“Not just Becker. I’m worried about Hess.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Day two of the Red, White, and Blue Christmas.
After Maggie had woken, dressed, and begun the long trek to the nursery, she heard the sound of a radio coming from the breakfast room and stood by the door to listen to the BBC report on the wireless, detailing the previous night’s Luftwaffe raid on London. There were also highlights of the Prime Minister’s radio address, which he’d made from his makeshift office at Windsor, the previous evening, to the people of Italy, blaming Benito Mussolini for leading his nation to war against the British, in the face of Italy’s historic friendship with them: “One man has arrayed the trustees and inheritors of ancient Rome upon the side of the ferocious pagan barbarians.”
Maggie looked in to see guests from the previous evening’s banquet now helping themselves to breakfast from silver chafing dishes set up on large sideboards. Most were dressed in hunting attire: red coats, pale breeches, and glossy black boots. Louisa was there as well, in the requisite uniform accented with a yellow vest and a strand of gray pearls. She called to Maggie, “Coming along?”
“Back to work for me, I’m afraid,” Maggie replied.
Louisa frowned as she contemplated the idea of “work.” She looked up as Polly arrived and beckoned her over.
Like an obedient puppy, Polly obeyed. “Have you ever chased the wily red creatures, Maggie?” Polly asked, plump cheeks aglow in anticipation of the hunt.
“No,” Maggie said. For she hadn’t—and had no wish ever to do so.
“Oh, it’s great fun,” she enthused. “So exhilarating.”
“Probably not for the wily red creatures.”
Louisa was nonplussed. “Well, these days we’re hunting more for meat than for sport. Deer season, don’t you know. Survival of the fittest.”
Gregory, helping himself to a Bloody Mary, caught sight of Maggie, and meandered over to meet the ladies. “Good morning!”
“We British are a bloodthirsty lot beneath our formality,” Louisa added.
“Are you hunting too?” Maggie asked.
“No, no,” he said. “I find the sounds of shots being fired a bit disturbing after Norway.”
“Of course,” Maggie said, realizing that for Gregory being around guns might bring back bad memories. “And how was the rest of your evening?”
“Fantastic,” he said. “Your friend David’s quite a wit.”
“He is, isn’t he?” Maggie felt a sisterly pride in David. I wonder what really happened last night.
“Actually,” Gregory said, “I thought I could perhaps be of service to you and Crawfie, as I know the big performance is tomorrow.”
“You’re an angel,” Maggie said.
Audrey, in her black dress and starched white apron, came in with another silver platter of scrambled eggs, which she set down on the loaded buffet table.
“It’s a big weekend for everyone,” he said.
David had some time while the Prime Minister was in meetings and, briefcase safely ensconced in his room’s safe, decided to take a walk around the Great Park, even though the air was cold and the sky overhead a sullen gray.
There were footsteps behind him, crackling on the dead grass. It was Gregory, in his tweeds, cap set at a jaunty angle, striped school scarf around his neck. “Taking some air?” David said.
“Coming to warn you,” he replied. “Most of the castle’s guests are hunting today. They’re both armed to the teeth and still drunk from last night—or the hair of the dog. I’m concerned it’s not safe out here, under the circumstances.”
“By Jove, I think you’re right,” David said. Behind the high stone walls of the castle, he could hear the clomping of horses’ hooves, men’s shouts, dogs barking, and the occasional high whinny. Then, “I’ll need to get back to work soon anyway.”
They walked along together, their breath visible in the cold air. “And does work always come first for you?” Gregory asked.
“Only during wartime.” David noticed that Gregory was pale beneath his scars, and not quite steady in his steps. “Shall we sit down for a bit? I’m not used to all this country air.”
Gregory smiled, seeing through David’s ruse, but sitting down with him anyway on a low stone bench. “Over that way,” he said, “is the Thames and the Eton boathouse. One of my favorite places in the world.”
“Can you—” David knew he should tread carefully. “Are you still able to—row?”
