The entrance was a grand affair of green malachite and sparkling glass, the equal to anything one might see on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. A footman appeared silently, ushering her inside, and she paused, forcing herself to stand very still as she took the measure of the space. Modern, she thought. Cool and elegant and masterfully restrained. Nearly every vertical plane was mirrored; the few bare walls were painted in the cool gray-green of young lavender leaves.
A woman came forward, beautifully dressed, her welcoming smile radiating sincerity. “Good morning. How may I help you?”
“Good morning. I am here to see Monsieur Hartnell.”
The woman’s eyes widened fractionally, but her smile did not waver. “Of course. If I might first—”
“I am Mademoiselle Dassin. My friend, Monsieur Christian Dior, told me I must pay Monsieur Hartnell a visit upon my arrival in England.” Not quite the truth, but not precisely a lie.
“Ah. I see.” The woman’s eyes darted toward the stairs.
“Shall we?” Miriam asked, and without waiting for an answer, she set off across the foyer.
“Ah, yes, of course. Miss, ah . . .”
“Dassin.”
“Yes. Miss Dassin. If you could perhaps wait while I speak to his secretary, then I—”
Miriam began to ascend the stairs. “I do not mind waiting.”
“If I could perhaps trouble you to take a seat down—”
“It is quite all right. I am certain he will wish to see me.”
As they reached the first floor, the woman slipped past Miriam, walking as quickly as her high heels would allow. “I really do need to speak with Mrs. Price and let her— Oh, my goodness.”
They stood at the door of an office. One glance told Miriam it was empty. “Madame Price does not appear to be at her desk.”
“No, she isn’t. If you could please wait here while I find her?”
“Of course.”
On the far side of Mrs. Price’s office, which was actually an anteroom, a door stood open. A man was speaking on the telephone, and though she knew it would be best to stay where she was, Miriam found herself inching toward the door.
A sign hung on the wall nearby: NO ADMITTANCE BEYOND THIS DOOR EXCEPT BY EXPRESS PERMISSION OF MRS. PRICE.
She was certain, now, that Monsieur Hartnell was on the other side of that door. He had finished his telephone call; it would not be entirely beyond the pale to knock and ask for admittance. If she waited for permission, Mrs. Price might decide to let her in. Or she might just as easily have Miriam escorted out.
This was her chance. Her only chance. She knocked on the door.
A man was sitting at an enormous desk, a smoldering cigarette in his left hand, a pencil in the other. He was in his late forties, she supposed, with reddish hair that had gone white at his temples, and his suit was beautifully tailored.
“Hello? Monsieur Hartnell?” she asked.
“Hello,” he said, and he smiled when he saw her at the door. “What a lovely ensemble.”
“Thank you. I beg your pardon, but your Mrs. Price is not at her desk.”
“I see. Will you come in? Do sit down.”
She advanced into the room, which was every bit as elegant as the rest of the premises, and perched on the edge of the chair he indicated. “My name is Miriam Dassin and I am an embroiderer, most recently at Maison Rébé. I also have a letter of recommendation from Monsieur Christian Dior.”
She opened her portfolio, relieved that her hands were steady, and handed him the letter. Only after he had accepted it did she realize he might not understand French. But as she watched him read, marking the changes of expression on his face, she felt certain that he was able to make out the general tenor of its words.
“A warm introduction indeed.”
“I also have some examples of my work, if you . . . ?”
“I should be delighted to see them.”
She had bound them into a folder, the edges of each piece carefully whipstitched, and as he looked through the samples, his cigarette held well clear, inspecting the front and back of each, she found herself holding her breath. So close, so close. He seemed to understand and appreciate what she had done, but was it enough?
“You are an exceptionally talented embroiderer, Miss Dassin. This is marvelous work. I’d be a fool to send you away.”
The vise of fear around her chest, so omnipresent she’d almost forgotten it, loosened a fraction.
“Thank you, Monsieur Hartnell. I—”
“Mrs. Price!” he called.