Sarah rolled her eyes. “As you well know, near-death experiences aren’t exactly conducive to romance.”
“You’re returning to the Vic-Wells when you’re patched up?”
“I’m not sure. I might be done with that life.”
“You’re smart, you know. I’m sure you could do whatever you put your mind to.”
She smiled. “You don’t have to go to Magdalene or Wellesley to know things. In fact, you overeducated lot often seem awfully stupid on many occasions.”
“I am aware.” Then, “Do you think she’ll take me back?”
“She took in a stray cat recently, Johnny—so really, darling, you never know.”
Chapter Twenty-three
When Maggie opened her front door the next morning, she was astonished to see John sitting on her steps, reading a book. “You slept here?” she asked, one hand on a hip. She was dressed for work, in coveralls and boots.
He stood. “No—I ran into Sarah, had dinner with her, found a room at the Arisaig Inn, slept, shaved, and came back.”
“What are you reading?”
“T. H. White’s The Sword in the Stone.”
“I’m reading that too,” she said, coming down the stairs. “And grateful not to have been born a fish. Or a squire. Or a king, for that matter. Although in White’s world, just being human is bad enough.”
“Would you please take a walk with me?” John asked.
“No.”
She attempted to pass by, but he reached out and took her arm gently. “What I have to say to you, on behalf of the Prime Minister, is top secret. I am under oath that I will verbally deliver this message to you.”
“Fine. We’ll walk.” They made their way past the gardens, where Mr. Fraser had turned over the rich black soil dotted with earthworms. Birds chirped in the trees, and in the apple orchard the sap was running.
They took muddy paths past grazing sheep down to the beach. There, they leaned against a large boulder, protected from the wind. The morning sky was tinged with pink.
“The Boss and the President have been in constant contact, via scrambled telephone,” John began. “But Mr. C. thinks that Roosevelt’s a slippery fish—wants to keep him focused on fighting Germany, not just Japan.”
“Well, Hitler made that fairly clear with his declaration of war against the U.S.—President Roosevelt didn’t have to lift a finger.”
“Still, the Boss has it in his head to go, and you know when his mind’s made up—”
“—there’s no stopping him.” Maggie picked up a small, flat rock from the shore and threw it. It skipped over the waves, until it finally vanished into the loch. “I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”
“Well, first of all, the P.M. needs a secretary.”
“Again?” She laughed, in spite of herself. “But what about Mrs. Tinsley? Miss Stewart?”
“Geneva Conventions forbid women’s ocean travel in wartime.” John picked up a rock and skipped it, as well. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard, but Mrs. Tinsley’s also on compassionate leave. Her son died.”
“Oh,” Maggie said, remembering the picture of a handsome, serious young man in a naval uniform on Mrs. Tinsley’s desk at Number 10. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“So, not only does the Boss need a typist, but you’ve been cleared, because of your SOE training. You have, shall we say, special skills that may come in handy being in the Prime Minister’s entourage. And he also says he needs you to translate for him.”
“Translate? But we all speak English.”
“ ‘Two nations divided by a common language,’ says he. I think he just doesn’t want to make any gaffes. Or miss any Yankee cultural nuances.”
Maggie skipped another stone. “Tell him not to call anyone a ‘bloody Colonial’ and he’ll be fine.”
“There’s a train back to London this afternoon. I have two tickets.”
“Well, you’ll have to convince someone else to take the seat, I’m not going.” Then, “Besides, I have a cat now.”
“Mr. Churchill would no doubt approve.”
Maggie was silent. It had just been Thanksgiving. She missed the United States. She missed her Aunt Edith. After hearing about Pearl Harbor, she was filled with love for both her countries. And she had come to the decision that she would do whatever was in her power to fight Nazism.
She also had a sister behind enemy lines in Germany. And Mr. Churchill was probably the one person in the world who could get that sister out. If he wanted her help so badly, he would have to help Elise, too.
“Fine,” Maggie said. “I’ll come to London to speak to Mr. Churchill in person. But I’m not leaving my cat behind. We’re a team.”
