Here was yet one more puzzling question, although, this time, Grace was certain she knew just the man to provide the answer.
‘Mon dieu,’ Ferdinand said, clapping his head with his hand.
Having first treated herself to an expert manicure and a chic new hat adorned with an oversized black velvet bow, the first place Grace went when she arrived back in Paris was to the atelier to introduce Serena to her friends.
She’d waited until each of Dior’s glamorous mannequins, the various mesdames and a long line of other staff members had filed through the cabine, clucking and cooing, before asking Ferdinand if he knew anything about some unclaimed correspondence.
‘As a matter of fact, I do. I had no idea what to do with all these letters addressed to a Mrs J. Osbourne that arrived every month with the regularity of a Swiss watch.’
‘So, what happened?’
‘I kept them.’ Ferdinand shrugged. ‘I decided there must be some connection to the maison and that one day, whatever it was would eventually become clear.’
He immediately disappeared, returning a few moments later bearing a bundle of pale grey envelopes tied with satin ribbon. ‘Voilà,’ he said with a flourish.
‘I’m sorry, darling Ferdinand,’ Grace said, ‘I don’t want to appear rude, but would you mind awfully if I took a peek right away?’
‘Be my guest,’ he said as he proceeded to tickle a delighted Serena under her dimpled chin.
Grace undid the ribbon, seized the envelope with the earliest date stamp and swiftly tore it open. Tucked behind the letter was a photograph of her mother, taken at a long-ago ball. Although the first page of the letter gave a similar account of events to the one she had already received from Siddy, the second contained an unexpected, poignant revelation.
You might think it strange, but from the moment I held you in my arms I was convinced you were a gift from a munificent God, that your presence in my life was a matter of fate. It was with this belief in mind that one night, when you were still just a couple of weeks old, I stole into Alfred’s study. I removed your birth certificate from the desk drawer, took up a fountain pen and altered your last name.
I told myself that, thanks to Providence, a terrible wrong had been righted, whereas all I had done was make a single small mark on a sheet of paper. After that, it seemed only natural to print Alfred and Olive Woods in the spaces headed Father and Mother. At the time, it felt as if it had been preordained.
Slowly and carefully, Grace folded the letter. When it came to her own identity — if not her child’s — no more mysteries remained.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
July 1950
Grace flinched. Once more, she stood in the atelier’s studio, the recipient of a stabbing pin.
This time, however, the tense discussion taking place between le patron and Madame Carré did not concern a sumptuous design for an English princess, a Hollywood film star or even the wife of a South American dictator, but focused solely upon the merits of her own wedding dress. After one final adjustment, Monsieur Dior announced that the gown met with his approval.
Grace thanked him profusely. ‘I couldn’t be happier, monsieur. The dress is perfect.’
Le patron bowed his head to one side. ‘It has been an honour, Mademoiselle Dubois.’
Grace watched on as four white-gloved apprentices carefully lined each of the billowing folds of her dress with clouds of pale grey tissue, before placing the entire confection into an enormous cardboard box with all the respect rightly accorded a masterpiece. Finally, the carton was tied with spools of trailing satin ribbon that had been stamped, over and over, with the most revered name in the world of fashion.
‘It’s hard to believe,’ Grace said to Ferdinand as the great white carton was borne through the atelier, ‘that only a year ago I ran away from Paris. I thought I’d never be happy again. And now, it’s as if I am living in a fantasy. Everything — well, almost everything — is exactly as I’d most want it to be.’
Just before they reached the door, Ferdinand snapped his fingers at the apprentices. ‘I’ll look after that,’ he said, taking the box from them. ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’
The boys scurried away, returning a moment later carrying teetering piles of beautifully wrapped gifts in a variety of shapes and sizes.
Grace raised her eyebrows. ‘What’s this? Who are they from?’
‘I believe some were sent by clients; others were delivered to Dior by your friends and admirers,’ Ferdinand replied.
‘I’m very touched,’ Grace said. ‘It is so kind, and completely unexpected. For one thing, how did all these people find out about tomorrow’s wedding?’
