The Memory Dress

Chapter Twenty-Eight

TWENTY-EIGHT

Jayne

When I wake the next morning there is a note by the side of the bed.

That was wonderful. You are wonderful. I’ll see you when you get home. Jake x

It truly was but I am pleased not to have to explain his presence to Meredith this morning. She is already dressed and having breakfast in the kitchen when I get down there. One of the great advantages of helping her pack for this trip was that I was able to influence the clothes she brought. What she’s wearing, a light cotton olive green shirtdress with white anemones printed around the hem and across the waistband, is, I’m happy to say, entirely appropriate for a wander around an eighteenth-century aristocratic town house, a center of entertainment in London , according to the website where I booked our tour tickets. I’m slightly less impressive in a navy polyester skirt and a pale blue scalloped-edged blouse I must have bought five years ago.

“So, it’s our last London location today, Meredith. Are you excited to return to Spencer House?”

Her response surprises me. “No, I don’t think so.”

It’s a foreboding start but there is no backing out now. We finish our breakfast together, then take a taxi to Marble Arch, zipping down Park Lane toward Hyde Park Corner and on to Piccadilly. Meredith is very quiet and the break in conversation allows me to revisit my own memories of last night. Did it really happen? The flashbacks of Jake are making me crave more of him. I think about his hands, the warmth of his skin against mine, his tenderness, the way he touched me so gently, his eyes trained on my face for any sign it wasn’t right, until we were completely lost in each other. I’m not sure how I’m going to face him after the things I did, the things I said in the throes of it all. How he encouraged me to go somewhere freer where all my inhibitions disappeared.

“You seem different today. Happier, I think.” Sometimes Meredith misses nothing and I can’t help but smile at the fact. “Is there someone making you happy?” She seems to have no specific recollection of Jake being at the house last night.

I think about her question, turning to look out the window as the tempting shop displays of Fortnum & Mason flash by.

“There is someone,” I say. “But it’s also you, Meredith.” I turn to face her again. “For trusting me to help you. For allowing me to see and feel the things I need to. I think you’re teaching me far more than you know.”

She doesn’t answer but reaches across the seat of the cab, takes my hand, then places her other one protectively on top of it.

We enter Spencer House on an unassuming backstreet off St. James’s Street, meet our guide, and are taken into the library.

“This is where I wait,” Meredith announces as soon as we step in through the huge double wooden doors. “So many beautiful ballerinas floating around, but I sit here.” She points to a stiff high-backed armchair next to a glass-topped table with a huge display of white orchids and another beautifully inlaid with a chessboard.

“I’m very uncomfortable.” She reaches her hand around and rubs the small of her back. “Listen for the ticking clock on the mantelpiece.” She closes her eyes in an attempt to drown out all other noise.

She’s right. I can hear its rhythmical click over the sound of other visitors’ footsteps entering the room.

“I find it very calming…for a while at least.”

Our guide starts to talk through some of the artworks on the wall—the Kissing Duchess, Lord Nelson, William Pitt—then we hear how many of the original features were removed from the house and taken to Althorp, before a huge restoration project began in 1985.

The group has started to move on, through a door in the corner of the room, but Meredith seems reluctant to follow.

“Of course, I can see it now, a shorter dress would be all wrong. Just look at the height of these ceilings. The location changes, so the dress must too.” She rises from the chair and we pick up our place at the rear of the group.

“Everyone is worried about me. I am getting to quite a size, but we are busier than ever.”

“Busy doing what?” It’s the first time I’ve asked her a direct question about her involvement with the dresses.

She looks down at her hands as if she might find the answer there, rubs an index finger across her wedding ring.

“I have to wash them every hour but…but William’s missing.” She shakes her head in frustration.

I shouldn’t push her. The fact that William is missing is preventing her from completing the circle of facts. She can’t push the burden of his absence far enough aside to see the rest of the story. It’s a warning we need to take this slowly today.

“The pale blue-gray chiffon is so delicate it gets tired very quickly when it’s handled. Time is running out and Fiona isn’t going to hold on for much longer. She’s impatient from the very beginning. This is my last event before I am off with her.”

“You are pregnant at this point, Meredith, is that what you mean?” I’m having to whisper so I don’t interrupt the guide, who is standing in the center of the dining room under a huge crystal chandelier, directing people’s gaze to the original wine tables and the eagle-and-lion symbol of the Spencer family.

“Yes, and very ready not to be. But I wish I knew what little time I’d have with her. It would have changed so much.”

We pass through a heavily gilded room, the Palm Room, our guide explains.

“There are lots of photographs in here,” chirps Meredith. “The men stay for drinks and cigars and the women move upstairs to the Music Room.”

I take hold of her arm as we climb the stone steps upward under a domed ceiling and past what our guide tells us is a Venetian window and lantern. I feel Meredith’s grip tighten on my arm.

“Everyone is worried about me,” Meredith tells me as we reach the top. “But I’m worried about William. He’s taking on lots of extra private work, saving up for the baby. It’s too much. He’s tired and stressed in a way I haven’t seen before.”

We enter the Music Room, which feels calm and less formal with its pale blue walls. The furniture seems to fit the dimensions of the room better, it’s not overly grand.

“But don’t be fooled,” our guide announces, reading my thoughts. The group forms a casual semicircle around him, drawn in by the intriguing tone he has adopted. “Spencer House has many very valuable and important works of art and one of the very finest is in this room. Can anyone spot it?”

Everyone starts to scan the walls, keen to impress the guide with a correct answer. I do, too, and it’s the gold-framed painting of a large building that my own eye is drawn to, positioned above a central fireplace. There is something familiar in the depth of its coloring and style that I can’t put my finger on, and before I have time to voice an opinion, a middle-aged man next to me shouts, “The Canaletto!”

“Spot on!” returns our guide, and I instinctively snap my head toward Meredith, remembering her reaction to the Canaletto poster back in Bath. Before I have a second more to predict her reaction, she cries, “No!” toward our guide. “Not Venice!”

“Uh, well, no, actually,” he responds nervously. “Rome this time, but of course Canaletto is famous for his depictions of Venice.” His eyebrows pinch together. He scans the other visitors for any clue as to what could have prompted such a strong reaction. Everyone is silently staring at Meredith with a new suspicion.

“I never should have gone to Venice,” she shouts up at the painting. “Someone should have stopped me. Why didn’t anyone stop me!”

“Er, I’m not quite sure what you mean.” The guide fumbles for the right words to calm the moment and looks urgently at me for a solution to this interruption. I place my arm around Meredith and try to steer her into the next room, Lady Spencer’s Room, with its bloodred walls and heavily swagged drapes. The rest of the group back away from us, unsure of what’s coming next, then a security guard places himself in our path, not keen to let someone in the grips of a panic attack get any farther into the State Rooms.

“It’s okay, Meredith, I’ve got you,” I say, leading her back out onto the staircase and away from the gaze of everyone else. I sit her on the top step and let her catch her breath.

“I don’t want to fly home alone,” she sobs.

“You don’t have to,” I say. “I’m taking you home. We’ll go and collect our things and we’ll travel home together, right now.”

She nods slowly and I watch a single tear slide down her face. It rests on her cheek, and she seems completely unaware of it, so I lift a finger and brush it away for her.