CHAPTER 10

LONDON

MAY 2019

The doorbell rang, and I looked up from my laptop, where I’d been jotting down descriptions and anecdotes to attach to the outfits Precious, Arabella, and I had so far decided upon for the exhibition. Dresses, skirts, jackets, and gowns lay scattered around me on the bed, and as I stood to answer the door, a peach satin gown slid off onto the floor.

As I bent to pick it up, I let my fingers stroke the fabric, still soft and supple eighty years since it had been last worn. I placed it next to a one-shouldered black tulle confection and was tempted to touch that, too. I’d learned a new appreciation for fashion just by talking with Precious and taking notes, which was surprising, considering my usual attire of jeans and button-downs. I’d even come up with a new title for the exhibition and the article that Arabella loved: War & Beauty: The World of Fashion in a World at War.

I loved everything about this assignment. I loved talking with Precious and learning about the fashion industry of the late nineteen thirties and nineteen forties, and I loved the beautiful clothes that surrounded me. I loved everything except the presence of Colin Eliot.

As Arabella had promised, he worked long hours. Though it had been only three nights so far, I’d figured out that if I ate early, I could be in my room before he came home. But even after the first night, I’d found myself waiting for the sound of his key in the door. I resented him for that, which, I could admit to myself, was ridiculous. It might even have been unfair.

The doorbell rang again, and I moved to answer it, a little skip to my walk. It was Saturday, and Colin had mentioned the night before that he usually went into the office for at least part of the day. I was expecting Arabella, who’d also had to go into the office but was planning to deliver the Sainsbury’s bags, which we’d forgotten in the boot of her car after visiting Penelope.

As I opened the door, I heard a familiar growling coming from the kitchen. I turned to see Oscar pulling on a red plaid leash and Laura on the other end of it. Arabella closed the door, then bent down to scratch him behind the ears, the little dog keeping a watchful eye on me.

“I am sorry,” Laura said, shortening the leash so she could walk around us. “He loves Colin and therefore loves Arabella—he must be able to smell that they’re related or something. Maybe he’s jealous of you and the attention Colin is redirecting.”

“Oh, no.” I shook my head fervently. “There’s no attention there, trust me. Oscar can clear his mind of that idea. Maybe he just needs time to adjust.”

Oscar was now sitting quietly at Arabella’s feet, looking up at me with a sweet expression. “Oh, so we’re going to be friends now?” I bent down to let him sniff my hand, and he growled in the back of his throat. I immediately jerked back.

“We’ll keep trying,” Laura said. “We’re off for walkies now. George is with Colin, and Miss Dubose has already had her breakfast and is resting. I’ll see you later.”

We said our good-byes; then Arabella turned to me with a grin. “At least George likes you. Of course, he likes everyone, but it’s a start, isn’t it?”

Before I could think of a response, a door at the rear of the flat opened, and George bounded down the long hallway and greeted me with paws on my shoulders and long tongue laps on my face. Colin approached from behind him, wearing what could be described only as a hostile expression, and pulled the dog gently back by his collar.

“That’s enough, George.” With a far less friendly tone, he said, “How was your visit to Surrey, ladies?” It was more of an accusation than a question.

Arabella brushed away a blond curl that had slipped in front of her eyes. “It was lovely. Thanks. Aunt Penelope was charming as always and made us a delicious quiche.” She handed him one of the Sainsbury’s bags and indicated the second, which she’d placed by the door. “Be a dear and bring these into the dining room. If you’ve got a few minutes, you can help us sort.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary, Arabella,” I said. “It’s what I’m here for, remember?”

For a moment it appeared as if Colin wanted to say something. Then he reached over and picked up the bags before following Arabella into the dining room. I hadn’t spent much time in this room yet. The highly polished mahogany table could easily have sat twelve people in comfort.

“Now, this is a table,” I said. “It would have been perfect for my five siblings and me—that’s for sure. Easier to clean up, anyway. All of the thrown food would have missed its target, except anything thrown by Joey—he’s a baseball player.”

