Princess Elizabeth's Spy mhm-2

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “Oh, you’re not wearing that, are you?” Louisa asked.

  “Why not?” Maggie asked.

  “Well, not only have we all seen it ad nauseam, but the Queen most likely will be in light blue. She almost always wears light blue. It’s an unwritten rule of sorts that no other woman in the castle may wear light blue around Her Majesty.”

  “It is a lovely gown, though,” Polly piped in.

  “Thank you,” Maggie said to her. “And it’s the only one I have with me. As Louisa pointed out.”

  Louisa began to rummage through her closet. “I might have something from a few years ago that might fit—it was Lily’s. You don’t mind, do you? You’re about her size.” She pulled out a green silk dress and threw it to Maggie. “Not the best color for a redhead, but beggars can’t be choosers, yes?”

  “Lovely,” Maggie said, gritting her teeth. “Thank you.”

  Polly pulled out a bottle of gin and Angostura Bitters. “And while we get ready, who’d like some Pinks?”

  The bagpipers, dressed in traditional doublets with gold buttons and a drape of plaid held by a golden brooch on the shoulder, pleated kilts, and horsehair sporrans, were sounding the fifteen-minute call to dinner as the three young women made their way down to the Waterloo Chamber for cocktails.

  “Ladies, may I say, you look magnificent,” Gregory declared, catching sight of them. He did a double-take when he saw Maggie and blanched and seemed to sway a bit.

  “Are you all right?” Maggie asked.

  “Are you mad?” Gregory cried, voice rising. People turned to look. “That belongs—belonged—to Lily! How dare you?”

  “I’m—I’m sorry,” Maggie stammered, taken aback. “I didn’t realize it would cause any upset.” She looked at Gregory, who was pale and shaking, then at Louisa and Polly, who were smirking. Obviously they’d known the sight of her in the dress would cause upset. “I can change into something else—it’s all right,” she said. Slowly, the guests turned back to their own conversations.

  “Steady, there, old man,” David said, pressing a hand against Gregory’s back. “It’s just a dress.”

  “Of—of course,” Gregory said, recovering. “Just haven’t seen it in a while is all,” he said, struggling to smile. “You look ravishing in it, Maggie. Lily would be so pleased. I’m sorry for my reaction. Completely out of proportion.”

  “Not at all,” Maggie replied, glad to see him pull himself together. “And you two look wonderful, as well.” And indeed, the men did look resplendent in their full evening dress: white ties, starched wing collar shirts and waistcoats, black trousers, and tailcoats with grosgrain facings.

  The bagpipers played Robert Burn’s “Brose and Butter,” the interplay of the guests’ chanter juxtaposed against the steady reedy sound of the drones.

  “I see you’ve found the martinis,” Louisa said, looking at the nearly empty glasses in the men’s white gloved hands, “but is there champagne?” She and Polly set out in search for a servant with a silver tray of glasses.

  “Dinner is served,” announced the King, in his RAF dress uniform.

  As the pipers began to play again, the glittering guests proceeded into St. George’s Hall, its arched ceiling studded with hundreds of shields, glowing with the light of the fire in the fireplace and the light of long tapered beeswax candles in six-foot-tall gold-gilded candelabras, showing multiple St. Georges battling countless incarnations of the infamous dragon.

  The hundred and fifty guests were to be seated at one lengthy Cuban mahogany table, polished to a high sheen, reflecting the glow of the candles. Huge bouquets of velvety red roses, spiky orchids, crimson amaryllis, and creamy white Casablanca lilies in golden bowls dotted the table. Yeomen of the Guard, in their red ruffed-collar Elizabethan costumes, red stockings, and red, white, and blue rosette-decorated shoes, stood at attention against the walls, alternating with wig-wearing footmen, in state livery of scarlet with gold braid.

  Maggie found her gold chair, upholstered in red-striped satin, near the bottom of the table, her name on a small engraved card held in a gilded holder, which glinted in the candlelight. She was to be seated next to a retired Admiral, in a medal-festooned navy-blue dress uniform. Between them was a menu, written in calligraphy, on heavy white stock embossed with the golden initials GR at the top.

  But before she could sit down, David deftly took the place card next to her on the other side and switched it with his own.

  “David!” Maggie exclaimed. “Really, now.”

  “Oh, don’t take that older-sister tone with me,” he said. “War rations on priceless Royal china, how droll.” He picked up the charger in front of him, with panels of cobalt blue, a gold-stippled border, and painted birds and insects. He flipped it over to look at the maker. “Tournai, 1787. Excellent.”

  “David!” Maggie whispered. The plate was set with military precision between a full set of gleaming vermeil flatware and multiple crystal wine glasses, engraved with the Order of the Garter star and the royal emblem.

  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.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  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?”