The Gown

by Jennifer Robson

  “I’d write about the gown. Nan and Miriam. What it was like to work at Hartnell and create a wedding dress for a princess. How it felt to make such beautiful things and never be acknowledged in any way. I remember thinking that after William and Kate’s wedding. Everyone was talking about her dress and the designer and I don’t think I saw a single article on the people who made it. How hard they must have worked on that dress, and how they couldn’t breathe a word to anyone, not even their best friends.”

  “If I were a magazine editor I’d be interested.”

  “It needs a hook, though. I wish I were brave enough to ask Miriam. No editor in the world would turn down an interview with her.”

  “Why don’t you ask?” he suggested. As if it would be no big deal.

  “You told me she hates to talk about herself. I don’t want to upset her.”

  “It won’t. She avoids publicity because she tends to attract the attention of hatemongers, to use a polite term for an especially loathsome group of people. That’s why she has no email address or website, and that’s why everyone who knows her is so evasive.”

  “Oh, God. I feel like an idiot for not thinking of that before.”

  “If you hadn’t included your grandmother’s name in the message you left with my former student, I probably wouldn’t have emailed you back. God knows I get enough of that shit in my own in-box because of my own work. But compared to the vitriol that’s been aimed at Mimi over the years? It’s nothing.”

  “I’m sure it’s awful.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m ruining our dinner. Once I get started, though—”

  “Talk about it as much as you like. I’m happy to listen.”

  “Another time, maybe.”

  “Sure. Maybe when you’re in New York? Miriam was telling me all about it.”

  He looked down and began to fiddle with the stem of his wineglass. “I expect she made it sound as if they’ve decided to award me the inaugural Nobel Prize for history.”

  “More or less. When do you leave?”

  “In a fortnight.” His eyes caught hers, and she was surprised by how apprehensive he seemed. “Perhaps I might come up to Toronto for a visit? Or you could visit me there?”

  “I would love that. I haven’t been to New York in years.”

  “Good,” he said, and his accompanying grin made her heart do a little somersault. “But back to the subject at hand—your interviewing Mimi.”

  “You make it sound so certain. You’re sure she won’t be upset?”

  “I’m sure. I can’t guarantee she’ll agree to speak with you on the record, but she won’t be angry if you ask. That I can promise.”

  They had zabaglione and strawberries for dessert, and then he walked her back to the hotel. A longish walk, he warned her, but she didn’t care. It meant more time in his company. As they were crossing Tottenham Court Road he took hold of her hand, correctly sensing that she was about to walk into traffic yet again, but even after they were safely across the street he held on, and they continued like that, hand in hand, block after block.

  He came into the hotel lobby with her and waited as she fetched her key, and then, since Dermot was at the desk, she led Daniel down the hall and around the corner to the bottom of the stairs.

  “Sorry,” she explained. “It’s just that I didn’t feel like saying good night in front of an audience.”

  “I feel the same way,” he whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. And then he kissed her, his mouth fitting just so against hers, and it made her wonder if there was anything that Daniel Friedman didn’t do well.

  “I meant what I said earlier,” he said, his words a whisper across her brow. “I want you to come and see me in New York. Or you can invite me to Toronto. Either way, I want to continue this conversation.”

  “So do I.”

  “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “Sightseeing?” She hadn’t meant for it to come out as a question.

  “Would you like to meet up in the afternoon? Let me show you around a little more?”

  Heather nodded, not trusting her voice.

  “Good. I’ll come by at two o’clock. Fais des beaux rêves.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ann

  November 19, 1947

  The gown was complete.

  It had come back to the embroidery workroom a week before, after it had gone to the palace and back for one last fitting, and Ann and Miriam had been given the task of re-embroidering the seams where they had been affected by such small changes as the seamstresses had made. It stood now on its mannequin in the sewing workroom next door, and everyone who worked at Hartnell had been filing past it all morning. Their expressions of mingled awe and pride only confirmed what Ann had known since she’d set her first stitch upon the gown weeks before: it was a triumph.

