The Gown(7)

“I understand. I do.”

“I wanted to say good-bye, and to thank you for helping me. I would not have survived without you.”

“Nor I without you,” her friend said, and it was enough, then, that they both knew and remembered. “Will you wait here for a moment? I wish for you to meet someone.”

Before she could react, her friend had left the room. Catherine wanted her to meet someone? But surely she did not mean—

Catherine returned, and with her was a tall, balding, and instantly recognizable figure. “Monsieur Dior,” Miriam said, leaping to her feet.

He shook her hand, just as if she were his social equal, and his shy smile lent warmth to his earnest features. “Mademoiselle Dassin. It is an honor to make your acquaintance. My dear sister has told me of your many kindnesses to her, and to others, when you were imprisoned. I do hope you will allow me to express my gratitude.”

“She was, ah . . . was kind to me as well,” Miriam stammered. “We helped one another survive.”

It was true that Miriam had helped Catherine, but only in the small ways that prisoners often helped one another. She had scavenged a few morsels of impossible-to-find bread when the other woman hadn’t been able to keep down the rancid soup that passed for rations. She had used scraps of cloth, wheedled from another prisoner, to bind Catherine’s feet when they’d become infected. At night, when her friend had been close to despair, Miriam had reminded her of beautiful things. Gowns of silk, flowers in bloom, memories of comfort and love.

After their liberation, they had returned home to France on the same refugee train, and Catherine had paid for Miriam to attend a convalescent clinic to regain her health. She had known that Miriam had no family left to care for her.

“Catherine told me yesterday that you are emigrating to England, and she asked me if I would compose a letter of reference for you. Naturally I was delighted to do so, for I believe your work graces some of my newest creations. At least that is what Monsieur Rébé tells me.”

“It does, Monsieur Dior, but I would never presume—”

“I have also written out a list of names where you might apply for work. There are but a few embroidery ateliers in London, so I suggest you look to the designers themselves. Of these I especially recommend Monsieur Norman Hartnell. To my mind, his embroiderers produce particularly exquisite work. Please accept this, together with my sincere good wishes.” With that he handed her an envelope, shook her hand once more, and retreated back through the still-open door.

As soon as he had gone Miriam turned to her friend. “You did not have to do this for me. I would never have asked it of you.”

“I know that. I do. But I want to help you, and we both know that Tian’s name can open a great many doors. Promise me that if you do encounter any difficulties you will let me know.”

“I promise.”

Miriam had not noticed, then, that the envelope was heavier than two sheets of paper would normally warrant. Only later, after they had embraced and said their good-byes, and she had returned to her lodgings to pack the last of her things, had she discovered the English money, five twenty-pound notes, which Monsieur Dior had tucked inside the envelope. They were with her now, sewn inside the lining of her coat, an insurance policy against darker days.

She opened her eyes and looked around her hotel room, though she remained where she stood. It was cleaner than she’d expected, though it was hard to see very much in the dim light of the single bulb hanging from the ceiling. There was one window, rather small, with a view of next door’s fire escape. A narrow bed was set against the right-facing wall, its counterpane darned in several places, its pillow worn thin. Beside the bed was a wardrobe with a mirror on its door. In the far corner was a sink, a single towel folded over its edge. To her left, a small desk and chair. A lamp sat on the desk, and she stepped forward and switched it on. Nothing. The bulb was burned out.

A knock sounded behind her. “Hello? Miss Dass’n?”

“Yes. Please do come in.”

Having set the iron on the desk, the clerk attempted to unfold the board, but its mechanism was evidently a mystery to him.

“Please do not trouble yourself,” she said. “I can manage it.”

“Sorry ’bout that. There’s only the one power point in the room, here by the desk. You’ll need to unplug the lamp first.”

She nodded. She would wait until tomorrow to ask about the burned-out bulb. It would be foolish to make any more demands of him tonight. “Thank you very much. Shall I bring the board and iron back to you when I am finished?”

“No need. I’ll tell the maid when she makes up your room in a day or two. If the laundry needs them back any sooner they’ll come by earlier.”

“You are very kind,” she said, wishing she could spare the money for a tip. Instead she shook his hand and smiled into his eyes, hoping that he understood.

“It’s no trouble at all,” he said, his tone genial, and she guessed that he did understand. Or perhaps it was the case that tips were not generally expected here in England. She would have to consult her guide to make sure. “Good night, then.”

The door clicked shut behind him. She locked it, paused until his footsteps faded away, and then took her first easy breath of the day. Alone. Free of strangers hemming her in, free of half-remembered words and phrases that tugged at her brain like fishhooks. Free of the ingrained need to smooth her every expression into a neutral and unthreatening blank.