Princess Elizabeth's Spy (20 page)

As per tradition, everyone remained standing behind his or her chair as the head table was led in by the King, in his military uniform with the Order of the Garter sash and star, and the Queen, in a powder blue gown and ruby and diamond Oriental Circlet tiara. They were followed by Prime Minister Churchill in dinner jacket and white tie and Clementine Churchill, in rose silk. When the three reached the head table, the pipers stopped playing and stood at attention. An empty place next to them was set in memory of those killed during the war. After the King said a prayer, the pipers played “Flowers of the Forest.” And after the Irish and Scots Guards played “God Save the King,” the King made a champagne toast to the Prime Minister.

Everyone sat down, settling in, pulling the elaborately folded white damask napkins to their laps, and the staff began to serve. Gregory said, “I’m amazed you two got any work at all done at Number Ten.”

“Well,” Maggie allowed, tasting the consommé with sherry, “we did have a few laughs. But it really was hard work. Or, as Mr. Churchill would prefer us to say, ‘challenging.’”

Seated next to Gregory was a dowager, her sagging neck swathed in emeralds and diamonds. “And.
Who.
Are.
You?
” she asked Maggie over her pince-nez as the fish course was served, sounding like the Caterpillar from
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

“Maggie Hope, ma’am. I tutor Princess Elizabeth in maths.”

“Really,” she said, turning her attention to the poached salmon in sauce mousseline, clearly not pleased to be sitting near a glorified governess.

“And Mr. David Greene works with the Prime Minister. Don’t you, David?” Maggie asked, giving him a poke.

“True, true,” he admitted, then led the conversation to the antics of the Churchills’ menagerie of pets, all of whom roamed No. 10 freely. Once he had everyone, including the dowager, laughing, Maggie relaxed. Across the table, Gregory winked at her with his good eye, and she smiled back as the as the meat course was served: filet mignon with mushroom sauce, with beans, broccoli, and potatoes Anna.

“Magster,” David said with a sigh, watching her put down her knife and pass her fork from her left hand to her right, “why must you continue to eat in that revolting American style?”

“Because it’s what I do, David, and I’m not going to change because I’m in Saint George’s Hall.”

“Young man!” called an old Admiral from a few places down, fixing his gaze on David.

“Yes, sir.”

“Say, you work for Churchill, do you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any idea when the damn Yanks are going to get here?”

“No, sir,” David said. “I’m afraid they haven’t sent in their R.S.V.P. yet.”

Maggie shot him a look.

“Yanks,” the Admiral muttered. “Late to every war!”

“The Prime Minister is in constant contact with President Roosevelt, of course—”

“As much good as that’s done. But as we all know too well from the last war, you can always count on the Americans to do the right thing—after they’ve tried everything else.”

After the meat course came the salad. Maggie noticed Gregory didn’t eat much throughout the dinner but called over the footman to refill his glass more than a few times.

“So, Maggie tells me you rowed for Oxford?” David asked Gregory over the torte au chocolate blanc.

“Yes,” he replied, taking a sip of Champagne. “Eton and then Oxford. Thirty-four was the dead heat. In thirty-five, we won the Boat Race.”

“That’s the annual race between Cambridge and Oxford,” David explained to Maggie. Then, to Gregory, “I was on the team a few years later than you. Coxswain.”

“Brothers in blue,” Gregory said, smiling.

“Magdelen?”

“Christ’s Church.”

“Excellent,” David said, dunking his fingertips into the proffered glass finger bowl and wiping them on the provided linen napkin, then tucking into the fruit course—red Windsor apples served with elderflower-wine-marbled Windsor red cheese, fig jam, and walnuts, served on Queen Victoria’s Royal Minton china, bordered in turquoise with panels of flowers and gilding. The conversation had given Maggie pause, for although she was happy to see David and Gregory discover they’d both attended colleges at Oxford, John had gone to Magdelen with David. Even hearing the name of John’s college brought back a rush of memories and a stab of pain to her heart. Still, it wasn’t quite as bad as before.

The dinner and the conversation went on, the long tapers burning down and voices getting louder and more relaxed with bottle upon bottle being brought from the castle’s vast wine cellar. The dinner ended with petits fours and black coffee. When the guests had eaten and drunk their fill, the King and Queen put their knives and forks down—and, as per royal etiquette, everyone else did the same. Then the King rose to his feet, offered his arm to the Queen, and they left St. George’s Hall for the Grand Reception Room.