  “Did you ever wonder if we’d manage it?” she asked Miss Duley.

  “No. I knew you and the other girls would do us proud. That reminds me—did you remember to leave the edge of that last petal unstitched?”

  “I did,” Ann said, smiling, for she knew what Miss Duley had in mind.

  “Good. Ruthie? Ethel? Will one of you go down the hall and fetch the girls from the second workroom? We don’t have much time to spare, so tell them to leave off whatever they’re doing and hurry along.”

  When everyone had assembled and fallen quiet, Miss Duley went to stand by the end of the train, still in its great frame although it had been complete since the night before. “Everyone here has worked her fingers to the bone over these past weeks. Everyone. And while only a few had a hand in making Her Royal Highness’s gown and train, you should all feel you can take credit for the great task we’re about to complete. That is why I asked Ann to leave one petal on the train unfinished. I want everyone who did not work on the gown or train to wash your hands, and when you are done queue up behind Ann. Very good. She will show you where to set your stitch—just one, as there are a fair number of you, and it’s only a small bit of petal that needs fixing to the tulle.”

  One after the other they washed their hands and came forward and sat in the chair next to Ann, and she showed them the petal of the largest York rose at the bottom of the train. One after the other they set their single stitch, then ceded their place to the next woman in line. When they were done, Ann placed the final stitch, added two invisible anchoring stitches beneath the petal, and snipped the thread.

  “There,” Miss Duley said. “That’s done, and if anyone ever asks if you worked on Princess Elizabeth’s wedding gown or train, you can say in all honesty that you did. Thank you, my dears.”

  Now came the delicate task of removing the train from its frame. First they loosened the pegs that held it taut, just enough to make it possible to unpick the tacking stitches that held the tulle in place, then Ann and Miriam, working from the bottom and along opposite sides, set the edges of the train free. The raw edge of the tulle had been whipstitched with minute, near-invisible stitches before being stretched in the frame, and the tacking stitches had been set only a thread’s width away. If all went well, the train would come free without a single telltale mark on its gossamer fabric. Ruthie and Ethel followed behind, gathering the train as bridesmaids might do, keeping it well clear of the floor.

  On the far side of the workroom an immaculate cloth had been set out, and on top of it were sheets and sheets of the finest snow-white tissue paper. The four women now brought the train over and spread it upon the tissue, adjusting and straightening until not a crease or bump remained. Then they layered more tissue on top and began the work of folding it away for its journey to Buckingham Palace.

  Ann hadn’t expected it to be such a bittersweet moment. She would see the dress again in a matter of hours, but her part in its creation was over. This was the last time she would touch the flowers she had sewn, and the last time she would be close enough to see the tiny sprigs of white heather, tucked below one of the York roses at the bottom of the
train, which were her gift to the princess.

  While they had been packing the train, the women next door had been packing the gown, and Ann and Miriam now carried their folded and tissue-wrapped bundle to the sewing workroom. The gown, cushioned all round with poufs of tissue, had been nestled in an enormous box, fully six feet long and monogrammed with Mr. Hartnell’s initials. They set the train carefully atop the gown, and then they closed the box and tied its lid in place with loops of gleaming satin ribbon.

  “There,” Ann said, and she stood back so the two footmen who usually greeted guests at the front door might carry the princess’s wedding finery to the waiting delivery lorry.

  It was a moment of triumph for them all, and for Ann, especially, since so much of the important work had been entrusted to her care. She knew it, and she knew she ought to be bouncing with excitement like the other girls, so she made a brave show of it in the end, smiling and laughing and congratulating her friends on a job well done.

  ACCORDING TO THE pass that had come along with her invitation, Ann had to be at Westminster Abbey no later than ten forty-five on the morning of the wedding. To that she planned to add at least another hour, for she dared not risk getting caught in the crowds. Unlike most of the other guests, she would be traveling via Underground and would have no liveried driver to chauffeur her up to the door.

