Princess Elizabeth's Spy (16 page)

Maggie made her way to the vast Waterloo Chamber, where the stage was set up. The room was magnificent: a soaring clerestory ceiling, paneled walls decorated with lime-wood carvings by Grinling Gibbons, an enormous Indian carpet.

Lilibet and Margaret were rehearsing the final ballroom scene with the other children, the sons and daughters of the castle’s staff. “Stop it, Margaret,” Maggie heard. It was Lilibet, her high, sweet voice echoing through the vast chamber. “You’re stepping on my toes.”

“Oooooh, wouldn’t want to step on the Royal Toesies, now, would we?” Margaret retorted.

Crawfie clapped her hands. “All right, children,” she said in her Scottish lilt. “Let’s take a break, shall we? Audrey’s setting up tea and biscuits in the nursery—come back in half an hour, please.”

Maggie walked forward to Crawfie, standing near the platforms of the makeshift stage. “How goes it?”

“Oh, Maggie.” Crawfie sighed. “I’d be better off directing corgis, for as much as the children listen … and the performance is in less than two weeks.”

“That’s quite a bit of time—I’m sure it will be wonderful,” Maggie assured the woman.

“The sets look fantastic,” Crawfie said.

“Thank you. The girls and Gregory are responsible.”

“Oh, but the shading—it really looks like a storybook brought to life!”

“Well, it’s a bit intimidating, making a castle set to go into an actual castle—but somehow we managed by making it a bit less literal. Thank Gerda Wegener—I loved her illustrations when I was a child.”

“You’ll be with us? For the performance? To make sure everything goes the way it should?” Crawfie looked pale.

“Of course I shall. Wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else.” Maggie looked intently at Crawfie. “Are you all right? Maybe you could do with a cup of tea yourself?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Crawfie shrugged. “It’s just that, with the Prime Minister coming and all of his people, and the King and Queen, of course … and it’s such a big event for the children. The first time most of them have been onstage.” She shook her head. “I just don’t want anything to go wrong.”

“No,” Maggie said, looking out into the shadows, realizing how vulnerable Lilibet and Margaret were onstage. “No, indeed.”

Letters arrived for Maggie occasionally, care of Windsor Castle. The twins, Annabelle and Clarabelle, sent missives describing their adventures as Land Girls working on a farm in Scotland, writing on the same page in two alternating colored inks, purple for Annabelle and Moroccan red for Clarabelle. Sarah sent cards from various stops on the Vic-Wells Ballet’s tour of Britain, deftly drawn cartoons of some of her fellow dancers, including ballerina Margot Fonteyn and choreographer Frederick Ashton.

Aunt Edith sent long letters in small, elegant script, lamenting Maggie’s career move from typist to tutor. Of all the people she had to keep her secret from, Maggie would have loved to have told Aunt Edith what she was
really
doing.

And she knew David well enough to realize he’d never even think to write.

From Chuck, she received various hastily written missives in pencil on scrap paper, detailing wedding plans. Then came the day she received the invitation, engraved on heavy cream stock.

She wrote back to say she would be attending, especially as Chuck had asked her to be a bridesmaid.

Dear Chuck,
she wrote,
or should I call you Charlotte Mary? I’ll be there with the proverbial bells on. Xoxo—M.

And her father had sent a package. She cut through the twine and removed the heavy brown paper. Inside was finding a volume of
Grimm’s Fairy Tales,
with Arthur Rackham illustrations. She opened the book and inhaled the musty papery scent.

Turning through the frontmatter, she noticed an inscription:
To my darling Clara, with all my love, Eddie. 20 October, 1915.
Clara was Clara Hope, her mother. Eddie was Edmund, her father. And 20 October, 1915, was only weeks before her mother’s death.

Dear Margaret,
her father had written on a scrap of graph paper.
So sorry we missed each other. Thought this book might answer some of your questions.

Oh, right,
Maggie thought.
My life might resemble a Grimm Brothers tale, but I doubt I’ll find any answers in here.
With a deep sigh, she put the book away on the shelf.

“Maggie, may we do maths in your sitting room today?” Lilibet asked as Maggie entered the nursery the next morning, carrying several books and folders of notes.

Maggie was surprised but willing to consider it. “Of course, Lilibet, but why? Your rooms are so much prettier. And
warmer.
”

Lilibet sighed. “It’s just … I’m so restless here. It’s always the same. We always do the same things, in the same order, every day. I just thought a change of scene …”

“Indeed!” Maggie said, warming to the idea. “That’s something Mr. Churchill always said, when he’d go to Chartwell or Chequers or Ditchley to work.” She affected her best Churchillian voice, “ ‘A change of scene is as good as a rest.’ “

Lilibet giggled.

