“Let’s go in through the back door,” Eve whispered. “I know where there’s a key.”
Audrey barely knew what she was doing as Eve led her around to the rear of the town house and up the servants’ stairs. She could hear Mother singing in the hallway, the servants shushing her. She wished she had never seen her mother kissing that man or overheard the ugly truth. How could she ever face her mother again?
“I would like you to leave,” Audrey told Eve when they reached the bedroom level.
“Are you sure you want to be alone? Don’t you need a friend to—?”
“No. I don’t need your pity or . . . or your stupid strawberries. Just go away and leave me alone.” She closed the door in Eve’s face, then sank to her bedroom floor in a heap. Nausea overwhelmed her. Eve and all of the other servants had witnessed Mother’s disgrace. They all knew the truth about her. Did Father?
Audrey wanted to shrivel up and die. Her body shook as she wept tears of shame and humiliation. Then another, darker emotion gradually took control. Rage. For as long as Audrey could remember, Mother had lectured her about proper social behavior and keeping up appearances and being in control of one’s emotions. No matter how hard Audrey had worked to please Mother, she had never quite measured up. And now it enraged Audrey to see her mother’s secret life exposed. She longed to run far, far away, to be someone other than Lady Rosamunde’s daughter, to live a different life.
And yet . . .
In spite of what she now knew, something deep inside Audrey still hungered for Mother’s approval. She ached to know she had done well, had obeyed all the rules, impressed all the right people. Most of all, she longed to see pride shining in Mother’s eyes when she gazed at her.
Audrey hauled herself up from the floor. She dried her eyes, lifted her chin. Perhaps her own success in London’s social world might one day atone for her mother’s disgrace. And earn her love.
6
LONDON, DECEMBER 1936
Eve lifted the heavy flatiron from the kitchen range, tested it with a drop of spit on her finger, then gingerly pressed out the wrinkles on her blouse, fearful of scorching it. “I could finish this in a jiffy with an electric iron,” she muttered to her roommate, who was washing clothes on the scrub board. Neither of them could afford laundry service at the boardinghouse.
“Why can’t Mrs. Russell spend a shilling or two and modernize this place?”
“I know! It’s like living in the last century. We don’t even have—” Eve paused when the telephone shrilled in the front hallway. The lively chatter in the boardinghouse parlor also stilled as the girls listened, each hoping the call was for her.
“Eve Dawson! Telephone!”
Eve grinned and parked the heavy iron on the stove before hurrying to the phone. “It’s a man,” the girl who had taken the call whispered. She handed over the receiver. Eve couldn’t imagine who it might be.
“Hello, this is Eve.”
“Hello, beautiful friend of my sister. Alfie Clarkson, here.” If Eve had been given a hundred tries, she never would have guessed Alfie. Goose bumps prickled on her arms. “I’ve been kicking myself these past eleven months for misplacing your telephone number,” he continued, “but I just now found it. I realize you likely have dozens of men queuing up at your door, but my fraternity has a formal event at the Savoy on December 10, and I would love to take you.”
His words were too much for her to digest, especially in the middle of a boring workweek and while doing a mundane task like ironing. Alfie Clarkson, the heir of Wellingford Hall, was inviting her on a date. To the Savoy! He might as well have been King Edward, inviting her on a trip to the moon.
“Hello? Eve? Are you there?”
Her surprise came out as a burst of laughter. “Sorry. You caught me off guard. The Savoy is very posh, isn’t it? Are you trying to impress me?”
“Oh yes. Very much so. Will you come? I realize you don’t know me very well, but I’m certain Audrey will provide a character reference.”
Eve laughed again. She was certain Audrey would be appalled and would do whatever she could to stop them. Eve longed to accept his invitation. If the mere sound of his upper-crust voice on the tinny phone sent a shiver through her, what would spending an entire evening with him be like? Yes, she very much wanted to go. But could she pull it off—faking fancy manners, pretending to be a wealthy socialite? What would she wear? The nicest dress Eve had was the one she wore to church every Sunday. The Savoy was intimidating all on its own, let alone for a formal event. She tried to picture Alfie Clarkson walking up the crumbling boardinghouse steps in his tuxedo to collect her and couldn’t. She needed to charm him into falling in love with her before he learned the truth about her—because she would surely give herself away the moment she tried to hobnob with the aristocrats at the Savoy.
Eve threaded the telephone cord through the stair rails and sat down on one of the steps to steady herself. “I don’t need a character reference, Mr. Clarkson. I’m perfectly happy to accept your invitation.”
“Wonderful!”
“But since we’re practically strangers, I think we should have tea together first and take a stroll in the park so we can get to know each other a little better before our big night at the Savoy.” She winced, aware that she had just asked Alfie Clarkson on a date. The chatter in the lounge had stopped. Eve pictured the other girls straining to hear, gasping at the mention of the Savoy—and at her audacity for suggesting a date for tea. They all knew she didn’t have a steady bloke. Eve held her breath, releasing it only after she heard Alfie chuckle on the other end.
“I must say, Eve Dawson, you are a marvelously mysterious woman. Now I want to meet you more than ever. Where do you suggest we have tea? And when?”
“How about Sunday at three in Piccadilly Circus? We can meet beneath the statue of Eros.” Would he be shocked by her boldness in meeting beneath the god of love?
“Done,” he said. “Sunday at three. Au revoir.”
Eve could barely concentrate on the vicar’s sermon on Sunday, her mind a swirling, churning mixture of excitement and fear. Dating Alfie Clarkson was the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance to move up in the world. It might be the only step up she would ever get.
The winter day turned out to be cold yet sunny, perfect for strolling London’s streets. Alfie stood waiting beneath the statue of Eros when Eve emerged from the Piccadilly Circus Underground station. If only the winged god would fire an arrow and make Alfie fall madly in love with her. He stood out from the common crowd, dressed in expensive tweeds and fine leather shoes, but he wore them with casual indifference, as only the privileged class could. He smiled as he greeted Eve, swooping off his hat and bowing to kiss the back of her hand as if she were a princess.
“Even more beautiful than I remembered,” he said, bringing a surge of warmth to her cheeks. “Shall we go? There’s a tea shop right around the corner.” He resettled his hat on his thick amber hair and tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. They started walking.
Eve struggled to think of something witty and charming to say, but every thought fled from her mind, replaced by the thrilling awareness of Alfie Clarkson. Imagine, Eve Dawson, a common serving girl from the village, stepping out for tea with the young master of Wellingford Hall.