by Wendy Holden
He stood back, arms folded, smiling. “You’ve got a marvelous figure, you know, dear. Wonderful height. Shame not to show it off, really. You’ll look like one of my house models once I’ve finished with you!”
She felt her liking for him return.
“Crawfie!” yelled Lilibet excitedly. She was behind them, in the open doorway. “Come and look at Aunt Princess Marina’s dress!”
“Do you think,” Hartnell murmured, as they walked off together, “that poor Aunt Marina has the faintest idea what’s in store for her?”
Marion looked at him. How on earth did he know?
“Dear George has a very checkered history,” Hartnell continued. “But they say he’s put his bad old ways behind him. So Kiki Preston, the Girl with the Silver Syringe, is unlikely to be on the Abbey guest list. On the other hand, some very surprising people are.”
Marion glanced at Lilibet. She was through the doors and in the next room, sliding in her stockinged feet on the polished floor.
The next room was high-ceilinged and filled with light. A mannequin took center stage. It wore a column of shimmering silver brocade.
“How beautiful,” Marion breathed.
“How almost impossible, you mean. Twelve feet of fragile family lace lined with French silver lamé that would break if you looked at it. And made by Russian refugees.”
“Russian refugees?”
“Don’t get me started. Our Marina’s half-Russian. She wanted displaced persons from the mother country involved. Which is all very well for her to say, but guess who had to find Russian refugees at a moment’s notice. Ones who could sew, as well.” He closed his eyes, shook his head and groaned, as if to dispel a nightmare.
“Well, it was worth it. It’s the perfect royal wedding gown.”
“Which isn’t saying much,” Hartnell retorted. “The last one was the Duchess of York’s, which was the ugliest in the entire history of the world. Madame Handley-Seymour should have been shot.”
Marion was still laughing when Lilibet slid up. “Why do you always have your hand on your hip?” she asked Hartnell.
“So I know where to find it,” the couturier flipped back.
They left an hour later, Lilibet clutching sketches of a white knee-length frock with puffed sleeves and a wide tulle skirt, worn with a headdress of roses. Marion was amused. Hartnell had more in common with the duchess’s dressing table than he thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Norman had been even better than his word. The reworked suit was utter perfection. With effortless elegance it drew attention to her straight shoulders and slender waist. It stopped bang on the knee, to show off her long legs. He had swapped the worn leather buttons for flat shiny black ones and taken the lapels off and replaced them with contrasting black velvet. “I look like a completely different person,” Marion breathed, looking in Hartnell’s mirror.
“It’s better than that,” exulted Norman. He was clearly delighted with the success of it. “You look like the person you’re supposed to be. Glamorous, forward-looking, woman of the world.”
It was true. Norman had negotiated a discount at a Bond Street salon, where a flamboyant stylist had snipped away to reveal what he called her swan neck. Her cheekbones, lately hidden under curly clumps, reappeared as well.
Now, when she looked in the mirror, the bold girl who had cropped her hair and swirled her skirt smiled back. Dowdy Marion had gone.
“You’re a genius,” she told Norman.
“It has been said. Now off you go to the ball, Cinderella!”
“You mean the wedding. The ball’s the night before, and I haven’t been asked to that.” The king and queen were giving a dance at Buckingham Palace that promised to be extremely grand. The duchess had been auditioning tiaras all week.
“No, but you know who has?” The hazel eyes gleamed with excitement. “I hear on the grapevine that a certain very flashy frock has been made for a certain very flashy lady.”
He meant Mrs. Simpson, obviously. “She’s not flashy,” Marion said. It was a source of deep frustration to Norman that she had met Wallis and he hadn’t. Even more frustrating was the fact that he had not been asked to design for her. She wore Chanel, whom Norman hated. “Anyone can do that minimalist stuff! It takes real genius to be maximalist, like me!”
