On the kitchen table, after school, lie two hand-delivered invitations. Crisp ivory stationery with Beatrix’s name on one and William’s on the other in fancy lettering. Mrs. G smiles as Beatrix opens hers, careful not to rip the envelope. She’s never seen anything so elegant with her name on it. Gerald watches from the other side of the table, his chin on his hands. A Christmas party at Lucy Emery’s, the Saturday before Christmas. We must get you a dress, child, Mrs. G says. We’ll go into town this weekend. Beatrix frowns. But I have my red dress, she says, it’s my favorite. There’s a pause and then Mrs. G turns around. No, dear, she says, her voice soft. The Emerys are a fancy lot. You’ll want a proper party dress.
On Saturday, Beatrix and Mrs. G go to Downtown Crossing. The streets are filled with shoppers, and Mrs. G pushes through the crowd in front of the store, holding tight to Beatrix’s mittened hand. You must see this, she says. In the windows of Jordan Marsh, a family celebrates Christmas. The father is in a tartan robe, reading the paper by the fire. The mother, in a matching sky-blue robe and nightgown, is clapping her hands, again and again, as the three children—two boys and one girl—open their gifts. The floor is covered with toys and wrapping paper. The outdoor speakers are blaring Christmas carols. Beatrix can’t stop looking. She’s never seen such a thing. It’s just like our family, she thinks, with the father reading and the mother engaged and the two boys and one girl. She feels Mrs. G looking at her, the way she does when she wants to hug her but feels that she shouldn’t.
As they enter the brightly lit and bustling store, Mrs. G keeps her hand on Beatrix’s back as she steers her toward the elevators. Once on the third floor, jewel-toned dresses line the walls. Oh, this is such fun, Mrs. G says, her voice full of joy as she fingers the silk and satin. It’s been years since I’ve been able to fit into a dress I love. But with your figure? You can wear anything that catches your eye. Beatrix nods. She’s already seen the dress. It’s a blue satin with a tulle underskirt in a lighter shade of blue, and she points at it, shyly. Princess Margaret wore something like this last year. Mrs. G motions to a salesgirl and then the dressing room is filled with dresses; Beatrix tries on one after another, alone in the room, stepping out into the narrow hall to have Mrs. G zip her up and fasten the hooks and eyes. She walks back and forth toward the long mirror, learning to swish when she turns, making that glorious sound, the skirts brushing up against her legs and the walls. She spins and each dress billows out and flares.
Beatrix loves the blue dress the best, even though Mrs. G prefers the emerald-green one. It works with your coloring, dear, and it’s just so Christmasy. But I want you to be happy and love the dress you’re wearing, so we’ll get the blue one, yes? Beatrix nods, worried she will cry if she speaks. She has never worn anything as elegant as this. And, Mrs. G continues, speaking to the salesgirl, we’ll need matching gloves and shoes. Don’t worry about the jewelry, dear, she says to Beatrix, I’ve got a perfect set of pearls that will be just the right length for that neckline.
As they make their way out of the store, boxes in hand, Beatrix sees legs that look like her mother’s moving through the crowd, the seam running perfectly up the back of the slender calf, and at first she thinks that it must be her, and she gestures with something like a moan, certainly not a word, her hands reaching to try to touch her mother’s sleeve. What is it, dear, asks Mrs. G, concerned, and the woman turns around and it’s not her mother at all. Of course it’s not. Beatrix shakes her head and she can feel the blush rising into her cheeks as bodies push past them, past the makeup and perfume counters, past the handbags and jewelry, heading to the front doors. I’m sorry, she mumbles. I thought I saw something. I was wrong. I’m sorry. She realizes that she hasn’t thought of Mummy once during this shopping trip. What would she have thought of this? Would she have approved of the dress? Should she offer to pay, even though she has no money? Perhaps Dad could send some. Mrs. G bustles along beside her. Oh, Bea, she says, and Beatrix can see the bit of worry creeping into her face, the way she gets when Beatrix pulls away, they have the most delicious blueberry muffins here. Shall we have a treat, then, before we leave? Beatrix shakes her head again, suddenly furious at this woman who seems to have everything and want for nothing. She can tell that she has hurt her feelings but she has no way to explain what she is thinking. Then Mrs. G’s face slides back to her usual calm self, a protection of sorts, Beatrix knows. She’s learned that everyone wears a mask. Let’s get to the car, then, dear. It’s been a long day.
On the way home, Beatrix stares out the side window. It snowed two days earlier and now even beautiful Boston is gray and cold and dirty. She wonders whether there’s snow at home. How can there even be a war on? So often it seems as though she’s living in a fairy tale, a land where you buy fancy dresses and go to parties and eat blueberry muffins. The girl in the tale is different from the girl at home. It’s a facade, she tells herself, soon she will go back to her real home, and this will all become something that once happened to her in a dream. How stupid of her to think the family in the window was hers, how ridiculous to ever believe that she belonged here. She looks at her watch, which she keeps to London time. It is eight in the evening at home. Her parents are sitting in the dark, the candles dripping down to almost nothing before they blow themselves out.