And she knew David well enough to realize he’d never even think to write.
From Chuck, she received various hastily written missives in pencil on scrap paper, detailing wedding plans. Then came the day she received the invitation, engraved on heavy cream stock.
DR. AND MRS. IAN MCCAFFREY
REQUEST THE HONOR OF YOUR PRESENCE
AT THE MARRIAGE OF THEIR DAUGHTER
CHARLOTTE MARY
TO
FLIGHT LIEUTENANT NIGEL ALFRED LUDLOW
ON SATURDAY, JANUARY 2
AT HALF PAST TEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
LEEDS CATHEDRAL
GREAT GEORGE STREET, LEEDS
She wrote back to say she would be attending, especially as Chuck had asked her to be a bridesmaid.
And her father had sent a package. She cut through the twine and removed the heavy brown paper. Inside was finding a volume of
Turning through the frontmatter, she noticed an inscription:
“Maggie, may we do maths in your sitting room today?” Lilibet asked as Maggie entered the nursery the next morning, carrying several books and folders of notes.
Maggie was surprised but willing to consider it. “Of course, Lilibet, but why? Your rooms are so much prettier. And
Lilibet sighed. “It’s just … I’m so restless here. It’s always the same. We always do the same things, in the same order, every day. I just thought a change of scene …”
“Indeed!” Maggie said, warming to the idea. “That’s something Mr. Churchill always said, when he’d go to Chartwell or Chequers or Ditchley to work.” She affected her best Churchillian voice, “ ‘A change of scene is as good as a rest.’ “
Lilibet giggled.
“We’ll have tea and lessons up there. Come on!”
After the long trek down the cold corridors, they reached Maggie’s rooms. In her green sitting room, a fire crackled cheerfully behind the iron grate. Maggie set down their books and notes as Audrey entered and put down a tea tray with a pot, two cups and saucers, spoons, and a plate of digestive biscuits and linen napkins, and then left.
As the tea steeped, Lilibet was uncharacteristically twitchy. She wandered around Maggie’s room, picking things up and putting them down. When she found the wireless, she asked, “Do you listen to ‘It’s that Man Again’? Margaret and Alah and I love it.”
“I do enjoy it,” Maggie confessed.
Lilibet continued to look at her shelves. “You don’t have much here.”
“No,” Maggie agreed. “Most of my things are still in London.”
“We used to live in London, you know.” Lilibet pulled out a book of photographs bound in ivory moire silk. “What’s this?” she asked.
Maggie took the book and then motioned for the young girl to sit down next to her. “Well,” she said, turning the pages. “This is a family album. Here are my paternal grandparents, my father and Aunt Edith when they were children. Oh! And my father and mother’s wedding picture. They were married at Saint Margaret’s, near Westminster Abbey.”
Lilibet’s eyes took in the picture of Clara Hope, draped in lace. “Goodness, your mother was pretty,” she said.
“Yes,” Maggie agreed, giving the photos one last, wistful look before closing the book. “And now it’s time to get to work.”
But Lilibet has sprung up yet again and looking at Maggie’s books. “Ugh,” she exclaimed, examining the titles. “Boring!” She pulled out the Turing and paged through. “You can actually read this?”
“Yes,” Maggie said. “And so could you, if you continue with your study of maths. And now—”
“Oh, Grimm’s Fairy Tales!” she exclaimed. “I just love them!” She pulled the book out, brought it to the tea table, and sat down. “Look, here’s ‘Hansel and Gretel,’ ‘The Frog King,’ and ‘Cat and Mouse’!”
Maggie went to pour the tea, but Lilibet said, “May I?” Maggie nodded, and the Princess poured the fragrant tea into the two cups. “Margaret calls me puritanical about tea, but I like things to be perfect.”
Maggie had noticed this tendency in the princess. Often she would arrange and rearrange her pens and pencils on her desk and become agitated if her books weren’t in the proper order or her papers weren’t lined up just so.
“Well, we’re not going to be perfect today,” Maggie said lightly. “I’m afraid I don’t have any sugar.”
“That’s fine, I’m used to it black now,” Lilibet replied, coming back to the sofa with the volume and sitting down. “May I borrow it? I know there’s a library here and all, but the books are so very old and serious, and Sir Owen is such a Burns about letting them out of the stacks.…” Turning the pages, Lilibet started. “Oh, there’s an inscription!” she said, reaching for her tea. “Look!
And with that Lilibet sneezed, an enormous, violent sneeze. Quite by accident, she splashed hot tea all over the page.
“Are you all right?” Maggie asked, taking napkins from the tray and blotting first the princess and then the book.
“I’m fine,” Lilibet said, her blue eyes threatening to overflow with sudden tears. “But, Maggie—I’m so sorry. So very, very sorry. I’ve ruined your book.”
“It’s fine, really,” Maggie assured her. “No harm done.”
Lilibet blotted the inscription. “I think it will be all right.…”
“Of course it will,” Maggie responded, putting the book on the windowsill to dry. “And now, let’s open our textbook to page one fifty-six and—”
There was a knock. It was George Poulter, the winking footman, his hair powdered white with the same mixture of starch, flour, and soap that had been used at the Castle for centuries. He wore the official footman’s uniform: blue velvet coat, knee breeches, stockings, and well-shined buckled shoes. He carried a letter on an ornate silver tray.
“Your Highness,” he said to the Princess, who favored him with a smile. And then, “Miss Hope.” He bowed as he proffered the envelope.
“Thank you,” Maggie said. She took the letter and the footman left. She found her hands were shaking.
The return address was an official Whitehall address, and it was written on official-looking RAF stationery.
“Oooh, what is it?” Lilibet said, running over to Maggie’s side. “Do you have a beau in the RAF? How glamorous!” Then, seeing Maggie’s expression, “Oh, I do hope everything’s all right. He