  She’d slept fretfully, stirring at the slightest noise and taking forever to settle again, and her worries had chased her from one dream to the next. The nausea she felt upon waking further compounded her misery, and at breakfast she was only able to nibble at some plain crackers.

  She had to accept the truth. She was two weeks overdue, she was tired all the time, and she turned green at the sight of foods she’d always loved. She was pregnant, and no matter how long she thought about it and turned over the possibilities in her mind, she could imagine only one way forward. There was only one path to take, she knew, and it was going to break her heart.

  Miriam had come downstairs at seven o’clock, her excitement over the coming day palpable, and it had been no easy thing to convince her friend that all was well and she had just slept poorly. “I was too excited to sleep,” she’d explained, and she had resolved, then, to pack away her troubles for the day.

  Ann wore the best of her work dresses, its charcoal gray the least festive color she could imagine, but it would be covered entirely by the coat Carmen had lent her. Made of a gorgeous dark blue wool with a calf-length skirt and wide lapels that wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl, it was the perfect match to the hat that Jessie in millinery had let her borrow: a black felt oval trimmed with a pouf of ostrich fluff, a spiral of wired black ribbon, and the tip of one perfect peacock feather.

  Earlier in the week Miss Duley had told Miriam that she would be going to the palace with Mr. Hartnell on the morning of the wedding, together with Mam’selle and the senior fitters, in case any emergency should arise that required the aid of an embroiderer. “You’re to meet them at his office at nine o’clock sharp on Thursday morning, then you’ll drive over together.”

  As soon as Ann and Miriam were dressed they went to Mr. Booth from next door and asked him to take their picture, a memento of the day, and then, the sun scarcely up, they set off for the royal wedding. They took the same train into London, with Miriam changing at Charing Cross and Ann continuing on to Westminster. They had decided it would be too difficult to try to meet up afterward, so would return home separately.

  The crowds were just as bad as Ann had feared, six deep in some places, but the wedding didn’t start for another two hours. She had plenty of time, and really all she had to do was cross the street and make her way to the abbey’s western door.

  The day was cold and gray and the skies looked as if they might open at any moment, but nothing could dampen the good cheer of the crowds. Some people had been waiting all night, equipped with lawn chairs and blankets and baskets packed with sandwiches and flasks of tea, and many were sporting paper crowns or ancient top hats. The mood reminded her of VE Day, when she and Milly had come into London and waded through the crowds on the Mall to try to catch a glimpse of the king and queen and Mr. Churchill waving from the balcony. They’d stayed out all night, cheering and clapping and singing until their voices frayed to nothing, and just thinking of it now was almost too much to bear. She had been so full of hope that day.

  Again and again she came to barriers and had to dig in her handbag for her invitation and pass, and each time she worried the unthinkable would happen and she’d be turned away. But the policemen on duty all beckoned her through with a smile and some cheery remark, and one of them, old enough to have been on duty since the king and queen themselves had been married, asked her to pass on his best wishes to the princess.

  “I don’t think I’m likely to get very close to her, but I’ll do my best,” she promised.

  In the end she had to walk farther west than she needed before doubling back, but before too long she was rounding the end of the abbey and the great west door was in sight. For some reason it had been covered over with a temporary entrance painted white and red and gold, its interior softened with white draperies, and the effect, unfortunately, had a sort of ersatz wartime feel that was quite at odds with the splendor of the great church itself.

  Ann was only one of a river of guests who were arriving, most of them in stately limousines, and she hung back until a group of dignitaries bristling with medals and sashes and jeweled orders had been ushered in. Only then did she step forward, her invitation and pass in hand.

  “Good morning, madam, and welcome.” An older man in full dress uniform, his chest shingled with medals, had come up to greet her. “I’m Major Ruislip, one of the gentlemen ushers. May I see your pass for a moment? Thank you very much. Here it is back again, and here, too, is a copy of the order of service. If I may walk you to your seat?”

