“That was taken at Buckingham Palace,” Miriam said. “Such a happy day.”
Heather nodded, because she wasn’t sure what to say, and then they were in the kitchen, and instantly she felt at home. There was an enormous French gas stove, the kind that had brass handles and enameled blue doors, and the counters were made of marble, and there was a set of copper pots hanging from a rack on one wall, and on the other was a dresser piled high with mismatched blue-and-white china. On the windowsill above the sink there were pots of herbs and a carved wooden rooster with a quizzical expression on his face.
Miriam went to a compact espresso maker on the counter next to the stove and switched it on. “My daughter bought this machine for me,” she explained. “She was worried I would burn myself on my old stovetop espresso maker. It is tremendously convenient but the coffee is not, I think, quite as good. Would you like a cappuccino?”
“Yes, please.”
After the espresso machine had begun to hum away, Miriam took a small china jug from a low shelf on the dresser, filled it with water, and set the posy inside. “There. So lovely.” Then she turned to Heather.
“You must know that it is one of the great regrets of my life that I lost touch with your grandmother. For a time we were very close, you see. We shared a house for much of 1947, the year I came to England, but she emigrated to Canada at the end of the year. I never heard from her again.”
“She just left?” Heather asked, dumbfounded yet again by another of Nan’s long-ago decisions. “Even though you were friends?”
Miriam nodded, her expression bittersweet. “It was a long time ago, and in those days Canada seemed very far away. It was not unusual to fall out of touch with people, you know, and we had no Facebook or Google. And I . . .”
The espresso machine began to sputter, and Miriam turned and fussed with the buttons before retrieving the cups she’d set beneath. “Would you mind taking these through to the sitting room? I almost forgot about the biscuits. Beautiful sablés from my favorite patisserie.”
The sitting room was large and bright, with one wall taken up entirely by three enormous bay windows. Bookshelves rose to the ceiling on either side of the fireplace, and opposite, out of reach of the sun, an embroidered panel hung from a scrolling wooden valance. It was as wide as the sofa below but half as high, and the view it depicted was a twin to the one from the sitting room’s windows: a green, sloping hill woven through with walking paths and ancient woods, the sky above a clear and limitless blue. Only just seen, in the far distance, was the familiar silhouette of London’s skyline.
“It is rather out-of-date,” Miriam said, nodding apologetically at the embroidered panel. “When I made it forty years ago, the church spires were all I noticed. Now it is nothing but skyscrapers. Yet I still love the view. We both did, Walter and I.”
“He was your husband?” Heather asked.
“Yes. For forty-eight years. He died twenty years ago. At his desk, pen in hand, exactly as he would have wished.”
“I am so sorry.”
“It has been a long time. And yet, even now I am surprised when I wake in the night and he is not there. I suppose I shall never get used to it.”
They sat in silence for a moment, and Heather sipped at her coffee and nibbled at the edge of a cookie. How should she begin? She had so many questions—
“She never told us anything,” she said abruptly, her voice a degree too loud, too sharp, for the sunny room and their tentative friendship.
But Miriam didn’t seem to mind. “It does not surprise me at all,” she said.
“My entire life I thought she was a shopkeeper. She sold yarn and knitting needles and buttons. Not once did she ever mention that she’d worked on the queen’s wedding dress. I mean—I’m not wrong about that, am I?”
“You are not wrong. Some of the most beautiful embroidery on Princess Elizabeth’s gown was your grandmother’s work. She was exceptionally talented, and she was very, very kind to me when I first came to England.” Miriam smiled rather tremulously. “She was my first friend here.”
“I know she was upset about my grandfather and being widowed and all, but . . .” Miriam had smoothed out her expression and was examining the crumbs on her plate. “Oh, boy,” Heather said. “Was she married when you knew her?”
Miriam looked her in the eye. “No.”
“But she had my mom in 1948, so she must have been involved with . . .”
“She was. Briefly.”
“Wow. Just . . . wow.” Of all the things she’d expected to learn today, the fact that Nan had been a single mother had not been one of them. Never mind that it actually made a weird kind of sense. “Times were different then, I guess.”
“They were. And such a thing was more complicated, I think, than it would be today. Perhaps we should begin by your telling me what you know. Then I will tell you what I know.”
“Okay. I guess I don’t actually know all that much. She only ever said that her parents had died when she was young, that her brother was killed in the Blitz, and that she came to Canada at the end of 1947. I do remember her saying the snow wasn’t that much of a shock because the previous winter in England had been so bad. And that was about it. She never talked about my grandfather, not even to my mom. We just assumed he had died. And there weren’t any pictures of him anywhere. I did ask her, once. She had photographs up of her parents and brother, but not my grandfather, and it made me curious.”
“What did she say?”
“She just changed the subject. Not in a mean way. She just said something like, ‘Let’s not waste the day talking about things that happened a long time ago,’ and that was that.”
“Did she ever speak of her old life in England?”
Heather shook her head. “Never. The only person who knew her from before was her sister-in-law, Milly. But she died when my mom was still young.”
