THE WARTIME MATCHMAKERS

LAUREN SMITH

CONTENTS

Preface

Prologue

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Part II

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Part III

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Epilogue

Historical Note

Acknowledgments

Bibliography

About the Author

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by Lauren Smith

Cover art by Alan Ayers

Cover Design by Forever After Romance Designs

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at lauren@laurensmithbooks.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-956227-81-9 (ebook)

ISBN:978-1-956227-82-6 (print)

PREFACE

This story is inspired by true events and people. I have relied heavily on firsthand accounts from the people who witnessed or experienced the events. As you read, you may think some things must certainly be fictional, and you will be surprised at the parts that are based in fact. At the end of this book, I have written a brief historical note where I explain my research and break down the truth versus fiction of this story. I’ve also included a detailed bibliography of the books I read while researching this story. Please note that while this is a story set in Britain, I have used American spellings.

I have changed the names of almost all the characters from their real names, and I have used names that are personal to me and names that I have lovingly used with permission from the families of my wonderful readers. These readers’ family members served or lived during the 1930s and 1940s and experienced the war. It was an honor to use these names, and where possible, I have given these men and women happy endings because we all deserve a little more light and joy in our lives.

This is a story about war, about a changing landscape of human experience, and it is about love. This emotion is so often disregarded, especially when it comes to romance, yet it is the force that motivates humans to the greatest acts of courage and compassion. The best stories, the best myths, the best legends, all involve love in its many forms. It is my hope that someday the two real matchmakers, Heather Jenner and Mary Oliver, become legendary for their actions during such a dark time. By bringing people together while the world tore itself apart, they were unsung heroes. Now, dear reader, turn the page to finally hear their song.

PROLOGUE

But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, “This was their finest hour.”

—Winston Churchill

House of Commons

June 18, 1940

London

September 7, 1940

It was the silence between air-raid drills that frightened Elizabeth Mowbray the most. The deathly hush this particular afternoon had transformed London from a bustling city to an eerie stillness that made Elizabeth pause and strain her ears to listen to the world outside the tiny grocer’s shop on King Street.

“Everything all right?” a middle-aged woman in a dull maroon frock asked as she packed the handful of goods into Elizabeth’s cloth bag.

“What? Oh, yes. I’m so sorry,” Elizabeth murmured as she glanced through the tiny crack between the blackout curtains draped in front of the grocer’s store window. The funereal cloth was in some small way better than black-painted glass or boards—at least the curtains could be drawn back during the day to let sunlight in, when one remembered. This shop, like many others, left their curtains closed over the windows, despite it being the middle of the day and no need to black out the light of the shop’s interior.

Elizabeth handed over a few ration coupons to the grocer before she collected the bag and turned to leave. A few people had stopped on the pavement outside, their eyes turned toward the Thames. One man removed his black trilby hat and squinted at the sky. His face drained of color before he smashed his hat back on his head and turned to run.

Time slowed around Elizabeth as she saw more and more people stop on the street and turn to face the sky. Silence had settled over the city, like fog upon the ground in a graveyard, coiling like phantom vipers around the craggy tombstones.

A dozen black flecks appeared over the Thames on the horizon. Air-raid sirens suddenly split through the bustling crowds of King Street.

German planes.

Her mind wanted to convince her that they were just a flock of birds rather than the impending doom her heart warned was coming.

As one, the crowds around her turned away from the Thames. The hum of distant bombers was drowned out by the sirens. The screaming sirens dug into her skull, leaving her with a fierce ache as Elizabeth tried to flee with those around her. Clutching her small bag of precious food, she was swept away by the crowds and flattened against a wall in an alley not far from the grocer’s shop. The hard stone bit into her back as dozens of men and women pushed past her. Her cry of pain went unheard.

Shelter . . . must find a shelter.

Like the rest of England, she’d grown used to the sounds of sirens and empty skies in the previous months. There were the repeated nights and even some days spent cramped and cold in the Anderson shelters both in London and in the back garden of Cunningham House, the rambling old manor house that she spent her time at when not in London.

Those nights in the curved metal shelter were intolerable; it smelled of decayed earth, and she had to tuck her dressing gown up around her night slippers to avoid the rainwater that filled the bottom of the shelter. Now she might pay with her life for not respecting the endless drills. Even the government had relaxed its insistence on carrying a gas mask wherever one went. She’d left hers back at her office on Bond Street. She was trapped, terrified, frozen as the crowds threatened to crush anyone who didn’t move quickly.

The planes were already here, the roar of the engines now overpowering the sirens. Something inside Elizabeth jolted her back into motion. She forced herself away from the alley wall just as a man in a blue Royal Air Force uniform passed by. Her shoe caught upon a rock, and she cried out, stumbling. She braced for the impact, but it never came.

“I’ve got you!” A strong arm banded around her waist, catching her and pulling her upright. She briefly saw a striking masculine face with blond hair and bright blue eyes beneath the RAF cap.

“Nathan, take a right!” he bellowed at another man in an RAF uniform just ahead of them who was moving briskly through the crowd despite using a cane. Elizabeth had no choice but to be swept along at the pilot’s side as they exited the alley and moved toward a darkened doorway of a shop.

“Get inside!” The pilot pushed her through the doorway. Crowded racks of clothing filled the small space, and the scent of musty cloth made her nose wrinkle with an impending sneeze. A stout shopkeeper with gray hair held the door of his shop open, frantically waving to everyone on the street.

“Stay there!” the pilot told Elizabeth before he dashed back outside, catching hold of a young woman carrying a small child in her arms and hauling her inside. “This way—there’s a shelter.”

The shopkeeper closed the shop door behind them just as the first bombs struck the river in the distance.

The one called Nathan with dark brown hair and light brown eyes leaned heavily against the nearest clothing rack, his cane braced before him. “They’ve hit the docks, Philip!” Behind him, the shopkeeper fumbled to open the metal door that led to the bomb shelter. At least a dozen or so people crowded together in the shop, their breath coming hard, with eyes wide and fearful as they waited for the door to open.

“Christ, they have, haven’t they?” Philip’s face turned toward the windows of the clothing store, which had been boarded up. No one could see outside. They could only hear the thunder of explosions. Each impact vibrated through the floor hard enough to rattle Elizabeth’s bones.

“Madam, this way,” Nathan said to the young mother, who was clutching her child to her breast, her eyes tearful. The door to the shelter creaked open. “I’ll follow you down,” Nathan assured her, ambling on his cane as he went down the steps after her and disappeared into the dark along with the others who had crowded behind them to get to safety.

“How big is your shelter?” Philip asked the shopkeeper.

The man adjusted his spectacles. “Fifteen people . . . it’s more of a basement, really.”

“It’s stocked with torches and potable water?” Philip pressed as the roof above them rumbled ominously.

“Y-yes.”

“Good. You go on down. I’ll seal us in.” Philip nudged Elizabeth and the shopkeeper down into the basement and closed the door behind him, sealing them all inside. Its heavy, metallic clang made Elizabeth halt halfway down the stairs in a sudden panic at being enclosed in such a tiny dark space. She gripped the rough-hewn wood railing so hard her knuckles were white as bone in the low light. Below her, torches moved as the occupants of the shelter swung them about, their beams bouncing off the walls at odd angles. Lanterns hung from hooks on the ceiling, illuminating the pilot’s face as he came down the steps to meet her.

“Go on and have a seat somewhere. We’re bound to be here awhile.” He offered her a smile, but she didn’t miss the strain in his eyes. Her throat tightened as another wave of fear swept through her. They were trapped in this tiny room, dozens of feet below the ground. If a bomb struck, they’d be crushed to death . . . starved of air . . .

“Breathe deep, darling,” the pilot whispered to her. “Focus on the air moving in your lungs and nothing else.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes and did so, filling her lungs with air. The fear subsided a little, and she opened her eyes again to stare at the man who’d taken charge of the moment. The man who’d saved her. Lines of worry were carved across his striking face as he tilted his cap back on his head.

She turned away from him to check on the other occupants of the shelter. Twelve huddled figures had taken refuge with them, some settled on a few creaky folding chairs set against the walls. The young mother held her toddler in her arms, tears streaming in rivulets down her cheeks until they shone in the dim light. Her child was quiet, his eyes wide and solemn as he gazed up at Elizabeth and the pilot as they descended the last few steps.

“Should we have left the door open?” the shopkeeper asked the pilot, gravitating toward him as the natural leader of their small group.

“We couldn’t—those bombs that hit the docks will burn hot and long. The flames will draw other bombers in like beacons. If you can feel the bombing”—he paused and put a hand on the stone wall of the basement—“then you’re too close. Better to close the door and wait.”

“The RAF will take care of them,” one man said, his tone confident, but no one else said anything for a long moment afterward.

Would they take care of the German bombers? Elizabeth hadn’t let herself think of the oncoming war, not wanting to accept the reality, yet here it was.

“I should be up there with them,” Philip muttered to himself, grief in his eyes as he looked at the people in the room.

The man called Nathan hobbled over to the pilot, one fist gripping the head of his cane tightly. “You mustn’t torture yourself. You were on leave. You couldn’t have known they’d come. You’ve saved London enough times already. Today it’s someone else’s turn.”

“Will is out there at the bloody front—he doesn’t come home for leave. And here I am, stuck below,” Philip said as he started to pace. “I have no control down here. We’re just . . . helpless.” He halted on the word, seeming to realize too late that he shouldn’t have said it.