“We’ll have tea and lessons up there. Come on!”

After the long trek down the cold corridors, they reached Maggie’s rooms. In her green sitting room, a fire crackled cheerfully behind the iron grate. Maggie set down their books and notes as Audrey entered and put down a tea tray with a pot, two cups and saucers, spoons, and a plate of digestive biscuits and linen napkins, and then left.

As the tea steeped, Lilibet was uncharacteristically twitchy. She wandered around Maggie’s room, picking things up and putting them down. When she found the wireless, she asked, “Do you listen to ‘It’s that Man Again’? Margaret and Alah and I love it.”

“I do enjoy it,” Maggie confessed.

Lilibet continued to look at her shelves. “You don’t have much here.”

“No,” Maggie agreed. “Most of my things are still in London.”

“We used to live in London, you know.” Lilibet pulled out a book of photographs bound in ivory moiré silk. “What’s this?” she asked.

Maggie took the book and then motioned for the young girl to sit down next to her. “Well,” she said, turning the pages. “This is a family album. Here are my paternal grandparents, my father and Aunt Edith when they were children. Oh! And my father and mother’s wedding picture. They were married at Saint Margaret’s, near Westminster Abbey.”

Lilibet’s eyes took in the picture of Clara Hope, draped in lace. “Goodness, your mother was pretty,” she said.

“Yes,” Maggie agreed, giving the photos one last, wistful look before closing the book. “And now it’s time to get to work.”

But Lilibet has sprung up yet again and looking at Maggie’s books. “Ugh,” she exclaimed, examining the titles. “Boring!” She pulled out the Turing and paged through. “You can actually read this?”

“Yes,” Maggie said. “And so could you, if you continue with your study of maths. And now—”

“Oh, Grimm’s Fairy Tales!” she exclaimed. “I just love them!” She pulled the book out, brought it to the tea table, and sat down. “Look, here’s ‘Hansel and Gretel,’ ‘The Frog King,’ and ‘Cat and Mouse’!”

Maggie went to pour the tea, but Lilibet said, “May I?” Maggie nodded, and the Princess poured the fragrant tea into the two cups. “Margaret calls me puritanical about tea, but I like things to be perfect.”

Maggie had noticed this tendency in the princess. Often she would arrange and rearrange her pens and pencils on her desk and become agitated if her books weren’t in the proper order or her papers weren’t lined up just so.

“Well, we’re not going to be perfect today,” Maggie said lightly. “I’m afraid I don’t have any sugar.”

“That’s fine, I’m used to it black now,” Lilibet replied, coming back to the sofa with the volume and sitting down. “May I borrow it? I know there’s a library here and all, but the books are so very old and serious, and Sir Owen is such a Burns about letting them out of the stacks.…” Turning the pages, Lilibet started. “Oh, there’s an inscription!” she said, reaching for her tea. “Look!
To my darling Clara, With all my love, Eddie. 20 October, 1915.
How romantic. Was Clara your—”

And with that Lilibet sneezed, an enormous, violent sneeze. Quite by accident, she splashed hot tea all over the page.

“Are you all right?” Maggie asked, taking napkins from the tray and blotting first the princess and then the book.

“I’m fine,” Lilibet said, her blue eyes threatening to overflow with sudden tears. “But, Maggie—I’m so sorry. So very, very sorry. I’ve ruined your book.”

“It’s fine, really,” Maggie assured her. “No harm done.”

Lilibet blotted the inscription. “I think it will be all right.…”

“Of course it will,” Maggie responded, putting the book on the windowsill to dry. “And now, let’s open our textbook to page one fifty-six and—”

There was a knock. It was George Poulter, the winking footman, his hair powdered white with the same mixture of starch, flour, and soap that had been used at the Castle for centuries. He wore the official footman’s uniform: blue velvet coat, knee breeches, stockings, and well-shined buckled shoes. He carried a letter on an ornate silver tray.

“Your Highness,” he said to the Princess, who favored him with a smile. And then, “Miss Hope.” He bowed as he proffered the envelope.

“Thank you,” Maggie said. She took the letter and the footman left. She found her hands were shaking.

The return address was an official Whitehall address, and it was written on official-looking RAF stationery.

