The Gown(55)

She hadn’t missed any calls, but there were a pile of new emails. Two from her mom, one from Tanya with the subject line tell me you love the hotel!, the usual sprinkling of spam, and one from Daniel Friedman.

To: Heather Mackenzie

From: Daniel Friedman

Subject: Miriam Dassin

Dear Ms. Mackenzie,

A former student passed on the message that you are interested in speaking to me—I understand that you are Ann Hughes’s granddaughter. She and Miriam Dassin were indeed friends and I should be happy to meet with you to pass on whatever information I can. Perhaps you could let me know when and where might suit you?

Regards,

Daniel Friedman

To: Daniel Friedman

From: Heather Mackenzie

Subject: Re: Miriam Dassin

Dear Dr. Friedman,

Thank you so much. I’m staying at a hotel in Soho and will be in London until Sunday morning. I can meet with you anytime before then. Just let me know a time and place and I will be there. I really do appreciate your taking the time to speak with me.

Best wishes,

Heather

To: Heather Mackenzie

From: Daniel Friedman

Subject: Re: Miriam Dassin

Dear Ms. Mackenzie,

Why don’t we say tomorrow at noon at the French House on Dean Street? If that’s too early just let me know. I’ll send you a text message now with my mobile number so you have it. Looking forward to meeting you.

Regards,

D





Chapter Sixteen


Ann


September 4, 1947

It was raining, and she was ever so tired, and her eyes felt as if they’d been papered over with sandpaper after hours spent hunched over Princess Elizabeth’s wedding gown. With the day being so gloomy, and the workroom windows newly curtained with muslin in an attempt to keep out prying eyes, it had been a miracle she’d set even one decent stitch. Everything before her had been the same color, or near enough to make no difference, and the satin and pearls and crystal beads had all blended into one amorphous milk-colored blur after a while.

At least the rain had let up a bit. With any luck she’d make it to the Tube station before her coat was soaked through, otherwise—

“Miss Hughes? Hello?”

She stopped short and looked around, an islet in the stream of people hurrying by. The rain kept getting in her eyes, but that was her fault for leaving her umbrella at home again. She wiped at her face, blinked hard, and there he was. Jeremy Thickett-Milne.

“Miss Hughes—Ann. It is you. I wasn’t sure at first. What a lovely surprise. I was terribly disappointed when you didn’t call.”

“I tried. Twice. But the woman who answered said that I had the wrong number.”

His mouth tightened at this. “I do apologize. I expect it was my sister. Her idea of a joke, though not a very good one. In any event, I’ve found you again, so all is well. Are you on your way home from work?”

“Yes. I just finished.”

She was careful not to say more, for it had been drummed into them all, again and again, that they had to be wary. That’s why the windows had been curtained, and why there was talk of whitewashing them, too. That’s why Captain Mitchison, who managed the business side of things for Mr. Hartnell, had taken to sleeping in his office, a loaded pistol—or so Ethel insisted—at his side.

“I wonder,” Jeremy said, inching a little closer, “if you might be free this evening. It is rather last minute, of course, but I find I’m not quite ready to say good-bye.”

“Oh. I, ah . . .” Why couldn’t she think of something to say? But her mouth refused to cooperate with her brain.

“Please tell me I’m forgiven for my awful sister. Please tell me you’ll give me a second chance.”

Ann felt, suddenly, as if she were face-to-face with a film star. Ordinary people were never that good-looking, yet try as she might, she couldn’t discern a single flaw. His hairline wasn’t receding, his nose wasn’t beaky, his lips weren’t thin, his chin wasn’t weak. He was tall and broad-shouldered and had a flat stomach and ears that didn’t stick out and the bluest eyes she had ever seen. She stared on, even though it was probably making him feel uncomfortable, and found nothing to alarm her.

Nothing, apart from the knowledge that his interest made absolutely no sense. She had nothing to offer him. Nothing. She wasn’t beautiful or witty, she had scarcely a penny to her name, and she didn’t have so much as a seed packet’s worth of charisma to sprinkle around. So why did he persist? Why wasn’t he ringing up one of his sister’s glamorous friends?

“Why?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why me? You’ve heard me speak. You know I’m an ordinary girl. Common, some might say.”

“I wouldn’t. I don’t think you’re common at all.”

She shook her head so vehemently that one of the clips holding back her fringe slipped free and fell on the ground. “Please. I know who I am, and I have never, ever, attracted the attention of a man like you before.”

He crouched to retrieve the clip, wiped it clean on the sleeve of his coat, and gently tucked it back in her hair. “What will it take for you to believe me? I like you. I think you’re very pretty. I find you interesting. Most of all, you’re nice. And that makes you different, in the best possible way, from most of the women I know. That’s why.”