Seventeen
FOR several seconds Emmy could do nothing but stare at the book. Then she closed her eyes, willing the brides box to be on her lap when she opened them, because surely, surely, what was inside the shawl was not Julia’s book.
It couldn’t be.
Couldn’t be!
Emmy opened her eyes slowly and the book’s honey-gold cover met her gaze.
Julia.
Julia!
How could she have done such a thing? She knew there hadn’t been room for her book in the satchel. She knew how important this day was to Emmy. She knew Emmy was meeting with someone who wanted to see the brides box. She knew—
And then clarity slammed into Emmy. Of course Julia knew. That was why her behavior was so odd while she ate her lunch. She knew Emmy wouldn’t be showing anyone her brides today. Emmy had said the day before that she had only this one chance with the brides. Julia had deduced that if this chance was eliminated, she would never have to worry about the brides box parting them. Ever. She knew Emmy would arrive at this meeting, thinking she had her brides, and would discover that she didn’t. Emmy would have to leave the meeting. No brides, no meeting.
No meeting, no parting.
Emmy would have to come back to the flat. To her. Yes, Emmy would be livid, but she would have to come back to her. Julia knew where the brides box was, and Emmy didn’t.
Julia hadn’t been thirsty the night before at Thistle House when she sent Emmy downstairs for a drink of water. She had needed a few minutes to remove the brides box, wrap her fairy tale book in the shawl, and stuff it into the satchel. The brides box had no doubt been shoved under her bed as Emmy climbed the stairs with her cup.
It all made perfect sense. Julia never wanted to leave Thistle House, and she hadn’t wanted Emmy to, either. Emmy would now have to take her back to Charlotte’s if she wanted her brides returned to her. Upon their return, Charlotte would surely be vigilant so as not to let the girls out of her sight again.
Emmy wouldn’t be allowed any more solo trips to town. She wouldn’t be allowed solo trips anywhere.
Julia had concocted a brilliant plan. Emmy wondered if she even knew how brilliant it was.
She heard voices from outside the room; one was Mrs. Crofton’s. Emmy had no sketches to show Mr. Dabney, and no way of getting them back without returning to Thistle House. The room suddenly felt very warm. A ribbon of sweat dampened her forehead as Emmy hammered her brain to think of an excuse for coming to the meeting without the designs.
Emmy could think of nothing. The sketches were the reason she was there. It would be ridiculous to say she had forgotten them and unthinkable to say she had purposely left them behind.
The door opened and Emmy rose to her feet.
Mrs. Crofton came into the room, followed by a man and woman who looked to be in their late fifties. The man had a groomed goatee and wire-rim spectacles, and he wore a gray-striped suit. The woman wore a pale yellow chiffon dress with a dropped waist and lace sleeves. Her hair was as black as night; his, pearl gray and brown.
“Emmeline, how good to see you again.” Mrs. Crofton crossed the room and clasped Emmy’s hands with hers. “I am so glad you could come. May I introduce my cousin and his wife, Graham and Madeleine Dabney.”
The couple came forward to shake Emmy’s hand. Mr. Dabney’s grip was firm and warm; Mrs. Dabney’s soft and cool. Both smiled politely and said how pleased they were to meet her.
“I’m so very happy to meet you both as well.” Emmy’s voice sounded strange in her ears.
“Please, have a seat.” Mr. Dabney motioned to the sofa as he and his wife sat down opposite her. Mrs. Crofton sat on a third sofa, the smallest of the three.
The young woman who had answered the bell came into the room with a tea tray as they took their seats. She set it down on the table in the middle and poured tea into four bone china cups.
“So, Miss Downtree,” Mr. Dabney began, stirring sugar into his teacup, “I hear you hope to have your own line of wedding dresses someday. Perhaps one day your own boutique.”
“Oh. Yes, sir. Yes, I do.” Emmy’s cup trembled on its saucer. She took a sip to stop it even though the liquid burned her mouth.
“Tell me how you came to have such a vision for your future.”
