“No, sir,” Miriam said. “He was not a journalist. Only a man with debts to pay.”
“I see. In any event, I can assure you that it did us no harm. No one from the palace has breathed a word to me on the matter, and if ever they do I can quite confidently swear that the scoundrel responsible has nothing to do with us.”
“You see?” Miss Duley said, and reached over to hug Ann’s hunched shoulders. “She was that worried, sir. Was all but certain you’d give her the sack.”
“For that? Heavens, no. Miss Hughes, you are one of my best embroiderers. I’d be a fool to let you go.”
Miriam smiled at his compliment for her friend, and resolved to remind Ann of it later. No doubt she would need to be reassured often in the coming days.
“If that’s all, sir?” Miss Duley asked.
“Not quite. There was a small notation on the printed version of your drawing, Miss Hughes, which mentioned a ‘good-luck’ motif. In the article they speculated it was a four-leafed clover. Is that the case?”
“No, sir. It was a sprig of white heather. Just like the pots of heather the queen brought us all from Balmoral. I read somewhere that it brings good luck, so I added it to Doris’s dress.”
“Hmm. I’m trying to picture it, but all I can see are tiny white flowers. Like a spikier version of lily of the valley. Not a very charming sort of blossom.”
“It can look that way, but the trick is in making the flowers tiny enough, and arranging them just so on the stems.”
“I like it. Yes, I do. A secret motif on the gown, something that no one apart from the four of us, and the princess, will know about. Would you make me up a sample? Nothing too large—say two inches square at the most? If you can make it look like an actual sprig of white heather, we’ll find a place for it on the train. What do you think, Miss Duley?”
“I think it’s a splendid idea. How long do you think it will take to do up a sample, Ann?”
“An hour or two? Maybe a bit more? I’m thinking of seed pearls for the blossoms and rocaille beads for the stems.”
“Perfect. See, Miss Hughes? There’s a silver lining to every cloud, and you’ve found one for us with your splendid idea. Now go work your magic on that sample.”
The three of them thanked him, and Miss Duley and Ann took their leave, but Miriam turned back at the door. It was the work of a moment to provide Monsieur Hartnell with one last detail regarding the theft of her friend’s drawing.
“His name is Jeremy Thickett-Milne. That is the swine who betrayed my friend.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Heather
September 2, 2016
Heather would never forget her afternoon at Buckingham Palace with Miriam and Daniel. They passed through something like twenty state rooms on their tour, each one bigger and richer and grander than the last. They took their time because Miriam, though steady on her feet, didn’t walk very fast. She was also full of interesting anecdotes about the times she and Walter had been invited to dinners there, and of course the occasion twenty-five years earlier when she had been made a dame.
“Do you remember what the queen said to you?” Heather asked excitedly.
“Would you believe I do not? I was terribly nervous, so it all went by in a blur. I do remember how very blue her eyes were, and also how very enormous the diamonds were in her brooch. One of them was as big as an egg yolk.”
They were in the White Drawing Room when Miriam turned to her with a mischievous smile.
“So? What do you think?”
“Is it wrong to think it’s a bit much? I mean, everything is really beautiful, but it’s all so overwhelming.”
“I do not disagree. But this is not meant to be a home. At least, not this part of the palace. This is the queen’s place of business, I suppose you could say. I imagine their private homes—Balmoral, for instance—are much less formal.”
“The sort of places where a corgi wouldn’t get in trouble for jumping on the furniture?”
“Precisely.”
Before long they had arrived at the beginning of the Fashioning a Reign exhibition, and though Heather was keen to go straight to the queen’s wedding gown, she didn’t feel comfortable in rushing Miriam along. By the time they reached the ballroom, where the wedding and coronation gowns were on display, as well as the most spectacular of the queen’s many formal gowns, Heather’s heart was racing in anticipation.
Of course there were a ton of people just planted in front of the glass case that held the wedding gown and train, and despite the barrage of death glares Heather aimed at their backs, they took their sweet time in moving on. When a space finally did open up, Daniel caught Heather’s eye. Together they moved forward and installed themselves directly in front of the display case, leaving ample room between them for Miriam.
Heather was surprised, now that she was able to see the gown, to find that it had been arranged on a slanted backdrop, the folds of its skirts propped up by invisible supports. The train, too, had been laid flat, with the nearest part of it only inches away from the edge of the case.
“Did you and Nan do all of that?” she asked.
“Oh, no. We were responsible for the bodice and sleeves, but for the embroidery of the skirt panels there were four of us, and the train itself had six or eight embroiderers. Perhaps more—my memory is not as clear as it ought to be. What do you think of it all?”
“I think it’s amazing. I’m a little overwhelmed, to be honest.” The gown was so close that she could make out even the smallest details, many of them already familiar from her careful study of Nan’s embroidered samples. “Which is your favorite part?” she asked Miriam.
“That is a very good question, and one I have not been asked before. I suppose it would be the heather.”
“Like Scottish heather?”
