“Did you, did you—” Her voice broke. “Call his parents?”
“His commanding officer did.” Then, “Maggie, I’m so sorry—if there’s anything I can do—” But the receiver had slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud. Maggie drew up her feet and laid her head on her knees as the tears finally came.
She didn’t know how long she’d sat there, crying, when Mrs. Forester found her. “Are you all right, dear?” she inquired from the doorway.
Maggie looked up, her face tearstained, hot, and red, and made an attempt to wipe at her nose with her hand. She tried to speak and nothing came out but more silent sobs.
“There, now,” Mrs. Forester said, sitting beside her and replacing the phone’s receiver. She procured a starched linen handkerchief from the depths of her bosom. “Here you go,” she said, handing it to Maggie.
“Thank you,” Maggie managed, wiping at her eyes and nose.
Mrs. Forester sat next to her, a plump and comforting presence, not saying a word.
Maggie took a rattling breath. “I think—I think he might be dead,” she said finally.
“Who, dear?”
“John, John Sterling.”
“Air force?”
“Yes.”
“His plane crashed. In Germany.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know. He might have jumped before the crash. No one knows.…”
“Then that, my dear, is what you have to hold on to. That your young man’s alive and he’ll send word. Maybe not today. Or tomorrow. But that he will.”
Mrs. Forester stared through the window, a distant look on her face. “It’s what I did. When I got the phone call about my Bernie.”
Maggie wiped again and looked up.
“My husband. The Great War. He was a pilot. Plane went down over France. He was missing too.”
“And—did he come home?”
There was a pause as the question hung in the air. “No, dear,” Mrs. Forester said. “But I felt it was my sacred duty to hold on to hope for as long as possible.
“Now, I want you to go and wash your face with cold water. And then come to the kitchen and I’ll make us both a nice cup of tea. You’ve got a long journey ahead of you and you won’t be any good to anyone if you don’t keep your strength up.”
When Maggie made no effort to move, Mrs. Forester stood up and grasped Maggie’s hand, pulling the young woman to her feet. “One foot in front of the other, dear. That’s how all journeys start. Go upstairs. Go.”
As Maggie, zombie-like, made her way up the stairs, she heard Mrs. Forester mutter to herself, “And this is why we didn’t want this damned war.”
Maggie heard the front door open and footsteps in the hall. “David?” she called, suddenly wary.
“Just me,” she heard.
Maggie sprang to her feet. “Chuck!” For those low gruff tones could belong only to Charlotte McCaffrey, known to all as Chuck. She ran to the tall, broad-shouldered woman and gave her a big hug.
“Maggie!” Chuck’s strong features were rendered something close to beautiful with her smile. “Wasn’t expecting you tonight! But I’m glad to see you.” She slipped off her low-heeled oxfords and sank into the sofa, sprawling in her inimitable Chuck-like way. Maggie studied her, for she hadn’t seen her since the end of the summer. Same chestnut hair, same thick, dark eyelashes, same sturdy build. It was good to see her.
“Long shift?” Maggie asked. Chuck was a nurse at Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children.
She stretched and yawned. “Endless.”
“David and I already ate, but there are leftovers, if you’re hungry. Can I warm something up for you?”
“Thanks, but I already ate at the hospital. Though what passes for food there just might get us admitted as patients. So, I know you can’t tell me much.…” Chuck began.
“Anything, really.”
“And that’s fine. I just need to know one thing.”
“Yes?”
“Can you get away right after the new year? Come to Leeds?” Leeds was Chuck’s hometown.
Maggie considered. “I don’t know where I’ll be yet.…” Then she caught the unmistakable look of joy and excitement in her friend’s eyes. “What’s happening in Leeds?” she asked, her smile growing, for she knew the answer.
“The wedding! Nigel and I finally set a date!”
“That’s wonderful, Chuck,” Maggie said, taking her friend’s hand. “I’m truly, truly happy for you and Nigel. And you know I’ll move heaven and earth to be there.” Maggie tried her best to focus on Chuck and Nigel’s happiness, and not on thoughts of John.