‘Secrets travel fast in Paris.’ He laughed. ‘Actually, that is not an original bon mot. I was quoting Napoleon Bonaparte.’
Their arrival in the avenue Montaigne coincided with the appearance of two chauffeur-driven black Cadillacs, provided courtesy of the American Embassy. At a signal from the doorman, the gifts, followed by the wedding dress, were loaded into the first gleaming car.
‘By the way,’ Ferdinand said to Grace as he helped her into the second limousine. ‘Did you know that Napoleon had a plan to conquer Australia?’
Grace smiled at him through the open window. ‘I can’t say I did.’
‘It is curious,’ he said wistfully, ‘that such a lovely young Australian came to France and captured our hearts instead.’
The caravan of vehicles and horse-drawn carts made its way down country lanes bordered by orchards and meadows. Some transported chairs, tables and market umbrellas; others brought cutlery and tablecloths; still more hauled wine, boxes of glasses and wooden boards for a dance floor; one delivered a magnificent grand piano. Finally, a large truck drew up at Charincourt laden with cut flowers, crates of fruit and vegetables, seafood and meat, loaves of bread and wheels of cheese.
‘You know, darling,’ Olive said to Grace as they watched the arrival of this cavalcade. ‘I have a confession to make.’
‘Really?’
‘When Marjorie and I left Australia, I was brimming with confidence. I couldn’t imagine anything I’d rather do than oversee arrangements for my daughter’s wedding.’
‘But that’s exactly what I would have expected,’ Grace said with affection.
‘Yes, only I have to admit, by the time we caught the train from Paris — what with the language issues and not knowing precisely how the French go about their wedding celebrations — I felt quite overwhelmed.’
‘That doesn’t sound like you, Mum.’
‘Oh, I’m back to my usual self. As soon as I met that capable Marie Devreaux, I knew everything would be as right as rain.’ Olive turned her head. ‘As a matter of fact, here comes Marie now, with Marjorie.’ She gave Grace a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘Excuse me, darling. I’d better see what’s going on.’
Rather like two generals and a loyal lieutenant, the trio surveyed their field of battle.
‘Not there!’ Olive called out as a man began knocking in tent posts.
‘Ici, ici!’ Marie shouted, waving at a woman who was struggling beneath the weight of myriad peonies.
‘Goodness!’ Marjorie exclaimed, as one of the truck drivers presented her with both an impertinent wink and a box of fresh snails.
Smiling to herself, Grace left the three comrades-in-arms to direct operations and made her way inside the château. Soon it would be time for her to apply make-up, do her hair and, of course, don the glorious Dior dress. As she walked into the sitting room, she cast a glance of approval at the bridal bouquet of wild grasses, white lilies and pale yellow roses that stood waiting in a vase on the table. Propped up against it was the photograph of herself Olive had sent.
Grace looked lovingly at the picture. Dear Mum, she reflected. Where would I be without you?
A group of violinists in tailcoats who had been playing a spirited air put their instruments down. Guests stopped chattering. Even Jezebel, tethered to a nearby tree by a garl
and of yellow and white flowers, ceased whinnying.
For a moment, the only sound that could be heard was the faint swish of leaves. Then the nuns from the Abbaye de Sainte Jeanne raised their voices in song.
Led by Brigitte and Marie-Hélène, the House of Dior’s mannequins began to float slowly across Charincourt’s lawn. They could not borrow couture gowns for the occasion — naturally, these precious dresses had to remain safely in Paris. Instead, as a result of an inspired suggestion from Madame Carré, each beauty was attired in an enchanting, floor-length creamy toile.
The models took their places on either side of a scalloped white awning. In its shade, Mayor Huppert stood waiting stiffly, wearing an ancient top hat and a scarlet sash. Mother Francis Xavier, in her dove-grey robes, was to his right, her face reflecting its usual serenity.
Philippe stood before the abbess. His charcoal-grey suit was perfectly cut, his silk Charvet tie displayed suitable restraint and, if he wore his dark hair perhaps a shade too long, the mannequins were united in silent agreement — he was unquestionably handsome. For his part, Philippe barely noticed the bridesmaids or the guests. Only one person captured his attention.
