Chapter Twenty-two
The morning’s long procession of black cars from London—Daimlers and Bentleys and Rolls-Royces—rolled slowly up the Long Walk, through an avenue of elm trees planted by Charles II. Maggie watched from one of the high lancet windows in the York Tower as, finally, they reached the Sovereign’s Entrance. Drivers in livery came around to the passenger side of the cars, opening the doors, and helping their occupants out. When she saw Mr. Churchill and David walk up the stone stairs to the entrance and the doors swing open, she gave a small gasp, then ran to the entrance.
Footmen in white-powdered wigs and dress uniforms flanked the Grand Staircase, dominated by an enormous white marble statue of King George IV. At the very top, under the glazed gothic lantern ceiling, were the royal couple, the King in dress uniform, the Queen in a becoming wisteria wool dress and a bib of glistening graduated pearls. Next to them were the two Princesses, dressed alike in matching plaid skirts, white blouses, and red wool cardigans.
Maggie peeked from around a corner as Mr. Churchill made his way up the stairs. The P.M.’s face looked thinner than she remembered; the strain of war had aged him. He bowed to the king and then the two shook hands with great vigor. Maggie could see the twinkling blue eyes she remembered. He bowed low to the Queen, kissing her bejeweled hand with great reverence. And then he bowed gravely to the two Princesses, making them giggle and blush.
While more of the War Cabinet continued to march in—Lord Hastings Ismay, Clement Attlee, Arthur Greenwood—those already greeted milled about in the Grand Vestibule under the watchful eye of the marble Queen Victoria, before moving on to the Crimson Drawing Room.
There, in red silk and golden gilded splendor, guests congregated in front of the enormous black marble fireplace with its bronze satyrs, the dancing carroty flames trying to cheer the room and provide heat, although there was a still a damp creeping chill in the air. The room was decorated with great boughs of fragrant evergreens, white roses, and holly with bright red berries.
As the hall rapidly filled with guests—men in uniforms or dark suits and a few women here and there in dark day dresses—Maggie found David. “You came!” she cried above the growing din of upper-class accents and the chords of a harpsichordist playing a Handel gigue in the background.
“Magster!” he exclaimed, kissing her on both cheeks.
“Welcome to Windsor Castle.”
“Love what they’ve done to the place,” David said, looking around.
“It’s not as glamorous as it might seem today. Mostly it’s like living in a very cold museum in the off-season.” Maggie noticed that David was carrying a briefcase. And that it was chained to his wrist. “I’ve heard of being chained to your desk—but, really.…”
“Just until I can get it to the safe,” he assured her. “I won’t be attending the ball with a briefcase as my escort, I can assure you.”
“Well, good. Because I’d like a dance.”
“Don’t suppose there’s anything to drink?” David said. “Long ride from London, you know.” He spied a long table at the other end of the room, covered in white linen and piled high with porcelain tea settings and silver urns, etched trays piled high with pastries. “Suffering Sukra, I suppose tea will have to do. Come on!”
Lilibet and Margaret appeared at Maggie’s side. “We’re making the butter pats for the dinners,” Margaret announced proudly.
“They have little crowns on them,” Lilibet added. “We’re making ever so many—and we’re not allowed to eat any of them.”
“You don’t say, Your Highnesses,” David said, bowing. “I don’t know how I shall eat any butter pats at all during my stay, knowing that your Royal hands have touched them.”
The girls giggled.
David asked Lilibet, “And how is Miss Hope doing as your maths teacher? Is she any good?”
“She’s terrible!” Margaret exclaimed, pulling on Maggie’s skirt and laughing. “We need to send her to the dungeons, where she’ll be eaten alive by a horrible dragon!”
“She’s quite wonderful.” Lilibet glared down at her sister. “I’ve learned ever so much. Not just maths but codes and things.”
“Codes?” David raised an eyebrow. “Really, now.”
“Lilibet’s an excellent student,” Maggie said.
The Princesses giggled and wandered off, arm in arm.
Maggie spotted Mrs. Tinsley in the crowd. Mrs. Tinsley was still Mr. Churchill’s head typist and the woman Maggie had once reported to; once upon a time, she had found the older woman intimidating. But now it was a joy to see her, with her customary rope of creamy pearls around her neck. “Mrs. Tinsley!” she exclaimed.
“Why, hello, Miss Hope,” Mrs. Tinsley said, taking the younger girl’s measure over the frames of her glasses.
Mrs. Tinsley tucked back a strand of black hair threaded with gray. “You look well. The country air agrees with you.”
“And you look as lovely as always. How is Miss Stewart?”
“She’s well. Back at Number Ten, holding down the proverbial fort. She sends her well wishes to you—and I’ll tell her you asked after her.”
“May I offer you a cup of tea, Mrs. Tinsley?”
“Thank you, that would be delightful,” she said, making a beeline to one of the gilt and red-silk chairs.
Maggie went to the large table and poured a cup of tea, black just the way she took it at No. 10. When she returned with it, handing it to the older woman, she heard, “Well, Hope’s at Windsor Castle now!” in a loud, gruff voice. “And all’s right with the world.”
It was the Prime Minister, wearing a navy blue suit with a burgundy polka-dotted bow tie and a sprig of holly in the buttonhole—
“Mr. Churchill!” she exclaimed.
“Miss Hope,” he replied, bowing slightly.
“Is Mrs. Churchill with you, sir?”
“She’s joining us this evening.”
Suddenly Gregory was at her elbow. “Maggie, you never told me you traveled in such impressive circles.” As introductions were made, Maggie saw Frain greet Sir Hill across the room but averted her eyes; after all, she was just supposed to be Lilibet’s maths tutor. Hugh was there as well, standing with Mark Standish.
And then the male staff, under the watchful eye of Lord Clive, began to escort the guests to their rooms.
“Toodle pip for now, love,” said David to Maggie, as his escort appeared.
“Maybe we can all get a drink before dinner tonight, yes?” Gregory suggested.
“Suits me,” David replied. “Magster?”
“Of course,” Maggie answered. But she had already spied Frain and Hugh in the crowd. She knew they were coming, of course, but it was still a shock to see them at Windsor. She stood perfectly still, uncertain of how to proceed, her heart beating fast as a hummingbird’s.
David sized up the predicament and called Frain over. “Mr. Frain,” he said, “you remember Maggie Hope, don’t you? One of Mr. Churchill’s typists?”
“Of course,” said Frain. “Miss Hope, a pleasure to see you again.”
“And you, Mr. Frain.”
“This is my associate, Hugh Thompson,” Frain said.
“How do you do, Mr. Thompson,” Maggie said, offering her hand, which he took.
He winked at her. “How do you do, Miss Hope?” As Frain made his way over to the Prime Minister and David and Gregory drifted off, Maggie and Hugh stood, face-to-face, in the crowd. “You have a little something—” He reached for her hair.
“What?” Maggie said. “What is it?”