“Oh, am I being terribly rude? You know me—I’m such a tactless oaf. I didn’t even ask you about John.”
“Nothing new,” Maggie said, fighting back sudden tears.
“They’ll find him.” Chuck patted Maggie’s hand.
“Of course.” Maggie rubbed a fist over her eyes. “Now, let’s talk wedding.”
Chuck groaned. “You know I loathe all that girly-girl frippery. Not that there’s any to be had, with the rationing. I thought I’d just make over one of my dresses.”
“But there are readings to choose, flowers, saving sugar rations for wedding cake.…”
Chuck looked serious. “Maggie, would you be my bridesmaid?”
“Of course!” she said, thrilled.
“I want you and Sarah to be there with me, at the altar. We’ve already been through so much together.…”
“Of course I’ll be your bridesmaid, Chuck. I’m honored.” This is when I would have asked Chuck to be my bridesmaid, if only …
“If it’s too hard, you know, with John … missing …”
“Chuck,” Maggie said, looking her straight in the eyes. “I’m so happy for you and Nigel—you two are perfect for each other and deserve your happily ever after. I’d be delighted to be part of the wedding party.”
Pleased, Chuck sat up. “What did you say you and David made? Now that you mention it, I’m absolutely starving.”
It had taken Alistair Tooke several impassioned letters, dozens of pleading phone calls, and a serious threat to let Windsor’s gardens go to seed, but finally he was able to obtain a late-evening interview with the King.
He approached King George VI cautiously, hat in hand. He had spoken to the King before, of course. But it was always outside, in the fresh air, and the topic was the health of the Windsors’ many varieties of roses or the productivity of the victory gardens. This was different.
The King’s study was a large room, with high-vaulted ceilings and tall windows. The monarch himself was at a large carved rosewood desk.
“Yes, Tooke?” the King said, looking up from his paperwork, his face long and careworn, his eyes clear and blue. The walls were upholstered in red watered silk, although the heavy gold frames that had once displayed paintings by artists such as Rembrandt, Rubens, Canaletto, and Gainsborough were empty, the canvases in indefinite storage. But floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with leather-tooled volumes still graced the walls, alternating with long tapestries. The windows behind him were blinded, covered in impenetrable blackout curtains.
Alistair gave a nervous bow. “Your Majesty,” he said, taking a few steps forward on the soft Persian carpet. Suddenly realizing how dirty the thick soles of his shoes were, he stopped.
The King blinked. “Well?”
“It’s—it’s about my wife, sir. Marta? Marta Tooke? She teaches piano to some of the young ’uns? Well, they came for her.” He took a step closer as the words tumbled out of his mouth. “They just came in the middle of the night and took her away. In handcuffs, sir.”
The King scratched his head. “Who? Who came in the night?” Then, “Ah, yes, Marta K-k-k-kunst Tooke. She’s your wife, is she? Something to do with sending letters to Germany?”
Tooke felt a hot wave of rage crash through him. He took a ragged breath and continued. “My wife is innocent, sir,” he insisted, hands wringing
his hat. “She’s a good woman, a fine woman.…”
“Of course, of course, Tooke,” the King said reassuringly. “We just need to follow p-p-protocol here. The whole thing will be sorted in a few days, and then she’ll come back here, safe and sound, none the worse for w-w-w-wear.” With a deep sigh, the King surveyed the mountains of paper on his desk, then rose. “Duty calls, I’m afraid, Tooke.”
Alistair Tooke suddenly realized something very, very important. “Sir, Lady Lily is German. She’s German too. Before the war, she used to come by our flat. She and Marta would drink German coffee and speak German together.”
“What?” said the King, distracted, rounding the desk with a manila folder in his hand. “Oh, right, right. Lady Lily.” He walked to the door.
Alistair turned to follow and pressed further. “Lady Lily isn’t in an internment camp, after all. Sir,” he added.
The king had already passed Alistair and had entered the hall. “Lady Lily’s p-p-position here is quite relevant,” he said.
It had been a long night and a long day, and Alistair Tooke was not his usual self. “A Lady-in-Waiting, sir? Relevant?”