‘Grace,’ he murmured. ‘Oh, Grace.’
It is said that every bride looks radiant. All agreed, however, that today the bride was bewitching. The guests gasped as Grace, on the arm of a beaming Reuben, wafted towards them. Her exquisite full-length, white satin gown had a tightly fitted bodice, an off-the-shoulder neckline trimmed with pearls and a gently belled skirt finished with a train. With her black curls drawn back in a loose chignon and a long chiffon veil drifting behind her; with her emerald eyes shining and her full mouth curved into an enchanting smile, there was something other-worldly about her.
‘You look divine,’ Marie-Hélène whispered as she passed. ‘That poor man — he will fall in love with you all over again.’
Grace handed her bouquet to Brigitte, then took her place by Philippe’s side.
The nuns’ voices were stilled. Monsieur Huppert stepped forward. Suddenly, the quiet solemnity was pierced by a high-pitched squeal. All eyes turned to Serena who, held by her flush-faced grandmother, bestowed a toothless grin upon the crowd and waved her little hands excitedly.
The tension was broken. There was laughter and smiles; even the mayor visibly relaxed. He proceeded to conduct the official French ceremony with unexpected élan before Mother Francis Xavier recited a prayer.
Despite her apparent composure, Grace was dazed, even numb; the day seemed unreal. When she heard Mayor Huppert announce, ‘You may now kiss the bride,’ it sounded to her as if his words came from somewhere far away.
Only when she felt Philippe’s lips on her own did her senses come alive. As she was engulfed by a wave of pleasure, it occurred to her this must be what it felt like when a spell had been broken.
Rendered golden by the mellow summer light, Charincourt’s glowing walls provided a striking backdrop to the vibrant throng of people mingling on the adjoining lawn.
‘That’s unexpected,’ Philippe said to Grace as they stood hand in hand in the midst of the crowd. ‘As you know, it is rare for the French to seek out the company of those outside their own social strata, yet our wedding guests, who — let’s agree — are nothing if not diverse, seem to be positively embracing one another.’
‘Perhaps,’ Grace remarked with a mischievous grin, ‘it has something to do with the fact that the bride is Australian.’
The two looked on with contentment as writers and artists talked animatedly with farmers and shopkeepers; Reuben’s friends from Burgundy exchanged views with members of the Paris bon ton; Resistance comrades worked their charm on the mannequins; and Philippe’s counter-espionage colleagues discovered a new world, thanks to Tutu and Mesdames Raymonde, Carré, Luling and Beguin.
Grace had known not to expect Jacqueline Bouvier, although the Countess de Renty had passed on her present: an engraved silver cocktail shaker she’d sent from Tiffany’s. ‘Poor Jacqueline,’ the countess said. ‘She so wanted to be with you but her mother insisted she’d had quite enough of the high life in Paris and refused to allow her to leave.’
Baron Édouard de Gide was also unable to attend. He had explained that, regrettably, his presence in Mexico at a performance of Aïda starring that exciting young Greek singer Maria Callas was the reason. Nonetheless, as Ferdinand had pointed out, ‘Considering the baron’s broken heart, despatching six cases of Cristal shows admirable panache.’
In deference to the summer day, Madame Marly was without her ubiquitous fox, although she made up for it by donning a striking lilac-feathered hat. ‘I remember when I first saw you, Grace,’ she reminisced, ‘in the Hotel Australia when you were just a little girl. I have always been so fond of Reuben; what a feeling for Chopin he has!’
Earlier, Grace had seen Evangeline Bruce and Julia Child arrive in the official US Embassy car, the Stars and Stripes flying gaily from its bonnet. During the previous week, an attaché had hand-delivered a personal message from the ambassador himself, expressing his thanks on behalf of an indebted US Government for the heroic actions taken by Captain Philippe Boyer and Mademoiselle Grace Dubois. The letter mentioned forthcoming medals.
The man had also brought a cut-crystal Baccarat punch bowl, a gift from the grateful ambassador and his wife. Now it contained a modified version of Olive’s famous concoction.