“And of her work at Hartnell?”
“Nothing. I only started figuring things out after she died in March. My mom was going through Nan’s things and she found this set of embroidered flowers, and my name was on the box. ‘For Heather,’ Nan had written. As soon as we saw them we knew they were something special. I brought pictures if you’d like to see.”
“Yes—yes, of course. Let me fetch my spectacles.”
Heather moved her chair to sit alongside Miriam’s, and she set the stack of photographs on the tea table, and they looked through them together.
“Oh, yes. I remember these. I had forgotten how pretty they were.”
“What were they for? Were they samples of some kind?”
“Indeed they were. We made them for the princess and the queen, to ensure they approved of the motifs. I had one of them, I believe, for there were six or eight in total, but I haven’t seen it in years. I do hope I haven’t lost it.”
“What about the EP in the corner—could that be someone’s initials?”
“It is. ‘Elizabeth Principessa.’ For the bride.”
“Did you ever meet her?”
“Yes, although it was more a case of seeing her. Certainly I was not introduced. She and her mother—the Queen Mum, as you would know her—came for a visit before the wedding, along with Queen Mary and some of the other royal ladies. We were all quite bouleversées about it, but Ann was calm. Nothing ever seemed to fluster her.”
“Did you go to the wedding? When I was trying to learn about the gown, I read that some of the people who worked on it were invited to the ceremony.”
“No, although I was at Buckingham Palace on the morning of the wedding. In case of any last-minute disasters with any of the gowns we had made. But your grandmother was invited to Westminster Abbey, and Miss Duley, too. The woman in charge of our workroom.”
“Nan went to the royal wedding and she never told me?” Had she ever known anything about her grandmother? What, between them, had been real?
“No, ma belle. Do not be upset with her. Ann had her reasons for not speaking of the
past, and it was a usual thing, in those days, to keep our secrets. It astonishes me, you know, the way you young people are so honest about everything. Every moment of grief or trauma or loss, laid bare for all to see on your Facebook and Twitter.”
The phone, which sat on a desk a few feet away, began to ring. “I shall let the machine answer for me,” Miriam said, and offered Heather the plate of sablés.
“Allô, Mimi? It’s Nathalie. I feel so bad, ’cause I just looked at my calendar and I know Ava and I are supposed to go see the queen’s dresses at the palace with you, but the tickets are for the same time as our exam. It’s that summer course we’re both taking, and I—”
“If you will excuse me,” Miriam said. “The poor child will wear herself out with apologies.” Heather would have offered to bring over the phone, but it was an old-fashioned one that was attached to the wall.
“Nathalie? Yes, I am here. I am having coffee with a friend. No, no. It is quite all right. I am certain I can find someone. Yes. And perhaps we can see about getting tickets again at the end of the summer? Of course. Toi aussi, ma belle.”
Miriam set down the receiver and returned to the tea table. “I do apologize. As you heard, that was one of my granddaughters. I was supposed to take her and her best friend to the summer opening at Buckingham Palace tomorrow, but they have an exam.” And then, fixing her bright eyes on Heather, “Would you like to come with me?”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. It will give you a chance to see the gown itself, and the state rooms are certainly worth seeing. The tickets are for one o’clock in the afternoon. Does that suit you?”
She wouldn’t have objected if they’d been for five o’clock in the morning. “It does.”
“Wonderful. I shall ask Daniel to join us. Such a lovely boy. I shall miss him very much when he goes to America.”
“America? Doesn’t he live here in London?”
“He does, but he is going to New York City for a year to teach at one of their universities. I gather it is a very great honor for him to have been invited.”
“I’m sure it is,” Heather said dutifully.
“New York and Toronto are not very far from one another, are they?” Miriam asked, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“They are not, but I hardly know Daniel. I wouldn’t want to presume—”
“It would make me very happy if you were to become friends. That is all.”
“Okay,” Heather acceded. She really had only just met the man, and no matter how much she liked both him and his grandmother she wasn’t about to start picking out an engagement ring.
Longing to change the subject, she returned to the problem of the tickets for Buckingham Palace. “Are you sure I can’t pay you back? I tried to buy one, but they were sold out.”
“Of course not. Consider it, instead, a partial repayment of the kindness your grandmother once showed me. She helped to convince me I should begin work on my embroideries, you see.”
“The Vél d’Hiv ones?”
“Yes. She was the first person, in all my life, to tell me that I was an artist. And I never had the chance to thank her.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ann
October 7, 1947
The envelope was sitting on her chair when she returned from morning break. Miss Ann Hughes, it read.
“The guard at the back door called up to say someone had left it for you. I needed to stretch my legs, so I popped down to fetch it,” Miss Duley said. “Go ahead and have a look before you get stuck in again.”
Dear Ann,
As I haven’t your address I resorted to leaving this at your work—it was that or wait for you outside. I only wish to say that I am sincerely sorry for my rudeness on the day of the royal ladies’ visit, and while there is no excuse for such ungentlemanly behavior on my part, I do wish to try to make it up to you as best I can. Do say you’ll dine with me as soon as you’re able—any night at all. I await your telephone call most eagerly.
