His Majesty's Hope

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  She finally fixed her gaze on him. “You knew all along, didn’t you? You and Churchill.”

  There was no “Mr. Churchill” anymore.

  “About my father and my mother. That’s why I was hired for the secretary job in the first place. That’s why I was able to become a spy. That’s why I was sent to Berlin. I was bait to bring Clara in.”

  She stared at the tiles, no longer seeing the litany of heroics. “You both used me. And, worst of all, I let you. I was an ambitious young thing and I believed in the cause. I wanted to be a patriot.”

  Her lips twisted in a smile. “Ha!”

  “Maggie.” Frain searched for the right words. “I was hoping that you’d never learn the truth, but it was inevitable, I see now. Now you know. And now you have to deal with what’s been uncovered.”

  “Well, I have a fantastic way to ‘deal with it,’ as you so ambiguously say—I quit.” She threw her half-smoked cigarette down and ground it savagely under her heel.

  Frain sighed. “It’s not that simple, Maggie.”

  “Well, let me make it that simple for you. I quit. I resign. I’m walking away. You can find someone else to get information out of that woman. Because I’m never going to speak to her, ever again.”

  “I’m not sure that anyone else can. She’ll only talk to you. And if she doesn’t talk, she’ll be executed.”

  “That’s not my problem—I quit, remember?”

  “You can’t quit, Maggie,” Frain said. “You’re a spook now. You’re part of a family.”

  “Don’t you dare talk to me about ‘family’!”

  “When you first started with Churchill you were certainly smart, but unfocused, a bit unformed. Frankly, I didn’t know if you had what it takes to work in Intelligence—whether you had the skills, the cunning to survive. But the way you handled yourself in Berlin shows us that you’re the whole package now. Look at yourself. You’re strong, capable, and yes, even ruthless. You should be proud of how far you’ve come.”

  “I don’t want to be ruthless,” Maggie shot back. “I never wanted to be ruthless. I want to be ruthful. Full of ruth, in fact.”

  “I understand that you’re upset. But it will be worth it when we win this war.”

  “Look, Peter,” Maggie said bitterly. “I’ve changed. I’ve done things I never thought I was capable of doing. I killed a man. A boy, really. He’s dead now—because of me. Me! His blood is on my hands, and I’ll think of him for as long as I live.”

  “He was the enemy.”

  “That’s nonsense! He was a boy. A boy! A scared little boy, with the rest of his life ahead of him.”

  “A boy who was willing to kill you.”

  “Because he had to. Because that’s what he was brainwashed to do. That’s the world we live in now. Just a few years ago, we might have been friends.”

  “And that’s the world we’re fighting for,” Frain argued. “But, for now, you must … turn your heart to stone. We don’t have time right now for guilt or empathy or compassion. You must set aside your moral compass—and do whatever it takes—to win.”

  “ ‘Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster.’ ” Maggie stood and smoothed her skirt. “If I set aside my moral compass, doesn’t that mean we’ve already lost?” She blinked back hot tears. “Just as I’ve lost a sister. She thinks I’m a monster, you know. And then there’s Gottlieb—” Her voice broke. “Gottlieb is dead now. Because of me.”

  “No.” Frain shook his head. “Gottlieb is dead because he was a German resistance fighter who, unfortunately, was caught.”

  “He didn’t want me to stay. He didn’t want me to work for Oberg.”

  “If you hadn’t worked for Oberg, you’d never have found the files that you were able to pass on to the resistance circle.”

  “He’s dead,” Maggie insisted dully. “Just like that boy is dead.”

  Frain leaned back, studying the tip of his cigarette. “We’re part of the same club now, Maggie. It’s the club no one realizes exists before they’re in it. And it’s the club no one with any sanity would want to be a part of. But now we’re in it. Together.”

  “The murderers’ club. Yes, I’m a card-carrying member now. How absolutely wonderful for us. Is there a secret handshake? A certificate? A medal, perhaps?”

  “You need some time. You need to heal.”

  “I’m just so tired.” She slumped down on the bench. “Can’t you understand that? I’m tired—exhausted—in the very marrow of my bones.” Then, “That boy’s face haunts me.”