“Yes, I can still row,” Gregory said with significance. “Thank God. I go over every once in a while and take out a shell. Good to get the blood flowing. I can really think out there, on the water. Really feel free.”
“That’s fantastic,” David said. “Feeling free doesn’t come often these days.”
“I’m looking for freedom now, David,” he said. “I don’t want to go back to the Air Force in the new year—I only have a week or so left at Windsor, as the King’s Equerry, before I’m supposed to report back for active duty. But I’m still finding it quite difficult to be one of the walking wounded.”
“You’re hardly the walking wounded.” David tried to keep his tone light.
“Thank you for saying that, but I’m nothing like the man I used to be. Outside or in.”
“I think you’re selling yourself short,” David said.
“Perhaps,” Gregory said. “Perhaps.” Then he stood up. “We’d best outrun the hunters.”
Late that afternoon, the guests in their scarlet jackets returned, then hastened to their rooms to clean up and dress for dinner. In the Green Drawing Room, the enormous fireplace was blazing. As more and more guests came in, champagne flowed freely, and laughter echoed off the damask-covered walls.
That evening, the ladies were in red, white, or blue silk and satin, taffeta, and tulle, as per the Queen’s order. Maggie felt, under the circumstances, it was absolutely appropriate to wear her blue chiffon dress. In the Waterloo Chamber this time, alongside men in dress uniforms and full evening regalia, they made their way through multiple courses. Once again, Maggie noticed that Gregory didn’t eat much but drank a great deal. As the long candles dripped wax and dessert was being served, Winston Churchill rose to his feet and the gentle murmurs of the dinner guests quieted.
“First, let me thank the gracious hospitality of our King and Queen, for having us here this weekend. And showing us such wonderful patriotic spirit,” he began in the tones and cadences Maggie had grown to know so well when she’d worked as his typist. She felt her fingers twitching instinctively, mock typing on her Irish linen napkin.
“This is a strange Christmas Eve. Almost the whole world is locked in deadly struggle, and, with the most terrible weapons which science can devise, the nations advance upon each other. Here, in the midst of war, raging and roaring over all the lands and seas, creeping nearer to our hearts and homes, here, amid all the tumult, we have tonight the peace of the spirit in each and every generous heart.
“This Christmas, let the children have their night of fun and laughter. Let the gifts of Father Christmas delight their play. Let us grown-ups share to the full in their unstinted pleasures before we turn again to the stern task and the formidable years that lie before us, resolved that, by our sacrifice and daring, these same children shall not be robbed of their inheritance or denied their right to live in a free and decent world.
“And so, in God’s mercy, a happy Christmas to you all.”
“Hear, hear!” called a silver-haired Navy Admiral weighed down by medals, raising his glass.
“Hear, hear!” the crowd echoed.
Somewhere down the long table, a strong tenor voice began, “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” and everyone joined in.
Everyone, that is, except Gregory, Maggie noticed. She realized that once again he was in white tie and tailcoat, instead of his dress RAF uniform. How strange, Maggie thought. Maybe he doesn’t want to be reminded of the Air Force when he has only a few days left befo
re he has to go back.
After dinner, Maggie saw Gregory and David in the Grand Reception Hall, standing by the fireplace, each holding coupes of champagne, their images reflected back in the long mirror above. For the occasion, the Gobelins tapestries had been taken out of storage and rehung, and the delicate gilded needlepoint chairs uncovered. Two huge chandeliers dripping with French crystals, each bead and prism carefully washed, had been rehung from the high gild-laced ceiling. With Gregory and David was a young man Maggie didn’t recognize. “Hello there,” she said, approaching the group.
“Maggie, please meet Christopher Boothby, a friend from Cambridge.” Gregory’s voice was tired and sounded as though it were coming from far away.
Maggie offered her hand. “Quite the reunion, isn’t it?” she said.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Hope.” He had a touch of an accent—or was it an inflection?—she couldn’t quite place.