She doubted Norman’s information about the ball. It would be a highly formal occasion. The Prince of Wales would surely not invite his mistress, a woman Queen Mary had called an adventuress. Lady Furness; the devoted Freda Dudley Ward; they had never made such public appearances. Norman had to be exaggerating.
Marion hoped so, fervently. She liked Wallis, but any increased ascendancy in the Prince of Wales’ affections spelled trouble—for Lilibet, and therefore for her.
On the day of the wedding, she sat in the Abbey transept. There was a buzz of anticipation as those gathered waited to see the beautiful Greek princess.
“Marinamania” had gripped the capital. It loved everything about her, from her romantic name to her hats. Two types were in circulation: a droop-brimmed one with a high crown and pom-pom, and a perky pillbox with an upstanding side feather. Both had been much in evidence in the vast crowds cheering the princess in her coach every inch of the route from the palace to the Abbey.
Norman, of course, preferred to believe that the real excitement was his dress. “They’re all desperate to see it!” he had crowed earlier, in the Abbey foyer. “Not bad for the son of a pub keeper from Streatham Hill!”
Marion stared. “You told me your father was in the wine and spirits trade.”
“And so he is,” the irrepressible Hartnell returned.
Sitting behind Marion was a gossipy collection of elderly peeresses. In front, across the aisle, she could see the Prince of Wales. As Prince George’s best man, in his naval officer’s outfit, he looked astonishingly handsome. But, as always, astonishingly bored. She watched him beckon a passing clergyman and light a cigarette on his processional candle.
There was a gasp from behind. “Did you see that? And to think he’s to be Defender of the Faith!”
The prince, perhaps aware of such remarks, possibly even keen to encourage them, blew a fat plume of smoke upward.
Another whisper from behind. “He took her with him to the palace ball last night.”
In her new suit, Marion stiffened.
“Appalling woman. Foxtrotting about like the cat who’d got the cream.”
“The servants at the Fort saw him coming out of her room in the morning. Covered in lipstick.”
“No!”
“Apparently she has complete power over him. Not to mention delusions of grandeur. I hear that in Biarritz she was complaining because she wasn’t introduced to all the local aristocracy.”
“She’d complain more if she had been.”
Marion swallowed nervously. She could still hardly believe that the good-natured woman she remembered was also the brazen creature of these stories. But all the stories were like this. How could everyone be wrong, and she be right?
She tried to concentrate on the Abbey’s splendor and beauty, the carving and gilding, the glowing stained glass. She looked at the Greek royal family, sitting in the nave. Apparently they didn’t actually have a throne and were currently living in exile. But they certainly compensated with looks.
They had gathered in the palace beforehand, among them a blond boy of startling handsomeness. His name was Philip and he was a cousin of Marina’s. Lilibet, from across the room, had gazed at him shyly. He had not seemed to notice her.
The mighty Abbey organ now announced the advent of the bride. People strained to see Marina as she came slowly up the nave, the shafts of colored light from the ancient windows making her diamonds flash and glitter.
Marion slid a glance at the Duchess of York. Sitting in the nave dressed in palest pink, she wor
e a look of bright, unruffled serenity. Marion was not fooled, however. Elizabeth of York loathed Marina. It was said that the Greek princess considered the Scottish earl’s daughter beneath her. The earl’s daughter had repaid in kind.
But she was possibly not feeling quite so triumphant now, Marion thought, watching Marina approach. Shimmering beneath the powerful lights, Hartnell’s gown looked magnificent and set off to perfection the princess’s dark and delicate beauty. She was fashionably etiolated in a way the Duchess of York never would be, and her popularity was almost as great.
Lilibet now appeared in her tulle frock, walking slowly down the aisle behind Marina. She looked adorably serious beneath the flowers in her hair. But like Marina, she had her detractors. At her mother’s feet, Margaret crouched on a velvet stool looking furious. She passionately resented not being a bridesmaid too, and had none of her mother’s skill at concealing it. From under her little white bonnet she blazed with all the red-hot fury a four-year-old could summon.