“Yes, Tooke,” the King snapped. “Lily Howell is a family friend. And she’s needed here at the castle. I’m sorry about your w-w-w-wife, but it will sort itself out.” And then he was on his way, down the oak-paneled corridor.
“Bleeding buggered buggering bastard,” Tooke muttered under his breath, standing on the carpet, feeling abandoned and betrayed. “What if someone you loved were taken away?” He clenched his fists and deliberately ground his muddy boots into the carpet, leaving black stains.
Chapter Six
Maggie knew about Windsor Castle.
She knew it dated back to the time of William the Conqueror. She knew it was where King Henry VIII awaited the news of Anne Boleyn’s execution, where Queen Elizabeth I celebrated her first Christmas, where Charles I’s severed head was laid to rest, where George III went mad, and where the young Queen Victoria and Prince Albert had spent their honeymoon.
And Maggie had seen pictures of Windsor Castle, of course. When she was growing up in Wellesley, Massachusetts, long before she came to London, her Aunt Edith had a biscuit tin with a picture of the castle with the Royal Standard waving proudly from its Great Tower behind official portraits of King George V and his wife, Queen Mary—the current King’s parents.
But nothing had prepared her for the reality of the sheer mass and scale of the castle, dark and shadowy in the gathering lavender twilight. It was tremendous. For just a moment, the heavy clouds parted and a beam of sunlight pierced through, illuminating the gray stone crenellated walls, battlements, turrets, parapets, and towers. The mullioned windows lit up with liquid gold.
It was the stuff of fairy tales, if you could overlook the heavy antiaircraft guns on the various roofs, along with Coldstream Guards in their tall bearskin hats on patrol. There was, after all, an evil sorcerer and his minions to guard against.
David went through the security checkpoints and drove Maggie up Windsor’s High Street, past the high stone walls of the castle’s Lower Ward. She couldn’t help but feel somewhat tiny and insignificant. “Just an old pile of rocks, Mags,” he said, sensing her apprehension.
“Of course,” she said. “And I have a job to do. Two, really.”
David took a left at the bronze statue of Queen Victoria and pulled up to the Henry VIII Gate, with its towers, arched windows, and carvings on the portcullis of the fleur-de-lis and the combined roses of Lancaster and York.
Maggie was overcome with the weight of the castle. Not the immense physical weight but its burden of history, violence, and power.
“See those holes?” David said to Maggie.
“Yes,” she said.
“Used for pouring boiling oil on unwelcome visitors.”
That, finally, got Maggie to smile. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
David drove past the Henry VIII Gate, through the Lower Ward and parade ground. They passed the changing of the guards, in their long gray coats and white sashes, with drums and fifes. Tires crunching on gravel, they drove past the Round Tower and the Middle Ward, through the Norman Gate. Under the unblinking eyes of stone grotesques and gargoyles, David pulled up the car and stopped at an unassuming double doorway of oak and glass: the tradesmen’s and servants’ entrance. They were greeted by a tall and slim older man in an elegant black morning coat and starched white collar. He had a beak-like nose, hooded eyes, and bushy silver eyebrows.
“Welcome to Windsor Castle,” he said solemnly, as he opened the car door. “You must be Miss Hope. We’ve been expecting you. I am Ainslie, the Royal Butler.” As the Royal Butler, Ainslie oversaw the castle’s male staff, which included footmen, underbutlers, pages, coal porters, fender smiths, a clock winder, and the so-called Vermin Man.
“Thank you, Mr. Ainslie,” Maggie said, taking his proffered white-gloved hand and getting out of the car.
“Just Ainslie, Miss.”
Oh, right—Maggie remembered David’s lessons on addressing household staff. “Of course, Ainslie,” she said.
Ainslie went to the car’s trunk and took out her valise and a worn blue-leather hatbox full of photographs and ephemera. “Thank you,” she said.
“Yes, Miss.”
Maggie turned. “Thanks, David. For the ride, for everything—”
“My pleasure, my dear,” he replied, as he slid back into the driver’s seat. “Remember, KBO.”