“Oooh, what is it?” Lilibet said, running over to Maggie’s side. “Do you have a beau in the RAF? How glamorous!” Then, seeing Maggie’s expression, “Oh, I do hope everything’s all right. He
is
all right, isn’t he?” she asked earnestly. Lilibet reached out one of her hands and placed it on Maggie’s. Her nails were rough and bitten and decidedly un-princess-like. Even in the midst of her own crisis, Maggie realized what a strain the war must be on the young girls, even if they were Royal.

“I know how you must feel, or at least a little bit. If anything happened to Philip …”

Maggie slipped the envelope into her skirt pocket. “It’s nothing that can’t wait until we’ve finished our lesson,” she said briskly. “Now, let’s get down to business.”

It was only later, after Lilibet had closed the door behind her, that Maggie allowed herself to open the letter. It was from Nigel; she’d know his handwriting anywhere. It was shaky and less legible than she was used to, but it was Nigel’s.

She sat down, not sure if her legs would hold her.

About a half an hour later there was a knock on the door to Maggie’s room. It was Lilibet, to pick up the ink bottle she’d left.

There was no answer.

Lilibet knocked again.

Nothing.

Just as she was about to turn and climb back down the cold, narrow steps, she heard a noise. It was a high-pitched keening sound. She opened the door.

There was Maggie, facedown on the sofa, clutching the missive in her hands and weeping.

“Maggie?” Lilibet said at the doorway. There was no response, but the wailing died down slightly, then stopped. The Princess could hear long ragged breaths and the occasional sniffle. “Maggie? Are you ill?”

Lilibet cautiously made her way in, walking gently toward the prone form on the sofa, as though not to startle a wild animal. “Maggie?”

Maggie sat up in a sudden movement, pulling her hair back and then wiping furiously at her red and swollen eyes.

“Lilibet, do you—do you have a handkerchief?” she asked finally.

“Of course,” said the Princess, procuring a clean cambric one. “Here you go. Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

Maggie gave her nose a good, honking blow, then pushed the letter to Lilibet, who read it. She set it down, then reached over to place her hand on Maggie’s.

“‘Missing and presumed dead.’ “ Maggie reached for the envelope and paper and crumpled them her hands. Then threw them both in the fire. The two watched as the orange flames consume both papers until they turned black and into lacey ash that flew up the chimney. Maggie felt gutted, as though she’d been kicked, hard, in the stomach. It was a physical sensation so fierce, she momentarily put her arms around herself in self-protection.

“Shhhhh …” Lilibet said in motherly tones, stroking Maggie’s hair as she might pet a horse or corgi. “It will be all right, Maggie. It will be all right.”

Some time later, Lilibet had convinced Maggie to wash her face with cold water and come down to the kitchen for some hot tea.

“Maggie’s had some bad news,” she said to Cook, who immediately went to brew a pot of tea. Then she returned to her work, making up a new tray for Audrey to take upstairs.

“Here you go, Cousin,” Cook said to the Parisienne, who smiled at Maggie and bobbed a curtsey at Lilibet before she picked up her tray and left..

At the long wooden table, Maggie didn’t want to discuss what had just happened; the pain was still too raw and she was still too numb. Lilibet seemed to understand, and sat next to her in supportive silence. Better to try to think of other things.

“Audrey Moreau is your cousin?” she asked Cook, taking a sip of the hot tea.

“No, Miss,” said Cook. “My husband’s cousin. She came from Paris. Got out just in time, poor thing. Parents are gone—got an older brother, but he joined the military. Not sure where he is now.”

“Thank goodness she made it in time!” Lilibet exclaimed.

“And so she’s been here for, what, about eight months?” asked Maggie. “How does she like it?”

“Doing fine, Miss. Does what she’s told, never complains.” Cook looked concerned. “She’s been all right with you, Miss?”

“Oh, yes,” Maggie said. “Of course. Consummate professional, lovely person. I was just curious, is all.”

So, John is dead. Did he die on impact, when his Spitfire went down? Or was he found by the Nazis, then tortured for information, then killed?
she thought, before bursting into tears yet again, the heavy pain in her heart nearly unbearable.

How can life possibly go on?
And yet it did. People in the castle’s kitchen chopped root vegetables and peeled apples and pulled feathers off chickens and geese. The clock ticked and the hands moved. The earth on its axis turned on and on.
And this is what life is,
Maggie thought.
How odd, really. He’s dead, we’re still alive, and the earth keeps spinning on its axis. How very, very droll.