“They’re not like that. Honestly, they’re not. The king and queen have ration books like the rest of us. And they might eat off gold plates, but they have to make do with the same food as everyone else.”
Miriam frowned at this, still skeptical. “What of the rations for their clothing? If all is to be truly fair, as you say, then the princess will need coupons for her wedding gown, will she not?”
“I suppose she will,” Ann admitted. “I wonder how they’ll manage it.”
“No doubt something will be done. No one will be brave enough to say no to the king.”
“But they aren’t like that at all. The king and queen could have left England during the war, or they could have sent the princesses to Canada, but they all stayed here. And Buckingham Palace was bombed, and the king’s brother was killed. And the queen is ever so nice.
“There was one time, before the war, when she invited all the girls who’d worked on one of her gowns to come and see her in it. So we walked over to Buckingham Palace, and they let us in through a special door at the side, and we waited in this very grand hallway with paintings hung all the way to the ceiling. I remember we were so nervous we barely even breathed. And then the queen herself appeared in the gown we’d made for her, with a beautiful fur over her shoulders, and a tiara that was nothing but diamonds, hundreds of them, and besides that a necklace and bracelets and the most enormous earrings. One by one she said hello to all of us, and asked our names, and thanked us for our hard work. No one else has ever done that, in all the time I’ve been at Hartnell. Not a note, or a word of thanks, or anything. And she sends gifts, too—the white heather, just at the front of the border there, came from her. Balmoral heather, and it’s in my garden now.”
She had to stop and take a breath, and it was a bit embarrassing to realize how red-faced and strident she’d become. Miriam would think she’d lost her mind. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m that fond of the queen. Most people are. I think that’s why everyone is so excited about the wedding.”
“Then I will be fond of her, too. And you are right. It is a great honor to work on the princess’s gown.”
“It makes me nervous just to think about it. What if it shows in my work? What if my hands get shaky, or—”
“Then do not be nervous,” Miriam said.
“The whole world will be watching. How can I not?”
“The world will watch the wedding itself, yes, but not our workroom. And you must ask yourself: Is any of this beyond your capabilities? No. You are a fine embroiderer, the equal of any of my peers at Maison Rébé. You can do this. Of course you can.”
It was a rare compliment from Miriam, and all the more precious as a result. “Thank you. I’m glad we’re in this together.”
“So am I, my friend. So am I.”
Chapter Fourteen
Miriam
August 23, 1947
The longing had taken hold earlier that week at supper. Ann had made chicken, two wizened and rather tough legs, seasoning them with salt and pepper and nothing else. It had been good, if bland, and she had found herself wishing for something that tasted of more—what, exactly, she couldn’t say. Only more.
And then, as she was falling asleep that night, the memory of Grand-Mère’s Friday-night chicken had come upon her. She hadn’t tasted it since her childhood, nor in all the intervening years had she ever considered making it herself. Yet her desire for the dish, once awakened, would not leave her.
The difficulty was that almost everything she required, excepting the chicken itself, was impossible to acquire in Barking. Not that it had surprised her, for one could not even buy a decent bottle of olive oil in the local shops. She’d asked Ann, but her friend had explained it was only carried by chemists. “For earache,” she’d explained.
Miriam had nodded, bitten her tongue, and resolved to look further afield.
On Wednesday afternoon, Monsieur Hartnell’s chief fitter, known to all as Mam’selle, had paid a visit to the embroidery workroom. Miriam had been intent on the spray of jasmine blossoms she was creating, her thoughts returning again and again to the impossibility of tracking down ingredients that were regarded as exotic rarities by the English, when the Frenchwoman’s voice caught her attention. Mam’selle was deep in conversation with Miss Duley, likely over some detail of the royal ladies’ gowns, and it occurred to Miriam that if anyone in London might be able to recommend a good French épicier, it would be Germaine Davide.