t look like a child. And she didn’t feel like a child. She wasn’t about a child’s business.

  Twenty minutes later Emmy was at Knightsbridge station, with plenty of time to find Cadogen Square. She consulted the wall map posted underground and saw that the street she was looking for was only a half mile away. Emmy emerged from the station on Brompton Road and walked to Pavilion, passing walls of sandbags and signs for shelters. Above her the barrage balloons, hovering soundless, threw weird shadows onto the sidewalk.

  Knightsbridge was a well-to-do area very much like Mayfair, where Mum went to work every day. Emmy didn’t know how well-off Mrs. Crofton was: She had never mentioned to Emmy where she lived, but Mrs. Crofton’s cousin apparently had money—or had married into wealth. As Emmy approached Cadogen, the residences became more and more elegant and stately. She found Mr. Dabney’s home, a Georgian town house flanked on either side by half a dozen matching, three-story, wedding white homes. Each was flawlessly kept with window boxes of flowers and ferns, and ocean blue front doors that glistened in the late-afternoon sun.

  She had five minutes to spare, but she didn’t have the patience to stand outside and wait. Surely the Dabneys and Mrs. Crofton would find her punctuality an asset. Emmy could not stop her hand from shaking as she pressed the bell.

  The door was opened by a uniformed maid not much older than Emmy.

  “I’ve an appointment with Mr. Dabney. My name’s Emmeline Downtree.” Emmy’s voice squeaked as she spoke her name.

  The maid swung the door wide. “Please. Won’t you come in?”

  Emmy followed her into a tiled entry. A golden chandelier hung from a tall ceiling. Potted ferns flanked a tall wardrobe, one of only two pieces of furniture in the foyer. A round, marble-topped table in the center of the room was the other. A vase of silver-pink roses adorned it.

  “May I take your . . . jacket?” The maid cocked her head and held out her hand. It was a nice day outside. No one was wearing or carrying a jacket.

  Emmy handed it to her as her cheeks warmed.

  “And your bag?”

  Emmy’s hand instinctively felt for the padded corners of the brides box inside her satchel. “I’ll keep this with me, thank you.”

  She nodded. “Right this way, miss.”

  Emmy was shown to a sitting room that wasn’t a great deal bigger than Mum’s, but the furnishings could not have been more different. Chintz-covered sofas were arranged in the center of the room on top of a thick rug in shades of mauve and russet. A marble fireplace graced one wall, a tea cart another, and an escritoire the last. Paintings of parks, woods, and rose gardens decorated the walls. French fashion magazines from before Paris fell were fanned out on the coffee table. Emmy had never been in such a pretty room before, except on school field trips to royal residences and museums.

  “If you’d like to have a seat?” The maid motioned to the tableau of sofas and Emmy sat down, grateful to be off her trembling legs.

  The maid left the room and Emmy took several long breaths to quiet her nerves, reminding herself that she had been asked to come to this elegant room. She was invited here.

  Emmy reached into her satchel to remove the brides box from the shawl she had wrapped it in so that she would be ready to show Mr. Dabney the sketches. She pulled the bundle onto her lap and unfolded the layers of cloth.

  The careful work she had done to calm her anxious heart disintegrated in a blinding instant.

  Inside the shawl was Julia’s book of fairy tales.

  Seventeen

  FOR several seconds Emmy could do nothing but stare at the book. Then she closed her eyes, willing the brides box to be on her lap when she opened them, because surely, surely, what was inside the shawl was not Julia’s book.

  It couldn’t be.

  Couldn’t be!

  Emmy opened her eyes slowly and the book’s honey-gold cover met her gaze.

  Julia.

  Julia!

  How could she have done such a thing? She knew there hadn’t been room for her book in the satchel. She knew how important this day was to Emmy. She knew Emmy was meeting with someone who wanted to see the brides box. She knew—

  And then clarity slammed into Emmy. Of course Julia knew. That was why her behavior was so odd while she ate her lunch. She knew Emmy wouldn’t be showing anyone her brides today. Emmy had said the day before that she had only this one chance with the brides. Julia had deduced that if this chance was eliminated, she would never have to worry about the brides box parting them. Ever. She knew Emmy would arrive at this meeting, thinking she had her brides, and would discover that she didn’t. Emmy would have to leave the meeting. No brides, no meeting.

  No meeting, no parting.

  Emmy would have to come back to the flat. To her. Yes, Emmy would be livid, but she would have to come back to her. Julia knew where the brides box was, and Emmy didn’t.

  Julia hadn’t been thirsty the night before at Thistle House when she sent Emmy downstairs for a drink of water. She had needed a few minutes to remove the brides box, wrap her fairy tale book in the shawl, and stuff it into the satchel. The brides box had no doubt been shoved under her bed as Emmy climbed the stairs with her cup.

  It all made perfect sense. Julia never wanted to leave Thistle House, and she hadn’t wanted Emmy to, either. Emmy would now have to take her back to Charlotte’s if she wanted her brides returned to her. Upon their return, Charlotte would surely be vigilant so as not to let the girls out of her sight again.