“I understand.”
“And I have to make sure Sarah’s all right before I leave.”
“Of course.” John’s lips twitched with a hidden smile.
“This isn’t about you, you know,” Maggie snapped, throwing another rock. “And I have a few things I’d like to say to our Mr. Churchill.”
“I’m going back to London,” Maggie announced to Sarah. The latter was already dressed and doing her barre exercises.
“Good on you,” Sarah replied. “And I have a meeting today. With Captain Gordon.”
Maggie sank down into the armchair. K bumped against her legs and started to purr. “Of course, that’s your decision. It’s all voluntary. And, even at the last minute, you can decide not to do it—”
“If you could go back in time, would you do it again?” Sarah interrupted. “Volunteer, I mean?”
“I honestly don’t know.” Maggie stared at the fire. “I wish none of this had happened. I wish we could just turn back the clock and go back to better days—peaceful days.” Her hand went to the bandage. “And I’m sure everyone involved with this horrible war feels the same way—but we can’t. There’s no going back, there’s no putting our heads in the sand. Not unless we want to be slaves, and see the rest of the world enslaved as well. I think this war is terrible—the things I’ve learned, the things I’ve seen, the things I’ve done … But despite that, I do believe it’s a necessary war. I even believe that it’s a just war.
“But you have to know, while I will, with all my strength, defend our right to exist against a monster who would destroy everything honorable and good, I don’t love what I do. In fact, I hate it.
“There’s no glamour in it, Sarah. No glory. But I realized during my time here that I’ll do anything to make sure the next generation knows peace.” She turned to K. “Come on, pussycat, pussycat—we’re going to London to visit the Queen!”
“Meh,” was his only response, but he seemed content to ride on her shoulder as she packed her things. And later, as she, K, and Sarah walked up the stairs to the main house, John followed behind with her trunk. Maggie was pleased to see the fuchsia rhododendrons were just starting to burst into bloom.
“I just wanted to say good-bye, Miss Glyn-Jones,” she said to Twelve in the main room as they shook hands.
Then she went down the line, shaking hands. “Good-bye, Yvonne. Good-bye, Charlie. Good-bye, Mr. Fraser and Mrs. MacLean.” Impulsively, she threw her arms around Mr. Burns and kissed his leathery cheek. He smelled of pipe tobacco. “And good-bye, dearest Burns. Thank you for everything.”
Sarah walked to Maggie, now without the help of the cane. The two women embraced. “Thank you for everything, Maggie,” Sarah said.
“You may not know it, but you helped me as much as I may have helped you—maybe even more.” Good-bye, Black Dog.
“Well, I don’t know how that could possibly be, but I’m glad.” Sarah reached to rub K under the chin. “And good-bye to you, Mr. K.” He began to purr, then rumbled even louder as Maggie settled him once again over her shoulders.
“Are you really going to take that animal on the train?” John asked, hoisting up the trunk once again.
“If anyone asks,” Maggie answered, pulling on her gloves, “he’s a fur stole with personality.�
�
On the train, there was the usual assortment of pilots and soldiers, with their support crews as well—the fitters, the riggers, the mechanics, the crew chiefs. A sign read: PLEASE HAVE IDENTITY CARDS READY FOR INSPECTION. Ads extolled women’s train conductor uniforms and warned TRAVEL AT YOUR OWN RISK.
Maggie and John traversed the swaying corridors until they found an empty compartment. John slid open the door, then hoisted her trunk up to the luggage rack. First class had two lights; there was only one in second and third.
Maggie sat down and K jumped from her shoulders, sniffing at the worn velvet seat cushions, more curious than afraid. “Meh,” he said, looking at Maggie.
“Shhhh,” she admonished. “Remember—you’re a fur stole.”
John sat opposite Maggie, and K turned his attention to him. When John stretched out his lanky legs in front of him, K marched right up them, like a gangplank, and stared into John’s eyes.
John held the cat’s gaze. A challenge went back and forth between the two males, then K jumped down and went to curl up beside Maggie. He watched John through narrowed eyes.