The P.M. and Mrs. Churchill followed behind, along with the rest of the high-ranking officers and War Cabinet Ministers. Maggie stood up with the others, waiting for the head of the table to file out first.

“I’d love that dance later, David,” Maggie said.

“Oh, Magster, and I’d love to oblige, but I have some work to do, I’m afraid.”

“Maggie,” Gregory said. “Let’s show your friend to my office and set him up there. If you
must
do work on a holiday weekend, at least do it in comfort. I have a fantastic bottle of twenty-two-year-old Scotch, by the way.”

David smiled. “I like the way you think. Lead on, MacDuff.”

Maggie, David, and Gregory strolled the chilly corridors of the castle, en route to the Equerry’s office. When Maggie saw Hugh in one of the hallways, staring intently at one of the
Sleeping Beauty
posters, she stopped.

“You boys go ahead,” she told David and Gregory. “I think someone might be lost.”

After the conversation of the two men had receded into the distance, Maggie spoke. “I saw Peter, but I didn’t think you’d be here.”

“Frain brought me along.”

“How—how are you?” Maggie asked.

Hugh took a casual tone. “Oh, fine. Trying to explain to my mother why I’ll be away for the holidays again. It’s bad enough I’m not in the armed services, as far as she’s concerned, but to miss Christmas.…”

Maggie heard voices in the distance. “In here,” she said, leading him into a dark room with high ceilings and sheeted furniture. They were alone. She closed the door. They both leaned against the wall, their eyes adjusting to the darkness.

Hugh was silent for a long moment. “Because of the secret nature of their work, there aren’t any memorials or tombs for MI-Five veterans. But there’s a wall at MI-Five, a marble wall with poppies carved in it, on the left-hand side as you enter. And on that wall are names. Names of agents lost in action. No clues as to how or where—or even when. All we know is that they died in service to Britain.”

He took a deep breath. “I was five when my father’s name was chiseled into that wall. And now I pass it every day.”

“Hugh, I’m so sorry.”

For a moment, Hugh looked as though he was going to say something. Then he changed his mind.

“It’s fine, Maggie. I mean—well, it’s not fine. But it’s done, it’s over, and you certainly had nothing to do with any of it. I want you to know that. That it’s nothing you had anything to do with. I don’t blame you.”

He reached into his black dinner jacket pocket and pulled out a small package, wrapped in silver paper and bound with a red satin ribbon. He handed it to Maggie.

“What?” she said, surprised. “Oh, really—you shouldn’t have.”

Hugh colored. “I know. It’s highly irregular. But I was thinking of you … and it
is
Christmas, after all.” He shifted his weight. “Anyway, I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will,” Maggie promised.

Slowly, she raised herself up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips.

He put his hands on her waist and drew her close. Then he leaned down and they kissed again, longer, this time.
It’s different than it was with John,
Maggie realized, and finally she stopped thinking.

Finally, they broke apart. “We can’t do this,” Maggie said.

“I think we just did.” Hugh reached out to stroke her cheek.

She put her arms around his neck and leaned against him, smelling his bay rum cologne. “We do work together, after all.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he whispered. “But I do think you’re wonderful.”

Maggie pulled away. “We can’t …”

“Of course,” Hugh said. “You’re right.”

Maggie stepped past him and opened the door.

“Happy Christmas, then,” Hugh said, and turned to walk away.

“Happy Christmas, Hugh,” Maggie called after him.

Back up in her sitting room in Victoria Tower, fire already lit, Maggie sat down, gift in her hands. She pressed her fingers to her lips, smiled, and shook her head. She undid the red ribbon and took off the paper.

In a small silver frame, there was a watercolor portrait of her. While the colors were delicate, her features were defined and strong, vibrant and alive.

Oh, Hugh,
she thought.
It’s beautiful. Really beautiful. And you really shouldn’t have.
She felt pardoned for all of the sins of the past, although whether she felt she deserved Hugh’s forgiveness was another matter.

She put the painting on the mantel, smiling.