Behind Marion, the old peeresses were still on Mrs. Simpson. “They say she demands endless money and jewels.”
“Snaps off the ends of pencils to make more work for the servants.”
“Reduced the gardener to tears by demanding all his peach blossoms!”
“No!”
Marina reached her husband-to-be at the altar. To mark his marriage, Prince George now had an extra title, Duke of Kent. With his height and slick dark hair he had a film-star glamour. Perhaps that was appropriate. According to Norman, the prince had once, under a pseudonym, won a dancing competition in Cannes.
The Prince of Wales now stood up, the braid on his uniform flashing under the chandeliers. He took another long drag on his cigarette, which he then tossed to the floor. He glanced about with his quick, darting gaze. He seemed to be looking for someone.
“Oh, and she’s here, of course,” came from behind Marion. “He gave her the best seats, naturally.”
“Seats? Is the husband here?”
“Yes. Have you heard? They’re calling him ‘The Unimportance of Being Ernest.’”
“How very amusing.”
A hat moved several rows in front of Marion, and shock barreled through her as, quite suddenly, she realized she was looking at Wallis.
She was seated in the choir in a fitted dark jacket that made an elegant contrast to the gold all around. She was hatless, her black hair gleaming above her pearly face. Did she look hard, scheming and ruthless? Marion wondered. Or exactly the same as before? Her red lipstick was bright as blood and her big dark eyes, while not looking in Marion’s direction, had the amused glitter she remembered.
“There!” hissed the trouts. “Look! His face!”
The prince was staring at Wallis as if she were the only woman in the world. It was a private moment, played out in public. Only an idiot would doubt what was going on now.
Marion glanced at Lilibet, poised and patient behind the glittering Marina. There was something touching and vulnerable about the small white figure amid the ancient and vast surroundings.
She felt a sudden, fierce resolve. Whatever happened, she had but one priority. She must protect her little princess.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The king’s Silver Jubilee was approaching. It seemed singularly ill-timed to Marion. Marking it with lavish celebrations seemed a positive risk.
The Kents’ wedding had been lavish, but it had had at its center Princess Marina, a glamorous young woman. Moreover, it was confined to London. This would be nationwide, and would be centered on an irascible old man.
Marion was nervous. If there was to be a revolution, then surely it would be now. The country, riven by poverty and unemployment, could hardly be expected to praise a man who had everything. And his subjects, of course, only knew the half of it. They hadn’t the first idea about the tensions in the family, and how an American divorcée threatened to blow the lot sky-high. What if they found out?
Surprisingly, however, the nation seemed to view the anniversary as a welcome distraction. An opportunity to put aside their woes.
The authorities, it had to be said, provided a magnificent setting in which to do this. The Mall was lined with huge flagpoles topped with gold imperial crowns. An eighty-foot statue of Britannia, flanked by golden lions, stood on top of Selfridge’s in Oxford Street. Floodlighting, appearing for the first time, made a sensational nightly spectacle of the royal palaces, Westminster Abbey, County Hall and the fronts of the Tate and National Galleries.
The king’s four sons had been all over the kingdom, Gloucester to Ireland, York to Scotland and Wales of course to the principality. They had received rapturous welcomes in each. The king himself, along with Queen Mary, had gone on four great carriage drives through London—north, south, east and west. His Majesty had told Lilibet, who had passed it on to Marion, that the East End streets had been the gayest of all, with bunting, paper flowers, flags and streamers disguising the mean brick terraces and the sun bouncing off the brass helmets of the local fire brigades. There had been pianos in the roads, groups having singsongs, neighbors lending tea urns and trestle tables.
“Grandpapa said he had no idea they felt like that about him,” Lilibet excitedly reported. “He said that, after all, he’s only a very ordinary sort of fellow.”
