The Gown(71)

The queen and Princess Elizabeth had come to stand next to Ann, and just knowing they were so close made Ann’s hands go all wobbly, but it wasn’t so bad as to be noticeable. She managed to set several pearls at the center of one of the York roses before the queen nodded and said, “Thank you very much. We are so grateful for your hard work.”

Ann wasn’t sure if she was allowed to say anything, but it seemed rude not to respond. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said, and out of the corner of her eye she saw both Mr. Hartnell and Miss Duley nod.

The royal ladies processed back up the stairs, and Ann and Miriam stood up, and at the landing the queen paused and turned to say good-bye to everyone. They curtsied again, still horribly out of unison, and then the door shut and their visitors were gone.

“There,” Miss Duley said. “We survived. Well done, girls. Let’s all sit down and catch our breath, and mind you don’t start to chatter until our guests have left the premises. After that you may have your break a little early.”

Ann crossed the workroom to Miss Duley, who had collapsed onto her desk chair. “What do you think?”

“I’d say they were very pleased. They never talk much, you know. Only the queen, and she always has something nice to say. It was a very good idea to have the samples brought down, by the way.”

“Shall I take them back? Mr. Hartnell will probably need them again before the wedding.”

“Yes, do. But make sure to avoid the royal ladies.”

Ann set off for Mr. Hartnell’s office, taking the long way round so as to stay out of everyone’s way. It sent her through the showroom, which should have been empty, since any appointments would certainly have been canceled once the queen had announced her intention to visit.

Only it wasn’t empty. Three young men were sprawled on the upholstered chairs where clients usually sat, chatting amiably with one another, and they jumped to their feet when they heard her approaching.

Jeremy was one of the men.

Desperate to set the record straight, she took a small step toward him, then another. She hadn’t meant to deceive him, she wanted to say. She had been planning on—

“No,” he mouthed silently, his eyes wide.

“I, ah . . . I hadn’t expected anyone to, ah, to be here,” she stammered, and now she clutched the box of samples close to her chest. As if anything so insubstantial could shield her from what was to come. “I do apologize.”

“No need,” said one of the men in an airy tone. “On your way somewhere important?”

“Yes. I need to take these to Mr. Hartnell.”

“Don’t you want to know why we’re here?” asked the third man, and she recognized him from the night she’d met Jeremy at the Astoria. The chinless Clark Gable.

“Leave her alone,” Jeremy said. “Can’t you see she has work to do?”

“Usually the girls love it when they find out I’m an aide to Princess Margaret.”

“Chief carrier of handbags and lighter of cigarettes,” said the man who’d first spoken to her. “That’s what you are.”

“Laugh if you like. You’d all change places with me in a heartbeat,” said No Chin.

“Excuse me. I must go,” she said, not that any of them were listening, and she backed out of the room. She would return the samples later. After the royal ladies were gone. After Jeremy, who had to be some sort of aide to one of them, had also gone.

There was no chance, now, that she’d see him again. He hadn’t introduced her to his friends, just as he hadn’t introduced her to the people at the restaurant the night before, for what man in his position would admit to knowing a girl like her? He hadn’t introduced her, because he’d at last been confronted with the truth.

He might swear that it didn’t matter, that times were changing and things like class and money and accents didn’t matter, but he was wrong. It was wrong and unfair that they mattered, but they did. Even if, by some miracle, they could ever have managed to paper over those differences in their private life, there would always be someone who would refuse to acknowledge her in a restaurant, or who turned away when she tried to engage them in conversation, or who whispered about her just loudly enough that she heard every word.

If she were honest with herself, it was her own fault. Had she been forthright with Jeremy from the very beginning—had she told him where she worked and where she lived, and had she made certain he understood the differences between them—he would have thanked her and gone away and that would’ve been that.

It was her own fault, as simple as that, and fussing over it or letting herself feel sad wouldn’t do a whit of good. It was a shame she wouldn’t see him again, for she had truly liked him, and in a different world . . .

Enough. Enough. It was done, and over, and she’d forget him soon enough, because she had never been the sort of girl to sit around and lick her wounds and moan about how life was unfair.

That’s what her mum had taught her. “Chin up,” she’d always said when Ann had come to her in tears about something awful that had happened. A teacher had been cruel at school, her cat had run away, awful Billy from round the corner had pulled her pigtails and said no one would ever kiss her because of her ginger hair.

“Just keep your chin up, Ann, and you can face anything,” Mum had said. “And don’t look back, no matter what you do.” Her mum had never been one for hugs or soft words, but she had been honest, and most of the time she’d been right, too.