“We aren’t helpless. You know your men will fight like the devil today. You need to survive today to fly tomorrow,” Nathan reminded him in a soothing voice. “Getting yourself killed won’t help Will. We both know that he’s a St. Laurent, with that temper of his, the Nazis will be running in the other direction with their tails tucked between their legs.”

Philip calmed a little and met his friend’s eyes. “They should have made you the group captain instead of a flight instructor after your injury, Nathan.”

Nathan chuckled. “Perhaps.”

Another explosion, this one closer, rattled the trio of lanterns that hung from hooks on the ceiling, and dust rained down on the occupants of the basement. The mother held her child close. Philip stopped pacing and seemed to notice Elizabeth staring at him.

“Would you please sit? You look ready to fall down.” He urged her toward the wall, and she crumpled to her knees on the floor near the mother and child. She hadn’t realized until that moment that her legs had been shaking violently, barely holding her up.

Everyone was silent for a long moment, listening to the sounds above.

“Mama, I’m hungry,” the tiny toddler whispered against his mother’s neck. The young woman opened her eyes, her tearful gaze meeting Elizabeth’s.

“I know you are, sweetie,” the mother soothed. “I know. We shall eat later, all right?” She ran a hand over the child’s dark curls. The boy’s lip quivered, but he didn’t cry.

Such a brave little thing.

The world above them could very well be ablaze. That realization made Elizabeth sick, but she buried her nausea beneath a practicality that she always managed to summon when she needed it most. Her fist still gripped the cloth shopping bag. Suddenly she remembered that the bag held food.

“Would your little boy like some savory biscuits? I have some cheese and canned meat. It isn’t much, but if he’s hungry . . .” Elizabeth opened the bag and dug around in the contents.

“We couldn’t . . . ,” the mother began.

“Of course you can.” Elizabeth’s fingertips brushed over the tin of savory biscuits and a bit of cheese as she pulled them out and handed them to the mother.

“Look, Henry, some biscuits.” The woman smiled gratefully at Elizabeth before offering the food to her son. The little boy began to take hesitant bites before letting out a tiny sigh, his shoulders dropping as he relaxed. Elizabeth knew how he felt. The ache of an empty belly was something no one liked to endure. Ever since the rationing began, there had been quite a few nights when she had gone hungry, and the grumbling had formed that awful pit in her stomach, sometimes keeping her up until dawn.

The sounds of the bombing continued above them. Perhaps it was her imagination, but each impact seemed to get closer. No one spoke again, each of them sitting in their own agonized silence, holding their collective breath. No one was prepared. All of the drills, carrying gas masks about in leather cases, the disruption of lovely gardens with Anderson shelters, and sirens going off at odd hours—nothing had prepared her for this moment, waiting in a dark, musty basement as the world above was bathed in fire.

The man with the cane walked over to sit beside her. He used the wall to carefully lower himself down, as though he was still unused to not having full use of his leg. She wondered what had happened to him. He seemed healthy, despite his injury, and he was handsome to look at, and it was clear from the cut of his suit that he was quite well muscled. He was a fitting match to the pilot, who leaned against the opposite wall, scowling, with his arms crossed over his chest.

“You don’t mind if I sit, do you?” Nathan asked.

Elizabeth shook her head and gestured for him to join her. “No, please sit. I’m Elizabeth Mowbray.”

“Nathan Sheridan.” He held out a hand, and she shook it. “And that is my friend, Philip Lennox.” He nodded at the pilot who had saved her when she had fallen. “Philip, come and sit down. And stop that dreadful scowling.” Nathan’s tone was teasing, as though he was used to keeping Philip’s spirits up.

Philip let out a sigh and removed his cap, exposing a fall of pale-blond hair. He shook the dust off his cap with a grimace. Then he sat down on Elizabeth’s other side, where there was a little more room. He gripped his cap in his hands, his gaze focused on the opposite wall.

“Philip, this is Elizabeth Mowbray.” Nathan was cordial and polite, acting as though they were all meeting for afternoon tea on the lawn of an ancestral estate, not in a grimy basement during a bombing raid. It was comforting and distracting in a vital way. Elizabeth clung to the normalcy of the moment.

Philip’s gaze met hers, his brilliant blue eyes glowing in the dim lantern light. “Miss Mowbray.”

“Mr. Lennox,” Elizabeth replied. Lord, those eyes . . . He would be an excellent match for so many of her clients. How many letters had she received from clients wanting to marry a man with melting violet eyes? Of course, no one had violet eyes, but women wrote to them asking for them, nonetheless. Philip’s striking blue eyes were certainly the melting kind. And just like that, she was focused on work, and the distant rumble of bombs faded into the background somewhat.

“Are you unattached, Mr. Lennox?”

The pilot’s lips twitched. “Pardon? How do you mean?”

Nathan’s deep chuckle filled the room. “He’s quite unattached, much to his parents’ eternal dismay.”

“As are you, Nathan,” Philip shot back with a snort of laughter. “Why the interest in my marital state, Miss Mowbray?” Philip asked.

Elizabeth felt the familiar flush of heat in her cheeks. She had been in her particular line of business for a year, but she still had a flash of embarrassment when having to explain it.

“I . . . er . . . run the Marriage Bureau. I’m not sure if you’ve heard of it. You both would make wonderful clients . . . if you wish to register with us, that is. I could see you matched with wonderful young ladies.”

“The Marriage Bureau,” Philip murmured. “Wasn’t that the matchmaking service that Russell mentioned when he . . . ?”

“Yes, it is.” Nathan rested his cane on his lap as he looked at Elizabeth. “We have a friend who was a client.”

“Oh?” Elizabeth settled her bag on her lap more firmly as she got comfortable. “One of our happy clients, I hope?” They didn’t have too many unhappy clients, which, given that the enterprise of matchmaking involved connections of the heart, was rather amazing, especially during wartime. But she and her friend and business partner, Henrietta, worked hard to properly align people in their introductions.

“A little too happy. The bloody fool wants everyone to go to you, even us determined bachelors,” Philip replied dryly.

Nathan laughed. “Speak for yourself, Philip. Miss Mowbray, I would be most interested in your services. But how on earth did you come into such a profession in the first place? Usually it’s a meddlesome mother or great-aunt who takes on such tasks.”

An explosion shook the basement, and Elizabeth flinched, her breath halting in her throat. More dust drifted down, catching in the light before showering on everyone’s heads. She lost focus on the conversation as she tried to steady her panicked breath. Philip put a hand on her arm; his gentle firmness encouraged her to draw in a few deep breaths. She buried her trembling hands in her skirts and remembered Nathan’s question. He wanted to know how she’d ended up as one of London’s first official matchmakers.

“You wish to know how we started it?”

“I certainly do. Spin us a tale, Miss Mowbray.” Philip added with a soft, charming grin, “Something to chase away the sound of those bombs. We could all do with a good story.” He spoke earnestly as he glanced about and nodded to the other occupants of the room.

Elizabeth realized that everyone in the basement was watching her with interest. The light moved back and forth across dusty, weary faces as the lanterns swayed.

This was why she’d opened the Marriage Bureau in London’s darkest hour. There was no greater light to fight the darkness of war than love, and the Marriage Bureau’s sole focus was to help people find the right person. Love was hope, and Philip was right—they needed hope now more than ever in this dim little room. If her story could help them forget about the bombs falling above them, then she was happy to tell it.

“It began about two years ago. I had traveled to India to visit my beloved uncle George in the remote hills of Assam, and I found myself on the brink of scandal . . .”

PART I

CHAPTER 1

Assam, India

September 1938

There was an undeniable magic to India. The warmth of the sun settled into the stones, and for long hours after sunset, Elizabeth could lay her palms on the white stone terrace railings and absorb the sunlight into herself. But the magic was so much more than light and heat. The earth breathed. The green plants shimmered with dew, and the golden langur monkeys in the trees called out to each other, reminding Elizabeth that she was a guest in this world, that the soil and the water in the river belonged to old gods, and she was only here to glimpse their world briefly before returning to the earthy fens of Cambridgeshire.

She could see why her uncle George had fallen in love with this place as a young man. The sky above her head turned from blue and gold to red and purple as the sun fell beyond the horizon, and the vast Himalayas loomed like craggy monoliths in the fading light.

The smell of foxtail orchids hung heavy in the air as the rare white flowers spotted with pink draped down from hanging pots above her, the thick green tendrils full of dozens of blooms. Elizabeth reached out to touch those nearest her, a faint smile curving her lips at the delicate velvet petals. The Assamese women often adorned their dark, lustrous hair with the blooms when they danced the Bihu at the onset of spring.

She closed her eyes, picturing the swirl of colored silks and gold bangle bracelets.

“You should be inside, Lizzie.” Her uncle’s deep voice pulled her from her musings.

She dropped her hands from the blooms. Her mother’s older brother was fifty-two and still rather dashing, with his dark silvery mustache and features slightly weathered by so many years beneath the Indian sun. He gazed at her with such affection that Elizabeth’s chest tightened. He was more of a father to her than her own back in Cambridgeshire.

“Am I missing the dancing already?” She looped her arm through her uncle’s as he joined her at the terrace. Ahead of them, the endless rows of tea plants, thick and green, covered the rich soil of the rolling hills below. It was a testament to her uncle’s hard work and his relations with the locals that the plantation prospered.

“Not yet, but Mr. Britt was looking for you.”

Elizabeth’s heart kicked into a faster beat at the mention of her fiancé. “Was he?”

