Page 12 of The Last Night in London
We both turned at the sound of the front door opening, and then Arabella appeared in the kitchen doorway next to Colin, looking nervously between us. “Is everything all right?”
“No blood’s been spilled, if that’s what you mean,” I said.
She smiled. “Splendid. Come, then, Maddie—let’s take a look at the clothes. I only have thirty minutes, but you’re a self-starter. I won’t need to hover. My assistant, Mia, will be contacting you later today with a schedule of appointments I took the liberty of setting up for you with the museum people as well as with a historian whom I think you will love getting to know and chatting with. You are welcome to talk with as many people as you like, but I thought they would be a good start. I will happily step back now and let you take up the reins.”
“Sounds good. I look forward to speaking with them.” I met Colin’s eyes and could tell he was trying not to smirk. We were all too familiar with Arabella’s penchant for organizing and moving friends and others in her sphere of influence into position like a master chess player.
Colin said good-bye and left as Arabella led me toward the long hallway of bedrooms. My room was at the end, next to Precious’s, past all the framed photographs on the wall. Several other doors lined the hallway, and Arabella took me to the first one on the right.
Like all the other bedroom doors in the flat, this one had a leaded glass transom window over it, allowing light from the large plain window on the far side of the room to spill into the hallway even when the bedroom door was closed. The small, sparsely furnished space contained only an iron double bed, a 1920s-style armoire, and adressing table with a stool and an attached trifold mirror that looked as if it had come from the same era. Smoky clouds bloomed behind the glass like age spots on elderly hands, distorting my reflection.
“Wow.” Metal rolling racks had been piled into the room, leaving just enough space to maneuver between them and the furniture. It was a little girl’s dress-up fantasy: long gowns with sparkling stones; an entire rack devoted to furs—the old-fashioned kind found in the black-and-white movies that Aunt Lucinda had allowed me to stay up late to watch with her. Silky chiffons in various hues floated from another rack, Ginger Rogers–type dresses that seemed to be begging to be twirled in. “Wow,” I said again.
“Back when Aunt Precious was a fashion model before and after the war—here in London and then in Paris—the models were allowed to keep some of the clothes they modeled or to buy them at an enormous discount. This is her collection. The pieces are quite valuable, but they were choking on mothballs in the storage room until Aunt Penelope—Colin’s mum is very active as a supporter of the Design Museum—rang me up with the idea of an exhibition. I thought it was brilliant, and I immediately thought of you—not just because of the personal angle, but also because you are an amazing writer. I knew you would do it all justice.”
Arabella followed me into the room. “All these gowns and beautiful materials,” she said. “I sometimes wish we still dressed like that—but can’t imagine what my cleaning bill might be like.”
“And no children to leave them to.”
“Sadly, no,” Arabella said, shaking her head. “I’ve always wondered why Precious never married. From what I’ve gathered she had plenty of suitors. Aunt Penelope has lots of fascinating stories from before and during the war—Miss Dubose was quite the heroine in the French Resistance, not that you’d ever hear her say it. All of those stories were told to Aunt Penelope by Colin’s grandmother Sophia, since she and Precious were such great friends. Aunt Precious has never been keen to talk about her past. Until now, of course. I suppose when one is at the end of one’s life, it becomes imperative to pass along our stories so they won’t be lost to posterity.”
She moved past me to a row of evening dresses, the clusters of pearls and rhinestones shimmering like sea glass on the beach. “Just look at these! Imagine everything they’ve seen.” She carefully lifted a long silky sleeve crusted with jet-black beads. “I thought that once we’ve decided which pieces will go in the exhibit, you could write the description cards they’ll use at the museum.”
I nodded, then stepped closer, a faint mothball scent wafting across my face. “What happens to them after the exhibition?” An odd sense of nostalgia hit me, the same feeling I got while looking at the scrapbook album of the first eighteen years of my life, the one my mother had started and Suzanne had finished. Like the old photos, these dresses were merely pale shadows of the vibrant life they had once been a part of, static reminders of something irretrievably gone.
I turned my back on them, waiting for Arabella to answer.
“I’m not sure. Aunt Penelope is trying to work it out. She thinks one of the old country manor houses that are now open to the public might be interested in hosting them as a permanent exhibit.” She offered me a bright smile. “I’ve got to run. You go take a look—just try not to drool. The fabrics are rather delicate. They really are quite beautiful.”
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 everythingshe 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.