That was not how the chivalrous Mr. Churchill had introduced the initials to her when she’d been one of his typists, and he’d admonished her to “Keep plodding on.” “David, I’m touched. Have I graduated from ‘plodding’ to ‘buggering’?”
He gave her a puckish look over the rims of his round glasses. “You’ve earned the right, Maggie.”
She spluttered laughter. “Non illegitimi carborundum then, David.”
“I’ve told you I was always terrible at Latin.”
“It means ‘Don’t let the bastards wear you down.’ ”
He grinned at her. “I shan’t,” he answered. And with a quick toot of the horn, he drove off over the cobblestoned pavement, making his way back to the Long Walk.
As two footmen appeared and picked up her bags, Ainslie blinked. “Miss Hope, please follow me.”
They entered the castle through the servants’ entrance, passing through the porter’s room. Inside, as they walked the endless Gothic corridors, the air was chill, damp, and gloomy, with thick violet shadows. The dim wartime bulbs made the corridor look almost gaslit. Pictures had been removed and ornate gilt frames stood empty, like blind eyes, lining the hall in long perspectives. There were a seemingly infinite number of malachite pedestals minus their marble busts of royals and dignitaries. The high, ornate, gilded ceilings, like fondant on a society wedding cake, were besmirched with water stains.
The paneling was dark, almost black in the dim light. The air smelled of ancient stone, antique furniture, and wood polish—beeswax and turpentine. It smelled of majesty.
Here and there, doors were open and Maggie could peer into some of the rooms. There were holes in the ceiling, tangled wires dangling down like tree roots, where grand crystal chandeliers must have once hung. Cupboards and cabinets were turned to tapestry-covered walls. The high ceilings, high enough to induce vertigo, were adorned with scrolls, flourishes, and gilt. What furniture was left was covered with sheets, to protect it from dust.
As Maggie and Ainslie walked on, their footsteps echoing off the thick walls in the long, icy corridors, Maggie saw a large black spider skitter behind a heavy tattered velvet drape. They passed other rooms with shadowy figures of what had to be servants, ARP Wardens and volunteer firemen, blacking out the mullioned windows, the square panes of glass pierced by the last weak rays of the setting sun. Although no one knew the Princesses were staying at Windsor Castle, it was on the flight path from German air bases to London and was, of course, recognizable from the air.
Maggie smiled in return, but Ainslie shot him a stern glance and the man returned to his curtains.
“Their Majesties are at Buckingham Palace at the moment,” he said. “But I’ll take you to meet their Royal Highnesses in the Lancaster Tower. Then to your rooms, in the Victoria Tower.”
After a long walk through the cold and dim corridors, it was a relief finally to reach the Princesses’ nursery, an oasis of warmth and color and light in the Lancaster Tower. It was decorated in warm shades of rose and fawn, with colorful watercolors and oil paintings that must have been done by the Princesses themselves. The room was filled with toys and books, neatly stacked in bookcases and cupboards, a wooden rocking horse in one corner. The air was warmed by burning birch logs in the massive stone fireplace, guarded by an ornate burnished fender. In front of the fire, on needlepoint pillows, lounged four black-and-sable corgis with snowy white bellies. The sound of the dogs’ gentle snoring was punctuated by the snap of the flames in the fireplace.
Two girls, one older, one younger, both with glistening brown curls and gentian blue eyes, sat on the sofa facing the fire. They were dressed alike, in white blouses, navy wool cardigans, and green plaid skirts. Both were knitting.
The older girl gave a sigh. “I do wish socks didn’t have heels,” she said in a high dulcet voice, struggling with her needles. “Knitting is not my favorite.”
“If it doesn’t have fur and fart, you don’t like it,” the younger girl quipped.
“That’s not true, I—”
“Oh, yes—bonus points if it eats hay.”
Ainslie cleared his throat. “Your Highnesses, this is Miss Margaret Hope. Miss Hope, this is Her Royal Highness the Princess Elizabeth and Her Royal Highness the Princess Margaret.”
Maggie bobbed in an awkward curtsy.
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