Almost against its will, Colin’s mouth twitched. “Five siblings sounds like a lot of commotion.”

“Imagine sharing one bathroom with five people and fighting to ride in the front seat of the minivan. Made me wish I was an only child many times.”

“Your poor mother. She must be a saint.”

I felt Arabella’s eyes on me, but I didn’t look at her. The familiar bruise ached, unused to being touched. I was usually more prepared for unexpected blows. “Yes. She is indeed a saint.” I bent over one of the bags and pulled out what appeared to be a stationery box wrapped in a ribbon that might have once been bright red. Keeping my eyes down, I said, “She died when I was fourteen.”

The room was silent except for the soft padding of George’s paws as he walked into the room and lay down at my feet.

“I’m sorry,” Colin said. He didn’t say any more, as if he knew that no further words would excuse, explain, or diminish the loss of my mother. And I was left wondering what had happened in his own life to make him understand that.

“Thank you.” Eager to talk about anything else, I pulled out a stack of photographs from the bag and placed them on the table next to the stationery box.

Colin cleared his throat, then moved closer to get a better look. “I’m assuming Mother gave you all this?”

Arabella pulled at the faded ribbon encircling the stationery box, removing her hand as the knot disintegrated and the remains of the fabric scattered like dust. “Yes. It all belonged to your grandmother. Your mother suggested that since Sophia knew Precious during the war, she probably knew Eva as well. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to have a go at her letters and photos. Aunt Penelope mentioned on the phone that she’d already gone through everything after your grandmother died, and there’s nothing scandalous whatsoever, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Hardly. I’m just curious as to why I wasn’t invited.”

Arabella briefly met my gaze. “I had a small window of time away from the office and decided to use it wisely. No ulterior motive, I assure you.”

Colin looked at me as if expecting me to say something, but I was distracted by my phone vibrating. I didn’t bother looking at it. I knew who it was. The night before, I’d texted Knoxie and Aunt Cassie that I needed more time. But apparently unless my answer was yes, they’d keep on trying.

Colin reached inside the second bag and pulled out a small hatbox, the strap holding the lid frayed and broken. “Before we start digging, I’d like to suggest organizing everything by type. Once we’ve done that, we can sort through all of it and try to put everything in date order as best we can.” He reached for the pile of newspaper clippings I’d pulled from an ancient manila folder.

“That’s so very Colin of you,” Arabella said. “All that organizing and analyzing of numbers and such.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m an analyst, Arabella. It is what I do for a living.”

I suddenly remembered that about him, how careful and methodical he’d been about everything, from deciding what to order from a menu to planning a route home from the pub. He’d always been the driver, too. It made me wonder now if it had less to do with him being the only teetotaler in our group and more with him wanting to be in control.

“I didn’t forget, Colin,” Arabella said. “It’s how you can afford those fancy holidays with your mates.”

He shot her a frown before examining the small stack of yellowed clippings. I watched as he carefully arranged them on the table in straight rows, faceup.

“Now that we’ve got that settled, I may as well get started with this,” Arabella said, pulling out a chair and settling into it. She slid the stationery box toward herself and carefully lifted the lid.

“I guess that leaves this for me.” I picked up the hatbox. A small stack of envelopes rested inside, and I scooped them up with the full intention of sorting them as best I could.

Most were addressed to Miss Sophia St. John, and a few to Mrs. David Eliot. A good number had a bold, masculine scrawl on the front, with the name D. Eliot in the top left corner. With the assumption they were from her husband, I put those in their own pile.

Quite a few of the envelopes, in an expensive heavy linen stationery, were postmarked from Surrey. The penmanship reminded me of the old letters from my grandmother, saved in my grandfather’s desk, each character perfect in its even slant. It was the kind of handwriting that was part of an older generation, now relegated to museums and attics, replaced with deletable texts and e-mails. I’d been lucky to be born before the advent of smartphones, and I had my own stash of notes and letters written by my mother, a solid reminder that she’d once been a part of my life.

