Mr. Churchill's Secretary (20 page)

“More drinks, then?” Simon said, refilling Maggie’s glass and then Paige’s, then laying his hand on Paige’s silk-clad thigh under the table. Just as Maggie was about to comment, she caught a glimpse of Annabelle whispering something in John’s ear and changed her mind. After all, Paige was a grown woman—and he’d probably been practicing the move for years.

As Maggie looked down the table, she saw that Chuck was a bit tipsy; she and Nigel were rubbing noses. The conversation at their end had turned to Edward and Mrs. Simpson.

“But it’s just so
romantic
!” Paige thumped the table with her dainty fist.

“Well, of course, Scarlett; you’re American,” Simon said. “You don’t realize the monarchy has nothing to do with the princes and princesses of fairy tales.”

“Oh, but what was it he said after he gave up the throne?” Paige closed her eyes to think. “That he couldn’t go on as King without—what?”

“ ‘—the help and support of the woman I love,’ ” John finished.
Who knew he had such a romantic side?
Maggie thought, finishing her glass of champagne and letting David pour her another.
Or at least a good memory. It must be remarkable champagne
.

As the singer started a slow rendition of “I Get Along
Without You Very Well,” Annabelle turned to John. “I
adore
this song,” she cooed, jumping to her feet. “You simply
must
dance with me. Come on,” she entreated, grabbing his hand and pulling him to his feet before he had a chance to refuse.

For such a skinny little thing, she’s certainly pushy
, Maggie thought through the golden haze of champagne bubbles.

As they got up to dance, Maggie’s eyes followed them.

Simon pounced. “Dance with me, Scarlett?”

Paige smiled. “Of course.”

Maggie saw Simon and Paige dance together, then leave the dance floor to go—where? Sarah was suddenly at Maggie’s side. “We have to stop them,” she said, her face pale.

“Stop them?” Maggie said, surprised. “You mean … But surely Paige deserves to have some … fun. It’s not any of our business, after all.” Maggie was taken aback. Sarah always seemed so bohemian—why this sudden puritanical streak?

“I—I can’t say. But I need to talk to her.”

Maggie looked at Sarah’s face. She was dead serious.

“All right, then—let’s go.”

“Would you like to see Wallie Simpson’s suite?” Simon said to Paige. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “The concierge is a good friend of mine,” he said, his fingers stroking her back. “Come on, what do you say?”

“Why, yes, Simon,” she said, looking up at him through her eyelashes. “I’d love to see it. It’s a place of … historical interest, after all.” She strolled with Simon to the lobby, where they took an elevator with intricate inlaid wooden panels upstairs.

“Here we are,” he said, walking in as though he owned the place. “The infamous Mrs. Simpson Suite.”
The walls were an ivory-colored watered silk, the drapes a heavy blue-and-gold brocade, which nearly hid the blackout curtains. A powder-blue silk sofa was flanked by two end tables, topped by Chinese vases.

“It’s not as though Edward and Mrs. Simpson were the only lovers at the hotel,” Simon continued, the scent of alcohol on his breath. “Oscar Wilde brought any number of young lads here. They say Antonín Dvořák stayed here regularly with his grown-up daughter—if you know what I mean.” He gave a chuckle. “But I tell you, we Brits are a lot less prim and proper than you Americans seem to think.”

Paige smiled grimly; after years in London, she was under no illusions of English politesse.

He swept open a door. “And here, my dear, is the bedroom,” he murmured, putting his arm around Paige and turning her toward him.

Without warning, there was a loud knock on the suite’s door. “Oh, damn it all to hell,” he said. As he bent to try to kiss Paige again, there was another knock, followed by loud and steady pounding.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, going to the door and opening it.

“You?” he exclaimed when he saw Sarah and Maggie, his face reddening.

Sarah quickly walked over to Paige. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” Paige said, looking confused.

“Paige, there’s something you should know,” Sarah continued evenly.

“Why don’t you two”—Simon spluttered—“
meddling bitches
mind your own goddamned bloody business!”

And then the air-raid siren began its low moan of warning.

The four looked at one another and froze.

The forlorn tone of the siren rang out again, and they heard scrambling and doors slamming as people evacuated their rooms.

“There’s a bomb shelter in the basement,” Sarah said. Without another word, they all filed out of the room and down the stairs.

Down in the basement, it looked as if the party had simply moved. People had brought their bottles and glasses with them, and the hotel staff had set up groups of tables and folding chairs. The candlelight from long wax tapers lent the proceedings a falsely festive air. A large family, sleepy-eyed and in their pajamas, were applauded as they made their appearance.

Maggie spied Chuck, Nigel, David, and the twins huddled at a table in the corner and led the way over to them. Maggie noticed John wasn’t with them.

“There you are! We were wondering what happened to you,” Chuck said, pulling Maggie down next to her and Nigel.

“No matter how many times we go through this, it’s still just horrible,” David said, sighing. “More champagne?”

Maggie and Sarah looked to Simon, but he’d noticed a man in the throng. He went to meet him, and they shook hands with vigor, obviously old friends. Paige’s face was inscrutable.

“John went to Saint Paul’s—he’s one of the Watch, you know,” David said as Maggie observed Paige’s face, looking after him. “Helps keep the damn cathedral from burning down.”

With a tap on the shoulder, Sarah pulled Paige and Maggie aside. As they walked to a small empty table, she said, “Paige, love, I know Simon’s charming and handsome—but he’s just not good enough for you. He doesn’t think much of women. Sure, he’s fun to flirt
with. But believe me, he’s like a child in a toy store, always wanting the newest and shiniest bauble. You can do better. Believe me, I know.” She gazed in Simon’s direction, her face etched with regret.

