“Please don’t,” he said with a laugh. “I noticed your wonderful freckles the day we met on my doorstep. They reminded me of cinnamon on warm, buttered toast and made you seem very . . . unique.”
Eve remembered now. It had been a school day, but classes were canceled because of the king’s death. She never wore cosmetics to school—they were too dear to waste.
“And you weren’t wearing a ridiculous feathered hat like all the other women do,” he continued. “Some hats look as though a bird has perched on the foolish woman’s head.”
Eve laughed at the picture he drew. She didn’t tell him she couldn’t afford a fancy hat on her typist’s salary. “Somewhere in the world are flocks and flocks of featherless peacocks and pheasants,” she said, “shivering in the cold.”
“Yes, poor things. I must say the feathers look much better on their original owners.” They started walking again. “I also recall that your hair was blowing free and natural, like it is today, not all kinked up into those silly waves that are all the rage. I knew then and there that I wanted to get to know you.”
Eve didn’t know how to reply. Should she explain that she couldn’t afford a curling iron or a fancy lady’s maid to arrange her hair? Before she could say anything, Alfie slowed to a halt. “Here’s the tea shop.” He opened the door to a warm, cozy shop with wooden floors that creaked beneath their feet and a scattering of mismatched tables and chairs. The tantalizing aromas of coffee and chocolate filled the air. Alfie chose an empty table near the window and they sat across from each other at a table so tiny their knees touched. Could he feel hers trembling? He was miles above Eve in all the important ways—wealth, social standing, intelligence—and yet he said such lovely, charming things. Would everything change once she told him the truth about herself?
Eve held on tightly to the thread of conversation as Alfie ordered tea for her, coffee for himself, and scones with jam for both of them. “I daresay not all men would share their opinions on women’s fashions so freely,” she said after the waiter left.
“I usually don’t. But I already feel as though I can speak my mind with you. You’re different. Not at all like Audrey’s other friends.”
“How so?” Her pulse quickened. Could he tell she was a common working girl?
“I can’t imagine any of Audrey’s friends suggesting tea and a Sunday stroll. They’re more likely to suggest champagne and a ride in my automobile.”
“I grew up in the countryside. A walk in the park is the closest thing there is in London to remind me of home.” Eve would stick as close to the truth as possible as they got acquainted without revealing that she’d once been the scullery maid at Wellingford Hall.
“So do you live in London now?” he asked.
“Yes. I finished school last June and I’ve been living here ever since.” She chose the word finished as a subtle reference to finishing school. Let him think what he wanted, for now. It was time to steer the focus away from herself and ask a few questions of her own. “Audrey tells me you’re at Oxford. What are you studying there?”
He made a face. “Boring things. I’m convinced that universities were invented by fathers to keep their sons out of their hair until they’re ready to hand over their businesses to them.”
“Is that what you’ll do someday? Work in your father’s business?”
“That’s his plan. But I’m not ready to settle down yet. I’m having too much fun to spoil it all by going to work every day.”
Eve smiled as if she knew exactly what he meant. But she couldn’t imagine a life where she didn’t have to work every day—if not as a servant or a typist, then running a home as a wife and mother. She decided to change the subject, consulting the mental list of topics she had prepared ahead of time. “I would love to know what you think of King Edward’s affair with Wallis Simpson. Do you think he’ll marry her?”
Alfie’s smile vanished. He looked as solemn and serious as Audrey. “The king will create a constitutional crisis throughout the commonwealth if he does marry her. He is the Supreme Governor of the Church of England. A twice-divorced woman like Wallis Simpson is morally unsuitable to be the wife of a monarch—not to mention the mother of his heir. He’s a fool to allow her to control him the way she does. He needs to be rid of her once and for all and get on with the business of ruling Britain.”