The Gown

by Jennifer Robson

  “England,” she said. “I want to see if I can find out about Nan. Remember those embroidered flowers she saved for me, and how we had no idea where they’d come from? I finally did some digging, and I know it might be wishful thinking on my part, but I think she might have worked for Norman Hartnell. I think she might have worked on the queen’s wedding dress.”

  “Holy shit!” Tanya burst out. She owned a vintage clothing boutique, the sort of place that sold fifty-year-old designer dresses for thousands of dollars, and the expression on her face reminded Heather of a little kid at the front gates of Disneyland. Michelle and Sunita, on the other hand, looked mystified.

  “Oh, come on,” Tanya chided. “Hartnell was the British dress designer back in the day. His stuff wasn’t what you’d call cutting edge—he was no Alexander McQueen, that’s for sure—but he did design some fabulous things for the queen. Hold on a sec.” With that, she pulled her smartphone out of her purse and began to type away.

  “Here,” she said, and handed her phone to Michelle. “This is from 1954. Just look at this dress—you can’t tell me it isn’t gorgeous. For that matter, look at the queen. We think of her now as this little old lady, but she was really beautiful back then. And Hartnell knew how to make clothes that really suited her.”

  Their main courses arrived just then, so Tanya took her phone back and they all dug in, and it was a few minutes before conversation resumed.

  “So what’s the plan?” Michelle asked. “Will you go to London and see if you can find out anything more about Nan?”

  “Hartnell died a long time ago, but maybe you can find someone else who worked there,” Tanya suggested.

  “I may have already,” Heather allowed. “Have you ever heard of Miriam Dassin?”

  It was Sunita’s turn to be astonished. “The artist? Of course I have. I love her work.”

  “I’ve got two photos of her and Nan together, and in one of them they’re sitting in a workroom around embroidery frames. I couldn’t find any mention of her having worked at Hartnell, but there isn’t much about her personal life out there, anyway. A few interviews from the fifties, and then some short things that are tied to anniversaries of the end of the war. The fiftieth anniversary of the liberation of Ravensbrück—that kind of thing.”

  “Is there any way of getting in touch with her? Just to find out more about Nan?” Tanya asked.

  “I tried, but she doesn’t have a website or email address that I could find. I did email the gallery that used to sell her work, but they said she’s retired and they can’t pass on any inquiries or messages.”

  “Even if you can’t track her down,” Tanya reasoned, “it’s not as if there aren’t other reasons for you to visit England.”

  “You’re right. I can still see her work at the Victoria and Albert Museum, and the queen’s wedding dress is on display at Buckingham Palace this summer. I definitely don’t want to miss that. And maybe see the places where Nan worked and lived? If only so I can take some pictures for my mom.”

  Michelle extracted a notepad and pen from her bag and wrote Heather’s Big London Adventure across the top of the first page. “Okay. Let’s make a list of everything you want to see and do. There’s your flight, your hotel—”

  “You have to stay at that little place in Soho that I discovered last year,” Tanya insisted. “Wall-to-wall antiques and the building itself has got to be three hundred years old. The rooms all have their own bathrooms and most have a fireplace, too. I’ll email you the details.”

  “Oooh—I’m adding it to the list,” Michelle enthused. “Anything else?”

  “Tons,” said Tanya. “But first we need to get the waiter’s attention. We’re going to need another bottle of wine.”

  AS SHE LAY in bed that night, Heather’s spirits were light, and it wasn’t because she was tipsy; she’d stuck to water after her second glass of wine. Losing her job had been awful, it was true, but she refused to feel depressed about it. Her friends had been awesome, they’d helped her plan the trip of a lifetime, and now she had something to get her through the next few weeks, something exciting ahead of her, and she could figure out what she was going to do with her life when she got back. Not now, not tomorrow. Not anytime soon.

  She lay in bed, Seymour at her side, his steady purr endlessly comforting, and she let her fingers sweep over the wispy warmth of Nan’s blanket. Everywhere she’d lived, on every bed she’d called her own, she’d always had the crocheted blanket Nan had made for her tenth birthday.

