The Gown(17)

“A warm introduction indeed.”

“I also have some examples of my work, if you . . . ?”

“I should be delighted to see them.”

She had bound them into a folder, the edges of each piece carefully whipstitched, and as he looked through the samples, his cigarette held well clear, inspecting the front and back of each, she found herself holding her breath. So close, so close. He seemed to understand and appreciate what she had done, but was it enough?

“You are an exceptionally talented embroiderer, Miss Dassin. This is marvelous work. I’d be a fool to send you away.”

The vise of fear around her chest, so omnipresent she’d almost forgotten it, loosened a fraction.

“Thank you, Monsieur Hartnell. I—”

“Mrs. Price!” he called.

A middle-aged woman, short and stoutly corseted, came to the door.

“Yes, Mr. Hartnell?”

“Could you ring down to Miss Duley? Ask her to come up? I have someone new for her.”

Miriam very badly wanted to say something, but what if she stumbled over her English? Said something that made him reconsider? So she sat where she was, her back ramrod straight, and watched as he looked through her samples again, nodding his head from time to time, all the while puffing on his cigarette.

Mrs. Price had returned. “I just spoke with her. Says she can’t come up just yet. Something to do with a pair of scissors left on a frame?”

“Oh, very well. We’ll just have to beard the dragon in her den.” He handed the samples back to Miriam, then stood, stubbed out his cigarette in a heavy crystal ashtray, and came around the desk. “If you don’t mind bringing along your things, Miss Dassin, I’ll lead the way.”

The Hartnell premises were a series of buildings that had been joined together in an almost haphazard fashion, and after going along several corridors, then up and down at least three sets of stairs, Miriam was completely turned around. At last they came to a heavy metal door, its paint flaking away in spots. Monsieur Hartnell hauled it open and waved her through.

They stood at the top of yet another flight of steps. Beyond was a large, brightly lit workroom, the late morning sun from its bank of windows generously supplemented by hanging electric lights. Two rows of embroidery frames on trestles ran the length of the room, though most of the occupants were standing around a single frame in the far corner. One woman, very young, was crying softly into a balled-up handkerchief while another rubbed her back, consoling her with soft words. Most of the embroiderers seemed to be in their early twenties, more or less the same age as Miriam; a few were younger, and a very few were conspicuously older.

Although those still seated got to their feet as soon as Monsieur Hartnell entered the workroom, and everyone waited patiently for him to explain his arrival, Miriam could discern no change in the temperature of the room. No current of anxiety rising to the surface.

“As you were, as you were. I just came to have a quick word with Miss Duley.”

A woman in her early fifties broke away from the group in the corner and approached, a look of bemusement on her face. Her hair was pulled back tightly, unforgivingly, and the black of her severely tailored frock was relieved only by a simple white collar.

“So sorry to drag you down here, sir,” she said, speaking with the ease of long acquaintance. “We’ve had a tempest in a teapot. Pair of scissors left on a frame. Nicked one of the designs, but it’s easy enough to repair. The young lady responsible has assured me she won’t be so careless again.”

“Good, good. Mistakes happen, of course. Not to worry.”

“Who is this we have here?” Miss Duley asked.

“Oh, yes. This is Miss Miriam Dassin, lately of Paris. She showed me some of her work just now, and it is very good. Very good indeed.”

Miss Duley looked to Miriam, her gaze assessing but not in the least hostile, then back to Monsieur Hartnell. “We do have a few girls leaving to get married this summer, and I’ve been worrying as to how we’d replace them. How soon might you be able to start, Miss Dassin?”

Was that it? Could it truly be that easy? “Perhaps Monday?” she ventured. “I have missed my work, you see, and—”

“Monday it is. Come for half eight and we’ll get you set up with the girls in accounts. Just go to the staff entrance on Bruton Place and tell them you’re starting. Someone there will point you in the right direction.”

“Monday morning at half-past eight, yes. Thank you.” She turned to Monsieur Hartnell, who now bore an expression of extreme satisfaction. “I thank you as well. Most sincerely. I hope you can forgive me for—”

Shaking his head, he waved her apology away. “I was, and am, delighted to make your acquaintance. Welcome to Hartnell. Miss Duley, I’ll leave you to make the arrangements.”

“Of course, sir.” They waited in silence for the few seconds it took for him to retreat through the fire door, and then Miss Duley turned her attention to her staff, none of whom had returned to their frames. “We’re only a few minutes shy of half twelve. Why don’t you go on and have your dinner now? Ann—if I could ask you to stay for a minute?”

The same woman who had been consoling the younger girl earlier now came over. Her pretty red-gold hair was pinned back severely, and like Miss Duley she wore a well-tailored frock. Its dark brown color did nothing for her, however, deadening her complexion and making her fading freckles rather too noticeable.