CHAPTER 3

LONDON

FEBRUARY 1939

Ethel Maltby dropped a teaspoon of Bovril into two cups just as the kettle began to whistle. Balancing both cups, she practiced walking gracefully without spilling, putting one foot directly in front of the other, moving in time with the rhythmic precision of the BBC news announcer on the wireless. She paid little attention to what the man was saying, listening instead to the way he enunciated his words.

Perfecting her accent was the reason why she and her fellow model and roommate, Precious Dubose, had splurged on the matinee they’d seen the Sunday before, The Lady Vanishes. Margaret Lockwood’s intonation was exactly what Ethel had been aspiring to and practicing since she’d first realized at age twelve that her own Yorkshire accent would always put her back into her mother’s world of doing someone else’s laundry and mending.

Ethel carefully brought both cups over to the small table by the stove, which was used for eating, stockpiling mail, and applying makeup. Precious sneezed loudly, and Ethel gave her friend a worried look. “That’s it. I’m putting you to bed with a hot flannel on your chest and making some chicken soup. But first, I’m going to run to the chemist for some Cephos powders. That will clear you up in a jiffy—that’s what the adverts say.”

Precious sniffled, staring into her Bovril. “If only this were sweet iced tea, I’d feel a whole lot better. But nobody in this entire country seems to know how to make it correctly. As soon as I’m better, I’m going to teach you so at least one person will know.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Ethel said. “For now please drink your Bovril, and you’ll be right as rain in no time.”

After retrieving the flannel and getting Precious settled in bed, Ethel pinned her hat to her hair. She was buttoning the large buttons on her serviceable wool coat when her gaze landed on a small box handbag hanging from the coatrack. Gold embroidered leaves sprouted against dark green velvet, a matching gold rope handle draped across the top and attached on each side. Her fingers itched to touch it, and she found herself picking it up and stroking the soft fabric. She felt beautiful fabrics all the time at House of Lushtak, where she and Precious had just started modeling, but she’d never seen a purse made of velvet, or one in the shape of a box. And she’d certainly never seen anything this fine in their flat.

“Where did this come from?” Ethel asked, turning around and holding out the handbag, unable to keep the note of accusation from her voice or her fingers from stroking the soft velvet.

“Isn’t it just darling? Madame Lushtak copied an Elsa Schiaparelli bag design for last season’s show. I couldn’t resist. I paid five shillings for it, but if we both use it, it’s like getting it half price.” Precious looked hopefully at Ethel.

Five shillings! Ethel almost shouted out loud. She’d even opened her mouth, but her fingers couldn’t stop stroking the soft velvet or imagining how smart she’d look on the street, running to the chemist with the beautiful bag hanging from her arm.

“Well, I suppose if you look at it like that . . .” She smiled at Precious, propped up on pillows in bed, her tissue clutched in her hands. Even with a red nose and glazed eyes, she was beautiful. Her long gold hair—just a shade lighter than Ethel’s own—lay against her shoulders and reflected the light from the bedside lamp; her eyes, although moist and red rimmed, were an incredible pale blue that would have looked cherubic if they hadn’t been placed in the sharply drawn and chiseled face of Precious Dubose.

“I’ll be off, then.” Ethel ran down the three flights of stairs, smelling boiled cabbage and sausages mixed with an assortment of other cooking scents that lingered like a putrid fog in the hallways and stairwells of their block of flats. She had begun the habit of holding her breath as she ran toward the ground floor so that she wouldn’t absorb the smells of the working class. She understood that being a clothes peg—as Madame Lushtak referred to her models—was far from being respectable in most people’s estimations, but to her it was much more refined than washing someone else’s underpinnings. And if she continued to practice speaking and deportment, it could always lead to better things.

She hurried out the door and breathed deeply. Despite cooler than normal temperatures, the sun shone valiantly through indecisive gray clouds, a brisk breeze keeping the dirty fog at bay. Ethel walked four blocks, stopping to wait for a red bus and two black taxis to pass before crossing to the high street. She realized she was holding her arm at an angle, her elbow bent, so that the beautiful handbag could sway on her wrist as she walked, the gold embroidered leaves reflecting the meager sunlight. She wanted to believe that everyone must be looking, and kept her head held high and her shoulders straight, walking with determined poise, pretending that the rest of her outfit matched the extravagance of the purse. Even with her worn but polished shoes and unfashionable coat, she imagined she could be Bette Davis in Dangerous.

