Princess Elizabeth's Spy

and I couldn’t be happier.”

Chapter Thirty

Back at David’s flat in London that evening, Maggie telephoned Hugh at the office. “So, we don’t work together anymore, do we?”

“Well, technically, we both work for MI-Five, yes. But, to the best of my knowledge, since the Windsor case is closed, I’m not your handler anymore. So, yes—and no.”

“Well, David’s going to be out and I’m going to try and cook something tonight. If you happen to be passing by—”

“I’ll be there,” Hugh interrupted.

From across the room, Mark laughed.

Hugh grinned and mouthed, “Shut up.”

Over dinner, Maggie’s attempt at Potato Jane, a bake of potatoes, leeks, cheese, and bread crumbs and vinegary red wine, the two had their first somewhat normal conversation. “You have the advantage, though,” Maggie said, “because you know more about me, than I know about you. You have my file.”

“You’re more than your file.”

“Well, I know you’re a Chelsea Blues fan.”

“How did you know that?”

She smiled. “You wear blue socks on game days. Also, you play the guitar.”

“No.” This time he smiled, and reached for his wine.

“No?” Maggie was surprised. “You have calluses on the tips of your left fingers, but not your right.”

“Cello,” Hugh admitted.

“Ah. A lovely instrument. Very soulful.” Then, “So, what did I miss?”

“You know most of the other details. My mother raised me. I ended up at Selwyn College, at Cambridge, for a degree in theology. And, for a while I thought I wanted to be a priest.”

“Catholic?”

“Anglican.”

“Well, well, well.” Maggie had no idea of Hugh’s religious proclivities.

“Do you go to church?”

“Er, no,” Maggie said. “I was raised Episcopalian—what you’d call Anglican—but more because my Aunt Edith said it was a cultural necessity. That the Episcopalians use the King James Bible, which, according to her, is the best—meaning most literary—translation. And it would be impossible to understand history and literature without reading it. But I consider myself a scientist, first and foremost.”

“Are science and religion mutually exclusive, then?”

“Not necessarily. My position concerning God is that of an agnostic, in the Jeffersonian tradition.” Her smile widened. “So, how are the Chelsea Blues shaping up for the spring season?” They talked easily and freely, laughing loudly and often, and ate with gusto.

When they were through with dinner and wine, Maggie rose and began to clear the dishes from the dining room to the kitchen. Hugh began to clear as well.

“Oh, it’s all right,” she said, running the water in the sink and adding some homemade dishwashing soap, made from baking soda and Borax.

“How about if I wash and you dry?”

“Excellent.”

Dishes put away, they went into the parlor, where Maggie put on one of David’s records. Hugh picked up the Vera Lynn album that Maggie had listened to, thinking of John, before she’d left for Windsor. “Oh, not that,” she said without thinking.

“Too many memories?” he said, understanding instantly. “How about Noel Coward’s “Bitter Sweet”?

“Perfect.”

On Monday morning, Maggie rose from her bed at in her room at David’s flat and stretched.

“Must you go?” Hugh murmured, eyes still closed, reaching for her.

“Yes,” she said, leaning back to kiss him, “and you must too.”

In the weekend they’d spent together, Maggie had experienced such joy in his company, his wry grin, his pointed way of looking at the world, the simple pleasure of—behind closed doors, at least—being a normal couple. Despite the gray morning outside their window, she was still surrounded by a feeling of surprising happiness, a feeling that had only grown during their time together. As she watched him stand naked in the dim light, she delighted how very beautiful he was. Despite, perhaps because of, his injury.

“Poor leg,” she said, taking in the bandages.

“Much better now,” Hugh said.

Maggie threw a pillow at him. “Stop smirking!”

“That wasn’t a smirk. It was more of a leer, I believe.

She put her arms around his neck and he put his around her waist. They kissed, a long kiss. “I’ll see you at the office,” she said, voice serious. Her meeting with Frain was today.

“I know,” he answered. “I’m there for you—no matter what happens.”

Maggie and Hugh sat next to each other in a large conference room in the MI-5 offices, at a long, polished wood table, dotted by a few heavy glass ashtrays. It was impersonal, except for a framed photograph of the King and a large black clock. Maggie had her book in front of her. Outside the windows the day was chill and grey.

“You sure you’re all right?” Hugh asked, as men in dark suits began to filter in, taking seats around the long polished table. A few of them lit cigarettes.

“I didn’t realize this was going to be such a big meeting.” Maggie whispered, wishing she could take his hand.

“Neither did I.”

As the clock on the wall ticked, they all waited. Then Frain walked in. He was followed by Edmund Hope. Maggie took a sharp intake of breath.

“Good morning gentlemen, Miss Hope,” Frain said, as he took the seat at the head of the table. Edmund sat down next to him.

Maggie looked at Hugh, confused. He raised an eyebrow, surprised as she was.

Frain cleared his throat. “Our first order of business is the review of the attempt to smuggle critical information from Bletchley Park to the Germans, the assassination attempt on the King and the attempt to kidnap the Princess Elizabeth. In addition, there was a last-minute attempt to smuggle out an important aide to the Prime Minister, one who knows nearly everything Churchill himself knows, with a briefcase full of classified documents. Thanks to courage, bravery, and quick thinking by our team, disaster was averted. The stolen decrypts never left England. The King is recovering nicely, the Princess is safe at home, and Mr. Churchill’s private secretary is back at work at Number Ten this morning.”

“Hear, hear!” Maggie heard. She and Hugh exchanged small smiles.

“Yes, and we owe special thanks to the two young agents here—Margaret Hope and Hugh Thompson.”

There was warm applause.

Suddenly Winston Churchill opened the door, lit cigar clenched between his teeth. Everyone rose.

“Please come in and take a seat, Prime Minister,” Frain said, offering up his own. Churchill did.

What’s he doing here? Maggie wondered. They all took their seats once more.

Frain held up his hand. “However, we can’t ever rest on our laurels. We’re still at war—there are still any number of threats to the Royal Family, the Prime Minister, the carefully kept secrets that give us an advantage in this war. And Commandant Hess is still in Berlin, a most formidable foe.”

“Commandant Hess?” Maggie asked.

“Yes.” Frain and Edmund exchanged a look. “The mastermind behind the King’s assassination and the princess’s kidnapping plot.”

Edmund Hope shifted in his seat.