“I know you don’t get this from the papers,” John said, as if they’d never stopped working together, “but the Boss is becoming more and more difficult. I don’t care personally, but he’s losing support in the House. And I’m also worried about his health.”
“Yes, but America’s in the war now. That’s what he wanted—all he’s ever wanted.”
“Yes, the American Eagles have come, just in time to save the day,” John replied drily. He looked at Maggie, who hadn’t taken off her coat or gloves. It was frigid in the compartment. “You must be frozen. Let me get you a cup of something warm.”
He went in search of the woman pushing the tea trolley, leaving Maggie with K and her thoughts. She took out her knitting and had made significant progress on a soldier’s sock by the time he returned with two cups of weak cocoa, two Lund cakes, and The Times. “You’re knitting,” he said, surprised.
“Your ace powers of deduction are just as impressive as ever, Mr. Sterling.” Maggie put down the sock and accepted the cocoa.
“You knit now, Miss Hope?”
“Yes, I knit.” Suddenly she realized it didn’t hurt quite as much to think about Berlin. It still hurt, and probably always would. But not quite as much.
They were silent as scenery slid by: snowy mountains, the occasional dark tunnel, a V of honking geese. There were schoolchildren playing ball, small shaggy ponies, and streams and lacy waterfalls. Maggie watched, stroking K, while John, opposite, read the newspaper.
“Glasgow’s not that far,” said a man talking outside the compartment, to which his companion answered, “Aye, but it’s far enough.”
“Would you like the paper?” John asked, folding it and handing it to Maggie.
“Thank you,” she said, accepting it. She scanned the articles. “The numbers from Pearl Harbor keep growing.” She blinked back tears. “Now they’re saying nearly twenty-five hundred Americans killed.”
“How many injured?” John asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Maggie said. “Let’s see—‘One thousand one hundred and seventy-eight injured, both military and civilians.’ ”
“I always look at the statistics for the wounded,” he said. “I always wonder if any of them feel that they would be better off dead.”
Maggie looked at John. “Is that how you felt?”
It was now his turn to look out the window.
When Sarah returned to the flat, she noticed that an envelope with her name on it had been slipped under the door:
Dear Miss Sanderson,
Your name has been passed on to me with the suggestion that you possess skills and qualifications that may be of value in a phase of the war effort.
If you are available for an interview, I would be glad to see you at Arisaig House, today, at three p.m.
Yours truly,
Timothy Gordon,
Captain.
She walked to the main house at the assigned time, gave her name for Captain Gordon, and then waited downstairs in the vestibule until Gwen at the reception desk called her name.
An officer walked her up the thistle-carved stairs and ushered her into an office, formerly the master bedroom suite, full of desks and file cabinets and stacks of papers.
“Come in, sit down,” a man said. Seated at one of the desks, he had a long face, with a long nose and long ears as well. There were deep furrows between his eyebrows. “Would you give us a few minutes?” he said to the other men.
When they had left, Sarah took a seat opposite. “Thank you for coming, Miss Sanderson. I’m Captain Gordon. Miss Hope let me know you are fluent in French, and know Paris well. And that, while you’re recovering from an illness, you’re quite athletic.”
“Yes,” Sarah replied. “And I’d like to do my bit for the war effort.”
Captain Gordon leaned forward and made a steeple of his hands. “Well, Miss Sanderson, how do you feel about this German business?”
Sarah took a moment to think. “I—I suppose I feel that—for the second time—the Germans have bamboozled their way into war—and that’s two wars too many. As Maggie—Miss Hope—may have mentioned, my grandmother was murdered by the Nazis in Paris recently.”
“Ah—so you’re looking for revenge.”
“No,” Sarah answered. “Well, maybe. A bit. But it’s not personal. I don’t hate the Germans, per se, but I do hate the Nazis. They’re the ones who’ve perverted everything. For the Germans, oddly enough, I have pity.”
“I was hoping you might separate the Nazis and the Germans.”