Ethel selected her items, then carefully placed the handbag on the counter and counted out the coins. As she took the proffered bag, the chemist, an older man with a bald head as round as his belly, said, “You’d better hurry, miss. It’s about to rain cats and dogs.”

Ethel sent a glance out the front shopwindow, surprised to see a dark rain cloud cocooning the sun. She’d forgotten to bring her brolly, and although her hat and coat could withstand a soaking, she was worried for the handbag.

“Thank you,” she said, grabbing her purchases before dashing out onto the sidewalk without looking, eager to beat the rain. With her head bent against the first sprinkles, she was only vaguely aware of another door being thrust open.

She collided with something solid and warm, something smelling of new wool and sandalwood. Two firm hands grasped her arms. “I beg your pardon, miss. Are you all right?”

The deep voice was decidedly masculine and the words definitely spoken with the accent of what Lucille, one of Lushtak’s workroom seamstresses from East London, would have called a toff. Ethel recalled overhearing a conversation between two of the other models about a person’s social station being evident in the first words spoken. It was already obvious that whoever this man was, his station was far above hers.

Ethel shook her head. “It’s my fault—I should have been looking where I was going, but I was afraid of getting my bag wet. . . .” Her voice trailed off as she looked up to see the man she’d run into. His intense green eyes were set in a deeply tanned face beneath straight sandy-colored brows. The smattering of freckles decorating the bridge of his nose and his high cheekbones was charming instead of boyish. His was the sort of face a girl would remember, the kind that made one believe in love at first sight.

Ethel looked at his eyes again, the light in them snapping as if with humor, giving her the distinct impression that he was amused by her. Was it her accent? Could he tell that she was still practicing the right pronunciation and had muddled a word? Humiliated, she tried to pull back but instead felt him tightening his hold on her arms and pulling them both into a building’s arched entranceway, out of the sudden deluge.

“Your bag?” he asked, his generous mouth lifting in a smile as he looked at her wrist. Only the handle of Precious’s new handbag dangled from her coat sleeve.

“Oh, no—I’ve lost it! I must have dropped it at the chemist.” She made to run out into the rain, but he pulled her back.

“Stay here,” he said. “I’ll go fetch it if it’s at the chemist and keep a look out if it’s on the pavement.”

Before she could protest, he’d slid his fedora lower on his head and dashed out into the deluge. Ethel pulled back, the splash of the rain on the pavement splattering her stockings and shoes. She imagined her hair curling tightly in the damp and almost dreaded the stranger’s return to see her.

Then he was back, his arms wrapped protectively around something white held against his chest. When he joined her under the arch, he held out the object, and she recognized the square shape of the box bag, draped now in a white linen handkerchief.

She sighed with relief. “Thank you, sir. May I offer . . . ?” She stopped, feeling foolish. She could see the quality tailoring of his coat, the expensive shoes. He didn’t need a shilling from her.

His lips twitched as if he wanted to smile. “I’m honored to have helped a beautiful lady in distress. But if you’d like to offer payment for my services, could I ask your help?”

Wary of what he might suggest, Ethel only nodded.

“I’m looking for St. Marylebone Parish Church—the old one, not the larger structure on Marylebone Road. I believe it was once used as the parish chapel after the new building was consecrated.”

“You’re a clergyman, then?” The words flew from her mouth before she could call them back, or at least check them for any signs of commonness. She pressed her fingers hard against her lips, as if to punish them. It was as if she’d never spent all of those hours watching movies and listening to the BBC.

The man’s eyes sparkled as he grinned, his teeth a brilliant white in his tanned face. “No, actually, I’m not, although I do not doubt that my mother would desire such a vocation for her son instead of the one I’ve chosen. Alas, I merely admire the architecture of old churches. While I happened to be in this corner of London, I thought I might go have a look.”

