The royals - Kitty Kelley [42]
On the morning of his wedding, Philip expressed his apprehension about marrying a woman who was destined to become an institution. “We had breakfast together,” recalled a relative, “and he said, ‘I don’t know whether I’m being very brave or very foolish.’ ”
King George VI and his Queen had turned their own wedding into a spectacle, so they knew better than anyone the importance of producing a grand ceremony for their subjects. They understood how to rouse the people with a fanfare of silver trumpets and golden coaches. They recognized that such a ritual of imperial monarchy would distract people from the misery of their humdrum lives and unite the Commonwealth in celebration. Everyone would feel joyously invested in the royal family, which, in turn, would strengthen the monarchy’s emotional hold on its subjects.
The power of such pageantry was not lost on Winston Churchill, who described the impending nuptials in 1947 as “a flash of colour on the hard road that we travel.” The New York Times noted the need for “a welcome occasion for gaiety in grim England, beset in peace with troubles almost as burdensome as those of war.” The next day a little girl in Brooklyn broke her piggy bank to send the Princess a turkey as a wedding present “because she lives in England and they have nothing to eat in England.”
With only four months in which to stage a wedding extravaganza, the King and Queen concentrated on the costumes—the heralds in medieval scarlet-and-gold livery, the cavalry in shining helmets topped with plumes, the glistening swords, the sparkling medals, the crimson sashes, the gleaming breastplates. All were removed from prewar storage bins, where they had been sitting since 1939. Once again, clothes dominated the royal family’s discussions as ration coupons were collected from cabinet members to insure that Princess Elizabeth had a proper trousseau and a stunning wedding gown. She told her couturier, Norman Hartnell, that she wanted to walk down the aisle in something unique and magnificent. She swore him to secrecy and threatened to go to another couturier if descriptions of her bridal gown were leaked to the public before the wedding. The royal designer insisted his workers sign secrecy oaths and whitewash the workroom windows, which were curtained with thick white muslin so no one could look in. Hartnell, who said he was inspired by Botticelli’s “Primavera,” envisioned Elizabeth in acres of ivory satin and tulle embroidered with ten thousand seed pearls and small crystals, which required two months of work by ten embroiderers and twenty-five needlewomen.
During the wedding, two sewing women were to be stationed in the Abbey in case the dress needed stitching. The bride’s tulle veil was fifteen yards long and contained one hundred miles of thread. So Elizabeth was given an additional clothing allotment of one hundred coupons, plus twenty-three extra coupons for each of her eight bridesmaids. She also received from various well-wishers three hundred eighty-six pairs of nylon stockings—a most precious commodity for young women living through England’s postwar reconstruction.
Expense was not considered when Elizabeth selected her trousseau. For her wedding night she chose a nightgown and robe set from Joske’s department store in San Antonio, Texas, that cost $300, twice as much as most Americans earned in a month. The pale ivory Georgette gown had forty yards of silk with satin roses embroidered across the bodice; the brocade robe was patterned with tiny lords