*
Evelyn dreamed of butterflies that night. Her brooch, so recently lost on the floor of the cafe, came to life and fluttered through a blue Devon sky. On a clifftop, above crashing waves, it settled on a yellow orchid. Another butterfly, this one not made of rubies and diamonds but a beautiful Common Blue, flittered into the scene and landed on a nearby cornflower, the same blue as its striking wings. Suddenly a shadow came over the scene and Evelyn felt fear and panic. Now she was the jewelled butterfly and something was bearing down on her. Her dream state did not show her if it was a boot or a net, but she was sure she would be crushed or trapped. And yet somehow her wings were too heavy, the jewels meant she could not fly. The Common Blue took off, flying free into the sky, where it disappeared, and she was still paralysed, could not move her wings. Still the shadow bore down and her panic only increased.
She awoke with a dry mouth, sweating into the sheets. The sheets did not have the familiar threadbare patches of home; the mattress springs were firmer. She opened her eyes wider, knowing she was somewhere away from home but not realising where for a few long seconds. She made herself focus on shapes of the shadows in the room to give her some sense of her bearings. London. This was London, she was in the Graingers’ spare bedroom. They’d arrived home just before midnight and she had fallen asleep as soon as she’d climbed out of her clothes. Focusing on memories of the preceding evening helped, but she could not quite shake the terror of the dream, of that advancing shadow, that certain entrapment or death.
Evelyn sat up in bed, drawing a deep breath. The slight sensation of seasickness made her question just how much gin had been in her cocktails. She rubbed her eyes and reached for the electric lamp on the bedside table. Soft yellow light flooded the room. Her watch was on the bedside table. She took it up to check the time and found it to be just after five. It would soon be daylight. The idea of trying to sleep further was not appealing. Waking up at dawn was nothing unusual for Evelyn.
Her eye was drawn to the butterfly brooch, now lying on the dressing table across the room, along with the jewellery Lilian had lent her. Her dress was draped over the chair, evidence of just how tired she had been when she’d finally made it to her bedroom. She swung her legs out of bed and rose unsteadily to her feet. The dizziness was not quite as bad, now that she was fully awake. She picked up the butterfly and held it in her palm, contemplating the livid rubies and shimmering diamonds. Although she’d inherited it from her grandmother, on her mother’s side, she had no idea what the history of the brooch was before that. Her grandmother had never told her, even when Evelyn had admired the brooch as a child. Certainly, such jewellery seemed far too expensive for her grandmother, a fisherman’s daughter who married a fish merchant, to have been able to purchase for herself. Evelyn wondered what stories the brooch could tell.
For Evelyn, of course, the brooch reminded her only of the vision she had created with Edward that sunny day on a clifftop, when they’d known that one day they could fly. And yet, last night, she’d almost lost the brooch. It had fallen to the floor so easily. If it had not been for Jos, it could have been gone forever. Perhaps that was why she was dreaming about butterflies.
Thinking about Edward made her miss home. What business did she really have in this strange house, such a long way from her family. The letter had been delivered now. She’d had a glimpse of the life she’d suspected existed outside of her closed-off little world. She’d enjoyed it too. But perhaps it was time to go home. She could pack her bags now and be at Paddington in time for the first train.
Evelyn returned the brooch to its place on the dressing table and ran her fingers over the pearls borrowed from Lilian. They were beautiful. And it was very kind of Lilian. So far, everyone in London had welcomed her with more than open arms. Why would she leave that, when she could enjoy it for longer?
Still contemplating, Evelyn crossed to the window and pulled back the drapes. The street outside was deserted, still illuminated by the pale glow of the gas lamps. London seemed a city of ghosts. It was a place made of its past, of the stories of the people who inhabited it, of their own ghosts. In London, she did not feel peculiar, out of place. She was part of it. At rest as it was now, it had its own beauty. True, it was not soaring cliffs and sandy beaches, churning waves and dark woods. But it was a place full of human stories. There was so much more to discover, even so much more of herself to understand. It had to be here—she couldn’t leave now. There really wasn’t a question.
Her resolution in mind, Evelyn pulled out her suitcase, still not entirely unpacked, and removed the sheets of writing paper and pen she’d put into one of the inside pockets. She cleared a space on the dressing table, sat in the chair in front of it, and began to write.
Dearest Eddie,
I hope this letter finds you, and
