Princess Elizabeth's Spy

There was another awkward pause. “Well, I should go,” Edmund said.

“Wait—”

There was a tense silence.

“Dad,” Maggie said, trying to keep her tone light. “Could we have tea? Lunch maybe? I’d still like to talk with you about my mother.”

He looked at her strangely. “I’m afraid I must return to Bletchley, Margaret.”

“Well, I could meet you next time you’re in London. When do you come in?”

“All right,” Edmund said finally. He still looked distracted. Panicked, even. “Dinner. Two weeks from Thursday. That would be fine.”

“Let’s meet at six at a place called Bell’s Tavern in Slough.”

“Fine,” Edmund said. Then, “I need to go, must hurry back.…”

Maggie watched him leave. Who is this man, really? This father I’d believed was dead all my life—until last summer. She shook her head. Well, dinner together will be the start to finding out.

Chapter Five

David had picked up ingredients for dinner. “Poor Man’s Stroganoff, I’m afraid,” he said in the kitchen in his flat.

“I’m impressed you’re cooking at all,” Maggie replied. “Sounds delicious, especially after what passed for food at Camp Spook. What can I do to help?”

“Set the table, if you don’t mind. You remember where everything is, yes? This shouldn’t take too long.”

David puttered in the kitchen, opening a tin of tomatoes and adding them to the small amount of ground beef he was frying. “Mmmmm …” he said, taking a deep appreciative sniff as the tomatoes sizzled in the hot frying pan.

Maggie, taking out silverware and napkins from the drawers, looked him over. David was a young man, slim and handsome, with fair hair and round, silver-rimmed glasses. It hadn’t been that long since she’d last seen him, but he’d seemed to have filled out and become less boyish, more mature.

“There are candles too, and a bottle of decent Bordeaux in one of the cupboards if you can find it,” he said. “Black-market special.”

As Maggie finished setting the table, David brought in the two plates.

“Smells wonderful,” Maggie said, sitting down and putting a linen napkin in her lap.

“Not bad,” David admitted, pouring the wine and then sitting down.

“Cheers,” she said, and they clinked glasses.

David watched her cut a tomato with her fork in her left hand and knife in her right, then put down the knife at the right-hand edge of the plate and switch the fork from left hand to right. “You still eat like an American,” he said, rolling his eyes in mock horror. “I was hoping maybe they’d drill that out of you at spy camp.”

“I can eat the way you do, the British way,” she retorted, “but I choose not to. Why I’d want to hang on to my knife the way you all do is beyond me. You look positively medieval.”

“I think in medieval times they used their hands,” David mused. “And these days it might be smart to hang on to one’s knife. But at any rate, you’re looking good, Magster. Maybe you didn’t love Camp Spook, but the fresh air and sunshine have been good for you. You’re not as pale. Or as skinny.”

“Thank you,” Maggie said dryly. David was like the brother she’d never knew she’d always wanted. “Looks like I’ll be getting more fresh air and sunshine in the future.”

“Really? Where’s Frain sending you?”

“Windsor Castle. I’m going to be tutoring the Princess Elizabeth in maths, of all things.”

“Merciful Minerva, you’re going to be a governess? I thought—”

“Me too.” Maggie shrugged. “But apparently there’s chatter about some sort of threat to the Royal Family, including the Princess Elizabeth, who’s next in line to the throne.” She laughed. “Besides, I know I’m a good tutor. After all, I taught those two boys next door maths for more than a year before I came to work at Number Ten.”

“Oh, right,” David said, remembering. “Cheeky boys.”

“Well, they had a lot of energy. Surely the princesses will be more decorous.”

David snorted. “Don’t know about that,” he said, reaching for his wine. “You grew up in America, after all— exactly what do you know about British aristocracy?”

“Not much beyond the historical, I’m afraid,” Maggie said.

“All right, impromptu quiz—what do you say when you meet the King and Queen?”

Maggie gave David a wry look. Frain had forgotten about royal etiquette lessons. “Hello?”

David smacked himself on the head. “Oh, my dear Eliza Doolittle—we have a long night ahead of us.”

After an evening of curtsies, and when to speak, and when to use “Your Majesty,” and when to use “Your Highness,” and how to back out of a room without tripping, Maggie and David collapsed on one of the angular deco sofas in a fit of giggles.

“So you’re off on Friday, then?” David asked, after they’d quieted somewhat.

“Yes,” Maggie said. “Frain suggested you drive me.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” He smirked. “Fine, as long as MI-Five gives me petrol rations.”

There was a comfortable silence, then David ventured, “Are you going back to the house?”

“No, I haven’t been back. I don’t want to go back.” She smoothed her skirt. “I’ve rented it out to several of Chuck’s fellow nurses. Apparently, the old pile is still standing.”

“I understand. But it might be good for you to go back. Get rid of some old ghosts, perhaps?”

“Too much—too much happened there last summer. I have no wish to go down memory lane.”

“I’m not sure denying everything that happened is helping, though, Magster.”

“I’m not ready,” Maggie snapped. Then, more gently, “And how are you doing with all this?”

“Well, you know the Old Man promoted me, yes?” Prime Minister Winston Churchill had named David as head private secretary—his right-hand man.

“Yes, congratulations. You deserve it.”

“It’s bloody serious stuff, Magster. As the Old Man says,” David said, pulling in his chin and affecting his best Churchillian tones: “ ‘The price of greatness is responsibility.’ “ Maggie had to laugh, remembering all of Mr. Churchill’s mannerisms and verbal tics.

“Look at this.” David pulled a small silk drawstring pouch from his pocket.

“What is it?”

“One of the perks of my position.” He opened it and deposited its contents on the table. It was a single oval capsule. “Cyanide tablet. The brown is rubber casing,” He explained, “to protect it. If I need to use it, I’ll have to crush it between by teeth.”

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “Put it away.”

“I try not to think about it,” David grinned as he put it back in the pouch and deposited it in his pocket. “It’s been good at Number Ten, Maggie. Only …?”

“Yes?”

“It’s not the same. With you away, of course.” David paused. “And—without John.”

“Yes.”

“I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

“He’s not gone. His plane was shot down. That’s all we know. Everything else is speculation and conjecture.”

“Maggie, if there were anything to know, any hope to hold out, I think the office would know. The Old Man’s pretty torn up over it too. John was practically a son to him, after all.”

Maggie swallowed. “I refuse to give up hope.”

“Good for you, Magster—good for you. It is your name, after all.”

Maggie had a sudden memory of her first day working with the P.M. He’d called her Miss Holmes by mistake,