She’d only been here four months and was already engaged to be married. Her parents had sent her to visit Uncle George for her twenty-third birthday in hopes that she would finally be married off, like many of the other young women sent to India. The “fishing fleet” of young women, as society called them, were the girls who had found no matches at home. Some were considered troublesome girls who simply wouldn’t settle down and behave respectably. And what better way to be rid of them than by packing them up and shipping them to the farthest corner of the British Empire, where their only hope of a future lay in marriage?

It was a fate that society girls and farm girls like herself all faced. A woman simply had to be married to be useful, no matter what her situation. Elizabeth had no problem with marriage herself; she only didn’t want to be bored with life.

Elizabeth would have hated the idea of being shipped away somewhere as a punishment, but coming here had made it an adventure and a way to escape from the dull tedium of an English farm. When she’d first arrived, her uncle had led her through a series of glittering balls and lavish parties, something she hadn’t ever experienced before. He’d lived a much more adventurous life than his sister, Elizabeth’s mother, had chosen.

It was one of the reasons Elizabeth adored Uncle George so much. His life was exotic and exciting compared to the quiet farm life she was used to. In the midst of all the parties in Assam, Elizabeth had stumbled, quite literally, into Algernon Britt’s arms. Tall, dark-haired, and a wonderful dancer, he had quickly swept her off her feet.

He helped manage another plantation not too far from Uncle George’s, and Elizabeth could think of no better place to be. It would be exciting to live here, and she would have a life full of passion and fulfillment. She had immediately accepted Algernon’s proposal and sent word back to her family in England of the engagement.

“You had better go find your man, my dear,” her uncle teased and kissed her on the cheek before returning to the party.

Through the gold-and-red gauze curtains draping the arched entryways, she could see the men and women drinking and talking. Strains of classical music carried upon the breeze, momentarily masking the sound of laughter and the clink of crystal glasses. She moved down the long terrace that bordered the ballroom and paused as she saw Algernon standing close to one of the entrances opening on the terrace. He was ringed by male companions who were enjoying a drink.

Elizabeth, hidden by the evening shadows, took a moment to observe Algernon, her heart swelling with quiet joy. He was the tallest man in the circle, his handsome face accented by his well-tailored light-gray suit. His natural air of command was apparent now as he fielded questions.

“Tell us, Algy, what’s it like to have a girl on the hook?” one man asked. “You have the prettiest little creature for your fiancée. That impish face and flashing eyes—she’d captivate any man.”

Elizabeth blushed, the compliment making her smile. She wasn’t beautiful enough to model, she was only five foot three, and her curves were a little fuller than the slender beauties painted across advertisements. But her hair was a lovely shade of auburn, and she was told her blue eyes sparkled with mischief. She loved to be busy and was always up to something interesting if she could manage it. She hoped that her love of excitement was what had drawn Algernon to her.

“I do have the prettiest fiancée,” Algernon agreed, and sipped his drink. “I think she’ll turn out well, once we’re married. She needs a firm hand, though, that one.”

At this, the other men laughed, and the sound sent a shiver of dread through her.

“Don’t they all?” another of his fellows jested.

Algernon snorted. “Some women are perfectly meek. Others need that necessary meekness to be reinforced. My Beth is one of those. Someday soon, she’ll have figured out that I am her lord and master. Once she knows her place, she’ll be the perfect little shadow to enhance my reputation here.”

The other men chortled in agreement.

A sharp, metallic taste filled Elizabeth’s mouth as she sank deeper into the shadows. The draping blooms of foxtail orchids teased her skin as she closed her eyes and tried to breathe through the sudden rush of panic. Algernon’s words pierced her chest with dread.

I am her lord and master . . . she’ll be the perfect little shadow . . .

Elizabeth didn’t want to be a shadow. She didn’t want to serve a tyrannical husband. Part of her wanted to excuse him for what he had said. Didn’t men often boast in front of their friends? Still, her instincts warned her that jokes came from a kernel of truth. Did Algernon truly see her as some silly little willful creature to be jerked into line like a well-trained spaniel? Elizabeth suspected that these were often the kind of men who kicked those same obedient dogs.

Elizabeth opened her eyes, fire flooding her veins. A man who loved his wife would never try to obliterate her personality or passion for life. That wasn’t love. After watching her parents live in a frigid marriage full of stony silences, boorish dinners, and separate beds, she’d vowed not to marry until she was loved. Everyone deserved that, didn’t they?

Even her uncle had made a practical, society-approved match that had ended in a painful divorce. Simply because two people were well suited on paper didn’t mean they made a real match. While she’d been here in India, she’d managed to pair up several of her new friends with good men who matched them in all the ways that mattered. She’d foolishly believed she’d done the same for herself, but she hadn’t. She’d been blinded to Algernon’s nature because she hadn’t put him through his paces and tested him the way she had the young men who were interested in her friends.

She moved away from Algernon and his companions, careful to stay out of sight as she weighed her options. A set of stairs led from the terrace down to the garden. She paused by a large lily pad–covered pond with a fountain, trying to pull herself together. She wanted to scream, she wanted to . . . she just wanted to be free of him and the marriage she’d foolishly agreed to.

Water bubbled up from the stone sculpture in the center, pouring down in smooth sheets of twilight-hued water. She reached out and traced the white blooms of a flower on top of one of the lily pads. If only she could stay here forever with Uncle George and not have to face Algernon or the expectant crowds who’d planned to attend the lavish wedding. Breaking things off could hurt Uncle George, and that was the very last thing Elizabeth wanted.

The wedding was only a week away, and they’d already received a dozen gifts, which now sat in her room. She supposed some women would succumb to the pressure and marry a man they knew was a bad choice. But she wasn’t like that—much to her mother and father’s everlasting dismay.

The wedding was most certainly off, but if she stayed here, she would be a burden to Uncle George, not to mention the scandal it would cause. Everyone here knew Algernon. He was adored and loved here—she wasn’t. Breaking off their engagement would be seen as a strike against her character.

She squared her shoulders. There was nothing to do but return to England to face the wrath of her parents. She would have to tell her uncle tonight and Algernon tomorrow.

“Ah, there you are.” Algernon’s deep voice froze her in place. She masked her dismay with a pleasant smile and faced her fiancé. He stood in the center of the garden path, arms crossed over his chest.

“You’ve missed too much of the ball. Everyone is wondering why my bride-to-be isn’t by my side.” There was just a hint of disapproval in his tone. Heavens, he was good at masking his commanding personality.

Elizabeth had had every intention of maintaining her cordiality toward him—until he said that. Something dark and angry flared to life inside her.

“By your side? Or behind you as your shadow?” Her words were forceful, but her voice was not raised. She was not one to shriek when furious.

A momentary expression of surprise flitted across Algernon’s eyes. “A wife’s place is to support her husband.”

“And you are to be my lord and master?” she asked, wondering if he would try to deny his own words.

He didn’t. His brows lowered and his voice deepened even further, now tinged with anger. “Yes, and it’s time we discussed your behavior, Beth.”

She winced at the nickname. When they first met, he’d called her Beth, not Lizzie, even though she’d told him she much preferred Lizzie, the childhood nickname her uncle had given her. It was further proof that he didn’t care about her, only what her presence could provide him.

“I’ve been lenient with you, and it’s clearly not the right approach. A wife’s duty—”

“I’m not marrying you, Algernon. The wedding is off.” She raised her chin, hoping the defiant move would give her more confidence to face him.

“Like bloody hell it is. You’d have me look the fool?” Algernon started toward her, and a wave of fear sent her stumbling back a step. He was over six feet tall; if he wished her harm, there was little she could do to stop him.

“Lizzie?” Uncle George’s voice came down from the top of the stairs, gold light bathing his figure from behind. Elizabeth rushed toward him, flying up the steps so quickly that her crème satin pumps nearly fell off her feet.

Her uncle caught her arm when she tried to skirt around him to get away from Algernon. “Wait. What’s the matter?”

“It’s nothing, Uncle George,” she lied. “I’m feeling rather unwell, is all. I thought perhaps I would turn in early.” She shot a glance back at Algernon, who glowered at her in the shadows by the fountain.

What a fool she had been thinking he was her dream. The man was a brute, a controlling tyrant who would have broken her spirit to suit his antiquated expectations. If she hadn’t heard him speaking to his friends, she might have ended up making the most terrible mistake of her life.

“Very well, go on to bed. Have Aabha prepare you some tea.” George gave her arm a gentle squeeze before letting go.

Elizabeth slipped past him and rushed down the hall into the private wing of the plantation house where her bedchamber was. The rest of the plantation home was blessedly quiet; only the cries of distant langurs and koel birds intruded upon the silence.

“Jiji?” a lyrical voice asked as Elizabeth reached the door to her bedroom. A beautiful woman in her early forties with hair so dark it shimmered purple like a raven’s wing in the light stood at the end of the hall.

“Aabha,” Elizabeth greeted in relief. There was only one woman in the house who called her jiji.

Aabha was her uncle’s housekeeper, a local Assamese woman who’d lived on the plantation nearly as long as her uncle had. She moved silently in red silk slippers, and her sari, a blend of brilliant gold and blue, glowed against her olive skin. She came to Elizabeth and clutched her hands.

“What has happened, jiji?”

Elizabeth hugged the woman who had become her friend and confidant these past several months. “It’s awful. Algernon and I . . . it’s over.”

“Come and sit.” Aabha pulled her by the hand into Elizabeth’s bedchamber. Her eyes were warm and rich. “Now, what is this about? What has happened between you and your handsome man?”

She caught sight of herself in the tall gilt mirror in one corner, her lovely green satin evening gown with freshly cut white lilies pinned to her shoulder. She’d felt so glamorous only hours ago. Now she felt like a schoolgirl playing dress-up.

