The Gown(87)
“And if he doesn’t?” Ann’s voice was so flat, so devoid of hope.
“Imagine the worst thing that can happen to you. Are you thinking of it? Now tell me. What is it? What would ruin your life?”
“I . . . I can’t talk of it. I can’t.” Ann shook her head and covered her face with her hands, and in that moment Miriam knew. It was all she could do not to run into the night with a knife in her hand, find the wicked man who had brutalized her friend, and thrust its blade into his black heart.
“You do not have to say any more, ma belle. I will not ask it of you. But I wish you to know that not so long ago I, too, believed my life was over. That my dreams were dead and buried, along with those I loved, and the most I could expect from the days left to me was to endure. But I do not believe that now. I have hope.”
“How?”
“Because of you, and Walter, and the other friends I have made here. You have changed everything for me. I will not say that anything is possible, for we both know the world is too broken for such a thing, and there are people like this Jeremy who will try to stand in your way. But you have many friends. This you must know. And you are not alone.”
“But—”
“But you are young and intelligent and kind and strong. Too strong to let him win. And that is what will happen if you allow him to ruin your life.”
Ann nodded, and wiped her eyes, and then she took Miriam’s hand in hers and held it tight.
“What now?”
“I will go with you tomorrow. If you wish to see Monsieur Hartnell I will stand at your side, and I will fight for you if it comes to that. And if, as you fear, the worst should happen? I will still be at your side.”
WATCHING ANN TELL Miss Duley of her betrayal was exceedingly painful. Miriam knew her friend would survive, and perhaps one day be happy again, but she would never forget the humiliation visited upon her by Jeremy Thickett-Milne.
“I am so sorry,” Ann said when she had finished recounting the entire sorry tale. “I should never have gone out with him. I know that now.”
“How could you have known? Oh, my dear girl.”
“I swear I never said a thing about the gown. I never even told him I worked here.”
“I believe you. Now, this drawing of yours—who was it for again?”
“It was for Doris. I’d had some ideas for how she might make over her mum’s wedding dress, and I did up a sketch for her as a keepsake. I liked it so well I made a version of it for myself in my book. My good sketchbook.”
“Only for your private use? Not because you had a thought of setting up shop on your own?” Miss Duley pressed.
“Me? No. I’d never do that. It was just a way of passing the time. And it’s not as if they’re very good. Set next to one of Mr. Hartnell’s drawings, it’s as plain as day that he’s the artist, not me.”
Miss Duley sighed, swiped a hand over her eyes, and then she went to the mirror and smoothed back her hair. “I suppose we had better tell Mr. Hartnell, if only to reassure him there’s no spy in our midst.”
“Don’t you believe me?” Ann asked, an edge of panic creeping into her voice.
“Of course I do. But now that you’ve told me we have to tell him, too. Let’s get it over with.”
Miss Duley called up to Mrs. Price, just to make sure he was in his office and alone, and then they set off, as gloomy as if they’d been herded into the back of a tumbrel.
He was in a cheerful mood, fortunately, but then again he nearly always seemed to be in good spirits. “Come in, Miss Duley, ladies. Do sit down. Is anything the matter?”
“Yes and no, sir. We’ve come about the article in The Examiner yesterday.”
“Dreadful rag. Useful for lining a rubbish bin but not much more.”
“I agree, sir. The thing is, Miss Hughes came to me just now, and she has a . . . well, a story to tell about how the drawing ended up in that paper, and I’m hoping you’ll hear her out.”
Monsieur Hartnell had begun to frown. “Very well. Do go on, Miss Hughes.”
Every particle of color had drained away from Ann’s face, and her hands, which she held tightly clasped in her lap, were shaking. “The drawing was stolen from me, from a sketchbook I sometimes carry in my handbag. I draw things I’d like to make for myself, or for friends, if I had all the time in the world and could afford really lovely materials. I’d drawn a wedding dress for Doris a while back. Just some ideas I’d had on how to make over her mum’s old dress so it looked new and fit her properly. One version stayed in my book and the other went to Doris. Only, well, I’m not very good at people’s faces or hands, so I’d traced those parts from one of your drawings. Just to get the proportions right. And I wrote ‘fit for a princess’ at the bottom, only I don’t know why, now, that I did that. I think I must have been feeling a bit silly and romantic that day.”
“So you are saying that someone stole a drawing that you had created for your own personal use, and having taken it from you then sold it to a newspaper under the pretext of it being a copy of my design?”
“Yes, sir. I’m so sorry.”
“I appreciate your honesty very much, Miss Hughes, but I fail to see why you are so worried. There isn’t a person in England who believes it to be an actual sketch of the princess’s wedding gown. If the editor of The Examiner paid more than a fiver for it, he’s a bigger fool than I’d imagined. I’m certainly not going to chastise you for playing an inadvertent role in its publication.”