“David deserves to have his wife, family, and staff looking their best. Mr. Forwood’s Savile Row suits are immaculate and David is designing marvelous uniforms for the footmen. I wouldn’t want anyone to say my relative isn’t properly attired. Amelia, inform Madame Schiaparelli you’ll be accompanying me to her atelier and I expect her to take as good care of you as she does me. Tell her I’d also like a private dressing room with my usual special accoutrements.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Amelia wrote the instructions in her notebook, careful to conceal her smile. The onerous task of tactfully asking Madame Schiaparelli for a discount paled in comparison to the chance to be fitted and dressed by the designer on Wallis’s dime. More than Wallis’s manners and social knowledge was about to rub off on her.
Amelia walked with Wallis through the Hotel Meurice’s marble-floored lobby with its pillars, gilded ivy, and massive Versailles-style pier glasses. Guests and visitors mingling in the lounge area stopped their conversations to watch them. One young woman slyly raised her camera to snap a picture. The hotel wasn’t particular about who sat in the lobby to star spot so long as they behaved. Mr. Attfield didn’t interfere with the rubberneckers either, unless they approached Wallis, and no one did as Wallis stepped through the hotel’s black and brass revolving door.
Outside, Mr. Schafranek stood by the dark blue Buick. The Duke had custom ordered it for Wallis in England and she’d brought it with her to France when she’d fled London in 1936 in a futile attempt to stop him from abdicating. The initials W.W.S., Wallis Warfield Simpson, were outlined in gold on the driver’s door. She’d changed a number of things in the past year but not this small detail.
The American car stood out among the French Citroëns, Peugeots, and Simcas crowding the streets, causing people to stop and stare in the hope of catching sight of Wallis as Mr. Schafranek maneuvered the car through traffic.
“You don’t know how nice it is to go shopping alone. David insists on following me and it’s exhausting. Thank heaven he plays golf or I’d never have a moment’s peace.” Wallis crossed her gloved hands in her lap, her gray luncheon suit with the black patent belt and checked black blouse as impeccable as her hair and makeup. A sapphire-and-ruby broach from the Duke sparkled on the coat’s lapel. Amelia had styled her hair in the simple rolls Antoinette had shown her, but her old brown suit and shoes threw off the effect. Wallis turned her black patent leather clutch over on her lap, the hard set of her jaw softening. “For the last year, it’s as if there’s a whole country working against me and it’s been so hard. I can’t even adjust to it in private.”
“It was like that in Wellesley after Jackson’s illegal dealings came out, and then in Baltimore when I went to Aunt Bessie’s. I was a thief’s wife and everyone thought I was in on it but I didn’t know what he was doing. Jackson worked in the city, and I had no reason to riffle through his office, at least not until after he was arrested.”
“How very prudent of you. I hope I don’t have to worry about you digging through my things,” she teased, keeping Amelia and the conversation from turning gloomy.
“Don’t do anything illegal and you’ll have nothing to worry about.”
Wallis snorted out a laugh. “It’ll be illegal how good we’ll look when Madame Schiaparelli is done with us, and divine for you to finally pop into something more elegant. A woman can handle anything life throws at her when she looks chic.”
Amelia couldn’t agree more, and her excitement made sitting still difficult as Mr. Schafranek turned the car into the grand Place Vendôme. They passed the Chanel boutique with its blue door, Van Cleef & Arpels, and the Hotel Ritz’s wrought-iron entrance. He brought the car to a stop at 21 Place Vendôme and the Hôtel de Fontpertuis, where the white sign with Schiaparelli emblazoned in black letters announced the fashion house. Mr. Schafranek came around and opened the door and Wallis and Amelia stepped out. Mr. Attfield escorted them past the gathering crowd of people on the sidewalk—tourists, judging by their practical clothes. The wealthy women walking in and out of the boutiques paid them no mind, and Amelia and Wallis offered them the same courtesy.
“Welcome, Your Royal Highness.” Elsa Schiaparelli swept down the staircase and curtseyed to Wallis. She wore a fitted black dress with a slender belt and a square but very high neckline accented by a pearl choker. Her dark hair was pulled into a severe chignon that emphasized her wide brown eyes and full nose. “I have your usual fitting room prepared for you, and personalized just as you requested.”
Madame Schiaparelli led them past tables with displays of blouses, hats, and perfumes, and glass counters with fine scarves and gloves laid out inside. Black-clad vendeuses with impeccable hair and makeup assisted women Amelia recognized from the society pages.
“Miss Viollet will assist Mrs. Montague this afternoon.” Madame Schiaparelli motioned to a brunette with tight curls arranged at the crown of her head and the woman joined their small party. “She’s new to us and very talented.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” The vendeuse wasn’t much older than Amelia but she dressed with the same chic all Parisian women appeared to possess. Thanks to Wallis, Amelia would soon look as good as this woman.
“May I offer my congratulations on your marriage, ma’am,” Madame Schiaparelli said as they climbed the curving staircase to the first-floor fitting rooms.
