‘The heavy layers of pearl and gold stitchwork will add around twenty pounds of weight to it,’ Hartnell said in his theatrical way. ‘Giving Her Majesty an authority, a dignity’ – he paused to lift his hands to the heavens – ‘a transcendence.’
With this, the three seamstresses rushed forward to begin making small tacks to adjust for the queen’s figure.
Her voice quieter than the others, Elizabeth said, ‘Make sure we have flowers from the commonwealth countries, too. Do we have the list?’ And it struck Caroline that the queen was more interested in making sure the job was done correctly than how glamorous she looked.
Miss MacDonald looked at her notes. ‘We have an English rose, a Scots thistle, a Welsh leek, an Irish shamrock, a Canadian maple leaf, an Australian wattle, a New Zealand silver fern, a South African protea, an Indian lotus flower, a lotus flower of Ceylon, and Pakistan’s wheat, cotton and jute. We’re looking into including others, too, Ma’am.’
It was all-important to include the commonwealth countries, now that the empire was slipping away. And with the Cold War – everyone worrying about hydrogen bombs and the war in Korea – this was a time to keep friends close.
The queen’s grandmother, Queen Mary, had been sitting in a chair quietly observing, but now she spoke up. ‘The coronation is the day you become the monarch.’ Her eyes narrowed sternly. ‘All sense of Lilibet will take second place to that of queen, the crown, the monarchy. It is your duty to bear the weight of the crown.’
At these words, the queen’s face reddened, although it was hard totell whether it was because of her grandmother’s tone – indeed, the use of her childhood name seemed to reduce her to a little girl.
Queen Mary continued, ‘When your uncle Edward abdicated the throne in 1936, he made people question the monarchy. Fortunately, your father stepped in to become King George, smoothing a path through the crisis. And now it is your job, Lilibet, to uphold the tradition of self-discipline and self-sacrifice.’
The queen’s shoulders stiffened.
‘Indeed.’ Hartnell carefully diverted the conversation back to the gown. ‘The exuberance of the gold matches the auspiciousness of the nation. We want to show the world that we’ve come out of the postwar doldrums now. We’re still a main player on the world stage. The gilded carriages, the grand procession, the extravagance, the opulence, that’s what the people want. They want to know their rulers are majestic, omnipotent.’ He closed his eyes theatrically, ‘Chosen by God.’
‘You see, that’s why I wanted Hartnell to do the gown.’ The Queen Mother nodded with approval while Caroline sighed. If the queen had let her mother choose the designer of her coronation gown, how would she run an empire without bowing to everyone’s wishes?
The dress fitting lasted over an hour, after which the entourage departed, leaving the queen to withdraw to the dressing room with the two dressers.
As Caroline put away her clipboard, she wondered how she’d describe the gown to Annabel once she was home from school. Her thirteen-year-old daughter loved the royals – together they kept a scrapbook of newspaper cuttings. Elizabeth will be a wonderful monarch, Annabel had declared – ‘Women always are.’ Hadn’t Elizabeth I and Victoria become queens in their twenties? ‘It’s about time we have another queen on the throne.’
Gently, Miss MacDonald began to unbutton the gown. A quiet Scottish woman, the head dresser had been the queen’s nursemaid, sharing her bedroom until Elizabeth was eleven years old. She was the only servant who called her Lilibet – the name Elizabeth had given herself in childhood. In turn, the queen called her Bobo, a nicknamethat still stuck today. They were close, and Caroline sometimes overheard Elizabeth talking through a problem or worry with her.
If ever she needed a close, loyal friend, it was now.
As the assistant dresser, Caroline was a step back from Miss MacDonald. Although she had to help with the dressing, she also had to make sure that the royal garments were perfect, that the handful of wardrobe juniors had done the mending and laundry.
Every week, she received an update of the queen’s schedule months in advance. There were new outfits to order, fittings to arrange, matching shoes, hats and gloves to source. Necklaces, earrings and tiaras had to be selected and ordered from the Royal Jeweller.
Everything had to be prepared and perfect, backup outfits ready to be pulled out at a moment’s notice.
How important these gowns and outfits were, how central to the queen’s role. The perfectly coordinated garments reflected order, certainty, continuity. With her many duties, Elizabeth often needed a few costume changes every day. Her appearance and dress had to be perfect.
And the woman inside had to be flawless, too, her conversation apt and knowledgeable, her manners impeccable.
After the queen was unpinned from the coronation gown, she was dressed for an afternoon event, her hair reset and her makeup reapplied. It wasn’t long before an entourage of butlers and footmen came to escort her and Miss MacDonald to the car, leaving Caroline alone in the great wardrobe.
Walled with shelves, drawers and clothes rails, the long, womb-like room was dense with colours – peacock blue, emerald green, crimson. Caroline looked down the rails: day suits and colonial visiting attire, garden party frocks and Ascot dresses, ceremonial robes and full evening gowns. From satin to tweed, each garment hung closely to the next, every texture and colour reflecting a different mood, a different energy, perfect for that one single occasion.
Instinctively, her fingers reached in to touch her favourite, a midnight-blue evening gown, the silk sweeping to the floor. How mesmerizing the queen had looked at the gala banquet last month. How herhusband Philip must have gazed at her as he asked her to dance, taking her hand and twirling her around the ballroom.
How good it would feel to be young, swept away on the arm of a handsome admirer.
But life isn’t like that, is it.
Shaking herself back to reality, Caroline got back to work. An ironing board stood at the end of the wardrobe with one of the new electric irons. Next to it a few chairs bore a growing pile of items. Beside these were some items to mend, too. They all had to be noted and documented, double-checked for flaws.
But first, Caroline decided to check the queen’s quarters for stray clothes and accessories. Hadn’t she seen some gloves from last night left on a chair?
Silently, she walked through the series of interconnected rooms. The wardrobe led into the bright, airy dressing room with mahogany standing mirrors. Caroline stood in the middle, her slim form reflected from one to the other. In one of them, she gazed at herself from a different angle, as if she were looking at her profile, and she saw what others might see: a dedicated, hardworking servant, her face pale, her hair short. She’d lost the bloom of youth, and the long hours and lack of money didn’t help.
Would anyone see traces of the happy-go-lucky girl she’d been, her long curls billowing in the hillside breeze, the dogs around her feet? Her father’s vicarage was on the village green, and she’d ridden and walked the Yorkshire Dales a thousand times. If it hadn’t been for the Second World War, the cities in need of young women to fill the gaps left by the men, she never would have moved to London.
How she longed to go back to Yorkshire, even if it were just for a few days. But there was never enough money to make the journey north. In any case, now that her parents had died, it didn’t seem worthwhile. There was only an aging uncle still living in the area, and he had no wife or children of his own, so the Yorkshire line would soon be coming to an end.