Emmy set the cup back on its saucer and placed it on the table to free herself of having to hold it steady. “I have always been drawn to women’s fashions. Dresses, especially. The more elegant the dress the better. I don’t know of a more beautiful and elegant concept of a gown than a wedding dress. They are so . . . flawless.”
“I quite agree with you there, Emmeline,” Mrs. Crofton said as she looked at her wristwatch. “So do you know how much longer it will be before your mother arrives?”
The pleasantries regarding why Emmy loved drawing wedding gowns had been to fill the time while they waited for Mum to join them. Emmy swallowed back a bolt of panic. “Um. Well, she is working today, actually. But I, uh, thought I’d see what kind of situation you are proposing and then I can present it to her, uh, when she gets off work.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Crofton looked to her cousin.
Mr. Dabney’s mouth became a thin line. “I had rather we took care of this in one meeting, Miss Downtree,” he said politely but with authority. “We are leaving London on Tuesday. What my wife and I are proposing will require your mother’s approval.”
“Well, my mother, um, looks upon me as an adult, you see. So I am able to make my own decisions regarding my future as a . . . as a designer.”
Mr. Dabney smiled. It was a grin that made Emmy uneasy. He had found what she had just said amusing, not enlightening. “To be sure, but still. You are just fifteen, Miss Downtree?”
Emmy nodded.
“Then you can see that Mrs. Dabney and I must have your mother’s permission to take you under our wing, so to speak. Did my cousin tell you what I am proposing?”
“I only hinted at it, Graham,” Mrs. Crofton interjected. “I wrote the letter in a hurry and told her we’d explain it all when she got here.”
“Ah.” Mr. Dabney leaned forward and sandwiched his hands together, the pose of a man about to broker a deal. “Eloise sent me your two sketches and she told me that you’ve had no formal training either in designing or sewing. That is what most interested me. The sketches I saw were surprisingly good, considering. That you created them with no training is most remarkable. I am eager to see the rest of your designs. If I’m not mistaken, it would appear that you have an innate gift, Miss Downtree.”
Emmy’s heart took a stutter step and she forced herself to say calmly, “Thank you, Mr. Dabney.”
“Now, it’s been my practice to employ an apprentice or two in my studio throughout the year. I design costumes for theatrical productions here on the West End and elsewhere in Britain and North America. I like to do my part in encouraging the up-and-coming young designers, and I teach them while they help me construct my costumes. I believe Eloise has told you this?”
“Yes.”
“When my cousin saw your sketches, she, too, was impressed with your untrained eye for design, which is why she sent me those two sketches. She thought I might wish to consider offering you an apprenticeship.”
“Yes, I told her that,” Mrs. Crofton said, offering Emmy a reassuring smile that wordlessly said all was going well and that Emmy didn’t need to be so nervous.
“Now, Mrs. Dabney and I wish to do our part in the war effort, you see. Eloise tells me you have been evacuated to Gloucestershire and have spent the last few months there?”
“Yes, that’s correct.” Emmy could scarcely breathe. What was she going to tell him about not having the sketches?
Graham Dabney nodded to his wife, who smiled at him. “Mrs. Dabney and I have discussed taking in a London evacuee. It occurred to me that, depending on the strength of the rest of your designs, we might offer to take you with us on Tuesday to my wife’s estate outside Edinburgh. That way I could teach you about dress construction, pattern making, all that. And while you learn, you can assist me in the creation of a series of costumes for a production of La Bohème in Boston. I think you would find the work as entertaining as it would be educational. The gowns for La Bohème are quite impressive.”
Emmy swallowed hard. “The strength of the rest of my designs?”
Mr. Dabney sat back, distancing himself a little from her. “Yes, of course. It would be unkind of me to bring you on as an apprentice if you’ve not the natural talent that I am hoping you have. I already know you do not have the sewing experience. You would have to have one of the two.” He laughed lightly, expecting Emmy would also.
Mrs. Crofton offered a half chuckle, surely meant to keep the conversation light. “I think you’ll be quite satisfied with the rest of her work, Graham. Perhaps now would be a good time to show us the rest of your sketches, Emmeline?”