The Grand Reception Room was crowded with guests, and as Maggie and David walked into the room, the orchestra swelled into “You Stepped Out of a Dream.” Maggie scanned the crowd and saw Hugh, standing with Frain at the room’s edge. They exchanged a secret smile before studiously ignoring each other.
As the swirling melody of the violins mingled with the sounds of conversation and laughter, David swung Maggie into his arms and they began to dance, her cheek fitting comfortably against his neck. “You smell very nice,” she said.
“Blenheim Bouquet,” he replied, giving her a spin. “There may be a war on, but that’s no excuse not to stay fresh.”
Maggie laughed. She remembered how, even in the midst of the worst air raids, David always looked impeccably pulled together. She looked around at the other guests. There were high-ranking officials in dress uniform with gold braid and ribbons and medals, of course, and ladies in patriotic hues—cardinal feather red, the blue of a sailor’s collar, the white of freshly fallen snow—their hair done up in diamond tiaras or pearl combs, wearing long twenty-button gloves. The room itself was decorated with velvety crimson hothouse roses and a huge Christmas tree in the corner, lit with colored wax candles in gilded holders, and covered in artificial snow, wrapped gifts, toys, and sweets. The effect was magical.
“This way,” David said, deftly spinning her through the crowd, away from a statuesque Countess, her curves straining at ruby satin, sagging neck wrapped in yellow diamonds. “It’s a shame that once women are in a position to own jewels like that, they no longer have the necks for it,” he mused.
Maggie saw Gregory with his champagne, sitting alone at one of the tables near the perimeter of the dance floor, in a world of his own.
“Gregory looks lonely,” she said, indicating with her chin.
“Already looking for a new partner, Maggie?” David teased. “I’m crushed.”
She gave his arm a gentle smack. “I thought maybe there was some … frisson last night. I was wondering if anything happened.”
“Nothing yet,” David replied. “Work, you know. But maybe tonight …”
“Do you think—do you think he’s all right? I noticed he’s drinking quite a lot, even more than he usually does.”
“He’s a veteran. He’s been through hell. And he’ll be back with the Air Force soon enough. Let the man relax and have some fun.”
“All right,” Maggie said, allowing herself to be convinced. “Then perhaps we should join him?”
“I like the way you think, my dear.” David spun her to the table.
They sat down in delicate gold chairs as the orchestra segued into Noël Coward’s “If Love Were All.” Gregory sprang to his feet. “Maggie, you look lovely,” he said, kissing her gloved hand.
“Perfect evening,” David enthused, taking a seat and motioning to a waiter with a silver tray of champagne coupes.
As the castle’s clocks all chimed midnight, the orchestra segued into “Auld Lang Syne.” Around her, the guests stopped to sing the Robert Burns words: “Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne?”
Her thoughts went out to John. Wherever he was.
Gregory got up and stalked away, heading for the French doors leading to the gardens.
He looked upset.
“I’ve got it,” David whispered in Maggie’s ear and then followed after. “For auld lang syne, my jo, for auld lang syne, we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne.” Maggie had always found the song sad, and around her she heard voices crack and men wipe at their eyes. The war wasn’t even that old, and yet so many weren’t coming home.
David followed Gregory through carpeted hallways and then outside, to the North Terrace, overlooking playing fields and Eton. It was freezing outside. As his eyes adjusted to the night, David shivered in his dinner jacket. The only sound was the faint music from the party and the creak of bare tree branches blown by the wind. The stars in the dazzling darkness seemed close enough to touch.
Near a low stone wall punctuated with crenellations, David caught up with Gregory. “Need a bit of fresh air?”
“It’s just that song. Lots of old acquaintance not coming back. By next year or the year after, they’ll be forgotten.”
“Or coming back strangers. A friend of mine was shot down in the Battle of Britain. He’s back at work now, but—I don’t know who he is anymore. He’s a completely different person.”
“He is,” Gregory agreed. “Something I know far too well.”
The two men stood at the low stone wall that lined the terrace and looked over the grounds in the light of the waning moon.
“David,” Gregory said, not looking at the other man, “I think you’re very special.”
