CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A public swimming baths?” The duchess was doubtful.
“Yes, ma’am. It will do the girls good to mix with those their own age. Margaret can come too.”
“But princesses should never disrobe in public!”
Marion took a deep breath. “It’s not possible to swim without doing so, ma’am.”
The chosen mixing and disrobing venue was the exclusive Bath Club in nearby Dover Street. But Miss Daly, the club’s fresh-faced young swimming teacher, was doubtful too. “Do I have to curtsey at the end of every length they swim?”
“Really not necessary.” Marion smiled. “We’re all the same in the water.”
The lesson quickly became the highlight of the children’s week. Marion would sit on the wrought-iron viewing balcony while, below, Lilibet happily trod water and Margaret, plump in her dark blue swimming costume, stood on the edge, gripping the stone flags with her toes, obviously reluctant to jump in.
“Come on, Margaret! Don’t be a limpet!” Lilibet stuck out a hand and grabbed her sister’s ankle. Margaret squealed in horror.
Ker-splash. Margaret was finally in now, and screaming hysterically. Lilibet was laughing. It was good to see, and even better to hear.
The warm, chlorinated air made her feel tired, suddenly. The last few weeks especially had been very strained. Marion bent forward and rested her forehead on the rail.
“Miss Crawford?” Miss Daly suddenly sat down beside her.
Marion jerked her head up and looked into a pair of clear green eyes, like swimming-pool water.
“Can I have a word?” She flicked a meaningful gaze over the balcony.
Marion peered over to look. “Not again!”
Miss Daly’s smile was as white and reassuring as her crisp sportswear. “I’ve tried to tell her to stay in the changing room but it might be better coming from you.”
“Oh, much,” Marion agreed ironically as she followed Miss Daly down to the poolside, where Mrs. Knight, not for the first time, had camped out beside the water with a pile of towels, hairbrushes, talcum powder and even boxes of chocolates. “There’s enough to equip an expedition,” Marion muttered, as the two of them walked across the tiles. “I can’t think why she hasn’t included a lifeboat.”
SUMMER CAME. THIS year the Prince of Wales was conspicuous by his absence at Balmoral. He was cruising the Caribbean with a party including Mrs. Simpson. Ivy had a story about her making the prince beg like a dog. “You’re making it up,” Marion said, irritably.
Ivy gave her a wise look. “Am I, Maz? You’ll be telling me next that Prince George don’t like to dress up as a woman, didn’t used to be a drug addict and ain’t being blackmailed by one of his ex-boyfriends in Paris.”
Marion snorted disbelievingly. Prince George, the youngest of the king’s four sons, was tall and gloriously handsome. A less sordid sight was hard to imagine.
“And who ain’t bein’ teed up to marry this Greek princess as quick as yer like.”
Marion shook her head. “Your problem, Ivy, is that you don’t know where to stop.”
A day or two later, the duchess swept into the Piccadilly dining room. “Exciting news, Lilibet! Uncle George is getting married! To a beautiful princess from Greece, called Marina.”
Marion looked at the white tablecloth, hard. She must on no account catch the eye of Ivy. Her friend was standing against the wall waiting to begin the service, looking as if butter, especially that stamped with the royal crest, wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
“You are to be a bridesmaid at the wedding, and wear a special frock,” the duchess went on.
Lilibet looked uncharacteristically mutinous. “I don’t like special frocks,” she muttered. “You can’t climb trees in them.” She looked down at her kilt and jersey. “I like these clothes best.”
Marion hid a smile. Her charge had come a long way since the days of frills and ribbons.
The duchess was still smiling brightly, but Marion detected irritation. “You can’t wear them in Westminster Abbey though, darling sweet. Crawfie will take you to the fitting tomorrow morning.”
It was Marion’s turn to be dismayed. “Tomorrow morning?” Tomorrow morning was supposed to be spent in the schoolroom. She had thought the days of interruption were over.
The duchess’s gaze was glassy blue. “With Mr. Hartnell in Bruton Street. I’ve ordered the car.”
“No thank you,” Marion said firmly.
The duchess looked astonished. “What?”
“Bruton Street is only round the corner, ma’am. We can walk.”
Lilibet went dressed to the nines in quite the old way, with a white coat and fussy frills. “Don’t touch those dirty railings with your gloves, Lilibet!” Mrs. Knight warned.
Marion scowled as she hustled the princess out the door. There was no need for gloves at all in her view, let alone snow-white ones with pearl buttons at the wrists. There was no need for this whole outing, especially not during her teaching time.
But a small part of her, even so, could not help being interested. Norman Hartnell was an up-and-coming couturier. She had seen his clothes in magazines; they were beautiful.
Lilibet was skipping at her side. “Mr. Hartnell’s a what?”
“Couturier. Dressmaker.”
“Isn’t that a funny job for a man? That’s what Alah says.”
“She would.”
“What?”
“I said good, we’re here.” Marion pressed the shining brass bell to the side of the imposing double doors.
She had not known what to expect of a designer’s studio—perhaps a small room with scissors and bits of material everywhere. But Hartnell’s atelier was a very grand Georgian house. The large hallway rose to a tremendous height, a great chandelier filling the space below. There were huge, gold-framed mirrors, tall white doors, long windows to let in natural light and an elegant staircase with wrought-iron balustrade.
A man appeared, moving quickly toward them, heels clicking on the black-and-white marble floor. “Good morning,” he said briskly. “I’m Norman Hartnell.”