“I thought I knew who he was, but I was wrong. I’m a fool.” Elizabeth hated to admit to her failings, but she knew Aabha wouldn’t judge her.

“It is hard to know someone in so short a time.” Her rich, lilting voice was like a lullaby to Elizabeth. She always smelled of jasmine and orange flowers, and as she curled an arm around Elizabeth’s shoulder, Elizabeth felt the pain of her impending departure from Assam all the more deeply. This was what she was leaving behind, the only family she had aside from her brother, Alan, and Uncle George that felt real. The magic of this place would fade from her life the moment she boarded a ship for England.

“I’ve ended my engagement with Algernon. That means I must leave.”

The older woman didn’t say anything, but held Elizabeth close for a long time. All about the bedroom, baskets of blooming jasmine filled the air with their heady fragrance, and the songs of the koel birds made tonight even more of a melancholy dream. One that Elizabeth would cling to in the coming days.

“When will you go?” Aabha asked.

“I shall purchase a ticket for the ship that leaves tomorrow.” Her gaze fell to the stack of presents, all wrapped in shimmering ivory paper. They were wedding presents from the men Algernon had been speaking with tonight. The men who had laughed and agreed that she was only fit to be a man’s shadow.

“What are you thinking, jiji?” Aabha asked, her tone wary.

“I’m thinking I should use those thoughtful gifts to help buy a ticket home.” She didn’t want a single present from those men, and it seemed only fitting to take the money from gifts that represented her shackled imprisonment to break herself free.

“But your uncle would pay—”

“He would, but I would rather him keep his money and have him buy you a new sari from the market, or perhaps a scarf.”

Aabha’s laughter tugged a smile from Elizabeth. “Sahib always does, even when I tell him not to.”

“Will you take care of him for me?” Elizabeth grasped Aabha’s hands with earnestness. “I so want to stay here, but I can’t.”

Aabha cupped her face. “I will never leave him, I promise you.”

“Thank you.” For many years now, her uncle had shared a life with this woman in what ways he could. They were matched in temperament and enjoyed each other’s company far better than the wife society had deemed acceptable for him. Elizabeth held no judgment against her uncle for loving this woman. In fact, she wished the world would allow for more people to be together, no matter where they came from or who they were. Aabha was the best choice for a companion of Uncle George’s heart. But because others would condemn him, it must forever be a secret.

“Could you do something for me, Aabha? I must pack, but I need these presents sold for ticket money. Could you ask one of the servants to run to the market and see it done this evening?”

“Leave it to me,” Aabha promised with a conspiratorial smile. “It is better not to keep such things for a marriage that will not happen.”

“Thank you.” Elizabeth hugged her again, and then the housekeeper collected the presents and left Elizabeth alone.

She collapsed onto the velvet cushioned seat at the vanity table her uncle had bought for her and removed her pearl drop earrings and delicate gold bracelets. These were the wedding gifts that mattered, the earrings from her uncle and the bracelets from Aabha. They were the only items she would cherish, wedding or not.

Then she faced herself in the mirror. The person looking back at her wasn’t a worldly woman of twenty-three. She looked like a tired young schoolgirl. Elizabeth covered her face with her hands, but no tears came. No, she was too weary for that now. Carrying an exhaustion that she wished she could banish, she packed her trunk. Long after the guests had gone, she went to speak to her uncle.

Uncle George was in his study, puffing on a cigar. The smoke coiled in tendrils up into the air as he leaned back in his chair. A lamp on a large desk illuminated a newspaper, which currently held his attention. He stroked his chin thoughtfully and turned a page. Behind him, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were packed with a hundred books on dozens of subjects.

Elizabeth paused in the doorway and had a moment to take in the sight of her uncle surrounded in warm light, cigar smoke clouds blossoming above his head. Something inside her cried out a warning that she might never see this again. Perhaps it was the troubling talk of Europe facing a conflict from a restless Germany again. The memories and the pain of the Great War were felt even here in India. Her uncle was one of many men who had fought on the once-golden fields of France and still bore the scars from crawling through trenches lined with barbed wire.

Something whispered in the back of her mind that change was coming and that this brief period of joy here with the people she loved would never be recaptured.

With a rustle of paper, her uncle set his pipe on an ashtray and glanced up to see her. He pushed his chair back and stood.

“Lizzie, I thought you would be in bed.”

“I’m sorry for disturbing you, Uncle George, but I must speak with you.”

“Well, come in, my dear, come in.” He nodded to the leather armchair situated near his desk, but Elizabeth couldn’t sit. If she settled in that worn brown leather chair, she would never have the courage to do what she must.

“What’s the matter? Have you and Britt had a lovers’ quarrel?” Her uncle was teasing, but he had no idea how close he was to the truth.

“The wedding is off.” She folded her hands together in front of her to hide their sudden shaking.

“Oh?” That single syllable held a note of questioning and concern, but no anger or judgment. She was relieved he wasn’t angry. She had known he wouldn’t be.

Her parents, on the other hand . . .

“What happened?” George came to her, gently lifting her chin when she tried to look down at her feet in mortification.

“He isn’t the man I thought he was . . . It became clear tonight that he and I would be dreadfully unhappy. I was so very blind about him . . . such a fool.”

George’s shrewd gaze left her certain that he understood. “Better to know it now than to find out later. And you’re not a fool. You’ve done well matching your other friends, but you simply rushed your own decision. I’d rather you take your time than marry a man who would be a danger to your happiness.”

“Algernon was so very upset tonight, and I shudder to think how things would be if I stayed, and . . .”

“You must return to England,” he finished, shoulders dropping slightly.

Elizabeth bit her lip and nodded. “I would give anything to stay, but you know how it will be. He is an adored man here, and I’ll be shunned for crying off.”

George sighed. “Even here in the East, we cannot escape the reach of cultured society and its expectations, can we?”

“It seems not. Although part of me would rather brave the mess here than return and face Mama and Papa.”

“That’s understandable. I love your mother, but she can be harsh at times. Marrying your father only hardened her further.” He paused. “When will you leave?”

“Tomorrow.”

He nodded, accepting the news gravely. “I shall buy your ticket.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No, no, I’ll pay for it.”

“If you’re sure . . .”

Elizabeth forced a smile. “I am. I have a little money that I should really like to use for the passage back.”

“And what will you do when you get home? I can’t imagine you will idle your days away in Cambridge on the farm.”

She pictured days mucking out a stall or throwing out feed for a brood of messy white-feathered hens. “Neither can I. I honestly don’t know what I’ll do.”

“You know, my dear, I’ve had a thought . . . What if, when you get back to England, you do something about all these lonely lads here in India? There are plenty of decent chaps—the ones not friendly with Britt, of course.” His eyes twinkled with the mischief that she had inherited from his side of the family.

“Do what with them?”

“Make matches, my dear. You have a good sense of people, even though you are still learning about yourself. Why not put that skill to use? You coupled Miss Palmer with Mr. Elliott last week, and by all accounts, they are blissfully happy. Think of the scores of marriage-minded women in London, each longing to escape their own farms and parents to find marital bliss. Those girls are like gold dust here, and the young men who visit England for just a few months never have the chance to meet any eligible ladies. Think of all the good you could do. Make the matches that will last, the matches that will bring happiness. Be a bridge that unites people in love.”

“A matchmaker . . .” Elizabeth turned the thought around in her mind. “But wouldn’t people expect some eccentric old woman with white hair and spectacles rather than me? I could scarcely trust my own judgment after Algernon—”

“Forget Algernon and forget yourself. You know others, my dear. That’s all you need.” He gave her a warm hug. “Think it over and be off to bed. I’ll escort you to the ship tomorrow morning.”

Elizabeth walked slowly through the halls back to her room, pondering the idea. Did England need a matchmaker? Could she even build a profession from such a thing? She lay awake long into the night, and as she finally drifted into jasmine-scented dreams, she imagined what it could mean to be a bridge that united people.

CHAPTER 2

England

February 1939

“Something is wrong with the girl.” Ethel Mowbray clanged a teapot hard on the wooden kitchen table. “She’s not behaving the way she should, John. She’s stubborn, obstinate, a silly romantic who refuses to get married when she knows that’s what she ought to do.”

“I agree,” John Mowbray muttered. “We must do something. Letting her live here with us at her age, it’s nonsense. I have no intention of supporting an old maid. We need her off our hands.”

Elizabeth hid at the top of the stairs of the old farmhouse, just barely able to see her parents at the table, speaking. She listened to her parents discuss her future with such barely concealed disgust that her heart clenched in pain. She had expected this when she’d come home from India, but she hadn’t imagined they could be so cruel as to see her as useless. She worked hard on the farm, just like everyone else. Why didn’t that matter to them? Other daughters from the local farms didn’t have parents like hers. They were the fortunate ones.

The thought that a woman’s only function was to be married off so as to relieve her parents was simply idiotic. In Elizabeth’s view, marriage should be about mutual desire and lifelong companionship. Uncle George had said that life was a journey best shared with another whom one liked immensely. To hear her parents speak, she was, by her unavoidable nature as a woman, a burden to be passed on to someone else.

She wasn’t the only girl to face the fate of an unmarried woman living at home. Plenty of women who worked in shops, as secretaries, or even those assisting with the home were trapped in a cycle of endless days where they had no true enjoyment of life.

But what could a woman do to stay self-sufficient and still feel a sense of satisfaction? Most jobs barely paid enough for a woman to buy her food and still live with her family. Being able to have a job was one thing, but if she really wanted to get out of this farmhouse and fully support herself, she needed a business. She had to figure out a product or a service that could be offered that a lot of people would need on a consistent basis. It needed to be something that could offer her a steady stream of clients or customers, and in return, a steady stream of livable income.

