The Gown(69)

No one else interrupted them, and an hour later she couldn’t have said what they talked about. He did ask how her day had been, and she simply said it had been fine, for she could hardly tell him that the entire week before had been a mad rush to get the pieces of the princess’s gown finished and ready for making up, or how she’d stayed late every day so as to be certain the center front panels of the skirt were perfect. Perhaps after the wedding she would be able to tell him. Surely he would understand how she had been constrained by her promises to Mr. Hartnell and Miss Duley.

They were just finishing their pudding—profiteroles for Jeremy and chocolate ice cream for her—when the ma?tre d’h?tel approached.

“I do beg your pardon for the interruption, madam. I’ve had a call for Captain Thickett-Milne.” Then he whispered something into Jeremy’s ear before backing away.

“Is anything the matter?” she asked.

“Not at all. It’s only that I’m needed back at work. I had a feeling I’d be called in.”

“We were finishing anyway. I don’t mind.” It did seem odd for him to have received a call at the restaurant, but he did have that top secret job in Whitehall. Perhaps such things happened to men like him all the time.

“You are a brick. We’d best be on our way—I don’t dare keep her waiting.”

“You work for a woman?”

He shook his head, and for a moment she worried she’d angered him, but his fleeting smile put her at ease. “A slip of the tongue. Remember what they say about loose lips.”

He took her arm and led her back through the restaurant, and she wished she’d looked around more when she’d had the chance. She didn’t recognize any of the other diners, but she did see several Hartnell frocks, their wearers draped in furs and jewels, their faces made up like gleaming, perfect masks, and she wished, only for a moment, that she’d let Carmen cover her freckles with something more opaque than a dusting of powder.

The ma?tre d’h?tel had her coat waiting. “I’ll take it,” Jeremy said, and he even did up the buttons for her. When he was finished, he bent his head to kiss her cheek, right by her ear, and his breath was ticklish and smelled faintly of the chocolate sauce from his profiteroles.

“You’ll be all right to get home?” he asked as they walked out to the pavement and the cab that seemed to be waiting just for her.

“I will.”

“I just realized—we haven’t arranged for another evening, and now there isn’t time. Will you ring me tomorrow? I’ll be home by half six. Do say you will.”

“I will. Thank you for a lovely evening.”

“You are most welcome.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek again, and then she got in the cab, and only once it had turned the corner did she ask the driver to drop her off at the nearest Underground station.

THE NEXT MORNING she was still feeling rather dreamy. Miriam had already been in bed when she’d arrived home, so they discussed the meal itself over breakfast—simply remembering the oysters was enough to put Ann off her porridge—and she shared the unsettling experience of meeting someone who was wearing a frock she’d helped to make.

Having sent the princess’s gown, or rather its constituent pieces, next door to the sewing workroom the week before, they were now concentrating on the fifteen-foot train. She and Miriam were positioned at the very end of the frame, directly opposite one another, as that was where the most important elements of the design were focused.

Within five minutes of sitting down she was lost in her work, oblivious to the chatter of the other girls at the frame, and only when Miss Duley came into the workroom at half-past nine did Ann look up.

“Have you been running?” she asked, for Miss Duley’s face was flushed, her hair was slipping out of its neat knot, and she was having difficulty catching her breath.

“Yes,” Miss Duley gasped. “Only found out now.”

Ann rushed over and took the older woman by the arm. “Come here and sit down. Take a deep breath. Good. And another. Now tell me what’s wrong.”

“Queen. Afternoon. Here.”

“The queen is coming here for a fitting?” It didn’t make sense. The queen and princesses never came to Bruton Street. Mr. Hartnell and Mam’selle always went to them.

“No. To see the gown. Queen, Princess Elizabeth. Margaret, too. Queen Mary, Duchess of Gloucester.” Poor Miss Duley still couldn’t catch her breath.

“Just to see the gown?” Ann repeated.

“Yes. They want to visit the workrooms. But the state of this place . . . what’ll we do?”

Ann didn’t have to look around to know what was distressing Miss Duley. The workroom was a shambles. It was clean and orderly where it counted, which at that moment was the great, long frame that held the princess’s train, but everywhere else was a disaster.

“Mr. Hartnell will have a fit if he sees it like this,” Miss Duley went on. “And what will the queen say?”

“She won’t see it like this. We’ll tidy it now,” Ann promised. “If we all work together it’ll be done in no time.”

“Where’ll we put everything?” Miss Duley waved a hand at the stacks of empty tambour frames, messily folded lengths of fabric, overflowing boxes of trim, and unraveling spools of ribbon that had colonized the fringes of the workroom.