Without thinking, she put her hands to her hair and re-pinned it, giving it more style to allow the front to frame her face.
Then her eyes strayed to the wardrobe, where the dresses and gowns for Balmoral were ready for packing, and before she knew what she was doing, she found the midnight-blue satin gown and pulled it up to herself.
‘What it would be like to wear a gown like this!’ she said to the corgi, holding it over her body.
Hadn’t Miranda asked if she’d ever thought about trying on the queen’s clothes?
Of course she couldn’t.
Could she?
With a glance to the door, her eyes met the dogs’, which seemed to say,Go on, it’ll be lovely to see you in it.
And with a breath of a laugh, she unhooked the gown from its hanger.
The fabric was soft beneath her fingers, the light from the window reflecting the sheen as she held her breath, wondering if she dared.
And quick as a flash, she took off her plain black dress and put the gown on, gasping as the thick blue fabric flowed to the floor.
Then she tried on a pair of the queen’s evening shoes and made her way back to the dressing room mirrors.
With a gasp, she saw an elegant woman reflected back at her. Her eyes shone with energy as she stood, tall and slender, her neck and shoulders pale and upright above the exquisite dark-blue silk.
‘What do you think?’
The corgi’s tail thumped lightly on the rug, her face tilted to one side, as if to say,I knew you’d look amazing.
And as Caroline twirled around, she saw a different woman.
Beneath the shroud that had imprisoned her for all these years, she was as beautiful as she’d always been.
It was still there, if only she could set it free.
FOR THE REMAINDER OFthe day, the Balmoral trip dominated her thoughts, and it wasn’t until she walked home from the Underground station that her mind turned to a far more difficult task.
How was she to tell Frank?
Surely he couldn’t stop her from leaving, not if it was her job?
Cautiously, she let herself into the house.
As she entered, the smell of something decaying engulfed her senses, but otherwise, all was as normal.
The radio blared out commentary from the races, ‘Coronation Magic is nosing ahead of Taylor Tom, into the last furlong...’
Frank was in his armchair, his finger to his lips, just in case she made the error of trying to converse. His eyes were glued to the newspaper, a cigarette smouldering close to the butt in one hand.
She crept past him, following the vile smell into the dining room. There, on the table, were three big old cardboard boxes, ripped and bulging at the seams.
Tentatively, she bent forward and opened the loose flap. The stenchof unwashed clothes mixed with something putrid sprung from inside, making her choke. Breathing through her mouth, she pulled out an old-fashioned dress. The seams were gaping with holes, deep stains visible on the dark material, the smell intoxicating. Delving quickly through, she saw that all the boxes were full of items like these, old sweaters and skirts, nothing folded, just a jumble of worn, filthy and torn articles – the ones that no one else could possibly want.
After the race was over, she turned to Frank. ‘What are these?’
‘It’s my new moneymaking idea.’ He got up and came over to her. ‘One of my locksmith jobs brought me to the home of a deceased woman, and the son asked if I wanted a box of old clothes, completely free of charge. I thought you could clean them up, sell them to a secondhand shop.’
She pulled out a shred of old material, probably used for cleaning. ‘They’re nothing but rags.’
As soon as she said it, his eyes darkened, and she knew there’d be a price to pay. She prayed it wouldn’t be the Balmoral trip. How stupid she’d been. How thoughtless to stand up to him when she had so much to lose.