Marion had anticipated someone tall, thin and aesthetic. The man before her had the build of a sailor with a broad, tanned face and light brown wavy hair. His burly body was encased in a gray double-breasted suit of perfect fit and his shoes were polished to a brilliant shine.
“We’re here to get my frock for Uncle Prince George’s wedding,” Lilibet announced grandly.
“Yes, isn’t it exciting.” Norman Hartnell’s hazel eyes gleamed with amusement. “Would you like to see Aunt Princess Marina’s wedding gown?”
Lilibet’s red mouth opened in an O of amazed delight. “Yes please.”
He nodded at a pair of closed doors behind him. “It’s in there. Off you pop, then.”
Lilibet popped off. The doors crashed noisily behind her. Marion shot an apologetic look at Hartnell. “Sorry.”
The hazel eyes gleamed. “Never mind. I don’t expect she’s used to opening her own doors. And my dear, what is she wearing? The skirt of her mother’s dressing table? Why do all royal women dress so badly? I’ve seen sacks of potatoes with more style than the Duchess of York.”
Marion stared. She had never heard anyone criticize the duchess before. It felt like heresy. It felt naughty and delightful. “Her nanny put her in it.”
“Oh, so you’re not the nanny, then.”
“I’m the governess.”
“Governess? My dear, how antiquated. I didn’t realize they still existed!”
She stared back, affronted. She was a young and modern woman, didn’t he realize?
He had folded his arms and was looking her up and down. “Mmm. I can see it now, though.”
“See what?”
“The governess thing.” He cocked his head to the side. “Frumpy. Mousy.”
She felt a flash of fury. How dare he? “You try looking gorgeous on what the Yorks pay!”
He raised a weary eyebrow. “Believe me, dear, I do. They don’t pay me much either.”
Marion was hurt. She had always kept pace with fashion. But possibly not lately. The days of flippy pink frocks and Eton crops were far behind her.
There was a full-length mirror on the wall close by. She studied her reflection, as now she rarely did. Looking back at her was someone she barely recognized: a tall woman without makeup and with hair in a practical bob. Her suit, of a stout, hard-wearing material in a serviceable color, was in a style that would not date but would never be fashionable either. Her shoes, again for practical reasons, were cheap, clumpy and flat. Pure horror seized Marion. Had she turned into Mrs. Knight without realizing it?
Hartnell was standing behind her. He was picking at the worn shoulder seams of her jacket, inspecting them. “But there’s no excuse for this. Just what is this color? Less eau de Nil, more eau de sludge. Make it yourself, did you?”
“No, my mother did,” Marion snapped.
She watched, in the mirror, as Hartnell let go. His eyes were full of apology. “I do beg your pardon. That was very rude of me.”
“Yes,” she said. “It was.” He deserved it being rubbed in, odious man.
“Perhaps I can help. This is quite good material, really.” He pulled at the jacket again, bringing it in on either side of her. “I could nip in the waist, shape the skirt, raise the hem.” He came round to the front and winced. “And recut those lapels. It’s sharp and narrow at the moment. New buttons would make a difference too.”
No thank you was on the tip of Marion’s tongue. She bit it back. Hartnell was a famous couturier. The suit had seen better days. If he wanted to make amends by entirely transforming it, then let him.
He stood back, arms folded, smiling. “You’ve got a marvelous figure, you know, dear. Wonderful height. Shame not to show it off, really. You’ll look like one of my house models once I’ve finished with you!”
She felt her liking for him return.
“Crawfie!” yelled Lilibet excitedly. She was behind them, in the open doorway. “Come and look at Aunt Princess Marina’s dress!”
“Do you think,” Hartnell murmured, as they walked off together, “that poor Aunt Marina has the faintest idea what’s in store for her?”
Marion looked at him. How on earth did he know?
“Dear George has a very checkered history,” Hartnell continued. “But they say he’s put his bad old ways behind him. So Kiki Preston, the Girl with the Silver Syringe, is unlikely to be on the Abbey guest list. On the other hand, some very surprising people are.”
Marion glanced at Lilibet. She was through the doors and in the next room, sliding in her stockinged feet on the polished floor.
The next room was high-ceilinged and filled with light. A mannequin took center stage. It wore a column of shimmering silver brocade.
“How beautiful,” Marion breathed.
“How almost impossible, you mean. Twelve feet of fragile family lace lined with French silver lamé that would break if you looked at it. And made by Russian refugees.”
“Russian refugees?”
“Don’t get me started. Our Marina’s half-Russian. She wanted displaced persons from the mother country involved. Which is all very well for her to say, but guess who had to find Russian refugees at a moment’s notice. Ones who could sew, as well.” He closed his eyes, shook his head and groaned, as if to dispel a nightmare.
“Well, it was worth it. It’s the perfect royal wedding gown.”
“Which isn’t saying much,” Hartnell retorted. “The last one was the Duchess of York’s, which was the ugliest in the entire history of the world. Madame Handley-Seymour should have been shot.”
Marion was still laughing when Lilibet slid up. “Why do you always have your hand on your hip?” she asked Hartnell.
“So I know where to find it,” the couturier flipped back.
They left an hour later, Lilibet clutching sketches of a white knee-length frock with puffed sleeves and a wide tulle skirt, worn with a headdress of roses. Marion was amused. Hartnell had more in common with the duchess’s dressing table than he thought.