“Yes. It was Ann’s idea. Two small sprigs of white heather, and no one apart from us, Mr. Hartnell, and Miss Duley knew about them. If you count up from the bottom center of the train, they are just between the fourth and fifth of the central roses. Can you see them? Yes? She added them at the very last, and I doubt that anyone else in the world knows of their significance. I am not sure if even the queen herself knows they are there.”
They remained in the ballroom for close to another hour, spending long minutes in front of nearly every other gown, and by the time they came to the exit Heather was ready to fall over. Daniel seemed to feel the same way, for he directed them to the refreshment tent, found them a table with a terrific view of the lawn and gardens, and promised to return with something delicious. “I can’t promise they’ll have decent coffee, Mimi, but they might run to a glass of champagne.”
At this Miriam brightened visibly. “Wouldn’t that be a treat?”
Unfortunately, there was no champagne to be had, but Daniel did buy coffee for himself and Miriam, a tea for Heather, and plates of éclairs and scones for them to share.
“I can’t believe I’m sitting in the private gardens at Buckingham Palace having a cup of tea. And with you, Miriam. I’m not sure if Nan believed in heaven, but if she could see us now I bet she’d be happy.”
“I am certain of it, ma belle. Now, I must ask before I forget—are you coming to the reception on Sunday evening? I told Daniel that he must invite you.”
“I told you, Mimi—Heather is going home that morning.”
“Of course. Yes, you did tell me. Such a shame.”
“I could change my flight home,” Heather said impulsively, and only after the words were out did she decide she absolutely would change her flight. It would probably cost a bomb, and she would have the mother of all credit-card bills next month, but she was going to do it. “I’ll sort it out as soon as I get back to the hotel.”
They set off for a walk through the gardens as soon as Miriam had finished her coffee, and although Heather would have loved to visit the gift shop, it was clear the older woman was running out of steam. Daniel flagged down a taxi as soon as they passed through the exit g
ates, one of the big black ones that seemed to have room for about ten people inside, and they set off for Hampstead.
“Are you sure?” Daniel whispered in her ear after a few minutes had passed. “About your flight, I mean.”
“Of course I’m sure. I’ll probably only have to pay a change fee. It really isn’t a big deal.”
“If you say so. I will warn you that most of the guests at the reception will be members of my family. Cousins galore, and Mimi is insisting that everyone bring their children. It’ll be a miracle if the reception ends without some sort of alarm being triggered.”
They saw Miriam upstairs, and after ensuring she was comfortable in her chair, Daniel prepared her a coffee, steadfastly ignoring his grandmother’s insistence that he overlook the canister marked décaféiné.
“It’s decaf or nothing, Mimi,” he insisted. “Otherwise you’ll be up half the night.”
Heather approached Miriam so she might say good night and have her cheeks kissed, promising again that she would change her flight home, and then she retreated to the far side of the room so Daniel might speak to Miriam. He crouched beside her, and he let her fuss with his hair, smoothing it off his brow, and the look of love on his face was enough to crack Heather’s heart in two.
“Si t’as besoin de quoi que ce soit, tu dois m’appeler,” he said. “Tu connais mon numéro.” Call me if you need anything. You know my number.
“Oui, oui. Et maintenant, je veux que tu ailles dîner avec Heather. Ton intelligence va l’épater—” Yes, yes. Now go and take Heather to dinner. Wow her with your intelligence—
“Ça suffit, Mimi—” Enough, Mimi—
“—et ton charme.” —and your charm.
“Tu sais que je t’aime. Même si tu me gênes devant Heather.” You know I love you. Even though you’re embarrassing me in front of Heather.
Heather tried not to listen, but they weren’t lowering their voices, and short of walking out the door or putting her fingers in her ears there wasn’t much she could do. All the same, she had to tell him that she’d heard and understood. She waited until they were outside and walking up the hill to the Tube station, having agreed on the way downstairs that a cab would take forever that late in the afternoon.
“I guess I should tell you that my stereotypical Canadian-ness extends to speaking French. I’d have said something, but I didn’t want to intrude.”
“You weren’t intruding. I just hope you didn’t mind being talked about as if you weren’t there. Normally I’d have switched to English, but when she gets tired she prefers French.”
“I didn’t mind at all. And I do find you charming and intelligent. Just so you know.”
“I’ll file that away for future reference. Before we go much farther, though, where would you like to eat? Are you in the mood for anything in particular?”
“Anything at all.”
“I’ve a place in mind. Italian food, hasn’t changed in years, and not so very far from your hotel.”
It was hard to talk much on the Tube, which was packed tight for rush hour. Daniel took hold of her hand as he led them from one train to another, and in far less time than she’d have thought possible they were emerging into the early evening sunshine.
“Where are we?” she asked, blinking in the golden light.
“A bit south of Clerkenwell. That’s where we’ll find the Victory Café.”
Had Heather been on her own, she’d never have found the restaurant; and had she happened to walk by, she’d probably have dismissed it out of hand. The sign was faded and hard to read, the front window was steamy and disguised the interior, and the menu, posted outside, was handwritten and of a haiku-like simplicity. But the smells drifting out the door were divine.
