The Gown(64)

Heather took a sip of her cider, which was deliciously tart, and tried to focus on the menu. Soup, salads, sandwiches . . . she couldn’t decide. Not when she was sitting across the table from a man who might be able to lead her closer to Nan.

“So? What do you think?” he asked. “I’m having the charcuterie board.”

“I’ll have the carrot and parsnip soup. And a garden salad.”

At a nod from Daniel, their waitress approached and they relayed their orders. As soon as she’d walked away, he turned his attention to Heather once more, and she waited, hoping, wondering—

“So. Ann Hughes was your grandmother.”

“She was. In your email, you said that she and Miriam Dassin were friends.”

“They were. According to Mimi, they were very close.”

Now she really was feeling confused. “Who is Mimi?”

“I’m sorry. That’s the name I call her.”

“You know Miriam Dassin? I thought . . . I mean, I assumed you were some kind of art history professor. That you had studied her work or something.”

“I do know her.” He took a sip of his beer, his gaze never leaving her face. His eyes were beautiful, with glacier-blue irises that faded to silver at their perimeter. In all her life she’d never seen anyone with such unusual eyes. “She’s my grandmother.”

His grandmother. “I don’t . . . I mean, I sent an email to her gallery a while ago, but they told me she was retired and they couldn’t pass anything on. And she didn’t seem to have a website or email address or anything like that.”

“I know. I’ve tried to persuade her. But she’s always been a rather shy, rather private person. Even with me. Even though my work, as an academic, has focused on the experiences of French Jews during and after the war.”

“You never talked with her about it?”

“I have, many times. But as her grandson. Never with the idea that I’d be recording her words for posterity.”

Heather’s laugh rang hollow, even to her own ears. “That’s more than Nan ever did with me or my mom. She never told us anything. Until I read your email last night, I’d pretty much given up hope that I’d ever learn more.”

“I think—I hope—I may be able to help. There’s a retrospective of my grandmother’s work coming up at the Tate, and the curators asked me to write an introduction to the official catalog. She agreed to answer my questions, and we spent a day or two looking through old photos and some scrapbooks she’d kept. At one point I asked her about the genesis of the Vél d’Hiv embroideries, and she said she began to work on them when she was living with your grandmother. It was Ann who first encouraged Miriam to think of herself as an artist.”

The idea that Nan had been friends with an acclaimed artist like Miriam Dassin, had helped her, and then had never told anyone of that friendship . . . it was almost too much to believe.

“I don’t know what to say,” Heather admitted. “It’s a lot to take in.” Her voice, embarrassingly, had gone all shaky. If she didn’t pull herself together he’d be sure to notice.

“I had known, from earlier conversations with Mimi, that she’d lived with another Hartnell embroiderer when she first came to England, but the friend had emigrated to Canada and they lost touch with one another. Does that square with what you know?”

“I guess. All I know, really, is that Nan came to Canada after the war. At first she lived with Milly, her sister-in-law, but later on, I think after Milly died, she bought a little shop, and eventually a house, too.”

“Your mother was born in Canada?”

“Yes, in the summer of 1948. She wasn’t able to add much to what I’ve told you, although she did give me some photos.” Heather pulled her bag onto her lap and dug out a small folder. “These aren’t the best quality. Just printouts from scans that my mom sent me. This picture is Nan on her own, and this next one is her with Milly. And this one—”

“Is Mimi and Ann together.”

“I also have this picture of her and Nan with some other women. Do you think they might have been at work? My mom thinks they’re sitting around embroidery frames.”

He nodded decisively. “They are. That woman in the corner, with the dark dress and white collar, is Miss Duley. She was the head of embroidery at Hartnell.” Daniel turned over the photo. “This handwriting on the inscription—is it Ann’s?”

“My mom thinks it is. I just wish I could figure out what it means. The London and date bits are easy enough. But Waiting for HM? Who was HM?”

“‘Her Majesty.’ The queen. Today we’re more likely to think of her as the Queen Mum. But this was 1947, before Princess Elizabeth became queen in her own right.”

Of course. “Well, duh. Now I feel stupid.”

“Don’t,” he said, leavening the command with a smile. “It helps that I recognize the photograph. My grandmother has a copy, and she showed it to me not so long ago. They were, as the inscription says, waiting for the queen to arrive. Apparently, such visits were rare, so everyone was on pins and needles. I suppose that’s why they all look so grim.”

Their food arrived just then, so she put the photographs away. If there was time after lunch she’d show him the pictures of the embroidered flowers. Perhaps he might know why they’d been created, and by whom. If Miriam had embroidered the flowers, for that matter, it would only be right to return them to her. Never mind that they would probably be worth a fortune.