Princess Elizabeth's Spy

Maggie was about to reply, when Elizabeth answered, “She’s the new governess, Margaret—to teach me maths. Crawfie told me.”

“Do I get to learn maths?” Margaret wanted to know.

“No, these are maths for me,” Elizabeth told her sister with just a touch of superiority. “I am fourteen, after all. While you are only eight.”

Margaret glared and stamped a small foot. “Not fair, Lilibet. You always get to do everything first!”

“That’s because I’m older.”

Margaret stuck out her tongue at Lilibet, then turned back to Maggie and gave her a piercing look. “Well, we can’t call you Margaret—because that’s my name. We’ll have to call you Hopie. After all, we call Miss Crawford Crawfie and Mrs. Clara Knight is Alah.”

Hopie? Oh, no. No, indeed. “How about just plain Maggie?” Maggie suggested conspiratorially. “Besides, only my Aunt Edith, who lives far, far away in the United States, calls me Margaret anyway.”

Princess Margaret considered. “All right.” She circled Maggie, looking her up and down, taking in everything from her rolled hair to her resoled pumps. “Your hair’s red, but it’s more of an auburn, so that makes it prettier. Not like Sir Humphrey, whose hair is, unfortunately, the color of carrots. Of course, it’s fine if carrots are carrot-colored—but not the tops of people’s heads. I’m glad you’re so young and pretty. Are you really from America? You do talk funny. Do you know any movie stars? Shirley Temple?”

“Margaret!” Princess Elizabeth admonished. “That’s enough now. Don’t overwhelm poor Miss Hope.”

“You’re not Queen yet, Lilibet!” Princess Margaret snapped.

Princess Elizabeth rolled her eyes. Obviously it wasn’t the first time she’d heard that. “You don’t need to be a queen to be polite.”

Ainslie again gestured to the woman seated across the room. “Mrs. Knight, this is Miss Hope, the Princess Elizabeth’s new maths tutor. Miss Hope, this is Mrs. Knight, the princesses’ nanny, known as Alah.” Alah was an older woman with black hair, handsome features, and a no-nonsense expression. “Alah was originally nanny to the Queen.”

“How do you do,” Maggie said.

“How do you do,” Alah responded with a Hertfordshire accent. She went over to young Margaret and smoothed her curls protectively. Margaret looked up at her with an expression of absolute adoration.

Ah, Maggie realized, she’s territorial. Of course. It must be difficult to have someone new come in.

“Alah is responsible for the princesses’ out-of-school life—their health, their baths, their clothes. To help her, she has an undermaid and a nursemaid. You shall meet them later. You’ll also meet Crawfie, Miss Marion Crawford, the girls’ governess,” Ainslie explained. “She’s responsible for them from nine until six. You’ll discuss Princess Elizabeth’s academic schedule with her.”

“Of course,” Maggie said, raising her chin just the slightest bit. “I look forward to it.” She looked at Alah. Maggie could sense the love that the woman had for her young charges. There may be a threat at Windsor, Maggie thought, but I doubt it comes from Alah. But who knows about the rest of the staff?

After the perfunctory goodbyes, there was more walking through maze-like icy stone corridors. “I feel there must be a Minotaur lying in wait somewhere,” Maggie joked, disconcerted by the silence.

Ainslie did not respond.

Finally, he announced, “The Victoria Tower, Miss.” They began to climb a circular staircase. The stone of the steps was worn smooth in the center. A few of them were crumbled at the edges. Ainslie and Maggie climbed. And climbed. And climbed.

Maggie was a bit out of breath when they reached the top. “Here are your rooms,” the butler said, opening the heavy wooden door for her. She felt a prickle of girlish excitement. I’m going to live in a tower in a castle!

She took a few steps inside; Ainslie followed, turning on a few lamps with silk fringed shades. The sitting room was small, with kelly-green walls dotted with a few oil landscapes and a small chintz-covered sofa and small table pulled in front of a stone fireplace. A fire, set and lit by one of the castle’s fender smiths, popped and cracked merrily behind the iron grate, although it didn’t seem to be throwing much heat. Maggie shivered.

Ainslie opened a door to the bedroom; the canopied bed was piled high with large pillows encased in white linen with handmade lace, topped by a crimson duvet. “There’s a radiator in here, Miss. In case you get cold.” In case? Maggie thought but refrained from saying anything.

“The toilet and bath are”—Ainslie paused delicately, indicating a steep and narrow staircase—“on the roof.”

“On the roof?” Maggie repeated, dumbstruck.

“Castles weren’t originally built with indoor plumbing, Miss Hope.”

“It’s enclosed?”

“Of course,” Ainslie replied, looking shocked.

“Well, how refreshing,” Maggie managed.

He pointed to a bell, wired near the main door. “In the event of an air raid, you will be warned by watchers stationed on the Round Tower, and then the Wardens will ring the bell. After dinner, I shall show you the way to the shelter. It’s in the dungeon.” As he walked to the door, he added, “You’ll be expected to join the rest of the staff at eight sharp for dinner in the Octagon Room.”

He cleared his throat. “We dress.”

It didn’t take Maggie long to unpack her suitcase. Better than the dock in the War Rooms anyway, she decided, although she wasn’t thrilled by the idea of nights in a dungeon. It must be quite safe from raids, at least. And it can’t be any worse than an Anderson shelter.

She glanced at the tiny gold watch on her wrist. Seven o’clock. How did it get to be so late? And Ainslie’s “We dress.” What does it mean, exactly? She was annoyed yet again that Frain was in such a rush to get her installed that he hadn’t found time to get her properly briefed. “You’re a bright girl, you’ll manage,” indeed. Maggie was glad he thought so highly of her, but it didn’t help her figure out what to wear for dinner.

She’d brought all she had, but it wasn’t that much. Skirts and blouses, mostly. Some sweaters. A few pairs of flannel trousers. Several wool dresses. Oxfords, plimsoles, and fur-lined boots. One sky-blue gown tipped in black velvet. Back in London, she’d had flatmates to borrow from.

But she couldn’t think of that now. She pulled out one of her dresses, dark green wool with a lace collar and silver buttons. It would have to do. She brushed and rerolled her hair, dabbed on some lipstick, and changed clothes. When she opened her door to the corridor, she felt a palpable chill. I’ll just wear my coat, then.

It was only after she descended the tower stairs that she realized she had absolutely no idea where the Octagon Room was.

Maggie walked for what felt like miles through long, dimly lit, icy corridors filled with spidery shadows. Her feet, in her thin-soled pumps, were freezing from the rough, cold stones—all the carpets must have been rolled up and put into storage for safekeeping—and she pulled her coat tighter around her, wishing she had taken her hat and scarf as well.

After twists and turns through the stone passageways, Maggie saw at the end of yet another long, cold hallway what looked to be a spectral figure. It was hard to tell: The few lightbulbs were the wartime-issue ones with low wattage, and all the blackout curtains covered the windows.

She squinted. Surely it was a person. It couldn’t be a ghost—oh no. Highly illogical—as well as quite improbable. Aunt Edith would be appalled at such Gothic flights of fancy. Despite herself, she began a mental inventory of all the people who might possibly be ghosts—Henry VIII, of course. And