Princess Elizabeth's Spy

“Fairy dust—or so it seems.” She stood very still as he pulled something from her hair, then handed it to her. It was white and sparkling, like an opal. “Oh,” she said, cheeks turning pink, as she took it from him. “It’s the snow they’ve put on the Christmas tree and some of the garlands. Gets onto everything if you’re not careful …” Maggie said, flustered.

“I hope you’ll save me a dance, Miss Hope,” he said, giving an almost imperceptible bow as one of the servants came to lead him to his room.

“Of—of course, Mr. Thompson.”

In the Submarine Tracking Room in the Admiralty Arch, a young man moved a red pushpin on a map-covered table, one of thousands of different colored pins on the turquoise blue areas of the map representing the Atlantic. Donald Kirk was reading a memo, but he caught the movement out of the corner of his eye.

He limped over, leaning heavily on his walking stick, to take a closer look. “That U-boat there,” he said, pointing to the red pin just the young man had just moved, “U-two-forty-six. What’s it doing?”

The man, olive-skinned with a shiny nose and forehead, shrugged. “Seems to be on the move now, sir,” he said. “Heading closer to shore than we’ve seen before.”

Kirk looked at the map, to the Norfolk coast. What’s the captain doing? Kirk thought. He looked up the submarine’s captain, a Captain Jorg Vogt. Vogt might not even know himself, yet, what they were doing there.

“Keep an eye on it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dinner that evening was a formal affair and Maggie got dressed with Polly and Louisa. In Louisa’s rooms in Victoria Tower, with Irving presiding from his glass container, Maggie pulled out her blue dress with the black velvet-tipped flowers.

“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 consomme 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.”