Your devoted admirer,
JTM
She read it a second time, just to be sure, and then tucked both it and the envelope in the pocket of her coveralls. The others were back and taking their places at the great frame that held the princess’s train, and she’d only end up having to answer a hundred questions if they noticed her goggling over the note. So she bent her head to her work and tried to sort out just what was bothering her.
Had Jeremy hurt her when he’d pretended not to know her? He had, but she could understand why he’d done it. It must have been a shock to see her there, of course, and it wasn’t as if she had been entirely forthcoming with him. No wonder he’d been taken aback.
When dinner came she set off in search of a telephone box that wasn’t occupied, and found one on New Bond Street. She dialed the number, holding her breath as it buzzed and buzzed at the other end.
“Hello, Thickett-Milne speaking. Hello? Ann? Is that you?”
“I, uh . . . it is.”
“You got my note?”
“I did.”
“Oh, good. I am terribly sorry about what happened. It’s only that you took me by surprise. I’d absolutely no notion you worked at Hartnell.”
“I’m sorry I never told you. Really I am. It’s only that with our having the commission for the wedding we aren’t supposed to talk about work with anyone.”
“I understand. And now you know about my top secret job, so we’re even.”
“Are you an aide to the queen?” she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.
“To Queen Mary, yes. And that’s about all I’m allowed to say. At any rate, I was hoping you might like to come to dinner.”
“Are you sure? Now that you know what I do for a living?”
“I don’t see why that should affect anything. Why don’t I collect you after work one evening this week?”
“That would be lovely, but I can’t leave any earlier than half-past six.”
“Then why don’t we say seven o’clock? I can wait for you at the corner of Bruton and Berkeley. Is there any particular day that suits you? How about tonight?”
“Tonight is fine,” she heard herself say.
“Very well. I’ll see you there at seven this evening.”
Miriam and Walter were spending the evening with their friends Bennett and Ruby, whose new baby had arrived a fortnight early, so Ann told Miriam that she, too, was going out, but wouldn’t be that late. She took her time in the cloakroom after work, waiting until the other girls were gone before powdering her nose, combing through her hair, and fixing a button that was threatening to come loose on her coat.
When she did walk to the end of the street, a few minutes before seven, Jeremy was already there, standing next to his car, bareheaded in the cold. “Don’t you look lovely. That scarf brings out the green in your eyes.” He dropped a kiss on her cheek and opened the passenger-side door for her, waiting until she was settled before closing it softly. “I was thinking we’d go somewhere quiet for supper, but first I need to collect my gloves. I can’t believe I forgot them at home.”
It seemed odd that he would need his gloves badly enough to return home for them, for it was warm inside the car, and presumably they wouldn’t be outside for very long. But there was no point in being a pill about it.
“It’s not far at all,” he assured her. “Eaton Square in Belgravia. Enormous old pile but it keeps the rain off my head.”
He kept the conversation going as he always did, moving from topic to topic in his smooth way, never seeming to desire or require much involvement on her part. Likely it was a skill that served him well in his work.
After about fifteen minutes he turned the car onto a side street, or perhaps it was a mews of some kind. It was lined with large doors, the sort that once had led to carriage houses but now were fitted up for expensive motorcars.
“We’ll be going out again, so I won’t bother putting the car away,” he said. He dragged open one of the d
oors, just enough for them to pass through, and led her through an empty garage and, beyond it, a darkened garden. No lights were shining from the interior of the house ahead, and she tripped more than once as she followed him through the night.
They went down a short flight of steps to a door, and after fumbling for the correct key, Jeremy let them inside and switched on an overhead light.
“Hello?” he called out, but no answering voice broke the silence. “My sister must be out. Oh, well. Shall we go upstairs?”
“What about your gloves?” she asked.
“Like as not in my bedroom. Or the drawing room. No point in your staying down here—it’s as cold as a tomb. I’ll make a fire and you can have a drink while I rummage around. Give me your coat so I can hang it up.”
He led her up a flight of stairs to street level, switching on lights as he went, and along a high-ceilinged hallway to a drawing room that was, on its own, at least as big as the entire main floor of her little house. It was decorated in the usual style of such places, with elaborate draperies, wedding-cake plaster moldings, and several centuries’ worth of intimidating antiques.
“Come and sit while I deal with the fire,” he said, and nodded in the direction of a pair of settees that flanked the hearth. “We’ll have a drink together before I try to run down those blasted gloves.”
She sat, shivering, and waited as he piled coals in the grate and set them alight. “There. That’ll take the chill from the air. Would you like a sherry? Or possibly something stronger?”
“Sherry is fine,” she said. The glass, when he handed it to her, was dusty. In fact, everything in the room was dusty, and the air was stale, too, and she was almost certain she could see cobwebs clinging to the top of the draperies. On the far wall, opposite the fireplace, were a pair of darkened patches.
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