  Emmy wouldn’t be allowed any more solo trips to town. She wouldn’t be allowed solo trips anywhere.

  Julia had concocted a brilliant plan. Emmy wondered if she even knew how brilliant it was.

  She heard voices from outside the room; one was Mrs. Crofton’s. Emmy had no sketches to show Mr. Dabney, and no way of getting them back without returning to Thistle House. The room suddenly felt very warm. A ribbon of sweat dampened her forehead as Emmy hammered her brain to think of an excuse for coming to the meeting without the designs.

  Emmy could think of nothing. The sketches were the reason she was there. It would be ridiculous to say she had forgotten them and unthinkable to say she had purposely left them behind.

  The door opened and Emmy rose to her feet.

  Mrs. Crofton came into the room, followed by a man and woman who looked to be in their late fifties. The man had a groomed goatee and wire-rim spectacles, and he wore a gray-striped suit. The woman wore a pale yellow chiffon dress with a dropped waist and lace sleeves. Her hair was as black as night; his, pearl gray and brown.

  “Emmeline, how good to see you again.” Mrs. Crofton crossed the room and clasped Emmy’s hands with hers. “I am so glad you could come. May I introduce my cousin and his wife, Graham and Madeleine Dabney.”

  The couple came forward to shake Emmy’s hand. Mr. Dabney’s grip was firm and warm; Mrs. Dabney’s soft and cool. Both smiled politely and said how pleased they were to meet her.

  “I’m so very happy to meet you both as well.” Emmy’s voice sounded strange in her ears.

  “Please, have a seat.” Mr. Dabney motioned to the sofa as he and his wife sat down opposite her. Mrs. Crofton sat on a third sofa, the smallest of the three.

  The young woman who had answered the bell came into the room with a tea tray as they took their seats. She set it down on the table in the middle and poured tea into four bone china cups.

  “So, Miss Downtree,” Mr. Dabney began, stirring sugar into his teacup, “I hear you hope to have your own line of wedding dresses someday. Perhaps one day your own boutique.”

  “Oh. Yes, sir. Yes, I do.” Emmy’s cup trembled on its saucer. She took a sip to stop it even though the liquid burned her mouth.

  “Tell me how you came to have such a vision for your future.”

  Emmy set the cup back on its saucer and placed it on the table to free herself of having to hold it steady. “I have always been drawn to women’s fashions. Dresses, especially. The more elegant the dress the better. I don’t know of a more beautiful and elegant concept of a gown than a wedding dress. They are so . . . flawless.”

  “I quite agree with you there, Emmeline,” Mrs. Crofton said as she looked at her wristwatch. “So do you know how much longer it will be before your mother arrives?”

  The pleasantries regarding why Emmy loved drawing wedding gowns had been to fill the time while they waited for Mum to join them. Emmy swallowed back a bolt of panic. “Um. Well, she is working today, actually. But I, uh, thought I’d see what kind of situation you are proposing and then I can present it to her, uh, when she gets off work.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Crofton looked to her cousin.

  Mr. Dabney’s mouth became a thin line. “I had rather we took care of this in one meeting, Miss Downtree,” he said politely but with authority. “We are leaving London on Tuesday. What my wife and I are proposing will require your mother’s approval.”

  “Well, my mother, um, looks upon me as an adult, you see. So I am able to make my own decisions regarding my future as a . . . as a designer.”

  Mr. Dabney smiled. It was a grin that made Emmy uneasy. He had found what she had just said amusing, not enlightening. “To be sure, but still. You are just fifteen, Miss Downtree?”

  Emmy nodded.

  “Then you can see that Mrs. Dabney and I must have your mother’s permission to take you under our wing, so to speak. Did my cousin tell you what I am proposing?”

  “I only hinted at it, Graham,” Mrs. Crofton interjected. “I wrote the letter in a hurry and told her we’d explain it all when she got here.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Dabney leaned forward and sandwiched his hands together, the pose of a man about to broker a deal. “Eloise sent me your two sketches and she told me that you’ve had no formal training either in designing or sewing. That is what most interested me. The sketches I saw were surprisingly good, considering. That you created them with no training is most remarkable. I am eager to see the rest of your designs. If I’m not mistaken, it would appear that you have an innate gift, Miss Downtree.”

  Emmy’s heart took a stutter step and she forced herself to say calmly, “Thank you, Mr. Dabney.”

  “Now, it’s been my practice to employ an apprentice or two in my studio throughout the year. I design costumes for theatrical productions here on the West End and elsewhere in Britain and North America. I like to do my part in encouraging the up-and-coming young designers, and I teach them while they help me construct my costumes. I believe Eloise has told you this?”

  “Yes.”

  “When my cousin saw your sketches, she, too, was impressed with your untrained eye for design, which is why she sent me those two sketches. She thought I might wish to consider offering you an apprenticeship.”

  “Yes, I told her that,” Mrs. Crofton said, offering Emmy a reassuring smile that wordlessly said all was going well and that Emmy didn’t need to be so nervous.

