on to the pleasing gentle swell at the hips, closing her eyes as she did so. Her hands encountered no lumps or rolls, simply smooth, straight lines. That, she thought to herself with envy, is what it must be like. The evidence of her ill-fitting clothes was becoming impossible to ignore, even though the height that she had been lucky enough to inherit from her father helped to spread some of the extra weight across a larger area. Such a bonus would not have been hers if she had been born with her mother’s diminutive stature. Even so, there was no avoiding the truth: several of the dresses she had brought with her from Baltimore would soon have to be altered. Altered? Dear God! What was she thinking? If she was being truthful what she meant was they would have to be let out. Evangeline felt sure that Wallis would be able to give her the name of a good English dressmaker.
Evangeline shifted uncomfortably in her seat, wondering whether to help herself to another sausage from the silver dish sitting on the hot plate. She felt a fleeting but familiar shiver of self-loathing. She knew that her public excuse for eating too much was that the curves were part of her character: rounded, jolly, up for a laugh, not in the least bit sensitive about the odd tease. But the secret truth was that Evangeline had no expectations that her status as a forty-year-old virgo intacta would ever change. So what difference was the odd fleshy roll here or there going to make to her solitary progress through life?
Sometimes she felt like a caricature of a middle-aged spinster. She wondered for the hundredth time when real life—by which she meant happy real life—was going to begin. As she scooped out a dollop of marmalade from the pot, whose label confirmed it came from Oxford and must therefore be the best of its kind, she reminded herself that at least for now during her time here in England she had a purpose. Ever loyal to friends that needed her and indefatigably romantically optimistic, she often felt sure her luck would change.
She could hardly believe that it had only been a matter of days since Wiggle had been squirming in discomfort beside her on the floor. After an initial flash of fury at the stupidity of the sweet young chauffeur, she had forgiven May. After all, pekineses, like their mistresses, were often choosy about their food, and the chopped-up kidney in thick gravy that the London cook had prepared for Wiggle had been causing havoc with his digestion. There had never been any question of leaving Wiggle back at home in Baltimore. Besides, who else would have shared the lonely nights with Evangeline? The ever-present warm body at her feet had been almost the only nocturnal companionship she had ever known. Admittedly she had taken a gamble with the quarantine laws and had been careful not to produce Wiggle too often in public places. Before leaving Baltimore, she had persuaded herself that at least his dear little bark would not betray an American accent. And when the customs officers had waved her through at the dock she had been relieved that the capaciousness of her coat ensured there was ample room to hide a small dog within its folds.
Evangeline debated for a moment whether to have a third and definitively final slice of toast to go with the sausage. Joan had already left the table and there was as yet no sign of that tiresome Rupert in his absurd lacy cravat or of his captivating young friend Julian. She was alone. No one was here to count.
She had been delighted, if surprised, to receive the first letter from England. Although it felt like much longer ago—my, oh my, didn’t time play tricks—only six weeks earlier she had been at home, helping her sister-in-law with preparations for the family Christmas. Her mother’s death and the consequent terms of the will had left Evangeline without a home or any independent means and she had come to live with her brother Frank and his family at their invitation. Evangeline’s father, an affluent businessman, had died so soon after his daughter’s birth that Evangeline had no memory of him. A large man, fond of his food and drink, he had suffered a heart attack after breakfast when his wife was out shopping. Mrs. Nettlefold had returned to the house to find the barely warm figure of