“Mimi! Mimi! Where are you?” came Hannah’s piping voice from the front hall.
“Here I am! And what is this you have for me?”
“Uncle Daniel and I looked for peonies, because those are your favorite, but the man in the flower shop didn’t have any. So we brought you some dahlias. I hope you aren’t disappointed.”
“Not at all, and they are very lovely. Come with me now and we will put them in water. Then we will sit together in the Walter chair, if you like, and I will tell you some stories.”
Heather
October 14, 2016
Her flight from Toronto had arrived early, and the train ride in from Newark had been easier than she’d hoped, and her hotel in Manhattan’s West Village was just around the corner from Washington Square and had a main-floor lounge with Django Reinhardt playing softly in the background and twenty different wines by the glass on the menu, and even though Daniel wasn’t supposed to show up for another half hour, she’d made sure to sit where she could see the front door. She was thinking about a glass of white wine, even though it was barely five o’clock, and had gone so far as to snag a menu from a nearby table, when some impulse made her look up.
Daniel stood in the doorway, a solid twenty minutes before she’d hoped to see him there, and he looked tired and serious, and for a moment she wondered if she’d made a mistake in coming to visit. Maybe it would have been better to stick to texts and emails for a little longer.
He turned, as if he’d somehow divined what she’d been thinking, and for a moment she forgot to breathe as he stared at her. And then he smiled, crossed the room, and kissed her until they were both a little breathless.
“Hello,” he said. “You made it.”
“Hello. I did.”
He shrugged out of his coat, dumped it and his messenger bag on the far end of the banquette where she was perched, and sat next to her, just as she’d hoped he would.
“What do you think? I’ve stayed here myself a few times.”
“I love it. Teeny tiny rooms, but that’s New York, right? And this common area is amazing.”
“It is, although later on it’ll be overrun by NYU students. God knows I didn’t have the money to pay fifteen bucks for a glass of wine when I was an undergraduate.”
“Me neither. Although I do feel like splurging on a glass of something. I got some good news just before I left.”
“The story about your nan and Mimi?”
“Yes.” She looked around, a little nervous of being overheard. “It isn’t official, but I sold it.”
“You did? That’s fantastic. Was it to the same place we talked about? The one that despite its title has absolutely no connection to William Makepeace Thackeray?”
“Ha ha. Yes. That one.”
“Then we definitely need to celebrate. But first I have to give you something.” He opened his bag and retrieved a flat box about ten inches square. “Here you are.”
“What is it?”
“A gift from Mimi. She was nervous about putting it in the post.”
“Why? Is it delicate?”
“Yes, and also rather valuable. I put my laptop in the overhead bin on the way home, but this I held in my lap.”
“You know what it is?”
“I do. Go on.”
Inside, under half a dozen sheets of tissue paper, was a framed embroidery of a wreath of flowers: antique roses, the spidery apricot blossoms of a honeysuckle, tiny sprigs of lavender and lilac, and three sumptuously perfect peonies, their petals as ripe as berries. Wedged into one corner was a small notecard, the handwriting bold and almost calligraphic.
October 1, 2016
Ma chère Heather,
I embroidered this wreath in 1949 when I was pregnant with my daughter, Daniel’s mother, and the flowers were inspired by my own mother’s garden, a place long vanished but ever dear to me. Its creation brought me great happiness, and no small measure of peace, and I hope that whenever you see it you will be reminded of my love for your grandmother, the joy she brought to my life and yours, and the friendship I now extend to you, ma belle.
With my affectionate good wishes,
Miriam
Acknowledgments
My greatest debt of thanks must go to Mrs. Betty Foster, one of Norman Hartnell’s seamstresses, who graciously agreed to be interviewed about her memories of working at Hartnell and her involvement in the creation of Princess Elizabeth’s wedding gown. Without Mrs. Foster, I would have struggled to finish this book, and I am deeply grateful to her.