  She’d been going through a super-girly phase, so Nan had used something like ten different colors of pink wool in the granny squares and trim that ran around the border. It was pretty ratty now, and the corner where Seymour liked to nest was covered in orange fur, but if her apartment was burning down it was the first thing she’d save after her cat.

  What would Nan say if she could talk to her now? What would she expect her to do?

  Heather sifted through her memories, trying to conjure up some scrap of remembered wisdom from their shared past. Nothing . . . nothing . . . and then, just as sleep overtook her, the faintest whisper.

  She’d been at Nan’s for the day and she’d fallen off her bike and skinned her knees. Her grandmother had taken her into the kitchen, dampened a cloth, and wiped away her tears.

  “This may smart a bit,” Nan had said, just before she cleaned Heather’s knees and dabbed on some iodine. “But you’re a brave girl, aren’t you? So chin up, and when we’re done we’ll go into the garden and you can pick some flowers and we’ll make a posy for you to take home. How does that sound?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good girl. Keep your chin up, and you can face anything.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ann

  August 18, 1947

  When Mr. Hartnell came through the door of the workroom at precisely nine o’clock that morning, Ann just knew. She, and every other woman in the room, had been waiting for this moment for more than a month.

  Everyone stood. A bubble of noise burst over the room: chair legs scraping across the floor, fugitive whispers pitched too loud, a volley of explosive sneezes from Ruthie, who always had the sniffles. And then silence. Even the ordinary sounds of traffic outside seemed to have dimmed.

  Mr. Hartnell smiled, his grin stretching quite as wide as a Cheshire cat’s. “I have some splendid news. The queen and Princess Elizabeth have graciously accepted my design for the princess’s wedding gown. I shall also be designing gowns for the queen herself, Queen Mary, Princess Margaret Rose, and the princess’s bridesmaids.”

  They applauded politely, mindful they were at work and not the music hall, and then Miss Duley, standing next to Mr. Hartnell on the landing, cleared her throat.

  “The formal announcement will be made later today, and I shall speak with all of you in due course. As Mr. Hartnell has said, we will have a hand in the gowns for the entire wedding party. I promise that no one will be left out. In the meantime, however, we have a great deal of work to complete. Back to your places, please, and save your chatter for break.”

  Ann returned to the frame she’d been sharing with Miriam since the previous week. They’d been working on the bodice of the wedding gown for some society bride, a familiar mix of Alençon lace, dozens of sequins to catch the light, and just enough crystal beads and seed pearls to provide some texture. It did rather feel like something the bride’s grandmother might have worn at the turn of the century, but it wasn’t Ann’s place to question or critique. When finished, the gown would be very beautiful, the bride’s father would be poorer by several hundred guineas, and everyone who attended the wedding would agree that Mr. Hartnell had triumphed again.

  Ann had only just shuffled her chair into the perfect spot when a shadow fell over her. She looked up to discover Mr. Hartnell and Miss Duley standing mere inches away.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said, and stood again. Miriam had been fetching some thread, but returned to wait at Ann’s elbow.
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  “You remember Miss Hughes and Miss Dassin,” Miss Duley said.

  “Yes, of course,” Mr. Hartnell answered. “Good morning to you both.”

  “Good morning, sir,” Ann said. “Congratulations. It really is splendid news.”

  “It is, isn’t it? I’ve come to tell you that Miss Duley has recommended you both for the samples we’ll be sending to Her Majesty and the princess. What say you to that?”

  She did her very best to look surprised. “Thank you ever so much. I’m honored, sir. Truly honored.” She looked to Miriam, who seemed more taken aback than anything else, and tilted her head fractionally. Say something, she implored silently.

  “Yes, of course. Thank you. I am very grateful to be chosen,” Miriam added promptly.

  “Her Majesty has specifically requested duchesse satin from Winterthur in Dunfermline for the gown, as well as a heavier satin for the appliqués from Lullingstone Castle. It will be several weeks before the fabrics are ready, I’m afraid.”

  “And the pearls are still in America,” Miss Duley added.

  Mr. Hartnell sighed mournfully at this reminder. “Those wretched pearls. I swear they’ll be the death of me.”