“I wouldn’t have looked as good on my honeymoon if it weren’t for you.”
“I’m always ready to do my best for my clients.” She escorted them down the hallway past young mannequins wearing sample dresses for clients to inspect. Madame Schiaparelli didn’t stop but continued up to the quiet second floor and into a gilded fitting room with a large chaise adorned with round satin pillows. Sheer curtains covered the windows, shielding them from the view of the fine establishments across the Place Vendôme. Beside the chaise stood a gilded three-paneled mirror with a white silk dress hung in the center.
“Mr. Dalí has outdone himself with this creation.” Wallis held out the skirt to reveal the fanciful lobster hand painted on the front.
“His designs are among our most celebrated this season. He’s honored to dress you.”
“I’m honored to wear it. It’ll give people more to talk about than my past for a few minutes.” Wallis removed her tilt hat. “I can’t wait to try it on.”
“I have a fitting room ready for you, Mrs. Montague,” Mademoiselle Viollet said. “If you’ll follow me?”
“No yellows, oranges, or reds for Mrs. Montague,” Wallis instructed. “They won’t suit her coloring and a woman must always wear colors that blend with her skin’s tint. She needs blues, greens, and pale pinks and yellows.”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness.”
Mademoiselle Viollet showed Amelia to her fitting room across the hall. It wasn’t as large as Wallis’s but it was a far cry from the bolt-filled seamstress’s studio she’d visited for her other new dresses. Small gilded chairs lined one wall and the same sheer curtains as in Wallis’s room covered the windows, illuminating the small dais flanked by tall mirrors. Another young woman in a plain black dress with a yellow tape measure draped around her neck waited for Amelia beside a rolling rack of sample outfits.
“If Madame will change, we may begin.” Mademoiselle Viollet motioned to the screen in the corner and Amelia slipped behind it and out of her clothes. She sighed at the sad state of her old panties and bra, then covered them with a luxurious satin robe and stepped out from behind the screen.
“If you’ll stand on the dais, madame,” Mademoiselle Viollet instructed. The assistant removed the tape measure from around her neck, ready to take Amelia’s measurements. “The robe please, madame.”
Amelia slowly untied the sash, reluctant to take it off. She’d paraded in here beside Wallis for a private fitting, acting the wealthy client, but the minute she showed them her threadbare underwear they’d know she was a fraud.
“Madame?” Mademoiselle Viollet gently urged.
There was no avoiding revealing herself and she untied the sash and shrugged out of the robe. Amelia stood in front of the mirrors, bracing for the horrified looks. Neither of them flinched at the poor condition of her undergarments but treated her as they would any other client as they discussed the cut and fit of each potential outfit.
While Amelia stood with her arms out for the seamstress to take her measurements, the day she and Aunt Bessie had spent at Hutzler’s department store in Baltimore the spring before her debutante season rushed back to her. Aunt Bessie had helped Amelia pick out her ball and tea gowns, the two of them constantly waving off expensive dresses in favor of cheaper, less stylish ones. While debutante mothers all over Baltimore had written out guest lists, menus, and invitations, Mother had left it to Amelia and Aunt Bessie to arrange everything.
“I’m paying for it. Isn’t that enough?” Mother had snapped when Amelia had confronted her about it. Despite Mother’s indifference, Amelia’s coming-out ball had been a success, except for it being the night she’d met Jackson. Amelia winced at the memory.
“Did I stick Madame with a pin?” the seamstress asked from where she knelt adjusting the hem of the smart gray skirt with the matching jacket and a crisp white blouse beneath. It was the uniform of a secretary, not a debutante or a wealthy man’s wife.
“No, everything’s fine.” It was all the work Amelia had done to arrange her coming-out ball that’d given Aunt Bessie the idea for Amelia to attend secretarial school.
An hour later, with her wardrobe picked out, pinned, and measured, it was time for Amelia to change back into her old clothes. By the time she was dressed, Mademoiselle Viollet had returned with a small shopping bag.
“For Madame, compliments of Madame Schiaparelli.”
Amelia gasped when she opened it to reveal a new silk slip, chemise, panties, and girdle. “Oh, I can’t.” She couldn’t afford them, and if Wallis scrutinized this bill the way she had the one for the hotel, Amelia would have to endure the humiliation of returning them.
“It’s a gift. The clothes will fit better with the proper foundations, and what better advertisement for Madame Schiaparelli than Her Royal Highness’s cousin well turned out.”
She’s right. No self-respecting woman could wear Schiaparelli skirts with old Woolworth girdles. She was in Paris to shape a new life and image for herself. This was part of that and a chance to take advantage of opportunities for improvement. She’d never thought of herself as a charity case and yet she was, like Wallis in her youth, constantly relying on the generosity of others for life’s basics. Someday she’d find a way to be the one giving charity instead of the widow in need of it. “Thank you. I very much appreciate it.”
