The Memory Dress

Chapter Thirty-Six

THIRTY-SIX

Jayne

The house is vast. I park in a field opposite the west gate entrance and immediately see its outline dominating the landscape. The unbroken green of the surrounding fields and trees, the glossy black railings, an endless cloudless sky. Then the immovable gray stone walls sitting centrally in their picture-perfect surroundings. There is a beautiful simplicity to it that belies the sadness of the story that seeps from Althorp’s walls and creeps unnoticed out into the woods.

We left Sandringham by eight a.m., arrived here by ten a.m., and already it’s hot. I hand Meredith a bottle of water as we start our twenty-minute walk up the tree-lined driveway, the essentials bag now swinging from her right wrist, the biggest clue that today holds the promise of further answers. There is no breeze and I can feel the heat radiating from the stone beneath our steps.

“Everything is so still, so peaceful.” Meredith’s pace slows as she casts her gaze around us. “Not like before. It’s a private cocktail party for one of her charities, the driveway is a constant stream of cars.”

We are early, ahead of the first coachload of tourists, exactly as I planned.

“Shall we walk the grounds first, Meredith, before the heat gets too much?”

“A sensible idea, yes.”

We follow the driveway, bearing left, then right, through a courtyard and converted stables that now house a café and gift shop, before we are alongside the more formal lawns surrounding the house itself, looking even more imposing close up. We pass deep stone-walled flower beds packed with neatly trimmed lavender bushes, a sea of purple alive with the thrum of industrious honeybees, then pick up a path at the rear of the house that will lead us on toward the lake.

“It’s the dress I am most worried about seeing her in,” says Meredith, trailing her hand along clouds of white hydrangeas. “It’s an old favorite, and there are mistakes.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t say anything, of course, I just deal with it. It’s the smallest margin of error that William hasn’t spotted. Sections that should be identical aren’t. I make the corrections as I go. I keep it to myself. He is looking after Fiona tonight. He has a lot to think about. Maybe I should…ask more questions.” She trails off.

“What questions, Meredith? What more could you say?” I don’t slow my pace, I don’t look sideways at her, I try to convey that my questions are nothing more than polite chitchat.

She stops on the gravel path and glances left, along a grassed walkway, planted symmetrically with two identical rows of fruit trees.

“Is it my chance to stop something and I miss it?” She looks at me, waiting for an answer she believes I can deliver.

“I don’t know, Meredith,” I sigh. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you there. Is there anything else you remember, even the tiniest detail?”

“Everything is good again and it’s forgotten. He is very persuasive, William, that’s the problem. If he wants you to believe something, then you will. Fiona is so small. When he says he’s tired from the disturbed nights, I believe him. Why wouldn’t I?”

The path begins to widen out, forking around the lake. We are the only ones here. We walk left toward one of the wide wooden benches. The reeds bordering the lake stand motionless. The water is glass. Even the ducks are respectfully mute. The grass circling the lake has been immaculately cut. The only sounds are the gravel crunching beneath our feet and the lightest whistle of playful birdsong. We take a seat and I feel an unexpected hit of emotion as I notice the columned temple at the bottom of the lake, Diana’s unmistakable black silhouette visible from here. And the words Meredith quoted that day to Maggie: “Whoever is in distress can call on me. I will come running wherever they are.”

Meredith’s sigh is full of sorrow.

“Such a ridiculous waste,” she says, looking toward the small rowing boat that is tethered by a rope to the central island.

“There can’t be anyone who would disagree with you on that, Meredith,” I say softly.

Then we sit there like that for the next half an hour, both contemplating the tragedy of the loss, until I spot a trickle of tourists filing toward us, picking up speed as they realize they are reaching the finale of the tour, raising their cameras and phones, the irony of the intrusion completely lost on them.

I look at Meredith to see if it annoys her, but she is smiling broadly. “I know what she is wearing, her last beautiful outfit,” she says, “and it makes me feel so very proud.”

“My goodness. What a precious secret to have kept for all these years. I won’t ask you what it looks like. There would be no point, would there?” I smile at her.

“No.” She shakes her head determinedly. “I’d never tell.”

We start to walk side by side back toward the main house. “Time for a quick cream tea?” Meredith suggests.

I nod enthusiastically.

“Then I will take you inside and show you the beautiful portrait of Lady Georgiana Carteret that is said to have inspired Diana’s wedding dress.”