  “Now, Mrs. Dabney and I wish to do our part in the war effort, you see. Eloise tells me you have been evacuated to Gloucestershire and have spent the last few months there?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.” Emmy could scarcely breathe. What was she going to tell him about not having the sketches?

  Graham Dabney nodded to his wife, who smiled at him. “Mrs. Dabney and I have discussed taking in a London evacuee. It occurred to me that, depending on the strength of the rest of your designs, we might offer to take you with us on Tuesday to my wife’s estate outside Edinburgh. That way I could teach you about dress construction, pattern making, all that. And while you learn, you can assist me in the creation of a series of costumes for a production of La Bohème in Boston. I think you would find the work as entertaining as it would be educational. The gowns for La Bohème are quite impressive.”

  Emmy swallowed hard. “The strength of the rest of my designs?”

  Mr. Dabney sat back, distancing himself a little from her. “Yes, of course. It would be unkind of me to bring you on as an apprentice if you’ve not the natural talent that I am hoping you have. I already know you do not have the sewing experience. You would have to have one of the two.” He laughed lightly, expecting Emmy would also.

  Mrs. Crofton offered a half chuckle, surely meant to keep the conversation light. “I think you’ll be quite satisfied with the rest of her work, Graham. Perhaps now would be a good time to show us the rest of your sketches, Emmeline?”

  Emmy looked from Mrs. Crofton to Mr. Graham and to his lovely but obviously shy wife. Which of them could she appeal to?

  “Emmeline?” Mrs. Crofton said.

  Emmy closed her eyes as the truth, the only thing she could think to say, bubbled out of her. “I don’t have them with me today.”

  “Did you not tell her to bring them?” Emmy could hear the disapproval in Graham Dabney’s voice as he addressed his cousin.

  “Of course I did,” was Mrs. Crofton’s quick reply. “Emmeline?”

  Emmy opened her eyes to look at her.

  “Why didn’t you bring them?”

  Please God, let the truth be enough, she prayed to the Almighty.

  “I had them in this satchel, inside the box I carry them in. My sister—she’s only seven—was worried that she might not see me again if I went to this meeting, and then became your apprentice. She substituted her fairy tale book for the box.” She lifted the book out of the bag and placed it on her lap. “I just now discovered this, as I heard your voices outside the door. I am so very sorry. She—she’s only a child. I promise I can get the sketches back. If you would allow me a couple days to retrieve them.”

  “A couple days?” Mrs. Crofton echoed. The other two adults stared at Emmy, apparently still trying to absorb what she had said.

  “My sister made the switch when we were still in Gloucestershire. I need to travel back to the house where we’ve been living and get them.”

  Mr. Dabney still seemed to be processing Emmy’s excuse. “But we are closing up this house and leaving on Tuesday.”

  “Please,” Emmy pleaded. “Just give me tomorrow to return to Gloucestershire and get them. I can be here on Monday to show them to you.”

  “With your mother?” Mr. Dabney replied. “There is no point in returning on Monday without your mother. I do not wish to be arrested for kidnapping.”

  “Graham, dear.” Mrs. Dabney touched her husband’s arm, but her eyes were on Emmy. The woman could obviously see the turmoil that was raging inside her.

  “Madeleine, we cannot take a fifteen-year-old girl to Scotland without her mother’s permission.”

  “Of course we can’t.” Mrs. Dabney offered Emmy as compassionate a look as someone could. “Do go retrieve your sketches, Miss Downtree. And come back Monday at this same hour with your mum.” She turned to her husband. “That will work, won’t it, Graham?”

  “We’ve a lot of arrangements to make, but I suppose it can, yes. But you must remember, Miss Downtree, I cannot take you with us unless I see the rest of your sketches. The work will be too daunting for you if you’ve no natural flair for it. I must be convinced you have it. It would not be good for either one of us if you don’t.”

  “Yes. Yes, thank you,” Emmy said, not much louder than a whisper. She felt on the edge of bursting into tears and she did not want even one tiny drop to find its way out of either eye. Emmy stood so that she could take her leave. She had an enormous task ahead of her.

  The others stood, too. Emmy shoved the fairy tale book inside the satchel. “I’m so sorry to have wasted your time today, Mr. Dabney.”

  Mrs. Crofton reached out a hand to touch Emmy’s arm. “It’s not entirely your fault, Emmeline. You didn’t know your sister switched out the box with her book at the last minute.”

  Emmy was certain Mrs. Crofton said this for her cousin’s sake. It was becoming clear to Emmy that Graham Dabney was not one to overlook shortcomings. He demanded excellence, which was exactly what Emmy needed and wanted in a mentor. She could not risk disappointing him again.

  “I wouldn’t say it was a complete waste of time, Miss Downtree, but we leave on Tuesday. It’s already been arranged.”

  “I will be here, with my mother, on Monday at four o’clock. I promise.”

  Emmy had not wanted to involve Mum at all but now everything had changed. She desperately needed her.

 

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