  “I know,” he said. “I know. But we need you.”

  She stabbed a finger at him. “You need my access to Clara.”

  “We need you.”

  “But I don’t need you. I’ve already spoken with Lord Nelson, and I’m going back to Arisaig, to the training camp. It was peaceful there. I can teach the new recruits. Get them into shape. Run along the Scottish coast. That’s all I can handle right now.”

  “Of course. Run the beaches, get your head together. But I’ll be in touch.”

  “Don’t be. I’m serious.”

  “Listen to me, Maggie Hope. I’m older than you. I’ve seen things you can’t even begin to imagine. I’ve done things that make me want to smash my head against a wall and howl. I know I have the reputation for being cold and calculating—ruthless, if you will. I follow my brain, not my heart—and certainly not my conscience. But one thing I’m sure of in this war is you.”

  Maggie gave a harsh laugh. “Flattering words, Peter, and a few months ago, they would have done the trick. But I don’t want to be a ‘warrior’ anymore. So—no. Thank you.”

  Frain rose and held out his hand. “And I don’t want to be this dashing and debonair. But we all have our crosses to bear.”

  Maggie smiled, finally. She grasped his hand. It was strong and warm. She rose as well.

  “Go to Scotland,” Frain said, clapping her on the back. “Whip those trainees into shape, get your head together. In a few months, I’ll give you a call and we’ll see where you are. Oh—and get that bullet removed.”

  Maggie put her hand to her side instinctively. “How do you know about my bullet?”

  Frain crushed his cigarette beneath the sole of his shoe. “I’m in Intelligence—it’s my job to know everything. And it’s damned stupid to keep that thing inside of you.”

  “I’m quite fond of it now.”

  “You’re plucky, Maggie—I’ll give you that.”

  “Oh, Peter, please don’t call me plucky. I hate being called plucky. Plucky is for Pollyanna heroines who stomp their feet, and toss their hair, and put their hands on their hips. Even if I ever used to be like that, I’m far too damaged now.”

  “Give it time.” He tipped his hat. She nodded. After a long, hard look at each other, they turned and walked in opposite directions.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The christening supper was held at Chuck and Nigel’s flat. It was a simple affair—weak tea, Lord Woolton pie, and victory buns. There was a knock at the door. When Nigel went to open it, Maggie stood there.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she apologized, raising on tiptoe to kiss Nigel on the cheek. She took off her gloves and unpinned her hat, which he took. “And sorry I missed the ceremony.”

  “We’re glad you could make it, Maggie,” Chuck said as she hugged her friend.

  “Of course!” Maggie said, a little too brightly, handing Chuck a gift wrapped in gilt paper. “Congratulations on Griffin’s baptism. Where’s the darling boy?”

  “The little bunny’s napping right now.” Chuck led Maggie inside. “Poor thing’s completely knackered from his big day. May I get you something? Tea?” Around the table were John, David, Freddie, and Ernst, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Greene. The men rose at her arrival.

  “How lovely to see you all again,” Maggie said stiffly. She spotted an open champagne bottle. “Fizz?”

  “Coming right up, darling!” Nigel said.

  “Sit down, darli
ng,” Chuck said. Maggie obeyed, sitting next to Ernst at the linen-swathed table, across from David and Freddie.

  John had a blank look on his face, hard and cold, the kind of look Maggie imagined he’d had as he flew into battle.

  “We were just talking about Ernst’s next move,” David said, realizing Maggie’s discomfort and trying to smooth things over. “Since he’s a doctor, a surgeon at that, he’s volunteered for active medic duty. He’ll be working on the front lines.”

  “Ernst, you’re a Jew, yes?” Mr. Greene asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Ernst answered. “And if not for Elise and Maggie, I’d be in a concentration camp by now. Or worse. And, because of your son, and his connections with Number Ten, I’ll be able to use my skills to help save British soldiers.”

  “David,” Mr. Greene said, “is that true? Did you arrange that?”

  “I see no reason why Ernst should be stuck in an internment camp. So I put in a word with the P.M.”

  The Greenes exchanged a significant look. “You’ve saved a Jew,” his father said.