Her face reddened, and Ethel found she couldn’t look at him. Of course he wasn’t clergy. She’d known that merely from looking at his shoes. “It’s that way,” she said hurriedly, averting her eyes and pointing in the right direction. “You’ll see the back of the new church, and you’ll know you’re there.”

Tucking the handbag under her coat, she stepped out into the rain and began to run, impervious to the wet, wanting only to put the man and her humiliation behind her. To escape from the certainty that her mother had been right about the impossibility of her ever amounting to anything outside the life into which she’d been born.

“I don’t know your name to thank you properly,” he called out after her.

Ethel hesitated, then stopped. He wanted to know her name. She couldn’t tell him, of course. Not the name that belonged in a washerwoman’s cottage. She would never see him again, but she wanted to leave him with the memory of someone with a name that would be at home in the circles he undoubtedly moved in.

She turned. “It’s Eva.”

“Eva,” he said, the single word a thing of beauty on his lips. “Where can I find you again, Eva?” He took a step toward her.

She pretended she hadn’t heard and resumed running, not stopping until she was inside the flat, dripping water all over the parquet floor their landlady took so much pride in. She glanced in the corner to see Precious sleeping, turned on her side with her back to the door. It was only then that Ethel realized she had the man’s handkerchief still wrapped around the handbag. Peeling back the corner, she saw an embroidered GBS stitched in dark blue.

“Ethel? Is that you?” Precious mumbled without turning around.

“No.” She bit her lip, feeling foolish and excited all at once.

Precious turned slightly to get a better look at her and blinked, confused.

“It’s me—but I want to be called Eva now. It’s much more high-class sounding than Ethel, don’t you think?”

Sitting up, Precious smiled, her eyes brightening. “It is. I picture a whole different person when I hear ‘Eva.’ Like a Hollywood star. Eva can be your nickname—like Precious is for me. It can be something else we share. Except Eva is more special since you’re giving it to yourself.”

“You think so?”

Precious nodded enthusiastically. “Absolutely. You’re reinventing yourself, so you might as well have a new name.” She sniffled into her tissue, her eyes turning serious. “But won’t your parents mind? Ethel is the name they gave you.”

Ethel had told her friend very little about her background, only that she’d lived in northern England with her mother, who supported them both by taking in laundry from the big houses and working as a seamstress for the well-to-do. She’d confided in Precious that she sent her mother money from every paycheck, but she hadn’t admitted that she never included a letter, because her mother couldn’t read or write.

Nor had she mentioned her father or his meaty fists, or how he’d been sent to jail for beating a man almost to death in a bar brawl after the man had accused him of cheating at cards. She’d never told Precious about her mother’s smashed face and broken fingers, or how they had moved several times just in case her father ever got out of jail and took it upon himself to find them.

Ethel knew that Precious would understand, would probably hug her to show that she did. Ethel didn’t tell her friend because the shame she felt was a hot, living thing that smoldered in her core. In her new life as a model in London, she’d gotten in the habit of ignoring it, the equivalent of placing a small lid over a raging stove fire. It was still there, but as long as she didn’t look at it, she could live her life as if Ethel Maltby had never existed at all.

“No. I don’t think they’ll mind,” she said, unpinning her soaking hat. “I’ll go put the kettle on and then see about making you chicken soup.” She took off her coat, almost dropping the purse tucked inside. Ethel lifted the man’s handkerchief to her nose, the faint scent of sandalwood making her think of freckles and a deep chin cleft. Of eyes that laughed and were the color of the dales surrounding her home.

“I met a gentleman on the high street.” When her friend didn’t respond, Ethel turned toward the bed, not surprised to discover Precious had fallen asleep again, her face pressed into the pillow.

Ethel folded the handkerchief carefully and placed it inside her dresser, making sure it was tucked on top, where she’d see it each time she opened her drawer. It would be her talisman to remember the day Ethel Maltby had reinvented herself as an enigmatic woman named Eva. And the man who’d asked for her name and made her believe that her mother might have been wrong, that her world was full of possibilities that she hadn’t yet begun to imagine.