Elizabeth bit her lip, thinking over what she was good at, which wasn’t much. She had no special skills that people would pay for, and she couldn’t create things. She would give anything to have a talent for something useful.

“She has a month,” her father said. “Then she must leave. I don’t want to face any more people in town and have to explain that she’s still here.”

A month . . .

Elizabeth moved back from the stairs, not wanting to hear another word.

“Lizzie.” She turned at the sound of her brother’s questioning voice, which was soft enough to go unheard by their parents.

It was close to midnight, and Alan stood in the doorway to his bedroom, wearing his pajamas. His dark hair was mussed from sleep. He had grown up so much while she’d been away in India. The long-limbed, awkward boy was gone, and in his place was a young man of seventeen, one who would be entering university early to study advanced radio and elementary German. He’d always been so clever at school, and Cambridge had taken notice, thanks to her father’s connections to several professors there.

The world had changed as she’d sailed away from the shores of India. England was bracing for another war . . . so soon after the Great War had ended with such devastating consequences. She’d been a tiny child when the Great War ended, but her parents and the others their age still remembered. Men still carried the scars, and families still carried the burden of losing brothers, fathers, and husbands. England couldn’t go through that horror again.

“I didn’t mean to wake you, Alan. Go back to bed.” She started to walk past, but he stopped her.

Now over six foot, he towered above her. The boy she had protected with all her heart against the world was now a man, one upon the precipice of entering the conflict that Elizabeth dreaded was drawing nearer. It was like she was in a darkened wood and she sensed a shadowy presence coming ever closer, like a wolf trailing her as she struggled to find her way home. The fear of what loomed ahead, that it could take Alan from her . . . Elizabeth’s chest knotted with pain and fear, but she dared not let him see it.

“You know I’m too old for you to order me about.” Alan smiled and opened his door wider, gesturing for her to come inside. She did, and he sat on his bed while she paced to the window. She hoped he didn’t want to talk about their parents.

“It isn’t true, you know,” he said.

She winced. So he had heard them talking.

“They just don’t understand you,” Alan added, his tone soft. “You’re different. You have dreams that should carry you beyond this place.”

Something about her little brother’s gentleness in that moment chipped away at her carefully built defenses. He was the only one who ever saw her at her most vulnerable. The rest of the world saw her as a bubbly little creature with a bright smile and a cheerful disposition.

“I’m not sure even I understand me.” The words came out in a whisper. “I’m no use to anyone. I have no head for arithmetic, no skill with my hands to be a seamstress or a milliner. I can’t be trusted to stay focused on shopkeeping if I became a clerk.”

“What would you do if you could do anything? Anything at all in the world?” Alan asked.

She faced him, wrapping her fingers in the collar of her dressing gown. “I . . .”

“Don’t think with your head—answer with your heart.”

“When did you become so wise, little brother?” she teased, but her eyes began to fill with tears.

“Lizzie . . .”

“Very well.” She closed her eyes and envisioned herself back in India, putting away the memories of Algernon, burying those deep enough that only other memories remained. Those of dozens of faces at the social events in Assam she had attended. So many of those faces had one thing in common. Loneliness.

“I want to bring people together. I want to fight loneliness. Uncle George had this mad idea that I should be a matchmaker.”

“Then that is what you must do.”

She laughed at the thought of simply declaring she would be a matchmaker. “Just like that?” It wasn’t that simple. It couldn’t be.

Uncle George’s words came back to her. Be the bridge that unites people in love.

If she started arranging matches, she would offer a path to freedom for those women, a path that led to a man who matched her, who valued her for herself and didn’t see her as a burden. But how could she even begin this endeavor? Where did she start? Would people even pay for such a service?

“Papa’s sister, Isabelle, is in London. You should write to her, go and stay with her. I’m sure she’ll let you. She knows everyone. If anyone can help you, she can.”

It wasn’t a bad idea. Isabelle had escaped farm life to make something of herself as a model and then a fashion designer in London. No one who saw her now would ever have guessed that she’d grown up in a tiny village just outside Cambridge. She was full of gaiety, and her life never had a dull moment.

“And I shall leave you here with them?” Elizabeth jerked her head toward the door.

“You can and you will. Besides, I leave for school soon, and they won’t be able to stop me doing what I wish, not with my schooling being fully funded by scholarships. Besides, Papa is proud of me and wants me to leave the farm.”

Alan’s gaze moved to the stack of books on his small writing desk in the corner. On top of the stack, a pamphlet about the Royal Navy stood out in stark colors against the old, battered books.

“Oh, Alan . . . Are you sure you should enlist?” Elizabeth wanted to keep him a child, keep him safe from the world, but that would be no different than what her parents wanted for her. A life that was built around safety. Safety so often could be boring. Lives were meant to be lived.

“I’ll be fine, Lizzie.” Alan stood and grasped her hands, squeezing them. “If I volunteer sooner, there’s a chance I’ll be an officer.”

“But you’re only seventeen . . .”

“Eighteen in four months,” he reminded her. “Not even you, with all your stubbornness, can stop me from joining up.”

“You should get to bed,” she said. All the other things she had wanted to say seemed too much, too powerful, and threatened to choke her with emotion as they stayed trapped upon her tongue.

Alan chuckled. “You too. Tomorrow is another day to conquer.”

It was a long while before Elizabeth could fall asleep. She stayed up and penned a letter to her aunt for tomorrow’s post. She couldn’t stay here on the farm, couldn’t let the past control her future. There was only one way to go now, and that way was forward.

March 1939

Living with Aunt Isabelle was easy, so easy that often Elizabeth would pause and wonder if she’d fallen asleep and was dreaming. Isabelle was a fashion designer who worked under Norman Hartnell. And as a beautiful single woman in her midthirties, she had an ever-whirling social schedule. Thankfully, she seemed to have no qualms about taking a farmer’s daughter to her lavish West End parties, as she was tonight.

“Tonight, simply everyone will be there.” Isabelle swiped an eyeliner pencil over her lids as she studied herself in her vanity mirror. She always knew how to put on makeup to make her blue eyes glow.

Elizabeth sat on the end of the bed and watched Isabelle apply a coral shade of lipstick and lightly fluff her long chestnut hair in its carefully styled feminine pompadour that left the front section of her hair rolled back in a wave and the rest artfully falling down her shoulders in the back in loose waves. It was a hairstyle that Elizabeth never had the patience for herself.

“Go put on that gown I laid out for you. I swear, if I see one more gingham-print dress on you, I shall die,” Isabelle declared with her usual drama, but it only made Elizabeth laugh.

She did as Isabelle ordered and slipped into the dark-blue princess gown with capped sleeves and a sweetheart neckline. It was embroidered with silver flowers, and it draped dramatically over her body. The gown was too glamorous for her, but Aunt Isabelle was right in one respect. A gingham dress simply would not do, not for the sort of party they were attending this evening. A wealthy brigadier-general and his wife, who had recently returned from abroad in Ceylon, had settled in a large house in Chelsea and were reacquainting themselves with friends old and new.

“Ready?” Isabelle appeared in the doorway, striking quite a figure in her black velvet evening gown. She was willowy, with the perfect figure for fashion. She had been a model in Paris for a year before winning Norman Hartnell’s eye with her natural talent for design.

“I’m ready.” Elizabeth joined her aunt as they took a cab to the party.

“Now, when we arrive, I must speak with everyone. You may stay at my side or go about the party as you please.” Isabelle leaned forward to peer at the row of cars along the street a few minutes later. “It’s just there.” She pointed out the townhouse to the cabdriver.

“Here we are, loves.” The driver smiled broadly at Isabelle, who slipped him his fare before they left the vehicle. They both stood facing the door to the home.

“Chin up, my dear,” her aunt said. “No worlds were ever conquered by a woman who stared at her feet.”

Elizabeth lifted her chin, more than ever aware of how much she and Isabelle were alike, forging their own paths away from convention. Yet for the last month Elizabeth had felt adrift upon a vast sea, rudderless, unable to get her bearings. She knew what she wished to do, but she had no idea how to do it.

She followed her aunt into a glittering home full of classical music and exquisitely attired party guests. Everywhere Elizabeth turned, there were people happy to be alive. It was as though everyone could sense the coming darkness, and they were desperate to create as much light as they could for as long as possible before they lost it.

“Come meet the brigadier and his wife.” Isabelle pulled her along to meet a commanding man in his late fifties and his wife, who were holding court by the entryway. They were a fine set, he in his formal army dress uniform and his wife in a white-and-gold ballgown.

“Isabelle! Glad you could come!” The brigadier’s booming voice carried all the way across the room.

“Brigadier Byron,” Isabelle greeted. “Mrs. Byron.” Isabelle then nudged Elizabeth forward. “This is my niece, Elizabeth Mowbray.”

“Charmed.” The brigadier shook Elizabeth’s hand, his grip firm and precise in a way that Elizabeth immediately liked. She nodded and smiled at the brigadier’s wife.

“Come in and have a drink.” The brigadier smiled broadly, surprising warmth coming from a man whom Elizabeth had expected to be cool and brusque. “We ordered far too much champagne.” He and his wife shared a chuckle before she rolled her eyes.