The centerpiece for the ordinary sort of fellow was a thanksgiving service at St. Paul’s. The princesses were to drive in procession from Buckingham Palace with their parents and grandparents. Marion had promised Lilibet she would stand in the crowd and wave. “I’ll wave back to you, Crawfie,” Lilibet assured her.
It was still only midmorning, but the heat was already powerful. Against the simmering blue sky, the gold crowns atop the flagpoles blazed. She had planned to walk to the cathedral, taking the route down the Mall, but it was immediately evident how hopeless this was. There were far too many people; the Mall’s pavements were tight-packed. Even the smallest progress involved twisting, sidling, ducking and squeezing between the pressing masses.
Marion looked at them. Battered shoes, patched elbows and pinched features were much in evidence. These were the unemployed, the means-tested, the angry citizens. What if they suddenly realized the unfairness of it all and rose up against their oppressors, as Valentine always put it?
Fear tightened within her. It had been a long time since she had been in a crowd. Even when she was out with Lilibet, Cameron was always close by. But now she was on her own.
A great shout now erupted, followed by a silence. She stiffened. Was this it? The moment when everything turned? She glanced about her apprehensively, trying to read the stiff faces. She thought of Lilibet and Margaret in their open carriage. Against a rampaging mob they would have no chance. She looked at the bright red line of Grenadier Guards. Would they turn and start firing into the crowds?
The silence dinned in her ears. Into it came a clatter of hooves and a jingling of harness. Above the shoulders and between the hats Marion caught flashes of red and gold, the tossing head of a horse, the wave of a gloved hand. Queen Mary’s meringue-like toque appeared, its feather swaying with the movement of the carriage. Marion saw part of the king’s beard, an explosion of braid and medals and then the bored, contemptuous profile of his son and heir. Would people see him for what he was?
“God bless the Prince of Wales!” screamed the mob.
Lilibet now came into view, smiling and waving with her little white gloves. The crowd went wild with delight. “God bless the little princesses! God bless Princess Elizabeth!”
Marion felt that she would burst with pride. This child that they were all cheering—she was her work. Lilibet’s natural manner, her ease with this great mass of people, must have something to do with all the trips they had taken together, out into the city. Operation Normal had been a success. The sacrifice had been worth it. Happy tears blurred her vision and she rummaged in her pocket for her h
andkerchief.
It was then, as she glanced about, that she saw him. He was a few yards away, his face turned toward the carriages. There was no doubt it was him. He looked exactly the same, even though three years had passed since last she saw him. A pair of wide dark eyes with a shining wave of black hair above. A red scarf dancing like a flame.
Alarm juddered through her, mixed with warning. This man had hurt her terribly. She should avoid him, and nothing would be easier than to duck away in such a vast crowd. On the other hand, his treatment of her had led to Lilibet, whom she so loved and who loved her back, and to an important job at which she had been successful, as the events now unfolding showed. Perhaps they were even, after all.
But as she sidled her way toward him through the roaring masses, she was aware of another motive. She was curious. What was he doing here, an avowed revolutionary, in a crowd cheering the monarchy? Had he changed his mind?
“Valentine!”
He turned. She had half wondered if he would even remember her, and was gratified to see his face light up. “Marion. You look fantastic.”
Norman’s early work on the suit had since been augmented by work on dresses and skirts. Today she was wearing a yellow frock bought for a song in a sale, but transformed by Hartnell’s clever needle and accessorized with bold red buttons.
“And you,” she said, smiling back, “look exactly the same. But why are you here?”
Valentine had accessorized too, she saw. With a placard, which he now raised in the air. It read “Nobody Voted for the Monarchy.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you mad?”
“No, unlike everyone else in this deluded crowd.” He grinned, the same flashing grin she remembered. “This is Decca, by the way.”
A toothy girl with thin, arched eyebrows and shining blonde hair popped her head round Valentine’s shoulder. “Hellair!” Decca’s accent was jauntily upper-class. She too was waving a placard. Marion stared, confused.
