“Where did this come from?” Ethel asked, turning around and holding out the handbag, unable to keep the note of accusation from her voice or her fingers from stroking the soft velvet.
“Isn’t it just darling? Madame Lushtak copied an Elsa Schiaparelli bag design for last season’s show. I couldn’t resist. I paid five shillings for it, but if we both use it, it’s like getting it half price.” Precious looked hopefully at Ethel.
Five shillings! Ethel almost shouted out loud. She’d even opened her mouth, but her fingers couldn’t stop stroking the soft velvet or imagining how smart she’d look on the street, running to the chemist with the beautiful bag hanging from her arm.
“Well, I suppose if you look at it like that . . .” She smiled at Precious, propped up on pillows in bed, her tissue clutched in her hands. Even with a red nose and glazed eyes, she was beautiful. Her long gold hair—just a shade lighter than Ethel’s own—lay against her shoulders and reflected the light from the bedside lamp; her eyes, although moist and red rimmed, were an incredible pale blue that would have looked cherubic if they hadn’t been placed in the sharply drawn and chiseled face of Precious Dubose.
“I’ll be off, then.” Ethel ran down the three flights of stairs, smelling boiled cabbage and sausages mixed with an assortment of other cooking scents that lingered like a putrid fog in the hallways and stairwells of their block of flats. She had begun the habit of holding her breath as she ran toward the ground floor so that she wouldn’t absorb the smells of the working class. She understood that being a clothes peg—as Madame Lushtak referred to her models—was far from being respectable in most people’s estimations, but to her it was much more refined than washing someone else’s underpinnings. And if she continued to practice speaking and deportment, it could always lead to better things.
She hurried out the door and breathed deeply. Despite cooler than normal temperatures, the sun shone valiantly through indecisive gray clouds, a brisk breeze keeping the dirty fog at bay. Ethel walked four blocks, stopping to wait for a red bus and two black taxis to pass before crossing to the high street. She realized she was holding her arm at an angle, her elbow bent, so that the beautiful handbag could sway on her wrist as she walked, the gold embroidered leaves reflecting the meager sunlight. She wanted to believe that everyone must be looking, and kept her head held high and her shoulders straight, walking with determined poise, pretending that the rest of her outfit matched the extravagance of the purse. Even with her worn but polished shoes and unfashionable coat, she imagined she could be Bette Davis in Dangerous.
Ethel selected her items, then carefully placed the handbag on the counter and counted out the coins. As she took the proffered bag, the chemist, an older man with a bald head as round as his belly, said, “You’d better hurry, miss. It’s about to rain cats and dogs.”
Ethel sent a glance out the front shopwindow, surprised to see a dark rain cloud cocooning the sun. She’d forgotten to bring her brolly, and although her hat and coat could withstand a soaking, she was worried for the handbag.
“Thank you,” she said, grabbing her purchases before dashing out onto the sidewalk without looking, eager to beat the rain. With her head bent against the first sprinkles, she was only vaguely aware of another door being thrust open.
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.”