Isabelle made a slow round of the room, clearly acquainted with most everyone in attendance. Elizabeth was happy to stay on the fringes, taking it all in. Her eyes were drawn to a stunning blonde woman by the fireplace. She wore a deep-gold evening dress that clung to her skin and flowed like watered silk every time she moved. Confidence and vibrancy emanated from her, yet Elizabeth saw minute fractures in the façade of the woman’s gaiety that likely went unnoticed by those around her. Her dark blue eyes would briefly flash then fade as her false joy vanished.

When she moved away from her crowd of admirers and stepped out alone onto the balcony, Elizabeth followed. The woman lit a cigarette and leaned on the railing to gaze at the perfectly tended garden. When she noticed Elizabeth, she half smiled.

“You can join me. I don’t bite.” Her husky voice, combined with her looks, made her a fascinating subject to study. Elizabeth did like to people-watch, and she learned much from her observations. This was one of the reasons why Uncle George had believed she had a talent for matchmaking.

Elizabeth smiled and stepped up beside her.

“You’re a new face,” the woman observed dryly.

Elizabeth chuckled. “I suppose I am.”

“I know almost everyone here, all old friends of my parents.”

“Your father is the brigadier?”

“He is.”

Elizabeth was a little stunned. Isabelle hadn’t mentioned that the family had a daughter.

“Were you with them in Ceylon, or . . .” Elizabeth halted as she realized the inquiry might be rude.

“I was. We’ve only just moved back. They threw this party for me—unofficially, that is.” The woman didn’t seem pleased about it at all, despite the fact that she looked like the sort of woman everyone would want at the center of a grand gathering such as this.

“You’re not happy about that, are you?” Elizabeth guessed.

“My mother believes my spirits need lifting, and she also wishes for me to remarry. A bloody nuisance, that.” The woman took a drag on her cigarette, then held the pack out to Elizabeth.

She waved the offer away. “No, thank you. Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“Not at all. I’m feeling generous tonight.”

“You were married before?”

At this, the woman held her cigarette away from her as though the taste no longer appealed to her. She tapped the ashes on the railing before stubbing it out in a nearby standing ashtray.

“I was. I met him in Ceylon. He was one of those dashing young men under my father’s command. A girl can make a fool of herself for a man in uniform, can’t she?” She offered Elizabeth a rueful smile. “But one day, you wake up and realize that the glowing bubble of desire has popped and all that is left is . . . nothing. We had not one thing in common. We didn’t even like each other. So we divorced.”

“Desire can be fleeting. Truly liking a person lasts far longer.” It was something Elizabeth had noticed in India when she’d paired together two friends, Miss Palmer and Mr. Elliott. They had genuinely enjoyed each other’s company in a platonic sense too, not just physical desire. The pangs of desire only lasted so long, and someday a man and a woman had to be able to enjoy each other’s company when not blinded by youthful lust.

“It’s easy to think you’re in love when the world lies at your feet and all about you is an exotic, sunlit land. I was worshiped, but worshiping is not the same as loving, you know.” She turned around to lean back against the balcony railing, her eyes drifting over the exuberant crowds just inside. This woman understood loneliness. She understood the mistake a person could make when marrying without thinking it through and learning about the other person. Elizabeth felt an instant kinship with this woman she didn’t even know.

A sudden idea struck Elizabeth. What if she had a business partner, someone to do the matchmaking with her? It would be brilliant. It would be fun and . . . But how to ask her?

“Wouldn’t it be rather lovely to meet a man who was clearly suited to your needs?” Elizabeth asked, keeping the rush of excitement out of her tone. There was something about this woman that drew Elizabeth to her, wanting to be friends with her. She was someone who had everything she could ever dream of, yet she hadn’t found the one thing she wanted—real love.

“It would be rather nice to meet a man who truly suited me and not what everyone else wants for me.” The woman’s face softened as she watched her father twirl her mother about on the floor. “I want a partner in life, not someone to command me about like a foot soldier.”

“I know exactly what you mean. I escaped the prospect of a wretched marriage to a man everyone else adored. He was a tyrant, and I didn’t even realize it until it was almost too late.”

The two women stayed quiet a long moment, and then Elizabeth held out her hand.

“I am Elizabeth Mowbray. Lizzie, if you prefer.”

The woman shook her hand. “Henrietta Byron, I didn’t keep my married name. Everyone I adore calls me Hetty. And I think I might like you enough for you to do the same.” She chuckled as if at some private joke. “Do you live in London?”

“I do for now. I’m living with my aunt Isabelle until I sort out what I want to do. Once I have gainful employment, perhaps I’ll be able to afford a flat on my own.”

Hetty leaned toward her a little. “What do you wish to do?”

“Well, that’s just it. I have a rather mad idea, you see.”

“Do tell. I adore mad ideas.” Hetty said this with a mischievous grin.

“My uncle George . . . Oh, you see, this is a rather long story. I was in India when I broke off that engagement I mentioned.”

“Good for you.” Hetty gave her a mock salute. “Another liberated woman joins the ranks.”

A blush rose in Elizabeth’s face. “Yes, well, my dear uncle . . .”

“George?” Hetty supplied with a wink.

“Yes, Uncle George had this rather striking idea that I should become a matchmaker.”

“A matchmaker?” Hetty didn’t laugh at this, which Elizabeth saw as a small victory. She was taking her seriously.

“Yes. You see, I’m good at reading other people. Certainly not when it comes to my own romantic affairs, but with others, I have rather a knack for pairing people off. I matched a few of my friends to good success, and, well, isn’t that something that matters?”

“Marrying people off, you mean?” Hetty chewed her bottom lip in thought.

“No. It’s not about simply marrying them off. It’s about building a bridge that connects two people in harmony. If there had been someone to speak to me and my ex-fiancé when we were apart from each other and get a better sense of what we both wanted in a marriage, there might never have been an engagement, you see? Someone could’ve warned me that we would not have suited.”

“But isn’t that the sort of business spinster great-aunts deal in?” Hetty teased. Elizabeth knew that she wasn’t being taken seriously anymore.

“When you were in Ceylon, you came back on a ship. Don’t you remember what it was like? Barely any girls spread out among the masses of men. And those men were all bound for home, desperate to find a wife, lonely, sex-starved, and forlorn. I’m not half so pretty as you, and yet nearly every man aboard was giving me the glad eye. I could have gotten engaged half a dozen times before we even made it into port.”

Hetty was listening now, really listening, so Elizabeth continued. “These men returned to England to visit their families, but they’re really on the prowl for a girl to marry. They have only a few months before they must return to Ceylon or India or wherever, and they won’t leave for home again for a long time.”

“Most of the men in Ceylon have no hope in hell of finding a wife,” Hetty added thoughtfully. “They outnumber the eligible girls by thousands.”

“And,” Elizabeth continued in excitement, “most will marry whatever halfway presentable girl who comes along, and we both know how terrible that will be. So my idea is that we introduce them to suitable girls while they are on leave. I have quite a few girlfriends who would be happy to be introduced to eligible men. Think of it—so many men coming home, so many women here seeking husbands, yet they never meet. We can make a business of it—a marriage agency.”

“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

Elizabeth reached into her purse and produced a slip of paper. “I am, and I would love for you to join me. I think we’d deal well together as business partners.”

She hastily wrote down her address and phone number. Hetty accepted the card and opened a silver card case engraved with her initials and gave Elizabeth her own information.

“I’ll think on it,” Hetty promised.

“Good.” Elizabeth noticed Isabelle was waving at her that she was ready to leave. “Well, it was lovely to meet you.” Then she dashed off to join her aunt.

Hetty watched the little auburn-haired young woman walk away. She couldn’t get the thought out of her head. A marriage agency . . . It was a truly novel idea—either a mad one or an utterly brilliant one. She lit a new cigarette and turned her focus back to her parents. The brigadier was still regaling his eager audience with tales from Ceylon.

A pang of longing struck Hetty’s heart. She missed the golden sun and the promise of endless adventures there. She had been the toast of every young man, adored and desired. It had been an addictive feeling. But she was not the silly young creature men believed her to be. It always amazed her how often men assumed the loveliness of one’s face accompanied a lack of intellect or fortitude.

This wasn’t true for Hetty. She was organized, thorough, calculating, and a clever strategist. Her father had often remarked how those qualities would have a served her well in the armed forces had she been a man. He’d spoiled her, giving her money and a nice little flat upon returning to London so she could enjoy a life of parties, gossip, and flirtations while she pursued employment as an actress and model. He’d guessed she would miss the life she’d had in Ceylon, and he’d been right. Still, she couldn’t have stayed there forever; she’d always known she would come back to London and get on with life.

Her father’s gift of a lavish lifestyle had been enough to get her by until tonight. Until she met Elizabeth Mowbray. They were around the same age and faced the same diverging path in their lives where they must choose between doing what society expected or defying convention completely. Hetty liked to think she was brave and bold enough to defy those conventions, but without a plan, she didn’t know where to begin.

Elizabeth clearly knew what she wanted to do. The light in her eyes as she spoke of matching up lonely people had touched Hetty at a time when she believed herself to be too jaded to feel inspired by life ever again. Hetty wanted to feel that same spark of self-discovery that burned so brightly inside Elizabeth. She was imaginative and romantic, while Hetty had always been practical and logical.

Her petite new friend had impishly good looks and a quick mind and tongue, all things that Hetty respected. Lizzie would be an equal both in friendship and business. But could she, a woman determined to be on the silver screen, abandon such plans to chase an idea like this? Hetty took in the night air and exhaled, a hint of smoke winding up in the air as she let the cigarette calm her thoughts.

Three hours later, she’d made her decision and rang the phone number Elizabeth had given to her. Isabelle answered.

