The Gown(16)

“That’s everything, then,” he said to the waiting driver a good fifteen minutes later, once the last of the boxes had been placed in the lorry. “Off you go.”

Before the man could vanish inside, Miriam came forward. “Excuse me.”

“Yes? What do you want?” He looked her up and down, a puzzled frown furrowing his brow. “The salesroom entrance is on Bruton Street,” he offered in a marginally more courteous tone.

“I would like to see your head of embroidery.”

The frown returned. “For what reason?”

“I wish to seek employment. I have with me a reference from Monsieur Christian—”

“You’ll have to go through the usual channels.”

“Very well,” she said, her patience fraying. “What are they?”

“Buggered if I know, but they don’t involve letting in strangers off the street.” With that he darted through the door and pulled it shut behind him.

Panic bloomed in her throat, her heart, her mind. What to do, what to do, what to do? She had come to the end of Monsieur Dior’s list. There was nowhere else to go. She was trained for nothing else.

She spun around, ready to flee, and caught sight of her reflection in a window. The man in the white coat had thought she was one of Monsieur Hartnell’s customers. Only for a moment, but it might be enough.

She walked to the end of Bruton Place, turned the corner, then doubled back along Bruton Street itself. She held her head high. Straightened her spine. Remembered how she had managed such moments before. If she could keep her cool when presenting false identification to the Milice, she could maintain a veneer of serenity when entering the front door of a London dress designer. This she could do.

The entrance was a grand affair of green malachite and sparkling glass, the equal to anything one might see on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. A footman appeared silently, ushering her inside, and she paused, forcing herself to stand very still as she took the measure of the space. Modern, she thought. Cool and elegant and masterfully restrained. Nearly every vertical plane was mirrored; the few bare walls were painted in the cool gray-green of young lavender leaves.

A woman came forward, beautifully dressed, her welcoming smile radiating sincerity. “Good morning. How may I help you?”

“Good morning. I am here to see Monsieur Hartnell.”

The woman’s eyes widened fractionally, but her smile did not waver. “Of course. If I might first—”

“I am Mademoiselle Dassin. My friend, Monsieur Christian Dior, told me I must pay Monsieur Hartnell a visit upon my arrival in England.” Not quite the truth, but not precisely a lie.

“Ah. I see.” The woman’s eyes darted toward the stairs.

“Shall we?” Miriam asked, and without waiting for an answer, she set off across the foyer.

“Ah, yes, of course. Miss, ah . . .”

“Dassin.”

“Yes. Miss Dassin. If you could perhaps wait while I speak to his secretary, then I—”

Miriam began to ascend the stairs. “I do not mind waiting.”

“If I could perhaps trouble you to take a seat down—”

“It is quite all right. I am certain he will wish to see me.”

As they reached the first floor, the woman slipped past Miriam, walking as quickly as her high heels would allow. “I really do need to speak with Mrs. Price and let her— Oh, my goodness.”

They stood at the door of an office. One glance told Miriam it was empty. “Madame Price does not appear to be at her desk.”

“No, she isn’t. If you could please wait here while I find her?”

“Of course.”

On the far side of Mrs. Price’s office, which was actually an anteroom, a door stood open. A man was speaking on the telephone, and though she knew it would be best to stay where she was, Miriam found herself inching toward the door.

A sign hung on the wall nearby: NO ADMITTANCE BEYOND THIS DOOR EXCEPT BY EXPRESS PERMISSION OF MRS. PRICE.

She was certain, now, that Monsieur Hartnell was on the other side of that door. He had finished his telephone call; it would not be entirely beyond the pale to knock and ask for admittance. If she waited for permission, Mrs. Price might decide to let her in. Or she might just as easily have Miriam escorted out.

This was her chance. Her only chance. She knocked on the door.

A man was sitting at an enormous desk, a smoldering cigarette in his left hand, a pencil in the other. He was in his late forties, she supposed, with reddish hair that had gone white at his temples, and his suit was beautifully tailored.

“Hello? Monsieur Hartnell?” she asked.

“Hello,” he said, and he smiled when he saw her at the door. “What a lovely ensemble.”

“Thank you. I beg your pardon, but your Mrs. Price is not at her desk.”

“I see. Will you come in? Do sit down.”

She advanced into the room, which was every bit as elegant as the rest of the premises, and perched on the edge of the chair he indicated. “My name is Miriam Dassin and I am an embroiderer, most recently at Maison Rébé. I also have a letter of recommendation from Monsieur Christian Dior.”

She opened her portfolio, relieved that her hands were steady, and handed him the letter. Only after he had accepted it did she realize he might not understand French. But as she watched him read, marking the changes of expression on his face, she felt certain that he was able to make out the general tenor of its words.