I wondered if these letters might have been written by Sophia’s mother, and I put them in their own pile, too. Finding an assortment from different sources, I placed them together in a single pile and flipped through them, noticing an envelope with odd handwriting. The characters were small and precise, as if the writer—most likely a woman, I guessed—had spent time crafting each character. It made me think of how a child learned cursive, but this was the handwriting of an adult. An adult being very careful to demonstrate that she had beautiful penmanship.

There was no return address, but the postmark was dated 12 March 1939. The dark red stamp in the top right corner showed the profile of the king—although I couldn’t remember who was king in 1939. I’d seen Wallis & Edward, so I knew it wasn’t Edward, but I couldn’t think of his brother’s name. My curiosity quickly overrode Colin’s directions and I slid the paper from the envelope, then hesitated at the sound of a throat being cleared.

I looked up to find Colin’s serious blue eyes trained on me. Before he could ask what I was doing, I said the first thing I could think of to distract him. “How is it that Sophia’s son, your father, inherited Hovenden Park? Was she an only child?”

“No. She had two older brothers.” He paused, considering his words. “Twins, actually. I never knew them. The elder—by just a few minutes, I believe—William, was killed during the war. Not sure what happened to the other brother. He wasn’t really mentioned. My parents probably know more. Neither one of the twins had children, so Sophia ended up inheriting everything.” He looked pointedly at the opened envelope. “How is the letter sorting going?”

I smiled innocently. “Can we read just one for now? I’m intrigued by the handwriting.”

His mouth started to form the word “no,” but Arabella interjected, “Absolutely! What’s it say?”

If Colin weren’t British, he would have rolled his eyes. “Go on. It’s not like I can stop you.”

I unfolded the letter and, after clearing my throat, read out loud.

Dear Miss St. John,

Thank you for the lovely dinner party last evening. It was a pleasure to properly meet you, and I also enjoyed meeting your fiancé, Mr. Eliot, and your friends. They were a delight, as were the delicious food and wine, and I appreciate your extending the invitation to join you.

There was such a flurry of good-byes when we left that I neglected to remember my purse. It’s a small green box-shaped bag with gold embroidered leaves on it. I’d placed it under my chair in the dining room, and with all the wonderful conversation, I completely forgot all about it.

I would like to call on Thursday around noon to collect it, if that is convenient. I don’t want to intrude, so if you’d like to tell your maid that I will come for it, I will stop by the back door.

Thank you again for your kind hospitality.

Most sincerely,

Miss Eva Harlow

I looked up and grinned in triumph. “We have a last name! I’m sure Precious would have come up with it eventually, but it’s good to have corroboration.”

“That’s amazing,” Arabella said, and clapped. “It’ll make finding her a lot easier—that’s for certain.”

Colin actually smiled. “Good job, Madison.”

“Did you just compliment me?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

I didn’t bother to hide my smile as I refolded the letter and put it back into the envelope. I was reaching for another letter when Arabella slapped the table with her palm. I looked up to find her holding a photograph in her other hand.

“Oh, golly!” She seemed at a loss for words. Finally, she said, “Colin, was your grandfather in the RAF?”

“No—army. Why?”

She flipped the photograph over to see the back, then shook her head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t give a name. But someone wrote, ‘Sweet dreams, darling’ on the back.”

I moved to stand behind her chair and looked at the head shot of a young man wearing an RAF uniform, a sense of déjà vu settling over me. The portrait wasn’t static like most military photographs of the era. Not with that crooked smile and those laughing eyes. The faint shadow of freckles across the bridge of his nose and high cheekbones. The tilt of the head that made it appear as if he were in conversation with the viewer.

“He’s . . .”

“Pretty hot,” Arabella said, turning to look at me. “Is that what you were about to say?”