There was a knock at the door. It was Polly. “Oh,
here
you are!” she said. Her fair, round face was flushed with excitement and drink. “You just disappeared. We were wondering where you’d gone.” Polly gave a sly smile. “And with whom.” She plopped down on Maggie’s sofa. “David—it’s David, isn’t it?—is quite the dish.”

Oh, if only Polly knew.
“Not my type,” Maggie said. “So, what are you doing up here?” she asked. “Although of course I’m delighted to see you.”

“One of the old Admirals keeps trying to pinch my cheek. Can you imagine? And then he suggested we ‘take a walk.’ Please—he’s old enough to be my father. I’d rather be with someone like David. Or even Gregory, for that matter.” Polly looked up at the painting on the mantel.

“My goodness,” she said, getting up and going over to the fireplace and picking up the picture in the frame. “Is that you? Very nice.”

Maggie nodded. “Yes,” she said. “It was a Christmas gift.”

“It’s beautiful,” Polly said. Then, “I’ve got my chocolate ration from the last few weeks hidden away in my room—want to share? I’m in the mood for a bit of a binge.”

Maggie smiled. “No. Thanks, though. I should probably get back to David, anyway.”

“Suit yourself,” Polly said. “More chocolate for greedy me.”

Back in Gregory’s office, David had been set up to work at the desk, and Gregory had mixed and poured him the promised martini. When Maggie arrived, Gregory raised his glass. “I haven’t had the chance to say it before, but you do look beautiful tonight. And, again, sorry about before.”

“Oh, the Magster always cleans up well,” David interjected from the desk chair.

“You did, actually,” she said, “but thank you.” She hesitated a moment, then said, “Haven’t you had enough to drink tonight?”

“Hardly,” Gregory said. “I’m British—it’s what we do.”

David smiled. “Cheers to that, old man,” he said, clinking his glass with Gregory’s.

Maggie noticed something in the air, an electric connection between the two men.
Perhaps Gregory’s interested in boys as well as girls? He certainly does seem drawn to David.
“Then why don’t I leave you two Oxford blues to your martinis?” she said.

“Well, we’ll miss you terribly, of course. But I’m happy to show David where everything is,” Gregory said.

I bet you are.
“Of course,” Maggie said. “Good night, you two.”

Maggie decided to swing by the nursery, to see how the girls were getting on with their rehearsals. She was pleased to see the corgis look up from their pillows and thump their tails in greeting.

“Oh, Maggie!” Margaret cried, “we keep forgetting our lines! And then Lilibet forgot her sword—the sword!—can you imagine?” She giggled. “How can you cut through the briars if you don’t have a sword?”

“A bad dress rehearsal means a good performance—at least that’s what I’ve heard,” Maggie said. “And how are you holding up, Crawfie?”

“It’s all very exciting, but I admit I’ll be relieved when it’s over,” she said, as the girls went on with their rehearsal. “To perform in front of the King and Queen—not to mention the Prime Minister.…”

“It will be fantastic, Crawfie,” Maggie said. “Don’t forget that the King and Queen, and Mr. Churchill, for that matter, are parents. The children can do no wrong in their eyes.”

“I do hope you’re right, Maggie.”

“Have you—” Maggie began, “Have you noticed anything
unusual
these past days?”

“Only that I’ve found a few new gray hairs.”

“Well, I’ll be backstage with you all during the performance,” Maggie said. “Just to make sure the scenery changes go smoothly.”

“At least
something
will go smoothly, then.”

In their spacious office at Abwehr, Torsten Ritter threw a paper airplane at Franz Krause. It hit him on the left temple.

“
Allmächtiger!
What’s your problem?” Ritter said.

“No problem—good news, actually—radio message from Wōdanaz. He’s got something for us—important documents—and wants extraction. We can combine his pickup with Operation Edelweiss,” Krause replied.

Ritter knit his brows. “We’re going to need to coordinate, then. Logistical nightmare really.”

Krause gave him a wide, white-toothed smile. “We can do it. After all, we’re Germans—we’re nothing if not efficient.”

“I’ll radio Captain Vogt and tell him to ready U-two-forty-six for guests,” Ritter said.

Krause smiled even wider. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That if we can pull this off we’ll get promoted?”

“Exactly.”

Ritter turned serious. “Just pray that Operation Eidelweiss goes as well, or else.…”

“Becker will be pissed.”

“Not just Becker. I’m worried about Hess.”