“This is Henrietta Byron. May I speak to Elizabeth Mowbray?”

“Yes, yes, one moment.”

A few seconds later, Elizabeth answered.

“Hetty?”

Hetty paused briefly before responding. “I’ve given it some thought. You know it’s a lunatic idea, quite simply batty. However . . . I’ve decided I’ll join you and give it a whirl. But I don’t like the word agency. Let’s call it the Marriage Bureau.”

CHAPTER 3

Elizabeth sat in a tea shop near Paddington station, fretfully twirling a handkerchief between her fingers as she waited for Hetty. Each time the tea shop door opened, a brass bell tinkled, and she would look up hopefully only to be disappointed by the appearance of someone else. One minute before their agreed meeting time, Hetty strolled boldly in, wearing a striking red-and-black-plaid two-piece suit and black peep-toe mesh heels, a small red hat perched at a jaunty angle on her golden hair. She looked like she’d just stepped off a movie set and was ready for her publicity interviews.

“I was worried you wouldn’t show,” Elizabeth confessed as the other woman sat down.

At this, Hetty smiled. “Never fret. I’m here, aren’t I?” She then waved over a waitress to order tea and sandwiches. “I thought we could discuss the particulars of the business.”

Elizabeth nodded and pulled out a small leather-bound journal to take notes. “We will need to do this aboveboard and give no one a reason to doubt or defame us.” Elizabeth considered this one of the most important aspects of their business, to be fully legitimate and trustworthy. “I thought, once we have our ideas formed and our rules laid out, we could practice interviewing our friends and build a small group of clients until we can open to the general public.”

“That sounds reasonable enough,” Hetty agreed.

A waitress brought them a tea service and two plates of cucumber sandwiches.

“Where to start?” Elizabeth nibbled on her sandwich. “A category to match the prospective couples on?”

“Yes.” Hetty added a sugar lump to her tea and stirred it, her gaze distant as she considered the matter. “We don’t want to match anyone with too much disparity in their backgrounds, whether it’s money, social circles, or religion. No pairing mechanics with wealthy heiresses—at least, unless we have reason to believe such a match would actually work for the couple.”

Elizabeth began jotting down notes. “We could make notes on the client’s file if they are open to different backgrounds and religions, of course, but I think you’re right. We can begin our matching by looking at similar backgrounds and circumstances. The last thing we need is to become a haven for fortune hunters who are digging for money.”

“Agreed. I’ve seen my fair share of those, and while they are fun to be chased by, you must never let them put a ring upon your finger.”

Hetty studied Elizabeth’s notes and frowned ever so slightly. “We had better have proper forms drawn up. Forms with questions, but also basic information such as height, general looks, and age. We’ll need a quick reference for when we begin the mating.”

Elizabeth couldn’t help but laugh. “The mating?”

“Well, it’s rather fitting, don’t you think? We are mating two profiles together. I thought you would appreciate the romanticism of it.”

“I do,” Elizabeth assured her, then leaned in to whisper, “but we ought not to let the clients hear that’s what we call it. It would be far too scandalous.”

A little smile escaped Hetty. “I don’t mind the scandal, but you’re right. It will be a private term just for us. Now, what else . . . ? We interview them and make notes in addition to the information on their forms. Then we mate them to a suitable candidate. We reach out to our female client first to see if she wants to meet the man.”

“Do you think we ought to have them start a letter correspondence as the first step when communicating with their matches?” Elizabeth bit the end of her pen, mulling it over. “People tend to be more honest in writing than in speaking—at least in circumstances such as these, I think.”

Hetty nudged a cup of tea toward Elizabeth, who drank it gratefully. She could easily get lost in a project and quite forget to eat or drink sometimes.

“Now, about the money,” Hetty said. “What do you think of a modest fee that a client pays upon registration to cover a year’s worth of introductions? Then, if one of our clients marries someone we’ve introduced them to through the bureau, they pay a more substantial after-marriage fee to the bureau. That way, we will be able to remain a viable business.”

Penning notes regarding fees, Elizabeth nodded.

“What about the legalities?” Elizabeth asked. “I spoke with a detective at Scotland Yard this morning. He could not say definitely that this was illegal, but he told me to consult a solicitor and obtain a permit from the London County Council.”

“You went to Scotland Yard?” Hetty giggled, the girlish sound revealing a softer, younger side to the beautiful model. “What on earth did the detective think of you?”

Elizabeth giggled in return. “He didn’t know what to make of me. I quite baffled him. I don’t suppose they receive many inquiries of a non-criminal nature.”

“I should imagine not.” Hetty finished her tea. “But it is a fair point. We definitely should see a solicitor. That would lend us some much-needed legitimacy.” She collected her purse as Elizabeth finished the last bit of her tea and tucked her notebook in her small portfolio case.

“My father knows nearly everyone. I remember a law firm he’s mentioned, Driscoll and Marley. We ought to start there.”

They took a cab to the West End and climbed the steps to a brick building with a gold-plated sign with the name of the firm on the outside door. They were ushered into a waiting room by a pretty receptionist near their own age. Hetty gave the woman her name and asked for Harold Pennworth. They were soon escorted to a corner office, where a middle-aged man greeted them with a fawning smile reserved especially for Hetty.

“My dear Miss Byron, how wonderful of you to visit. How is your father?”

“Quite well. He’s recently returned from Ceylon, but I’m sure you already know,” Hetty said.

“Oh yes, quite so, quite so. One always keeps abreast of the news of one’s friends.” He went around the edge of his monolithic desk, which was polished to such a striking sheen that Elizabeth could see her reflection in it. Hetty shot her a significant look, which Elizabeth understood at once. This man, with his overly friendly manner, clearly believed that Hetty would give him a positive reference to her father that would result in business from the brigadier coming his way.

“Please sit.” He waved at two expensive-looking armchairs, and they sat down. “Now, what may I help you with?”

“We wish to start a business and want to make sure we go about it properly,” Hetty said primly, which secretly amused Elizabeth. Hetty was many wonderful and striking things, but prim was not one of them.

“Wonderful. What sort of business is it?” The solicitor collected a pad of paper and a pen and set them on his desk.

“Well . . .” Elizabeth explained their idea for the Marriage Bureau. The man’s jowls slowly dropped in horror.

“Ladies, you cannot expect to run such a service! Why . . . It’s unsavory at best, and at worst . . . it’s most egregiously uncivil and against the laws of God and man. Prostitution—”

“Prostitution?” Hetty cut in sharply. “We didn’t say anything about that.”

The man arched a brow. “Bringing men and women together, taking money for matching these men to your ex-debutante friends in need of stable income, all under the charming guise of two well-bred ladies who run a brothel as madams? Oh yes, I’m sure some wealthy men would find that most amusing, but it doesn’t change the fact that it would indeed be a brothel.” By this point, the man’s face had turned a frightening shade of red, and his breathing had grown harsh.

Elizabeth inched forward in her chair, her own body reacting with sudden panic. Was that what people would really think about them? That they were madams running a brothel? She’d never imagined for a single moment that what they’d planned would be seen in such a light. The shock and disappointment left her chest hollow.

“Well, it seems we didn’t quite explain ourselves,” Hetty countered. “We are not planning to open a high-end brothel. We simply want to create a service that helps lonely couples match based on personalities in order to create lasting marriages, not brief dalliances.” Hetty gave the man such a strong glare of disapproval that he calmed somewhat, but he obviously remained unconvinced.

“Assuming this is even legal, do you have enough capital to make a proper go of it?” He crossed his arms over his chest and lowered his brows, still clearly judging the pair of them. It was obvious this was not the man they should work with. It was time to find a different solicitor.

Elizabeth raised her head, making herself appear as innocent as possible before speaking to Hetty.

“I don’t believe we have enough capital to pull this off. What do you think?”

“I think you are right. We are in over our heads,” Hetty replied with a perfect look of disapproval. “Perhaps we ought not to waste Mr. Pennworth’s time further.”

“I quite agree.” Elizabeth stood. “Thank you so much for your time, sir.”

The man sputtered for a response, but they left his office so quickly he didn’t have time to form words.

As they exited Pennworth’s office, the young receptionist rushed after them.

“Oh! Please, I didn’t mean to overhear,” the girl said with a blush. “It’s just . . . I think your business is a wonderful idea . . . and I would very much like to be contacted. That is . . .” She cleared her throat. “If you end up starting it, would you reach out to me?” The woman held out a cream-colored card with her name, address, and telephone number.

“You want to be a client?” Elizabeth asked, barely able to contain her excitement.

“Yes.” The woman grinned sheepishly. “I haven’t had much time to go out to parties and meet men. With my workload, I stay busy and am simply too tired in the evenings to go out searching. It would be ever so much better if I had someone to help me find eligible men.”

Hetty took the card and tucked it safely in her purse. “Not to worry, we will be opening soon, and I’ll send you our client questionnaire once we’re all set.”

“Thank you!” The woman smiled again before hastily ducking back to her desk.

Once outside Driscoll and Marley’s office building, Hetty and Elizabeth paused on the top step to collect themselves. Hetty frowned.

“Well, that wasn’t what I expected, with Pennworth at any rate. The brigadier certainly won’t bring any clients to him. But at least we have a potential client.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Perhaps we need to find a solicitor who is a bit more modern in their thinking? Surely you know someone younger?”

They went across the street to sit on a park bench. Hetty removed a little black book from her purse. As she opened it, Elizabeth saw that hundreds of names and addresses filled the pages. The names, all crafted in Hetty’s elaborate penmanship, were quite illegible to Elizabeth.