  His mother put a hand over her heart. “It’s a mitzvah.”

  “That’s wonderful, Ernst,” Maggie said, accepting the glass of champagne Nigel offered.

  “You must have left family behind in Berlin?” Mr. Greene said.

  “Benjamin,” Mrs. Greene warned. “He might not want to talk about it.”

  “I did,” Ernst replied. “My beautiful and brave wife, Frieda.”

  “Frieda?” Mrs. Greene’s forehead creased. “Surely that’s not a Jewish name?”

  “No,” Ernst said. “Frieda is Lutheran. And blond and blue-eyed at that. Which is why I think—I pray—she will be safe. David even arranged for her to know that I’m safe.”

  “Well,” Mrs. Greene said, giving her husband a significant look, “it’s a brave new world, isn’t it?”

  David grinned. “And John’s coming back to Number Ten, right, old boy?”

  “My plans are … uncertain.” He refused to meet Maggie’s eyes. “But yes, at least for the present, I’ll be back working at Number Ten.”

  David broke the awkward silence. “And what are you doing, Mags? Can you tell us?”

  “I’m going to Scotland. Really and truly,” Maggie answered, draining the rest of her glass. “Taking a bit of a working sabbatical.”

  “Well, you’ve earned it, certainly.” Chuck reached over to squeeze her hand.

  “Please,” Maggie said, desperate to change the subject, “open Griffin’s gift.”

  The gold paper fell away to reveal a tiny blue hat and scarf. “Oh, how lovely!” Chuck exclaimed. “Did you knit it yourself?”

  Maggie nodded.

  David leaned over to take a look. “A few off stitches there, Mags. Not that I could do better, of course.”

  “Not off stitches, David—it’s code, actually. Morse code.”

  “Ooooh!” Chuck said. “How fantastic! What does it say?”

  “Well,” Maggie said, “on the hat is Griffin Nigel Ludlow, first of September 1941. And, on the scarf—where I had a bit more room—is a Christina Rossetti poem.” Maggie recited. “Who has seen the wind? Neither I nor you: But when the leaves hang trembling, The wind is passing through. Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I: But when the trees bow down their heads, The wind is passing by.”

  Chuck nodded, pleased. “You may become a believer yet!”

  “Maybe.” Maggie gave a rueful smile. “I am, perhaps, more like our Prime Minister—who says that while he’s not a pillar of the Church, he is a flying buttress.”

  Nigel cleared his throat. “Today, we celebrate young Griffin’s joining the Catholic faith. But let us also celebrate the fact that we’re together—Christian, Jew, and agnostic. British and German.”

  Maggie looked over at David and Freddie and winked. “Like that” and not “like that,” she thought. David winked back. After all, Chuck and Nigel, not to mention Ernst, didn’t know David’s secret.

  Nigel refilled everyone’s champagne, and Chuck served bread and apple pudding, with mock cream. When the plates were cleared, Chuck smothered a prodigious yawn.

  “I think,” suggested Mrs. Greene, “we should leave the young parents now. I’ll take care of the dishes, my dear,” she told Chuck. “You go and lie down while you can.”

  “Miss Hope,” John said to Maggie, rising.

  Oh, so we’re back to “Miss Hope” now. Maggie nodded. “Mr. Sterling.” Well, at least that’s over with, she thought, her heart thudding.

  She realized that the champagne, on an empty stomach with only a few bites of cake, had gone to her head. The room was tilting at an odd angle. Stop it, room.

  In the foyer, everyone kissed Chuck and Nigel goodbye. “Here are your things, Maggie,” Chuck said, handing Maggie her hat and gloves.

  The group made it through the front door, and then with more goodbyes, to David’s parents and Ernst, it was just David and Freddie, and Maggie and John, left standing on the pavement. “Rose and Crown, anyone?” David asked, to break the silence.

  “Why, David Greene, I do believe you’re trying to get me drunk!” Maggie said with forced gaiety. She sounded like a tipsy Scarlett O’Hara.

