Princess Elizabeth's Spy

“Are you going hunting too?” Maggie asked, noting his more casual trousers, tattersall shirt, and cardigan sweater.

“No, no,” he said. “I find the sounds of shots being fired a bit disturbing after Norway.”

“Of course,” Maggie said, realizing that of course being around guns might bring back bad memories. “And how was the rest of your evening?”

“Fantastic,” he said. “Your friend David’s quite a wit.”

“He is, isn’t he?” Maggie felt a sisterly pride in David. I wonder what really happened last night.

“Actually,” Gregory said, “I thought I could perhaps be of service to you and Crawfie, as I know the big performance is tomorrow.”

“You’re an angel,” Maggie said.

Audrey, in her black dress and starched white apron, came in with another silver platter of scrambled powdered eggs, which she set down on the loaded buffet table.

“It’s a big weekend for everyone,” he said.

David had some time while the Prime Minister was in meetings and, briefcase safely ensconced in his room’s safe, decided to take a walk around the Great Park, even though the air was cold and the sky overhead a sullen gray.

There were footsteps behind him, crackling on the dead grass. It was Gregory, in his tweeds, cap set at a jaunty angle, striped school scarf around his neck. “Taking some air?” David said.

“Coming to warn you,” he replied. “Most of the castle’s guests are hunting today. They’re both armed to the teeth and still drunk from last night—or the hair of the dog. I’m concerned it’s not safe out here, under the circumstances.”

“By Jove, I think you’re right,” David said. Behind the high stone walls of the castle, he could hear the clomping of horses’ hooves, men’s shouts, dogs barking and the occasional high whinny. Then, “I’ll need to get back to work soon anyway.”

They walked along together, their breath visible in the cold air. “And does work always come first for you?” Gregory asked.

“Only during wartime.” David noticed that Gregory was pale beneath his scars, and not quite steady in his steps. “Shall we sit down for a bit? I’m not used to all this country air.”

Gregory smiled as though he knew David’s ruse but sat down with him anyway on a low stone bench. “Over that way,” he said, “is the Thames and the Eton boathouse. One of my favorite places in the world.”

“Can you—” David knew he should tread carefully. “Are you still able to—row?”

“Yes, I can still row,” Gregory said with significance. “Thank God. I go over every once in a while and take out a shell. Good to get the blood flowing. I can really think out there, on the water. Really feel free.”

“That’s fantastic,” David said. “Feeling free doesn’t come often these days.”

“I’m looking for freedom now, David,” he said. “I don’t want to go back to the Air Force in the new year—I only have a week or so left at Windsor, as the King’s Equerry, before I’m supposed to report back for active duty. But I’m still finding it quite difficult to be one of the walking wounded.”

“You’re hardly the walking wounded.” David tried to keep his tone light.

“Thank you for saying that, but I’m nothing like the man I used to be. Outside or in.”

“I think you’re selling yourself short,” David said.

“Perhaps,” Gregory said. “Perhaps.” Then he stood up. “We’d best outrun the hunters.”

Late that afternoon, the guests in their scarlet jackets returned, then hastened to their rooms to clean up and dress for dinner. In the Green Drawing Room, the enormous fireplace was blazing. As more and more guests came in, champagne flowed freely, and laughter echoed off the damask-covered walls.

That evening, the ladies were in red, white, or blue silk and satin, taffeta, and tulle, as per the Queen’s order. Maggie felt, under the circumstances, it was absolutely appropriate to wear her blue chiffon dress. In the Waterloo Chamber this time, alongside men in dress uniforms and full evening regalia, they made their way through multiple courses. Once again, Maggie noticed that Gregory didn’t eat much but drank a great deal. As the long candles dripped wax and dessert was being served, Winston Churchill rose to his feet and the gentle murmurs of the dinner guests quieted.

“First, let me thank the gracious hospitality of our King and Queen, for having us here this weekend. And showing us such wonderful patriotic spirit,” he began in the tones and cadences Maggie had grown to know so well when she’d worked as his typist. She felt her fingers twitching instinctively, mock typing on her Irish linen napkin.

“This is a strange Christmas Eve. Almost the whole world is locked in deadly struggle, and, with the most terrible weapons which science can devise, the nations advance upon each other. Here, in the midst of war, raging and roaring over all the lands and seas, creeping nearer to our hearts and homes, here, amid all the tumult, we have tonight the peace of the spirit in each and every generous heart.

“This Christmas, let the children have their night of fun and laughter. Let the gifts of Father Christmas delight their play. Let us grown-ups share to the full in their unstinted pleasures before we turn again to the stern task and the formidable years that lie before us, resolved that, by our sacrifice and daring, these same children shall not be robbed of their inheritance or denied their right to live in a free and decent world.

“And so, in God’s mercy, a happy Christmas to you all.”

“Hear, hear!” called a silver-haired Navy Admiral weighed down by medals, raising his glass.

“Hear, hear!” the crowd echoed.

Somewhere down the long table, a strong tenor voice began, “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” and everyone joined in.

Everyone, that is, except Gregory, Maggie noticed. She realized that once again he was in white tie and tailcoat, instead of his dress RAF uniform. How strange, Maggie thought. Maybe he doesn’t want to be reminded of the Air Force when he has only a few days left before he has to go back.

After dinner, Maggie saw Gregory and David in the Grand Reception Hall, standing by the fireplace, each holding coupes of champagne, their images reflected back in the long mirror above. For the occasion, the Gobelins tapestries had been taken out of storage and rehung, and the delicate gilded needlepoint chairs uncovered. Two huge chandeliers dripping with French crystals, each bead and prism carefully washed, had been rehung from the high gild-laced ceiling. With Gregory and David was a young man Maggie didn’t recognize. “Hello there,” she said, approaching the group.

“Maggie, please meet Christopher Boothby, a friend from Oxford.” Gregory’s voice was tired and sounded as though it were coming from far away.

Maggie offered her hand. “Quite the reunion, isn’t it?” she said.

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Hope.” He had a touch of an accent—or was it an inflection?—she couldn’t quite place.

The Grand Reception Room was crowded with guests, and as Maggie and David walked into the room, the orchestra swelled into “You Stepped Out of a Dream.” Maggie scanned the crowd and saw Hugh, standing with Frain at the room’s edge. They exchanged a secret smile before studiously ignoring each other.

As the swirling melody of the violins mingled with the sounds of conversation and laughter, David swung Maggie into his arms and they began to dance, her cheek fitting comfortably against his neck. “You smell very nice,” she said.

“Blenheim Bouquet,” he replied, giving her a spin. “There may be a war on, but that’s no excuse not to stay fresh.”

Maggie laughed. She remembered how, even in the midst of the worst air raids, that David always looked impeccably pulled together. She looked around at the other guests. There were high-ranking officials in dress uniform with gold braid and ribbons and medals, of course, and ladies in patriotic hues—cardinal feather red, the blue of a sailor’s collar, the white like freshly fallen snow—their hair done up in diamond tiaras or pearl combs,