The Gown(104)
“She put your name on the box with the embroideries, did she not? She saved them all those years, and she left them for you to find, and if she had truly wished to shut the door on her time at Hartnell I believe she would have destroyed them long ago.”
“But she didn’t.”
“She did not, and you were the one who saw the ray of light peeking through, and you were the one to open the door. It is past time that she, along with all of us who made the gown, be recognized for our work. And I will help you do it.”
“Thank you.” Relief clogged Heather’s throat, and something that felt like joy, too, at the chance to learn more of Nan and her life and the work she had done.
Miriam patted Heather’s arm, and then she reached for her handbag. “I also have something for you. Do you remember the sprigs of white heather that Ann had the idea of adding to the train? This is the sample she made up for Monsieur Hartnell. I wish for you to have it.”
As she was talking, Miriam pulled a small parcel from her bag and gave it to Heather. Inside, beneath several layers of tissue paper, was a square of silk about the size of a cocktail napkin, and embroidered upon it was a sprig of heather. The same kind of heather that Nan had always grown in her garden.
“I remember the day she told Monsieur Hartnell about her idea for the heather,” Miriam said fondly. “She was inspired, she said, by a pot of white heather that the queen had given her. The present queen’s mother, that is. I believe Ann brought it with her when she emigrated to Canada.”
“She did. It was all over her garden, and when she sold the house my mom and I kept some of it.”
“It lives on?” Miriam asked wonderingly, tears in her eyes.
“It does. Maybe I could send you some? Only I have a feeling I’d be breaking about a hundred laws.”
“It is no matter. To know it is there—oh, Heather. That alone is enough.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ann
December 3, 1947
Ann did as Miriam had suggested, and visited her doctor to ensure she really was pregnant. She had been a patient of Dr. Lovell her entire life. He had cared for her parents in their final illnesses, he had comforted her and Milly when Frank had been killed, and she hoped he would understand and have some sympathy for her predicament.
She was wrong.
“What would your mother say if she could witness your shame? This is what comes of getting ideas above your station. I always knew it would do you no good to work at such a place.” That, and variations of the same, were all he had to say, and after a solid ten minutes of listening to his verbal abuse she walked out of his examining room, her heart pounding but her head held high.
She went straight to the post office, for she’d stayed up half the night before writing her letter to Milly, and the only reason she hadn’t sent it off already was the slim hope she’d had, until fifteen minutes ago, that she might not be pregnant. So much for hope.
She’d paid extra for an airmail form, and she’d written out what she would say to Milly ahead of time on a plain sheet of paper to ensure it would all fit. Not that there was much to say at this point.
Dear Milly,
I hope this finds you well and that you aren’t yet frozen solid by the Canadian winter. This will come as a surprise but I have decided to emigrate. As you know I have some small savings but will need somewhere to stay when I arrive. Do you think your brothers will object to having me if I pay my way? I will explain all when I see you but I am well and happy and certain I am doing the right thing.
With love from your friend and sister,
Ann
A week had gone by, and then another, and Ann had begun to fear that she would never hear back from Milly. She wasn’t showing, nothing close to it yet, but the waistbands of her skirts were getting tight. Before too long, anyone who knew her well would notice, and then they would know.
Milly’s telegram was delivered three weeks to the day after Ann had posted the fragile airmail slip to Canada. It was Christmas Eve, and she and Miriam were waiting for Walter, who was to drive them out to his friends’ house in Edenbridge.
There was a knock at the door, and Ann heard the sound of something being pushed through the letter box, so of course she went running in the hopes that something had finally arrived from Canada.
It had. The telegram was in an envelope, and her hands were so unsteady that she tore the form inside almost in half as she pulled it free.
DEAR ANN SORRY FOR DELAY YOUR LETTER LANDED YESTERDAY. YES TO EVERYTHING. COME SOONEST. GO VIA HALIFAX THEN TRAIN TO TORONTO. WIRE ME DETAILS ONCE PASSAGE BOOKED. WAITING WITH OPEN ARMS. LOVE MILLY
“What does it say?” Miriam asked, her anxiety palpable.
“Yes. Milly says yes.”
A knock sounded, likely Walter come to collect them, yet still Miriam hovered. “Are you all right?”
This was not something to cry over. This was good news, and on Christmas Eve besides. She looked up, met Miriam’s questioning gaze, and tried to smile. “I’m fine. It’s only that I’d been worried she might say no. Or that she’d want to have me, but couldn’t manage it.”
“I think your Milly would do a great deal to help you. And her letters make Canada sound like a wonderful place. Cold, yes, but with many consolations.”
There was just enough time, on their drive to the house in Edenbridge, for Walter to explain to Miriam, with Ann’s help, some of the rituals of a traditional English Christmas. Caroling and wassailing and paper hats, the king’s message on the wireless, the tree with its paper chains and treasured ornaments, and the spectacle of the pudding, already sodden with brandy, being set afire with even more spirits.