Mr. Hartnell was there already, as were Mademoiselle Davide, Miss Yvonne, the princess’s personal vendeuse, and Betty from the sewing workroom; like Miriam, she had been asked to come to the palace in case of a last-minute disaster. Before five minutes had passed they were joined by two additional fitters, and though Miriam recognized the women by sight she couldn’t recollect their names.
“Good morning, ladies. Is everyone ready? In that case we ought to be on our way.” They followed Monsieur Hartnell downstairs and out through the front entrance, where two enormous black cars were waiting. He, Mam’selle, and Miss Yvonne got into the first car, leaving the rest of them to squash into the second, and as soon as the doors were shut they were off. There was no risk of being caught up in traffic, since theirs were practically the only vehicles heading in the direction of the palace, so it took only a few minutes to skirt the edges of Green Park and come around onto Buckingham Palace Road.
Monsieur Hartnell’s car turned into a gateway, pausing as it crossed the pavement, but when the guards peered in and saw its occupants, they waved both cars through onto the raked gravel forecourt. Seconds later they drew to a halt in front of a rather grand entrance.
“This is the servants’ entrance?” Miriam marveled.
One of the fitters shook her head. “Usually we go in through the Privy Purse Door on the north side. This is the Ambassadors Entrance. I guess they thought it would be easier because of all the crowds out front. Makes me feel rather a star, though.”
A man in uniform came forward and shook Mr. Hartnell’s hand. “Good morning, Mr. Hartnell. Ladies.”
“Good morning. Shame about the gloomy weather. Shall we see ourselves in? I’m sure you’re run off your feet.”
Mr. Hartnell led them up a set of low stairs and along an unremarkable corridor to a lift, and though it was rather small they all managed to squeeze inside. It stopped after one floor, at which point the two fitters got out.
“Go straight along to Her Majesty’s apartments,” Mr. Hartnell told them, “and please let her know I shall be along once I’m certain all is well with the bride.”
The lift doors shut and they went up another floor. This time everyone got out, and Mr. Hartnell led them along another corridor, this one red-carpeted and high-ceilinged and decorated with gilt-framed mirrors and oil paintings and glass-fronted cabinets filled with mysterious treasures.
A door near the end opened as they approached, and a plainly dressed woman in her early forties came out to greet them.
“Miss MacDonald,” Monsieur Hartnell said, shaking her hand. “How are you today?”
“Very well,” she said, smiling brightly. “Good morning to all of you, and do come in.”
Miriam was at the very tail end of their little procession, and it was only chance that had her glancing at the door as they passed through. HRH The Princess Elizabeth was engraved on a shining brass plaque. So these were the princess’s private rooms—that would be something to tell Ann about later.
They now stood in a sitting room, and something about it reminded her of the house in Edenbridge where Bennett and Ruby lived. Not the room itself, for it was enormous and rather cold, but rather its furnishings, which were comfortable and homey and not especially grand. A small wicker dog basket, rather battered and worn, sat next to the sofa, but fortunately its occupant was elsewhere. It wouldn’t do for her to shrink back in fear from the princess’s own dog.
“How is Her Royal Highness this morning?” Monsieur Hartnell asked.
“She is very well, thank you, and ready to get dressed. If Mam’selle and Miss Yvonne could come with me we’ll get started.”
“Of course, Miss MacDonald, of course. I’ll remain here until I’m needed.” And then, as if only just remembering, “I’ve brought Miss Dassin and Miss Pearce from my embroidery and sewing workrooms. In case any emergency repairs are required. Would you like them to remain here, or might they be of help elsewhere?”
“Perhaps they could help with the bridesmaids?” Miss MacDonald suggested. “There’s only the six of them, as Princess Margaret and Princess Alexandra have their own dressers.” She turned to face Miriam and Betty. “Will you be all right finding your way? It isn’t far—back to the lift and down one floor, then turn left and go around the corner to the first of the guest suites. They’re bound to be making a fair amount of noise.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Betty said, nodding.