Daniel ushered them inside and, waving a hello to someone at the back, led them to the only unoccupied table.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“It’s perfect. Much more my kind of place than one of those trendy fusion spots where everything is layered in little piles, and they put a dot of foam on the plate and insist it’s one of the vegetables.”
“I’d never dream of doing such a thing to you,” he said, grinning. “Now let’s decide on what we’re eating. I’m starving.”
It wasn’t a first date, of course it wasn’t, but it felt like one, and Heather’s nerves insisted on thrumming with excitement the whole time they were ordering their meal and deciding on a bottle of wine. The impulse only deepened when he rolled back his sleeves and she caught sight of the tattoo on his wrist.
“When I first saw it, I thought you’d written a note to yourself,” she said. “Your to-do list, maybe.”
“Milk, eggs, bread? There’s an idea.”
He flattened his arm upon the table so she could see the lines of script that ran parallel to the tendons of his inner wrist.
I would have poured my spirit without stint.
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
“It’s familiar, somehow . . .”
“Wilfred Owen. From one of his long poems. ‘Strange Meeting.’ You might have read it in school.”
“Is that your handwriting?”
He shook his head. “Owen’s. Taken from the manuscript of the poem. Mine is illegible.”
“I like it,” she said. “You don’t regret it, do you?”
“Not precisely. The sentiment is the same, but I doubt I’d choose to immortalize it in the same way today. I was nineteen when I got it, which is about the same age as many of my students.”
“What do they think of it?”
“When they notice they’re usually gobsmacked. At least one per term is brave enough to ask me about it.”
“What do you say?”
“I tell them my grandmother’s family had tattoos forced upon them before they were murdered at Auschwitz, but I was able to choose the one I wear. I tell them it reminds me why I teach the history of the world wars.”
“Did you always want to be a history professor?” she asked.
“Not at first. I wanted to follow in my grandfather’s footsteps. He was a journalist, a rather famous one, at least in this country, and I idolized him.”
“What changed your mind?”
“The summer I was eighteen, just before I went up to Oxford, he took me out to lunch, and at some point we began to talk about what I’d been studying and what interested me and so forth. The same conversation we’d been having for years, but that day it felt rather more serious. More momentous, I suppose. He told me that he’d read history as an undergraduate, and while he’d been very happy with the direction his professional life had taken, he did regret that he hadn’t become a historian. He felt it would have helped him to better understand the war he had lived through and written about. And then he died a few weeks later, and if there’d been room on my arms I’d have tattoos of every word he said that day.”
“But instead you picked the poetry.”
“I did. And I can’t say I regret it.”
“So you became a historian because of your grandfather.”
“Yes, but also because of Mimi and the murder of her family. My family. I’ve been studying and writing about the Holocaust in France for close to twenty years, and even if I keep on for another century I’ll still have questions to ask. I’ll still be searching for answers.”
“Isn’t it depressing?”
“At times, yes, but that’s true of a lot of jobs. And I only live with the shadow of what happened, whereas Mimi’s entire life has been marked by it. Scarred, if I’m honest. So I cannot bring myself to turn away.”
Their food arrived, and their talk turned to lighter, softer, easier things. Daniel’s students and the courses he was teaching. Heather’s little apartment, her cat, her friends. Places they’d been on vacation and dream destinations they aspired to visit. Nothing to make the food in her mouth grow tasteless, or the wine she swallowed turn to vineg
ar. Nothing to make her worry about what was to come when she went home to Toronto and what she would do with her life.
They cleared their plates and Daniel refilled their glasses, and the silence between them was comfortable, and for the first time in her life she didn’t mind that a man was staring at her, since she was doing exactly the same to him.
“You,” he said finally. “I can tell you’re a journalist because you keep asking me questions. But I want to know more about you.”
“I’m game. Ask away.”
“Did you always want to be a journalist?”
She shook her head. “Historian.”
“Really?” He was leaning across the table now, his plate pushed aside, his arms folded in front of him. His wrist and its compelling lines of script were so close to her hand.
“Really. It was my favorite subject in school, and university, too. But I didn’t want to teach, and my marks weren’t high enough for graduate school. So I did a postgraduate diploma in journalism. I found a job right away, and that was ten years ago, and in all that time I never really took a moment to stop and ask myself if I loved my work. Until a few weeks ago, that is.”
“What happened?”
“I was made redundant, and I probably should have jumped into a job search right away. That would have been the smart thing to do. But I felt like I had to come here first.”
“To find your nan. And now? What will you do when you return home?”
She was leaning forward, and their heads were all but touching. They were whispering to one another.
“I have no idea,” she admitted. “I hope that doesn’t sound pathetic.”
“Not at all.”
“I know I can keep the wolf from the door. I can pick up work as a copywriter, or I can go the public relations route. Except I can’t stand the idea of writing puff pieces that I don’t care about. I want to write stories that interest me. Stories that keep me up half the night because I can’t turn off my brain. Does that ever happen to you?”
“All the time.”
“I want that, too.”
“Then do it. Tell me, now—what would you write about if you could choose any topic at all? Don’t think—just say it.”
The Gown Page 27
