The Last Dress from Paris(90)
“Okay, let me take this off so you can get cracking. This is quite a treat for me, you know. Despite this being one of the rarest pieces we have in the archive by Dior, it has barely been viewed in all the time it has been with us—perhaps because so little is known about it. I’ve worked here for more than thirty years, and I can only remember one lady ever coming to see it.”
“Who was she?” I blurt it out before realizing that of course Margaret can’t tell me that, even if she knew.
She smiles kindly rather than pointing this out. “It was so sad. She sat and looked at it for the whole two hours she had booked. She had some sort of paper in her hands the whole time, too—it looked like a letter? She never moved, she never asked for it to be lifted or had any questions. I was planning to chat to her afterward to see if she needed anything. But she slipped out when none of us were looking, so I never got the chance.”
“When was that?” asks Veronique more sensibly.
“Not that long ago. A year perhaps. She was very elderly. I was surprised that she came alone, to be honest. I did wonder if the dress might have belonged to her once, but it felt too rude to ask, considering the type of dress it is.”
Veronique’s eyes slide toward mine, just as mine do to hers. We’re both thinking the same thing. There is something undeniably different or unusual about this dress: it is of a type.
“She certainly struck me as the sort of woman who appreciated fashion. She was wearing the most beautiful midnight-blue wool coat with a bateau collar and gloves in the exact same shade that fitted her perfectly. And she had the most exquisite dragonfly brooch pinned to the coat. I expect most people thought it was costume jewelry, but I knew it was the real thing. We all said how elegant she looked.”
Of course, I know it’s Granny. Who else could it be? Natasha must have helped her organize the trip. Veronique shakes her head and chuckles under her breath. She knows it too. Then, with no further warning, Margaret quickly lifts the protective fabric up and off the dress with the sort of flourish that sends every pair of eyes in the room our way.
And there it is.
The most incredibly delicate dress in Granny’s collection. The one that, despite its fragility, carries a heavier secret than any other she has shown us so far. I take a step closer to the table, dropping my arms to my sides, my shoulders suddenly slack, knowing immediately that we will not be needing our two-hour time slot today.
“Oh, Lucille, my goodness, I really was not expecting to see this.” Veronique clasps her hand to her mouth. She looks pale, genuinely shocked, and she’s staring directly at me, checking I understand what I’m seeing, what it means.
“This isn’t Granny’s dress,” I say, rather obviously and to no one in particular. “It’s tiny. Is it a . . .” I leave the sentence hanging in the air, and it’s up to Margaret to finish it.
“A christening dress, yes. One that was, from what we can tell, never worn.”
The way she whispers it makes my eyes glass over, the dress suddenly out of focus, swimming in front of me, having lost all its defined edges. I blink hard and wipe both eyes with the heel of my hand, keen not to miss any of its detail.
It’s scattered with tiny threads of metallic embroidery that are barely visible but that give it the faintest rose-gold glow. There is the faded toile de Jouy pattern we have heard so much about, the softest repetition of painterly florals that seem perfectly pure and angelic. The small, rounded neck is trimmed with a pleated frill, repeated at the bottom of two puffed sleeves. Then the fabric gathers across the chest before falling away into the lightest translucent silk skirt, the most precious canvas for the ornate painting that is unfurling across it. It has a femininity that speaks to an entirely different era. More than anything, I can see my grandmother would love it. That it is refined, fitting of the occasion it was made for while still being impossibly pretty.
“Are you sure it’s never been worn?” asks Veronique. A strength has returned to her face now that she has recovered from the initial surprise.
“As sure as we can be,” offers Margaret. “I always think of our exhibits as the ghosts of distant families. They may be gone, forgotten even, but they always leave traces of themselves behind, their shadows, we say. Think of it like a plaster cast that has been used to set a broken bone. When it is eventually cracked and removed, it is thrown away, considered useless now its job is done. But if you took a moment to look inside, you would see the imprint of the skin’s unique markings, the way the tiny baby hairs lay, any imperfections or indentations on the skin. It would all be there for you to see, to build a picture from. And even a dress this delicate has a story to tell. An infant so young wouldn’t have left the dress in such perfect condition. There is no evidence of a life within it. Maybe that is a story in itself?”
I watch Veronique swallow hard, and I wonder, is this dress confirmation there was true heartbreak in Granny’s past? She had a christening dress made that was never worn.
A dress so full of shame or regret or loss, she couldn’t even attach her own name to it when it was donated to the museum.
24
Alice
DECEMBER 1953, PARIS
Alice opens the metal gate that leads into Antoine’s small private garden.
She knocks lightly on the door and waits, picturing him placing his pencil and sketch pad down, picking up speed on the stairs, predicting it might be her. She can barely breathe, praying her version of events is the one about to unfold—not something unimaginable, more aligned to Albert’s vision of her future.