‘Marie and I decided that peaches and brandy were the perfect substitutes for pineapple and rum,’ Olive informed her daughter.
‘If it’s anything like the original,’ Grace said, ‘our guests will be dancing on the tables.’
She smiled as she watched the two happy warriors gaze with satisfaction at the long trestle tables displaying the wedding banquet they had masterminded. Guests helped themselves to glistening oysters and poached salmon, roast goose and turkey, dishes of waxy potatoes, green beans and asparagus, and a fine selection of local cheeses.
‘You’ve outdone yourself, Mum,’ Grace observed, ‘but it’s high time you relaxed for a bit and met some of the guests.’ Spying Julia Child on her way to the buffet, she seized the opportunity to introduce her mother, then added, ‘Mrs Child is learning to master French cuisine.’
‘Well then, you’re just the person I need,’ Olive said. ‘Those snails — what do you find is the best way to tackle them?’
‘I’m yet to get the hang of it myself,’ Mrs Child hooted. ‘An escargot shot off my plate only the other night when I was dining at the Élysée Palace. My husband was convinced I’d caused a diplomatic incident!’
In the late afternoon a counter was laid out with bowls of raspberries and a large ice bucket filled with whipped cream. Yet before there was time for anyone to touch so much as a berry, Mayor Huppert clapped his hands. At that, three women appeared.
‘Mademoiselle Elise!’ Grace had been thrilled when she’d learnt her former governess intended making the trip from her home in the Alps where she now ran a select finishing school. Elise smiled as she carried a particularly large and fragrant tarte tatin to the table.
Behind her, Grace saw le patron’s personal chef, renowned as much for the distinction of being the only cook in Paris dressed by Christian Dior as she was for her outstanding cuisine. Madame Denise held a great platter on which a towering croquembouche shimmered. This pyramid of profiteroles, filled with crème pâtissière and drizzled with toffee, prompted Ferdinand to remark, ‘Regarde, la pièce de résistance.’
Only a moment later, however, he appeared to have changed his mind. ‘Oh là là là là! C’est magnifique!’ he cried when, held aloft on a silver tray by the bride’s triumphant mother, a markedly different creation materialised.
It occurred to Grace that few of her guests would have ever before encountered a traditional, three-tiered wedding cake of the type that Olive had perfected. Covered in gleaming white royal icing, embellished with rosebuds and topped with a miniature bride and groom, its appearance led Ferdinand to declare that
this tour de force was the banquet’s indisputable highlight.
The feast had been consumed, toasts exchanged and speeches made when Mayor Huppert proclaimed, ‘Mesdames et messieurs, friends one and all, it is my honour to announce the bridal waltz.’
Madame Marly signalled to the violinists. Reuben struck a resonant chord on the grand piano. But the bride and groom had danced no more than a few steps when a large automobile swept into the driveway.
Philippe frowned. Grace was confused. Everyone turned and stared.
A pair of men in black suits carrying briefcases emerged from the limousine. After making their way across the dance floor, they came to a halt in front of the groom.
‘Captain Boyer?’ the taller and thinner man inquired.
‘Yes. Who the devil are you?’
‘We are notaries and act with the authorisation of the government of France. I am Monsieur Caron and this is my colleague, Monsieur Bardot. There are important matters to discuss.’
‘I remember those two,’ Grace said to Philippe. ‘They came to the château once before, looking for you.’
‘That is quite correct, Madame,’ said Caron. ‘We have been trying to locate the captain for some time. Recently, it came to our attention that a wedding was to take place at Charincourt.’
Ferdinand was right, Grace thought. There really are no secrets in Paris.
‘Accordingly,’ the man continued, ‘we surmised that if this were the case, we might well discover you here.’ He gave a self-satisfied nod.
Philippe began to laugh. ‘Mon ami, I’m afraid whatever you want to talk about will have to wait. As you can see, I am tied up at the moment.’
Caron rummaged in his briefcase. ‘All the same, I think you will want to hear what we have to say.’
Philippe exchanged a bewildered glance with Grace. ‘Out with it then.’
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