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
