The royal family had made sacrifices, same as the rest of them. Bombed out more than once, and the king’s own brother killed. The princess deserved a proper wedding in Westminster Abbey with beautiful music and flowers and decorations, a troop of bridesmaids, and a glorious gown. Surely the government would understand. Surely the gray-faced men in Whitehall wouldn’t insist on some dreary affair that conformed to all their tiresome austerity directives.
And if that included a gown from Hartnell, so much the better.
Suddenly Ann was so excited she couldn’t bear to sit in her lonely kitchen and eat her solitary piece of toast with margarine and a smear of watery jam. Today she would throw caution to the wind. She would take an early train, and stop off at the Corner House near Bond Street station, and have something delicious for breakfast. She would buy a newspaper, just in case it had more to say about the engagement, and she’d get to work early and be ready to hear the news when it came. If there was news of the gown, Miss Duley was sure to know.
She left for work a half hour early, so jubilant she all but ran up the road to the station, pausing only to buy a copy of the Daily Mail. On its front page was a picture of the princess from the evening before, a bit blurry, but Ann was almost sure she recognized the gown as one from the South Africa tour. One she had worked on herself.
Nearly the entire front page was taken up with news of the engagement—the betrothal, as they called it. Most was straightforward speculation, as there’d been no official announcement beyond the one she’d heard on the news earlier. There were a few more details about Lieutenant Mountbatten, who was a distant cousin of the princess, and had been decorated for his valor during the war.
She was famished by the time she walked into the Corner House, so she treated herself to a soft-boiled egg, a buttered crumpet, and a small pot of tea. It came to a shilling and tuppence, a shocking amount of money to spend on a single meal, but it had been months—no, years—since she’d done anything so frivolous and fun. If breakfast had been twice the price she still would have done it.
By a quarter past eight she was in the cloakroom at Hartnell, changing into her white coverall and smiling at the sight of her friends, all early for work, and all, like her, bouncing off the rafters with excitement. They were talking so quickly she could scarcely keep track of who said what.
“Remember back in the spring? When he gave up his foreign title and became British? The papers were saying there’d be an announcement any day.”
“I read somewhere that the king didn’t want her to get engaged before she turned twenty-one.”
“Well, that was in April. Why’ve they waited so long?”
“He’s in the navy. Maybe he had to ask for leave.” This last suggestion was greeted with hoots of laughter.
“I doubt that. One word from the king would’ve solved that problem.”
“I think they got engaged a while ago,” Ann said. “I do. And they didn’t say anything right away because they wanted to keep it to themselves for a while. Now that it’s official, they have to share it with the whole world.”
“I suppose that makes sense . . .”
“But we haven’t talked about the most important part: Will they ask Mr. Hartnell to design her gown?”
“The queen loves him. We’ll end up doing her gown at the very least.”
“Who else can do the wedding gown? All the society brides come to Mr. Hartnell for their wedding. And he did Princess Alice’s. That was the last royal wedding.”
“Yes, but it was more than ten years ago. And Molyneux did make some of their clothes for South Africa.”
“Only because so many were needed. For the important gowns it’s always Mr. Hartnell.”
“What if Princess Elizabeth wants a Dior gown?”
“No. She is an English princess. She will have an English dressmaker for her wedding gown.” This last comment came from Miriam, herself a Frenchwoman. Although Ann had worked with her closely since May, she couldn’t say she knew Miriam very well. But she was right: the queen and Princess Elizabeth would certainly choose an English dressmaker.
“The queen will want Mr. Hartnell. We’ll be hearing the news any day now.”
Ann looked at her watch; it was half-past eight. “Come on, everyone. Miss Duley will have a fit if she finds us gabbing away like this.”
Still chattering gaily, they trooped into the workroom. Miss Duley was already waiting for them.
“Girls, girls. You’re as noisy as a herd of elephants. I know it’s terribly exciting, but there’s been no announcement yet. And you know what they say about counting your chickens.”