“Let’s see . . . Oh no, not him.” Hetty traced a finger down the page, muttering to herself. “Too nervous . . . too overeager . . . not eager enough . . . Oh, Humphrey! Yes, he’s perfect. Quite the one to understand what we’re about.”

“Humphrey it is, then.”

Elizabeth felt more encouraged when they arrived at Mr. Humphrey’s office.

“You’ll like him, Lizzie. He’s a wonderful chap. A bit cheeky, perhaps, but brilliant. His father is an earl, but he’s not stuffy like some of those people can be. I should know, since I run about with that set.”

“What set?”

“Oh, there’s a group of young men who were always up to trouble, but the fun kind. And there was a group of us ladies who loved to tag along when we were younger. We’re all adults now, supposed to be respectable.” Hetty grinned. “But what’s that saying about a leopard and their spots? Anyway, my point is, I think Humphrey’s our man.”

“I trust you, but why didn’t you consider him before?” Elizabeth asked as they stepped into the small reception of the new firm.

“He’s only just recently become a solicitor. I wasn’t sure if he’d be comfortable handling something a bit off the usual pace, but he’s infinitely clever and won’t lead us astray, even if he might not know the answers.” Hetty moved to speak to the secretary at the front desk.

They were shown into an office and saw an attractive man with flashing gray eyes scribbling furiously on a sheet of paper. His hair was the color of burnished gold and fell into his eyes as he bent over his desk to work. He, like Hetty, was a snappy dresser and looked quite handsome in a double-breasted pin-striped suit. Half a dozen dusty, fat tomes with legal titles on their spines cluttered his desk, creating a small wall around him. He glanced up and smiled broadly at Hetty. He practically leapt to his feet to offer his hand to Hetty.

“Sorry, Hetty, I was deep in a case. It’s quite the case, you see . . .” He shook his head in a charmingly bashful way and sat back. “What can I help you with?”

“Charles, I’d like you to meet Elizabeth Mowbray.”

Elizabeth shook the solicitor’s hand and then exchanged a look with Hetty. “Should I tell him our scheme?”

Hetty nodded, and Elizabeth began to explain the idea of the Marriage Bureau.

Charles listened intently, not speaking or interrupting to ask questions. By the end of her explanation, Elizabeth became nervous about his silence.

“Well? Are we mad or brilliant?” Hetty asked him.

“Mad? Certainly not.” The solicitor steepled his fingers. “Brilliant? Most definitely. It’s just the sort of business we need. If you do this properly, well . . . it should succeed beyond measure. I might even register myself once you’re ready for clients. My one recommendation is that you establish your rules clearly and have registration forms with concise terms and conditions. I’d be happy to draw them up, assuming you’d like me to.”

Elizabeth liked this man, and her instincts urged her to trust him. “We’d love that.”

He produced a clean sheet of paper and began to write. “Let’s see. Client interviews should be free. No clients currently married, and you should require proof of divorce for divorced clients—otherwise, we’d be opening you both up to a legal liability, not just a moral issue. I’d limit your acceptance of clients until you believe you have proper numbers to match them with, but you can make a waiting list and keep them on there until you have suitable matches.”

“We were thinking of charging fees . . . an initial registration fee and another fee after marriage,” Hetty added.

Charles nodded. “Keep the registration fee affordable for everyone, and the after-marriage fee can be set at your discretion, based on the income of the clients. Don’t send out lists to clients like a phone book, nor collections of photos. You don’t want this to become a mail-order bride enterprise, if you understand my meaning. You want these matches to be genuine and based on one-on-one interactions.”

“That is definitely our intention,” Elizabeth replied.

The solicitor sketched out a brief registration paragraph that covered much of the company’s mission and registration requirements.

“I’ll finalize this in a few days and send you a copy. Do you have a business address yet?”

“Not as of yet,” Hetty said. “It was to be our next stop after meeting with you.”

Charles beamed at her. “Well, where do you wish to look?”

“Bond Street,” Elizabeth answered at once, and then the heat of embarrassment flooded her face. “I mean, if that’s all right with you, Hetty.”

“It might be hard to find an open storefront, but perhaps you’ll get lucky.” Charles made another note on the bureau’s terms before setting his pen down.

“In the meantime, send everything to me,” Hetty said. “As for now, we are bound for Bond Street.” She winked at Charles as she and Elizabeth left on their next mission.

Hetty was a little more encouraged after their meeting with Charles. He was a far better choice than Mr. Pennworth, the old undertaker. He’d only needed a black top hat and a cold body on a slab to perfect the grim image. She’d felt rather foolish for taking Elizabeth to him when she should have gone straight to Charles. She’d known him for years—her parents and his were old friends—but having moved to Ceylon at sixteen, she’d lost touch with her usual crowd and was only just getting back to her old circle of friends.

As she and Elizabeth headed toward Bond Street, Elizabeth spoke up. “You don’t mind Bond Street, do you? I shouldn’t have blurted it out like that.”

“I don’t mind, Lizzie. I was actually thinking the same as you. It’s a well-known street, with lots of wealthy people visiting the shops. We’re more likely to find clients able to pay for our services.”

Elizabeth’s face brightened. “Once we get underway, perhaps we could develop a fee payment schedule for those who aren’t able to afford the after-marriage fee all at once.”

Hetty was beginning to realize that she could not deny her new friend anything. “You know you have too big a heart,” Hetty sighed with a smile. “It’s a good thing I’m here.”

“I’m sure you’ll keep me from being too soft,” Elizabeth laughed before she returned to the subject of where to look for offices. “Anyway, bond Street is likely to have all those young men on leave who are shopping. We’ll have visibility for one of our biggest potential client bases.” She paused on the pavement to draw out a bit of newspaper from her jacket pocket. It was a clipping she’d taken from the advertisements the day before.

“The location for this one is Piccadilly Circus, near Bond Street. It says, ‘Comfortable office facilities. Twelve shillings and sixpence per week.’ I have twenty pounds; we could set up for a week and see what we think of the location.”

Hetty nodded. “Let’s go have a look, then.”

By the time they’d located and visited the “office,” Hetty’s frown was so deep she feared it would leave permanent wrinkles upon her brow. Office wasn’t quite the term she would have applied to the room they were shown. Several men milled about a collection of desks scattered throughout the room. They wore dark suits, most of them ill-fitting, and carried the air of casual desperation that could only belong to traveling salesmen. One man leaned back in his chair, his muddy boots resting on the edge of his desk as he guffawed with laughter at whatever his companion had said. Cigar smoke created a gray cloud above the heads of the men.

“Are you coming in?” the property manager asked them.

“Lord, no,” Hetty said, just as Elizabeth moved into the hazy room and the crowd of men.

She headed for the only empty desk at the back of the room. She looked so petite in her thin scarlet coat with a black velvet collar, a look that was in complete opposition to the mass of salesmen around her. Elizabeth reached the desk, completely ignoring the men who had already started to toss out suggestive comments that made Hetty’s blood boil.

Elizabeth studied the desk a moment longer, as if the desk was all she cared about, then beat a retreat toward Hetty and the door, though not so fast as to appear she was fleeing. When she got to the door, she inhaled the clearer air and turned to the property manager, thanking him for his time.

“I’m sorry, that won’t do. Imagine us listening to a client pour her heart out and having those men leer and throw out suggestive comments. No, it won’t do at all.”

A sudden idea occurred to Hetty. “Never mind the advertisement. We should consult an estate agent.” If they looked at properties of a different nature, they might have better luck.

“Oh, Hetty, you are a genius!” Elizabeth exclaimed in delight. “That’s it.” She started to dash down the street, leaving Hetty behind. It took her a moment to catch up, though her friend was oblivious to the effort required to keep pace with her.

“What is it? You seem possessed by something.”

“I have an idea. When I first came to London, I was afraid Isabelle would want me out of her house as soon as possible, so I was watching the boards of a few estate agents. I remember reading about a place on Bond Street. We had better hurry!”

By the time they reached Bond Street, Hetty couldn’t believe how excited Elizabeth was as she rushed into a women’s lingerie store like an eager schoolgirl. Above it, a small sign in faded letters said, Small Office to Let.

They went into the lingerie shop, where a woman in her sixties was delicately wrapping up a silk nightgown for a customer.

“Excuse me, who do we speak to about the small office?” Elizabeth asked.

“Pardon? Oh, that would be me, Edna Meriwether.” The woman blushed. “It’s rather a small place, I’m afraid. Just upstairs. I have the key if you still wish to see it.” The woman seemed a bit baffled that anyone had come into her shop to ask about it, but Elizabeth’s enthusiasm left the woman all smiles as she called for one of her shopgirls to watch the register while she took Hetty and Elizabeth upstairs.

It was a dusty old place, with one smaller room off the main one. A fair amount of dirt had collected on the floor and windowsills over the years.

Hetty arched her brow as she studied the room. “Is there a lavatory?” It was nothing like the nicely furnished flat her father had acquired for her when they’d returned from Ceylon.

“Upstairs. There’s a small attic and a little stairwell that takes you up to the roof.” The woman smoothed her hair nervously. “I didn’t think anyone would ever want to rent it, what with a war coming. I’m tempted to move my shop out of London entirely.”

Hetty coolly appraised the woman, while Elizabeth fluttered about, smiling to herself and sighing with a girlish romantic look upon her face. Her red cape flared behind her like butterfly wings as she drifted around the empty little office. What did she see in the dusty, dim set of rooms that Hetty couldn’t? Elizabeth seemed to ignore the remark about war and appeared entirely unconcerned about being on a street like this if any air raids began.