The Gown(50)

“You know I cannot—”

“I’m not talking about what the princess is going to wear on her wedding day. But you have to admit the timing couldn’t be better.”

She frowned at this, surprised by his cynicism. “I know little of your king and his family, but do you really believe he arranged for his daughter to be married in order to . . . how do you say it . . . ?”

“Relieve some pressure on the government?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t. And from what I do know of the man, I suspect he’d much prefer if she waited a few years. She is very young, after all. I do think, however, that it’s come at an opportune moment. What better way to get people’s minds off the misery of their own lives than by having a national holiday?”

“A holiday? Really?”

“I doubt they’ll give everyone the day off. But there will be street parties the length and breadth of this land.”

“Will you have a party?”

“Me? No. I’ll be busy working that day—we’re doing a special edition of the magazine. But I’m sure we’ll drink a toast to the happy couple at some point.”

“I bought a copy of Picture Weekly. I thought it was very interesting. The person who chooses your photographs has an artist’s eye.”

“That would be me,” he admitted, smiling almost shyly. “Would you like to see our latest issue? I brought it for you.”

She accepted it with a smile, spread it open on the table, and began to read. There were several pages of advertisements, a long article on the hopes for a vaccine against infantile paralysis, complete with many heartrending photographs of children in iron lungs or with splinted limbs, an essay on the import-export gap by a professor of economics, a story about Britain’s many species of game birds, and last of all a photo essay on a young American actress who was starring in a West End musical. She was also the cover model for the issue.

“I see what you mean. The way you must mix important things with . . .”

“A day in the life of Miss Loveday Lang, star of Put On Your Best Blues? I know. And I wish, sometimes, that— Ah. Here’s our food.”

The fish, white and delicate and perfectly cooked, was delicious, as were the accompanying vegetables. She even accepted a portion of the samphire Mr. Kaczmarek had ordered, which he explained was a form of seaweed, and, undeterred, found it not unlike a briny sort of haricot vert.

“So,” he said, arranging his fork and knife on his empty plate. “Tell me about your work. I’m not fishing for details of the royal waistline, I promise. I’m interested in you. Why did you become an embroiderer?”

“There was no ‘why.’ I was fourteen, and one of my teachers thought I might have a talent for it. She told my parents, and before I knew it I was beginning my apprenticeship at Maison Lesage. From there I went to Maison Rébé.”

“And during the war . . . ?”

She shook her head. “Another time. What of you? Did you remain at Picture Weekly during the war?”

“I did. I’m blind as a proverbial bat, so none of the services would take me. Said I was in a reserved occupation anyway, so I might as well stay put. Surprised the hell out of me. I’ve been a thorn in the side of the establishment, as it were, for my entire working life, so I was sure they’d want to throw me in the path of danger as quickly as possible.”

“It was dangerous here, though, was it not? With the Blitz?”

“I suppose. At times it was. In the main it was just depressing. I . . .” He took off his spectacles and pinched at the bridge of his nose. “I lost someone I loved very much. She was killed in an air raid. In the summer of 1941, after the Blitz proper had ended.”

It was easier to see his eyes without the barrier of his spectacles. They were a pale blue that faded to silver at the edge of his irises, and there was something about the color that put her in mind of a midwinter sky. But there was nothing cold about his gaze.

“After Mary was killed I had a hard time. It was a long while before I . . . well . . .”

“Before you were content to face each new morning?”

“Yes.”

“And after Mary? Was there anyone?”

“No,” he said, his gaze meeting hers readily.

“Why did you give me your card?” she asked, emboldened by his honesty.

“I’m not precisely sure. Perhaps it was the way you reacted to your shoe being caught in the grate? You didn’t fuss, or panic, or even complain. You were rather funny about it, as I recall. And I knew straight off that you’d lay me out cold if you’d thought I was a threat.”

English people and their baffling idioms. “Lay you out?”

He mimed a punch to his jaw.

“Perhaps,” she acceded, “but you behaved yourself.”

“Of course. Whatever else I may be—and I have my share of faults—I would never stoop to harassing a woman. In any fashion.”

“That I believe. I do not know why, but I do.”

He smiled, and his pale eyes grew even warmer. “Then I shall endeavor not to give you any reason to change your mind.”

The waiter, returning to clear their plates, asked if they wanted pudding, but Miriam shook her head. English desserts were nearly as frightful as English bread.