The Gown(84)

“It is only one year. And we can observe the silence on Tuesday, on the eleventh, as we still do in France. Even if it is only the two of us in the corner of the workroom.”

By Monday morning Ann seemed a little better, and Miriam began to hope she might be on the mend. She had some porridge for breakfast, and she even managed a bit of conversation as they sat on the train. How awful the weather had been and how cold it was for November, yet not once did she smile. Not once.

They were in the cloakroom with the other women, on the point of going downstairs to begin their day, when Ruthie upended everything. Digging in her bag, she extracted a newspaper and held it up so they all might see the front page. It featured a drawing of a woman in a long white gown, a veil streaming from her dark hair, a small bouquet in one of her hands. Above, in large, jet-black type, was the headline:

EXCLUSIVE TO THE EXAMINER

THE GOWN OF THE CENTURY

“Can you believe it? ‘Gown of the century,’ they say, and it’s not even the right dress! I wonder where they got it from.”

Ann had been rummaging through her own bag, oblivious to the talk around them, and now she grew still, a sudden gasp hitching in her throat. Miriam looked to her friend, but she had shut her eyes.

“Does it say anything more?” Ann asked.

“Hold on . . . here goes:

“‘Our insider source at the Mayfair premises of Norman Hartnell has provided us with this exclusive peek at Princess Elizabeth’s sensational wedding gown more than a month before the rest of the world gets to see it. We can reveal that it is made of white silk and is covered with “a king’s ransom” of diamonds and pearls, in the words of our top secret source. Behind the closed doors and whitewashed windows of his exclusive atelier, Mr. Hartnell has teams of seamstresses and embroiderers working around the clock on the finery that the princess and all her family, including the queen herself, will wear to Westminster Abbey. More news inside, including behind-the-scenes details and an estimate of how much this fairy-tale gown is likely to cost.’”

“None of it is true,” Miriam said. “How can they print such things? And this gown—it is not even close. Why do they bother?”

“Pounds, shillings, and pence,” Ethel said. “Just think how many newspapers they’ll sell today. Doesn’t matter that Mr. Hartnell and the palace will say they’ve got it wrong. People will believe it until they see the princess on her big day.”

They were saved from further discussion by Ethel’s exclamation that it was half eight already and Miss Duley would be waiting, so they all trooped downstairs, Ann as silent as the grave, and moved to their usual places, clustered around the princess’s bridal train in its long, cumbersome frame, and Miriam listened to the same whispered discussions they’d been having for weeks now. Husbands, beaux, rationing woes, gossip about film stars, and none of it was noteworthy enough to hold her attention. Not when Ann was suffering so.

She worked in silence, and she watched her friend wither before her eyes, and before long Miriam had had enough. Rather than follow the others down to the canteen at morning break, she took Ann’s arm and led her to the cloakroom.

“What . . . ?”

“Come with me,” Miriam hissed. “Wait until we are alone.”

Once in the cloakroom, Miriam retreated to the bench in the far corner, by the masking noises of the ever-clanking radiator, and patted the spot beside her. “Come. Something is wrong, and I insist you tell me what it is.”

She waited, and waited, and at last Ann came to join her.

“The sketch of the wedding gown in the newspaper,” Ann whispered. “It’s mine.”

“How is that possible? I know you would never—”

“It was stolen from my sketchbook, the blue one I sometimes carry around in my bag. I checked earlier and there’s a page missing. I think it was cut out of the book.”

“You are certain of this?”

“Yes. I mean, I could look again. But I know it’s not there.”

Suddenly Miriam remembered the night she and Ann had sat at the kitchen table and shared glimpses of their work with one another. Her drawing of Grand-Père offering the kiddouch blessing, and Ann’s drawing of a bridal gown. “Is it the dress you showed me? Doris’s dress?” It had been hard to see the picture in the newspaper from across the room, but thinking on it, now, she did recognize the sketch. It was indeed Ann’s work.

“Yes.”

“I understand that you are upset it was stolen, but why are you so worried? What is there to connect you to it?”

“My handwriting. ‘Fit for a princess,’ I wrote at the bottom, and I added in little details, too. About how there was a secret good-luck motif for the bride. Miss Duley will know. As soon as she takes a good look at that newspaper she’ll know.”

“Surely she will understand.”

“I’m awful at drawing figures. Getting the proportions right and so on. So I traced one of Mr. Hartnell’s sketches from his last collection. Just the arms and head. But it will look as if I was trying to pass off his work as my own. What was I thinking?”

“You say the drawing was cut from your sketchbook. Who might have taken it? Who even knew you had such a thing in your bag?”

“I showed the sketch to Doris. It was meant to be her dress, after all. We were in the canteen at dinner, with everyone sitting around the table. But I— Oh, God, no. No.”