Arabella left, and I retrieved my camera from my backpack, the Hasselblad that Suzanne had given me when I’d gone to college. It was old and lacked the technology of the newer cameras, but it was still my favorite.
I touched the sleeve of a tweed jacket with a deep shawl collar that seemed more silk than wool, rubbing it carefully between my fingers, enjoying the feel of the lush fabric. I let the sleeve drop as I lifted the camera and snapped photos of the clothes hanging listlessly from the racks like dancers waiting backstage.
Finally satisfied, I stooped to stash my camera in my backpack. As I stood, a reflection of light from one of the racks caught my attention. I moved aside several hanging garments and spotted a dark green velvet purse in the shape of a box poking out from the silk lining of a woman’s coat, a gold cord chain dangling from the same hanger.
Unlike my sisters Sarah Frances and Knoxie, I wasn’t into purses, but this one was different. Gold embroidered leaves seemed to grow out of the velvet; the fabric was a bit crushed but still soft. A rhinestone clasp—the source of the reflection I’d seen—latched the lid at the front. I lifted the bag. Something about the texture and pattern of the embroidered leaves begged to be touched. It was heavier than it looked, surprising me. I put my fingers on the clasp, then paused, the sense of invading a stranger’s privacy stopping me. My mama had taught me better.
I let go of the bag, watching it dangle as it caught the light again, almost as if it were winking at me. A door opened and shut at the end of the hall, followed by the jangle of dog tags announcing the approach of Laura and the two dogs. I left the room, feeling the need to close the door behind me, as if to guard all the stories lingering like moths within the old fabrics and inside a green velvet purse.
CHAPTER 5
LONDON
FEBRUARY 1939
Eva sat on a padded bench amid the chaos of silk stockings, shoes, and underpinnings that covered the floor. The exhaustion of a full day of showings and being jabbed mercilessly during fittings for the spring show had caught up with her, and she could barely keep her eyes open as she waited for Precious so they could take the bus home together. Two of the models, Odette and Freya, sat on the floor in their dressing gowns with their bare feet straight out in front of them, wriggling their toes.
“Ês-tu fatigué?” Eva asked Odette.
Odette smiled brightly. “Oui. Très bien, Eva! Your accent is almost as good as mine.”
“Merci beaucoup,” Eva said, pleased. Because she had a good ear for accents, she’d decided to see if her talents might extend to learning another language. She’d chosen French not just because of her access to a native speaker, but because French was the sort of thing well-brought-up girls were taught in school. It was all part of the background she was constructing for the newly created Eva, a history that had to be more than just a name. She wasn’t going to be a model forever, but while she was, she was determined to learn everything she could about deportment and poise. It would take her as far away from Yorkshire as she could get.
Alice pranced in, wearing a sunflower yellow frock that was all ruffles and lace, followed by Precious already in her street clothes. Alice was the youngest model and looked so waiflike that Eva was always surprised she managed to get to work on windy days. She had a way of speaking that made her seem either extremely bored or half-asleep—something Eva had noticed in many of the well-bred young ladies who shopped at Lushtak’s. She enjoyed imitating it, which usually resulted in Precious and the other models—except for Alice—being reduced to peals of laughter.
“Mrs. Ratcliffe is on her way,” Alice announced in her usual desultory tone. “And she doesn’t appear to be very happy. Lucille left before she’d been fitted for a late showing, and Mrs. St. John and her daughter are already on their way, expecting to be shown an entire wardrobe. I daresay pins are going to fly.”
Odette and Freya had both pulled themselves up by the time the dressing room door flew open to reveal their supervisor, Mrs. Ratcliffe, her jowls and bosom quivering in unison. She grasped the doorframe with one hand; the other arm cradled a patterned crepe evening gown. Mrs. Ratcliffe’s officious voice was another one that Eva enjoyed mimicking, when she was sure she wouldn’t be overheard.
Mrs. Ratcliffe lifted the glasses that dangled on a chain on her voluminous chest like an anchor thrown over the prow of a ship, and placed them on the end of her nose.
As she drew in two deep breaths, her gaze scanned the room, pausing on Precious for a moment and then on Eva before moving on to the other models, all in various stages of disrobing. “I need a model to fill in for Lucille, someone tall and slim so no new alterations will be needed.” Her gaze fell back to Eva. “You, then. You’ll do. Put this on and come down to the fitting room as quickly as possible. You need to see Mr. Danek. He’ll make you presentable before you head out into the showroom. The client is very particular, and we can’t be having you look tired and deathly pale.”
Eva stood, making sure her spine was straight, her shoulders