  “Since I can’t drink for a while, due to my still-healing liver, someone should do the honors for me.” David offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

  At the Rose and Crown, their haunt when they’d all worked together at Number Ten, David ordered drinks. Maggie downed her half-pint, then reached over for David’s and downed that as well. She set the glass down with a thump. Her head was spinning. “Get me another, love?” she said to David. Then, to the group, “I think I’ll just step out for a moment—get a little fresh air.” Freddie, David, and John all rose as she stumbled to her feet.

  “Would you like some company, Maggie?” Freddie asked.

  “Oh, no, Freddie darling, I’ll be fine. Just need a minute or two. A bit stuffy in here is all.” She put her arm on his. “Have I ever told you how happy I am for you, Freddie?” she slurred. “Love—it’s so lovely to see people in love. I love love.” She kissed him noisily and then, carefully, made her way to the entrance.

  There, on the bench outside, sat Hugh.

  “You!” Maggie exclaimed, managing to sit beside him without falling. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s my business to find people, remember?” he replied. “And I wanted to talk to you before you left. I heard about Scotland—wanted to say goodbye is all.”

  “Well, well—it seems that everyone in London now knows I smoke, have a bullet lodged somewhere inside me, and that I’m going to Scotland.”

  He studied her closely. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ve just had a bit much to drink. Not enough food …”

  “A deadly combination,” Hugh said, putting his arm around her and pulling her close.

  Maggie knew his having his arm around her was wrong. It was also wonderful. She didn’t know how she felt about him anymore. If she encouraged Hugh, it would give him the wrong idea. She still had feelings for Hugh, but she didn’t want to use him to feel better about John’s breaking things off with her. She was, in a word, confused.

  “Maggie, please,” he whispered in her ear.

  He smelled good, like bay rum. And it felt good to be held. But, still, it wasn’t fair to him. She was broken. She was damaged. She was of no use to anyone.

  “Please,” Hugh repeated, his arms around her, holding her closer.

  “No, Hugh,” Maggie said clearly. She was beginning to feel nauseous. The edges of her vision began to blur. My mother, Elise, Gottlieb, that German boy, the little Jewish girl …

  “I love you, Maggie.” Hugh’s lips touched her cheek, then moved to her throat. Maggie felt a sudden panic. She realized how drunk she was, how out of control the situation was getting. This was not going to end well.

  “Hugh, I said no!” Maggie pushed him away.

  Suddenly, there was a tall figure standing b
eside her. “The lady isn’t interested.”

  It was John, glowering. Hugh stood and met his gaze.

  Maggie couldn’t take any more. “I think I’m going to throw up,” she announced. Her stomach contracted sharply, and she doubled over. She stayed leaned over, not sure if she could right herself without passing out. Not sure if she ever wanted to right herself. Then her stomach contracted again.

  When there seemed to be a pause, John gently gripped Maggie’s arm, helped her up, and led her to the adjacent alley. “If you’re going to be sick, at least do it here,” he murmured, one arm around her shoulders, fingers gripping the bare skin of her arm, the other hand holding back her hair. Hugh followed behind.

  Maggie vomited again. And again. When there was absolutely nothing left to expel, she slid down against the brick wall.

  “Here,” John said, taking out his handkerchief and handing it to her.

  “Thanks,” Maggie muttered, wiping her lips and chin, exhausted. Too exhausted to feel shame, but not too exhausted to realize that shame would eventually come. She noticed Hugh was still there. And both of my former beaux witnessed this display? Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

  Maggie groaned, then looked up at John. His face was impassive, dark eyes staring down. Hugh was pacing. She let her hot, throbbing head fall to her hands. “I’m sorry,” she moaned.

  “I’ll take it from here,” John told Hugh.

  “No, I’ll take care of her,” Hugh countered.

  “I said I would do it.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Hugh demanded.

  John’s nostrils flared. “John Sterling.”

  Hugh’s jaw dropped. “The …” He gathered his wits. “You’re the one we thought—you were dead.”

  John gave a grim smile. “Reports of my demise were greatly exaggerated.”

  “And you two are back together now?”

  “No!” Maggie managed from the pavement. “No. We are not together.”

  “Well, then I’ll get her home,” Hugh said.

  “No.” John’s teeth clenched. “As I said, I’ll take it from here.”