The Gown(97)

“Where is the gown, my lady?” Betty asked.

“Hmm. I’m not so sure. Perhaps you might ask the girl who brought you over? She seems to be in the know.”

“Yes, my lady,” Betty said, and hurried away.

“So you’re from Hartnell? What do you do there?”

Miriam had fully expected to stand in silence until Betty returned with Lady Mary’s gown, so it took a few moments for her to produce an answer. “I am an embroiderer.”

“You made all those gorgeous flowers and stars and so forth?”

“Some of them. I did not work on your gown, however. Only the bride’s. Although the motifs are similar.”

“They’re jolly lovely. My father has been teasing me that we’ll just hold on to this frock and use it when I get married. ‘No sense in wasting hundreds of guineas on something new if you’ve already got one that’ll do perfectly well,’ he keeps saying. Silly old dear.”

It seemed imprudent to agree, so Miriam smiled and tried to think of a safely anodyne response. Fortunately, Betty chose that moment to return, the gown draped over her outstretched arms like a bejeweled cloud.

Lady Mary shrugged off her dressing gown, beneath which she wore a strapless brassiere and floor-length petticoat, and stood, shivering, as Betty unfastened the back of the gown. Only then did Miriam remember Flora’s warning about makeup. Lady Mary had on some lipstick, and possibly some rouge as well.

“I am sorry, Lady Mary, but I am nervous of marking the gown. Perhaps if we were to place a handkerchief over your face? It will also prevent your coiffure from being disturbed.”

“That is a good idea. Do you have a clean hanky?”

Ann had tucked one into Miriam’s pocket that morning, explaining that weddings made people cry and it would be sensible to have one on hand. She had privately thought there was no chance whatsoever of her crying at the wedding of a complete stranger, but now she was glad of Ann’s sentimental gesture.

“I do, Lady Mary. I promise it is clean. Could I trouble you to hold it in place?”

It made for a rather comic moment, with poor Lady Mary standing half-naked with a handkerchief over her face, and so tall that Miriam and Betty both had to stand on tiptoe to lift the gown over her upstretched arm and head, but they managed to get it more or less where it ought to be without incident.

Miriam whisked away the handkerchief, gently brushing back a few strands of hair that had come forward to tickle at Lady Mary’s face, and then she and Betty began the painstaking work of fastening their charge into her gown. It took many long minutes to do up the endless rows of hooks and eyes, and Miriam had to pause more than once to dry her perspiring fingers.

“Et voilà,” she said when at last they were done, and then she took another minute to fan out the attached tulle stole over Lady Mary’s graceful shoulders.

The hairdresser stopped by to set a silver-colored wreath of artificial orange blossoms and ears of wheat upon Lady Mary’s head, and then they helped her into her shoes, and someone else came by with face powder and lipstick, and then yet another person handed Miriam a pair of long white kid gloves, so thin they weighed almost nothing, and it took several minutes to draw them up Lady Mary’s arms and fasten the tiny pearl buttons at her wrists.

At last they were done. Miriam stepped back, trying and failing to find any fault in the gown or any other aspect of Lady Mary’s ensemble.

“How do I look?”

“You look perfect,” Miriam said honestly. “Ravissante.”

The bouquets had arrived, lush cascades of white orchids, lilies, and other hothouse flowers that had no business being in bloom so late in the year. All about them the other bridesmaids were laughing and twirling around, and one or two were complaining about how scratchy the tulle stoles were against their skin, and Miriam wouldn’t have changed places with any of them for all the money in the world. To willingly expose oneself to the eyes of millions, with all the attendant possibilities for disaster if one were to trip or drop something or faint, and to have every aspect of one’s appearance discussed and dissected by unsympathetic critics, was something she could never imagine facing, let alone enjoying.

There was a knock on the door, and when Flora went to answer it she ushered in Monsieur Hartnell, who went from bridesmaid to bridesmaid, giving each his full attention, and he was so charming and friendly that he had them all laughing gaily by the time he’d completed his inspection.

He came to stand with Miriam and Betty, taking out a handkerchief to dab at his brow, and his smile was tight when they asked him if anything was the matter.

“Not with the gown, no,” he said, “but as the hairdresser was fitting the tiara on the princess the frame snapped in two. They’ve called for the jeweler, and the queen did remind Princess Elizabeth that they can certainly unearth a replacement, but she is set on that particular tiara. So that part of the morning has been rather exciting.”

“My goodness,” Betty said.

“And they’ve just now sent someone over to St. James’s Palace to retrieve the pearls she was planning on wearing. Apparently they’re still on display with the rest of the wedding gifts. God only knows if they’ll appear in time.”

“But the gown—”

“The gown itself is perfection, and the queen is also delighted with her ensemble and that of Princess Margaret. Has all gone well here? Any need for repairs?”