  She followed him in, so intimidated by his magnificent appearance that she dared not say a word, and instead tried to absorb everything her eyes were showing her. The stark slab of the Tomb of the Unknown Warrior, the banks of reeded pillars reaching heavenward, the delicate stone traceries that reminded her of lace, and everywhere the magical, jeweled light of the abbey’s ancient windows. There weren’t any flowers that she could see, and the chairs were quite ordinary bentwood ones. In that sense, she supposed, it was a true austerity wedding. Not that a building as beautiful as Westminster Abbey needed to be covered in flowers and bunting to make it presentable, of course.

  They hadn’t gone far, only a third of the way along the nave, when Major Ruislip halted at a narrow aisle between the rows of chairs. Miss Duley and Miss Holliday were seated in the second-to-last row. Upon seeing Ann, Miss Duley raised her hand in a diffident wave.

  “Here we are, Miss Hughes. You are seated just to the right of your colleagues. I do hope you enjoy the ceremony.”

  The difficult part was over. She was at the abbey and she had found her friends. She could breathe again.

  “I see we got here on the early side,” she said, looking at the empty chairs around them.

  “In half an hour it’ll be a different story,” Miss Duley said. “Can you imagine showing up after the queen? Horrors. What time is it now? I was in such a fluster to leave that I forgot my watch on the dresser.”

  “It’s a quarter past ten, so we’ve a little over an hour to go.” Ann looked around, then lowered her voice to make sure they weren’t overheard. “I haven’t had anything to drink since last night. I was that worried I might need the loo partway through.”

  “Fair enough, but mind you have a cup of tea as soon as you get home, else you’ll end up with a headache. You know you will.”

  Ann paged through the order of service, and though she recognized a few hymns, most of the music was unfamiliar. “I wonder if we’re meant to sing along,” she mused.

  “No idea. Better wait until we hear if others are joining in,” Miss Holliday suggested.

  The sea
ts around them had almost all been filled, and the people being shown in by the gentlemen ushers were looking progressively grander. The women’s gowns were floor length, their furs were ever more lush and exotic, and the volume of jewels they wore was truly startling.

  A great fanfare of trumpets sounded at a quarter past eleven, and everyone stood, but try as she might Ann was unable to see past the people in front, all of whom were built like stevedores.

  “It’s the queen,” the tallest of the men whispered. “It won’t be long now.”

  They sat down, and waited, and listened to the organ music, and Ann read her order of service again, and another ten minutes or so inched past. Then came the bells, ringing clear and bright, and before their chimes had faded a second fanfare rang out, again from the unseen trumpets. The congregation stood once more, and a hush fell over the abbey and its congregation of two thousand souls. Ann didn’t so much as breathe.

  “Praise, my soul, the king of heaven,” the choir began to sing, and Ann knew, from the order of service she’d now memorized, that the processional had begun. She stood on her tiptoes, straining to see past the giants blocking her view, and was rewarded with the briefest flash of glittering white.

  That was it, that was all she was going to see of the bride until the ceremony came to an end, and still her heart thrilled to it. No one at their end of the abbey could see or hear much, for that matter, and it was rather strange to sit so quietly and strain to hear what was happening at the high altar.

  It startled her, a little, when everyone got to their feet again, but then the organ began to play the opening bars of the national anthem and they all sang, a choir of thousands of voices, and it sent shivers up her spine to know the subject of the anthem, the king himself, was listening.

  Another hymn followed; Ann consulted her order of service and saw that the bride and groom had gone to sign the register. Yet another fanfare, and then, at last, the joyful chords of Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.” On and on it continued, measure after measure, and just as it was beginning to wear on her nerves she spied flashes of gold and red passing by. It was not Princess Elizabeth and Prince Philip but the assembled clergy, the Archbishop of Canterbury included, and all the choristers as well.