“I hate the Nazis. But I’m a woman, and there’s not much I can do about it. If I were a man, I’d already be in the armed forces.”
Captain Gordon considered the slight young woman in front of him. “Yes, that must be frustrating.”
Then, as if he’d made up his mind: “Miss Sanderson—how would you like to go to France and make things a bit uncomfortable for those who would invade other people’s cities—and kill their grandmothers?”
Sarah snorted. “Me? Go to France? How can anyone go to France?” She laughed. “You may or may not be aware that the Channel boats are no longer running. What sort of game are you having at my expense, Captain?”
“There are ways of going to France other than the Golden Arrow, Miss Sanderson.”
She frowned. “You mean the War Office can send people to France? Despite the Germans?”
“The War Office?” He gave a dry laugh. “No, the War Office is far too respectable to do any such thing. Never mind how it’s done, but a trip to France could be arranged. Let’s call our office—the one that could send you to France—The Firm. Tell me what you think.”
Sarah looked him straight in the eye. “I think you’re absolutely bonkers.”
“Miss Sanderson, you have no husband, no children. You are fluent in French. You have dark hair and dark eyes and look, if I may, Gallic. You know and love Paris. You could move around and not be spotted.”
“And then what?”
“We’re sending what we call hush-hush troops to the Continent to ‘set Europe ablaze,’ as our esteemed Prime Minister put it. One of our goals is to organize and train a secret army in France, supply them with British weapons, and teach them how to use them against the Nazis. How to carry out sabotage, to make things difficult, keep them off-balance.” He made a note on a pad of paper. “I must interject here, if you haven’t figured it out already, that the job is quite dangerous. Some people, as they say, ‘fail to return.’ However, with your particular skill set, you could be of great value to us.”
Sarah’s eyes were wide. “Look, Captain Gordon, I’m just a girl from Liverpool, with very little formal education. I don’t know much about politics or governments—or secret armies, for that matter.”
Captain Gordon stood and turned to face the window. Outside, the sun was beginning to set, glowing blood-red over the water. “
Twice in your lifetime, your country has been gutted like a fish by Germany. But this war is not just one country against another—it’s the fight for freedom against the powers of darkness. You have the drive and the discipline and the strength from dance to succeed, as well as the language and geographic knowledge. Now we just need to know—do you have the stomach for it?” Sarah was silent.
He turned back to face her. “Tell you what. Come to us for a period of training.”
“Here? At Arisaig House?”
“Here, and a few other places in Scotland. Then you, I, and The Firm will know for sure if you’re right for the job. You could still leave at any time, gracefully. We only take volunteers, you know. We believe in free choice.”
He took his seat again. “Now, it would be silly to talk to you about security and what that means in this business, but for every person involved in The Firm it is as secret as can be. For God’s sake—and I never take the name of God lightly—keep it so.”
“This is what Maggie—Miss Hope—does, isn’t it?” Sarah said, realizing. “Oh my God, Maggie’s a spy!”
“You know I can’t possibly comment, Miss Sanderson.”
Sarah stood and shook his hand. “Thank you, Captain Gordon.” She walked to the door, then, merrily, called, “Au revoir,” over her shoulder.
After Sarah Sanderson had left, Captain Gordon took out a sheet of paper and studied it. It had a surprising number of personal details about Sarah Sanderson. The date and place of her birth, family tree, where she’d been educated, where she’d lived, where she’d toured with the Vic-Wells. At the top left-hand corner of the sheet was a small hieroglyph—the symbol that the integrity of the person questioned had been investigated and determined to be sound.
Captain Gordon wrote at the bottom of the typed sheet, Found Sarah Sanderson to be direct-minded & courageous. God help the Nazis if she gets near them.
Maggie and John changed trains at Glasgow, and headed south to London. The sun had set, and the blackout curtains had been pulled. They could barely make out each other’s faces by the blue bulbs. After sandwiches and coffee, they began a discussion of That Hamilton Woman. “The Boss is obsessed with it. I can’t tell you how many evenings we watched it at Chequers.”
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