“I was attempting to think of something more refined.” I smiled, thinking of what Sarah Frances had said about a boy she’d admired from afar in high school. “I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers, that’s for sure.”

Arabella gave a delicate snort. “Ah, yes. Much more refined.” She turned her attention back to the photograph. “He certainly is a stunner.” She leaned a little closer. “Except . . .”

Our eyes met in mutual realization. Before I could slap a hand over her mouth, she blurted, “He looks just like Colin! Or rather, Colin looks like him, as this gentleman obviously came first. But it’s uncanny, isn’t it? Even down to the freckles across the nose and the chin cleft.” She had a familiar gleam in her eyes, and I tried to telepathically warn her not to say what she was about to say next. It didn’t work. “Which means you think Colin’s quite hot!”

“I didn’t say that, Arabella,” I warned, looking everywhere except at her cousin. It wasn’t that I didn’t find Colin attractive. I would have had to be blind not to. I just preferred to remain in neutral territory, where I never burned hot or cold for anyone. I didn’t want to be tempted into a relationship, because the outcome would never change, no matter how much I’d wish it could.

“It could be my grandfather, David,” Colin said. “Sophia’s husband. Nana has always said I favor him. I never met him and only have pictures of him as an older man, so I have no idea.” He came to stand behind me, and I was suddenly very conscious of how tall he was, and how much heat seemed to radiate from his body. He reached for the photograph. “I’ll snap a photo and text it to my parents, although I’m not convinced there’s a resemblance.”

My gaze met Arabella’s, and I rolled my eyes.

Our phones buzzed at the same time. I ignored mine, but she looked at her screen. “It’s my assistant, Mia. A bit of an emergency, so I must dash.”

“No worries,” I said. “I’ll finish sorting through all of this and let you know if I find anything.”

“And don’t forget the editorial meeting at three o’clock. I’d like to go over some of the ideas you discussed with Adam, the museum director. He’s very excited about this collaboration, and I want to make sure we’re all on the same page.”

“I’ve got to run, too,” Colin said, pushing back from the table. “I’ll take George for a walk first and then be off.” The large dog lifted his head at the sound of his name and seemed to smile. I realized with a start that he did, actually, resemble his namesake, Prince George, what with the big eyes and expressive eyebrows.

“You should go with them, Maddie. Clear your head.” Arabella smiled innocently.

“I have so much work. . . .”

“You’re welcome to come with us, Madison. It’s a nice day. George and I can show you Regent’s Park.” I couldn’t tell if he was asking out of politeness or if he simply wanted to show Arabella that he could be cordial.

I should have said no. But it really was a beautiful day, and I’d been inside working all morning. I told myself that I would have gone by myself, anyway. Colin being with me didn’t mean anything.

We said our good-byes to Arabella, then left, George eagerly leading the way. My phone buzzed once as we went down the stairs, then again five minutes later as we entered the park.

“Aren’t you going to get that?”

I looked down at my phone, remembering telling Colin about my mother. How I’d known he somehow understood more than most. “It’s my aunt Cassie—my mother’s sister. She wants me to come home at Christmas for my sister’s wedding.”

“And you don’t want to go?”

I started to say no but stopped, my hesitation surprising me. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go. But there were some things in life too painful to contemplate and therefore easier to avoid.

Instead I said, “I don’t like the winter. It might snow.”

“It snows a lot in Georgia in the winter?” An almost-smile appeared on Colin’s lips as he glanced at me. George spotted a squirrel and barked, pulling Colin forward in an attempt to reach it.

I shook my head. “No. Not really.” I watched the squirrel scamper toward a playground. A lone child sat on a swing, spinning it, twisting the chains tightly before lifting his feet so that it spun wildly as he threw his head back in joy. I remembered that feeling from my own childhood, the time before I’d had to grow up. Maybe that was why I opened my mouth and said, “Mama loved the snow but had never seen more than a few snowflakes. She died the night of one of the rare big snowstorms in Georgia. It was like she waited to check that off her bucket list so she could die.”