  “I’ve suggested to Mr. Hartnell that we proceed with materials we have on hand. We’ll do up half a dozen samples in total. Here are his designs for the motifs. Let’s look at them in the light.”

  They followed Miss Duley to the windows, where she set out eight sketches on the wide sill, then stood aside so Mr. Hartnell might show them the particulars of his design.

  “This is the gown itself, and here is the train. This is a rather impressionistic view, I’m afraid, but I will draw up a full-size pattern of where the various motifs ought to go. I need to see the entire thing in front of me.”

  “We can clear the floor in here tonight, sir, and put down some paper,” Miss Duley suggested.

  “Excellent suggestion—let’s do just that. In any event,” he went on, turning again to Ann, “this is generally what I have in mind for the train, which will attach to the princess’s shoulders rather than her waist. Her Majesty is agreeable to a length of fifteen feet for the train.”

  The silhouette of the gown was familiar enough, and largely indistinguishable from several other gowns that Ann had embroidered over the past year or so. A sweetheart neckline, long fitted sleeves, full skirt. What set this gown apart, she saw instantly, was the embroidery.

  The skirt was adorned with garlands of flowers and greenery, tier upon tier of them, and the same motifs appeared on the bodice and the entire length of the train. The design was perfectly symmetrical, yet there was nothing stiff or mannered about the embroidered decorations and their placement.

  “It’s lovely, sir,” Ann said quietly.

  “Thank you, Miss Hughes. I will say that it’s quite my favorite of the sketches I submitted to Her Majesty and Princess Elizabeth. My initial inspiration was Botticelli and his figure of Primavera—perhaps you’ve seen it?”

  It wasn’t the time or place for Ann to admit to the deficiencies of her education, so she simply nodded.

  “At any rate,” he went on, “here are the most significant of the motifs. York roses in several sizes, star flowers, ears of wheat, jasmine blossoms, and smilax leaves. I think one sample with a large rose, a second with a cluster of the smaller roses, and then one each of the remaining motifs should be sufficient for our purposes. These are only the motifs that appear on the train, but I don’t think we need to worry about the additional motifs from the gown itself. Not yet, at least.”

  “What do you think?” Miss Duley asked. “Will two or three days give you enough time?”

  “I should think so,” Ann said. “What were you thinking in terms of the embellishments, Mr. Hartnell? You mentioned pearls before.”

  “Yes. Lovely little round seed pearls at the edges of most of the appliqués, larger ones at the centers of some of the motifs, and a variety of crystals, beads, and the like.”

  “I’ll go over everything with Miss Hughes and Miss Dassin,” Miss Duley promised. “First I propose we go to the stockroom and see what Miss Louie has on hand for the backing.”

  Mr. Hartnell nodded. “Yes, of course. Ask for a good stiff duchesse satin for the appliqués, not too white, and a silk tulle for the backing. Failing that a silk gazar will do. But nothing too opaque.”

  “Yes, sir,” Miss Duley said. Then she turned to Ann and Miriam, her expression uncharacteristically severe. “I’m sure you are aware of the heightened level of interest in this commission. Princess Elizabeth is very keen that no details of her gown appear in the press, and I know Mr. Hartnell would consider it a great disappointment were anyone here to betray her trust.”

  Ann glanced at Mr. Hartnell, whose delight had faded with the introduction of what had to be a dispiriting topic. “The news of the commission will be in the papers this evening, and you may well have friends and family asking about my designs. It feels rather ridiculous to even mention such a thing, really, since I know you’ve worked on important commissions before. I do hope . . .”

  He looked so uncomfortable, his happiness at the great news all but extinguished, that Ann’s heart went out to him. He really was such a kind man. “I do understand, and I don’t mind your asking at all,” she reassured him. “I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone. I promise I won’t.”

  “As do I,” Miriam added.

  “Thank you. Well, I suppose I ought to leave you ladies to your work. Do you need anything else from me, Miss Duley?”

  “Not for the moment, sir. I’ll let you know if we have any questions.”