David moved his hand on the smooth flagstone so that his pinky touched Gregory’s. “And I feel the same about you.”
“If that’s the case, why don’t you come away with me?”
David laughed, a hearty laugh that rang out across the empty grounds. “Very romantic, but where could we possibly go? An island in the South Seas, with white sand and palm trees? Live on bananas and coconuts?”
“No, the Japanese have taken those islands,” Gregory said seriously. “I’m thinking more of Argentina. Buenos Aires.”
“Well, I’m afraid the British government might frown on that.”
“I’m not joking.”
David looked at Gregory’s scarred, serious face. He was not.
“The world’s at war, Gregory,” he said, shrugging. “There’s nowhere to run.”
“You have no idea what it’s like. You see the scars on my face—you have no idea how scarred I am inside.”
David nodded.
“Millions of Germans are dead now. Millions of Poles, Czechs, Dutch, French, Norwegians.… Do you know how many Chinese have died since Japan invaded in thirty-seven? And what for?” he asked bitterly.
“The Nazis are evil, Gregory,” David said. “You know that. Hitler’s not just out to conquer the world, he’s set out to destroy anyone he’s declared to be ‘subhuman’—Jews, Czechs, Russians, Poles. The mentally ill. I’m Jewish and ‘like that,’ so I’d have been thrown up against a wall and shot years ago if I lived in Germany under Hitler. At least here I’m, well, relatively free.”
“With that fair hair of yours, you could pass for Aryan. And besides, it all depends on who’s defining evil. Churchill’s just as racist as Hitler when it comes down to it—and to win the war he’ll have to cozy up to Stalin—as if he’s any better than Hitler?”
“Churchill would cozy up to Satan himself if it would defeat Hitler. And I would too.”
Gregory snorted. “At some point the Americans will join, and they’ll die, trying to save us. The Chinese and the Japanese will always be at each other’s throats. The Raj will rise up and slaughter the British in India, not to mention the Hindus and the Muslims.… I’m just … done. Finished. I did my bit—and now I want out.”
After making sure they were alone, David reached up and touch
ed Gregory’s scarred face gently. “I can’t imagine all you’ve been through.”
“They’re sending me back, you know,” Gregory said. “Back to the Royal Air Force. I can still fly, so they want me up there,” he gestured to the sky. “Just the thought of getting into a plane makes me ill. I can’t. I just can’t do it,” Gregory said, grabbing David’s hand. “I mean it. I’m done. I’m leaving. And I’d like you to come with me. To Switzerland.”
“No,” David said, pulling his hand back. “I can’t.”
“You can,” Gregory insisted. “Look, invasion is certain. Churchill will be one of the first lined up and shot—and you and the rest of his staff with him. They’ll take out the present King and put the Duke of Windsor back on the throne.”
“That’s a future I’d hate to see, of course,” David said. “But that’s one of the reasons I’m staying—to make sure it doesn’t happen.”
David looked up at the starry sky, Gregory’s former battleground. “Gregory, you’re a hero. You did your part in Norway. You paid—you’re still paying—for it. It’s hard. I can’t imagine how hard it must be for you. But you can’t give up.”
The other man gave a short, bitter laugh. “Of course. I’m being ridiculous. Christmas is hard for me. You must forget I ever said anything.”
“Of course,” David said. But he knew he wouldn’t. Maggie was right. Something was wrong with Gregory.
In his small, drab room in the castle’s servants’ quarters, George Poulter was getting ready for bed. The door opened. “Audrey!” he hissed. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“It’s our last night,” she said. “Then we’ll be out of here.” He was silent as she sat next to him, pressing herself against him. “It will be fine. That’s why I came. Tomorrow will be busy, and we won’t see that much of each other. I just wanted to talk with you.”
“I know,” he said, as she kissed his neck. “Just a bit nervous is all.”
“We’ve been over it so many times,” she said, pushing him back on the bed. “You do your part and I’ll do mine.”
“And then?” He groaned as she massaged him, and then unbuttoned his fly.
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