I wasn’t sure why I’d told Colin that. I never shared details about my mother. But there’d been something freeing about it, the way telling someone about a nightmare made it suddenly less scary. And because he’d said he was sorry when I’d told him she’d died when I was fourteen. Because he hadn’t tried to make it better. Because he’d known; he’d understood that nothing could ever do that.

“You should go,” he said.

I looked at him in surprise. “Why do you say that?”

He kept his eyes on the path ahead when he spoke. “Because life is short.”

For the second time that day, I felt the old bruise throb, pressing on my heart, stealing my breath. “Yes,” I said. “It is.” Surprised to find my palms damp, I rubbed them against my thighs. “I miss my family. But there are other things waiting at home that are hard to face.”

“You should go,” he said again.

“You don’t understand. . . .” My words drifted away. I didn’t know how to complete the sentence. Or maybe I wanted Colin to finish it for me.

“Did you have the chance to say good-bye to your mother?”

I swallowed, remembering. “Yes. I would never want anyone I love to go through that. It’s too hard.”

He looked at me sharply. “Are you dying?”

I shook my head. “No.” Not yet. I glanced away toward a grassy area, not seeing anything except flashes of life. Just like we’d been led to believe our last moments on earth would be. Without looking at him, I said, “We’re all dying, aren’t we?”

He was silent for a moment. “Yes, presumably. But today you’re living, and you have a family who loves you, inexplicably perhaps. Nevertheless they wish you to spend Christmas and attend a wedding with them. It’s a week or so out of your life, and then you can return to your work or what have you and resume living each day as if you were dying if that’s what makes you happy.”

“I didn’t say it makes me happy.”

“Then why do you do it?” His voice was quiet, his question not meant to be antagonistic or even answered. Yet it made me angry.

“You know nothing about me.”

“Correct. You make a point of not sharing very much about yourself.”

I shook with anger at his audacity and presumption: that he could calmly interpret what would make me happy. I turned on him, my hands clenched into fists, the need to lash out too strong to hold back. “My grandmother and my mother died of breast cancer. They passed on the gene to me, which pretty much guarantees I’ll get it, too, eventually. When I’m home, all I see is the pity in the eyes of my sisters, who were lucky enough to bypass that genetic lottery. And I remember what my mother’s death did to all of us. I don’t want to witness them going through it again.”

He silently regarded me for a moment, his blue eyes showing no shock or pity. Only understanding. I wondered again about his own past, how he knew the way to react in the face of grief. “I think it’s rather simple, really. Your family loves you, Madison. And you love them. As an ignorant outsider, I can say that it seems you should go home.”

The word conjured up the smells of frying bacon and Aunt Lucinda’s biscuits baking in the oven, loud voices talking over one another interlaced with shouts and laughter. My anger dissipated, leaving behind a glowing river of memories and faces. Of running barefoot through warm summer grass. Of the buoyant feeling of being loved.

My phone buzzed again, and I stared down at the screen. “You make it seem so easy.”

“Perhaps because it is.”

My phone stopped buzzing for a brief period before it started again. Perhaps because it is. Before I could change my mind, I texted my answer and hit “send.” “I’ll call her later, so you don’t have to hear the whole conversation.”

“Are you afraid she’s going to start talking about menstrual cycles again?”

The unexpectedness of his words made me bark with laughter, and I turned to him, surprised. “I don’t remember you ever having a sense of humor.”

Colin gave me a lopsided grin before returning his focus to the path ahead. “And I didn’t think you’d noticed anything about me at all.”

I sobered quickly. “I know that you expect people to say good-bye when they leave.”

“Just some people.”

I turned away, watching George’s bushy tail sway to and fro as we walked in silence, and considered all the reasons I never said good-bye, ignoring the niggling thought knocking at my conscience, telling me maybe I’d been wrong.