  Miss Duley walked him out of the workroom, and then, after pausing to speak with Ethel and Ruthie, returned with them in her wake. “Ann and Miriam are helping me with something for the next few days, so I need you to take over work on this bodice. I know you were working on some pieces for that American department store, but they can wait. Miriam will show you what to do.”

  They murmured their agreement, and though they looked inquisitive they said nothing more. Nor would she, in their stead. It was clear enough that she and Miriam had been chosen to do up the samples. Mr. Hartnell always had samples made for his really important commissions, after all, and this surely ranked as the most significant work they’d done in years.

  “Ann, if you’ll come with me?”

  The stockroom was the domain of Miss Louie, who had been with Mr. Hartnell since his earliest days as a designer, and who knew, down to the last quarter yard of Honiton lace, the entire contents of their on-hand stock. She was respected and not a little feared among the younger staff, not least because she guarded the stockroom with the single-minded intensity of a lioness.

  “I hope Miss Louie’s in a good mood today,” Ann said as they hurried along. “Remember last week? When Ethel came back empty-handed?”

  “That was Ethel’s own fault. There’s an art to managing our Miss L, as I’ve told you girls more than once. You need to ask, not demand. Take a moment to inquire how she is. Thank her for her time. No doubt Ethel came rushing up and didn’t even bother to say good morning. Silly girl. Miss Louie has been here longer than anyone excepting Mr. H himself. She’s entitled to run that stockroom as she likes, and if that means taking a few minutes to butter her up, so be it.”

  A wide wooden counter was set across the entrance to the stockroom, beyond which Ann could just glimpse the rows of shelving, laden with hundreds and hundreds of bolts of fabric, that lined the perimeter of the space. An enormous table stood in its center, yardsticks affixed to its edges, though Ann would wager good money that Miss Louie hadn’t spared them a glance in years.

  She came hurrying toward them now, a neat and efficient figure in her white coat and ruthlessly pinned-back hair.

  “Good morning, Miss Duley,” she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Wonderful news, isn’t it?”

  “Simply wonderful,” Miss Duley agreed. “Mr. Hartnell came by just now to tell the girls in m
y workroom, and to ask us to get started on some samples for HM and HRH. Of course I’m certain he showed you the designs before anyone else. What do you think?”

  “Perfect. Quite, quite perfect. And it will suit the princess to a T.”

  “Indeed it will. He’s asked us to do up half a dozen samples of the most important motifs, but I gather the Lullingstone satin isn’t yet ready. Is there any chance we might prevail upon you? But only if you aren’t busy with anything else. I know you’re run off your feet most days.”

  “Don’t I know it! But you’ve come at the perfect time. I do have some lovely duchesse satin, heavy but not too unwieldy. I’d say it’s a fair match for the stuff you’ll end up using. What did he say as regards color? Bright white? Or something softer?”

  “Softer, I should think, so there’s some contrast with the backing fabric. For that, I was thinking a really fine silk tulle. I thought we’d do up the samples as if they were for the train. It will give a better effect, don’t you agree?”

  “I do, indeed I do. How much will you need?”

  “Say a yard and a half of the tulle? And a yard of the satin? If that’s not too much to ask.”

  “Not at all. Let me just fetch them now.”

  When Miss Louie returned with the bolts of fabric, not more than a minute or two later, she first came to the counter so Miss Duley might look them over.

  “What do you think? Will these do?” she asked, unrolling the satin and tulle with brisk efficiency.

  “They’re exactly what I had in mind. What would we do without you, Miss Louie?”

  “I expect you’d all muddle along, but it’s kind of you to say so.”

  Back at the table, Miss Louie lined up the satin with the edge of the table, whisked out a pair of gleaming shears from the depths of her coat pocket, and cut the satin, then the tulle, with the precision of a surgeon. After folding the fabric in neat squares, she returned to the counter and handed the bundle to Ann.

  After a final round of thanks and well-wishes, Ann and Miss Duley returned to the workroom. Ethel and Ruthie had taken charge of the society bride’s bodice, while Miriam, never one to be idle, had gathered fresh needles, spools of cotton and silk thread, and the stretcher bars and pegged side laths of an empty frame.