“None of it is true,” Miriam said. “How can they print such things? And this gown—it is not even close. Why do they bother?”
“Pounds, shillings, and pence,” Ethel said. “Just think how many newspapers they’ll sell today. Doesn’t matter that Mr. Hartnell and the palace will say they’ve got it wrong. People will believe it until they see the princess on her big day.”
They were saved from further discussion by Ethel’s exclamation that it was half eight already and Miss Duley would be waiting, so they all trooped downstairs, Ann as silent as the grave, and moved to their usual places, clustered around the princess’s bridal train in its long, cumbersome frame, and Miriam listened to the same whispered discussions they’d been having for weeks now. Husbands, beaux, rationing woes, gossip about film stars, and none of it was noteworthy enough to hold her attention. Not when Ann was suffering so.
She worked in silence, and she watched her friend wither before her eyes, and before long Miriam had had enough. Rather than follow the others down to the canteen at morning break, she took Ann’s arm and led her to the cloakroom.
“What . . . ?”
“Come with me,” Miriam hissed. “Wait until we are alone.”
Once in the cloakroom, Miriam retreated to the bench in the far corner, by the masking noises of the ever-clanking radiator, and patted the spot beside her. “Come. Something is wrong, and I insist you tell me what it is.”
She waited, and waited, and at last Ann came to join her.
“The sketch of the wedding gown in the newspaper,” Ann whispered. “It’s mine.”
“How is that possible? I know you would never—”
“It was stolen from my sketchbook, the blue one I sometimes carry around in my bag. I checked earlier and there’s a page missing. I think it was cut out of the book.”
“You are certain of this?”
“Yes. I mean, I could look again. But I know it’s not there.”
Suddenly Miriam remembered the night she and Ann had sat at the kitchen table and shared glimpses of their work with one another. Her drawing of Grand-Père offering the kiddouch blessing, and Ann’s drawing of a bridal gown. “Is it the dress you showed me? Doris’s dress?” It had been hard to see the picture in the newspaper from across the room, but thinking on it, now, she did recognize the sketch. It was indeed Ann’s work.
“Yes.”
“I understand that you are upset it was stolen, but why are you so worried? What is there to connect you to it?”
“My handwriting. ‘Fit for a princess,’ I wrote at the bottom, and I added in little details, too. About how there was a secret good-luck motif for the bride. Miss Duley will know. As soon as she takes a good look at that newspaper she’ll know.”
“Surely she will understand.”
“I’m awful at drawing figures. Getting the proportions right and so on. So I traced one of Mr. Hartnell’s sketches from his last collection. Just the arms and head. But it will look as if I was trying to pass off his work as my own. What was I thinking?”
“You say the drawing was cut from your sketchbook. Who might have taken it? Who even knew you had such a thing in your bag?”
“I showed the sketch to Doris. It was meant to be her dress, after all. We were in the canteen at dinner, with everyone sitting around the table. But I— Oh, God, no. No.”
“What is it?” Miriam asked, thoroughly rattled.
“I know who did it,” Ann muttered, her voice thick with suppressed tears. “Jeremy.”
“Why? Why would he do such a thing?”
“He said information about the gown would be worth a king’s ransom in the right hands. He was so angry. He’d thought a few evenings out would soften me up, and I’d tell him everything he wanted to know, or I’d let something slip. But I never said a thing, and he . . .”
“What did he do?”
Ann covered her face with her hands. “Nothing. Nothing.”
“When did he take the drawing?” Miriam pressed. “Could it have been the night you last saw him?”
“It must have been. I was . . . I was in the other room. For a while. And he was alone with my bag, and I think he looked through it then. I don’t know why, though, because he knew I don’t have any money. I don’t have anything worth taking.”
“Had he known about your sketchbook?”
Ann shook her head, wiped at her eyes. “No. At least I don’t think he did. Oh, Miriam. He must have thought he’d won the pools. A sketchbook full of designs, and a grand wedding dress right at the end. With a label just in case it wasn’t clear. ‘Fit for a princess.’ I’m going to be sick.”