She even emailed the press office at Buckingham Palace, asking if they would connect her with the curator responsible for the queen’s wedding gown and other Hartnell-designed garments, but they didn’t respond, not even after she sent three separate inquiries.
Late one Saturday night, long after she ought to have gone to sleep, Heather decided to play around with variations on search terms she had already used. Hartnell embroiderers royal wedding 1947 yielded nothing new, as did Princess Elizabeth wedding dress embroiderers 1947. Suppressing an enormous yawn, she forced herself to think. What hadn’t she tried? What snippet of information had she overlooked?
There was a reason that Nan had left the embroideries to her. Nan hadn’t wanted to talk about her life in England, or maybe she hadn’t felt able to do so, but she had saved the flowers for more than sixty years, and she had put Heather’s name on the box, and she had known that Heather would look for answers. She must have expected it—and that, in turn, meant she must have wanted Heather to know.
It was the only thing Nan had ever asked her to do, and she couldn’t stand the idea of letting her down, and it was driving her nuts that she couldn’t figure out how—
The pictures. Yes. She would do an image search on the pictures her mom had sent and see if anything similar popped up. She plugged in the photograph of Nan on her own; nothing. The same again for the one of Nan and Milly. But the results for the photo of Nan and the mystery woman instantly banished all thoughts of sleep from Heather’s mind.
Miriam Dassin at the 1958 Venice Biennale. Miriam Dassin in her Hampstead studio. Miriam Dassin at Buckingham Palace after the queen had awarded her a damehood, which seemed, from what Heather could tell, to be the female version of a knighthood. Nan’s mysterious friend was none other than Miriam Dassin.
In grade eleven, Heather had taken visual art as an elective; it had been that or drama. She’d been terrible at drawing and painting, really at anything that required she hold a pencil or brush, so her teacher had suggested she try collage work. He had given her a book on Miriam Dassin, who was best known for her large-scale embroideries, but had also experimented with mixed-media collage and sculpture.
“Here’s an artist whose work is in every important museum collection in the world,” he’d told her, “and none of it is painted or drawn.”
She’d looked at the pictures in the book for hours, and she’d read everything she could find on Miriam Dassin, too, and yet she couldn’t remember anything about the artist having ever worked for a fashion designer. Her heart in her throat, Heather began another search. Miriam Dassin.
The details were more or less as she recalled: French, active in the resistance during the war, imprisoned at Ravensbrück, emigrated to England, spent years working in obscurity. Then the sensational success of Vél d’Hiv at the 1958 Venice Biennale had propelled Dassin to fame in the art world and beyond.
But there was nothing about Norman Hartnell or the queen’s wedding dress, and certainly nothing about her ever having been friends with a young woman from Essex called Ann Hughes.
Yet the proof was there, in the photographs, and unless Miriam Dassin had an unknown identical twin, she and Nan must have known one another. They had been colleagues at Hartnell, and possibly even friends. So why, then, had her grandmother never said a word?
“I wouldn’t mind some help, you know,” she said in the direction of the ceiling. “If you didn’t want me to find out, why did you put my name on the box of embroideries? And what am I supposed to do next?”
All she needed was a nudge in the right direction. A hint to keep her going. But Nan had never been one for sharing secrets, and no answer came from the ether now.
Chapter Ten
Ann
August 8, 1947
I don’t know why you’re nervous,” Doris said. “You look smashing. Really you do.”
Ann forced herself to look at her reflection in the cloakroom mirror. At her mascaraed lashes, reddened lips, powder-burnished skin. At her new frock with its full, swirling skirt and plunging neckline. At her feet, so delicate in dainty new shoes.
She saw a stranger.
“‘Mutton dressed as lamb,’” she whispered. “That’s what my mum would say if she could see me in this.”
“This idiom . . . what on earth does it mean?” Miriam asked. “You are speaking of sheep. It makes no sense.” She stood at Ann’s elbow and until a moment ago had been smiling in delight.
“Ann is trying to say that she isn’t young enough to wear such a pretty frock,” Ethel explained.