“You—and Simon?” Paige asked.

“Long time ago.” She laughed. The sound was bitter and hard. “Didn’t quite work out.” She laid a hand on Paige’s arm. “Look, he only wants what he can’t have. And once it’s done, he’s on to the next conquest.” She took a sharp intake of breath. “When I was with Simon, we—I—” She dropped her eyes. “He raped me, and I got pregnant. I was so ashamed, somehow got it in my head that it was all my fault. When he heard through the grapevine, he gave me some money and told me to take care of it.”

Sarah? Simon?
Maggie thought, finally putting the pieces together.
Simon’s a rapist?

“I knew I couldn’t support a baby on my own. I’d ruin my body and my career. If I came forward and accused him of rape, no one would believe me—it would be my word against his. And as an unwed mother, I’d be a leper. I don’t even know if my mum, my own mum, would have forgiven me if she knew. Going home to Liverpool was out of the question. So I took the money and did what I had to do.” Sarah raised her head, and her eyes challenged Paige and Maggie to pity her.

Maggie didn’t. “That must have been an incredibly hard decision.”

“What made it better was that I had friends who stood by me. David and John. They found a doctor—a good one, not one of these back-alley butchers. He had an office in Knightsbridge. They took time off work to go with me. Went with me to the appointment, helped me home afterward, got me hot soup and fresh flowers. Let me cry. They both wanted to kill Simon, but I managed to talk them out of it.”

“Ah,” said Maggie. She looked at Sarah. Above the red rose in her décolletage, her shoulders were narrow, her collarbones sharp and fragile.

“Oh, Sarah,” Paige said. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry—”

“Pssh, I’m fine,” she said, brushing off any concern. “I don’t hate him; he’s not a monster. But I wouldn’t do that again. And I wouldn’t want to see any of my friends go down that road, either.” Sarah sighed. “They were close before, at university, but I don’t think John ever forgave him.”

“Well, thank you, Sarah,” Paige said.

Maggie put her arms around Paige and Sarah, hearing the muffled sounds of bombing overhead. She realized that slowly but surely, she was getting used to the fact that people simply weren’t like numbers. Just when you thought you had an answer, they’d go and surprise you all over again.

T
HE NEXT DAY
in the underground typists’ office, Maggie sorted through all the memos on her desk stamped
Action This Day
to give to the P.M. when he awoke from his midday nap.

Nelson jumped onto her desk, surprising her. The papers slid through her hands and landed on the floor in a mess. “Oh, Nelson, for goodness’ sake …” she muttered, getting down on her hands and knees on the dusty brown linoleum to gather them. She noticed a fresh run in her stocking.
Perfect. Just perfect
.

Nelson jumped down and gazed at Maggie intently with large, green eyes from under Mrs. Tinsley’s desk.

“Careful, Nelson,” Maggie said to him, cleaning up the papers. “Not everyone likes cats as much as Miss Stewart and I do. Don’t let the Tinzer catch you here.” The Churchills’ pets roamed the offices with impunity. While everyone tolerated them, some, like Mrs. Tinsley, weren’t pleased.

A few of the sections had flipped open. There was the crossword-puzzle page, with the ubiquitous clothing adverts. Demure day dresses with silk flowers at the neck, straw hats with ribbons, and strappy shoes.
Good Lord, is
that
what we’re going to be wearing? If we have enough rations to spare, that is. “Make do and mend” is
more like it
, she thought, contemplating her own brown cotton dress with the white piping. It was old and not in the least fashionable, but it was relatively clean and freshly pressed.

Maggie looked at the advert, then looked again, closer this time. She blinked. Those weren’t stitches—at least, they weren’t just stitches. Those tiny little thread marks on the hems of the skirts were dots and dashes. Or were they?

Code?

No, of course not. That would be insane
.

She closed the section and pushed it away.

Murphy went back to his boardinghouse to change into his priest’s robes once again. Granted, they were the robes of a Catholic priest, not Anglican, but he doubted anyone would notice.

He made his way to St. Paul’s Cathedral. “Good afternoon, Father,” two matronly women said as they passed him on the marble stairs leading up to the magnificent Baroque structure. Wren’s immense classical dome, with its golden cross, was held aloft by two tiers of double Corinthian columns, set between two Renaissance-inspired towers.

He tipped his hat and gave a charming grin. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

The very size of the cathedral was always a shock. He made his way down the soaring space of the nave, padding softly over the black-and-white diamond-shaped marble tiles. Most of the windows had been boarded up for safety during bombings, leaving the atmosphere dimmer, softer, and cooler.

He walked past the elaborately carved choir benches, past the elevated murals of saints and prophets, beneath gold, bronze, and indigo Byzantine-style mosaics of angels
of the dome, and beyond the enormous Gibbons organ, to the crypts’ entrance.

Checking carefully that he wasn’t being watched, he went down a flight of steep and dark stairs, down and down, until he reached a large hallway. He took a series of turns until he found himself in a small room, dank and dimly lit. There, he pulled out a golden watch from a deep pocket.

It was the last component of the bomb he had so assiduously built and smuggled into St. Paul’s piece by piece underneath his robes. Potassium chloride, sulfuric acid, wires, gelignite, detonator … It was all in place now.

As he wired in the watch, which would serve as the bomb’s timer, he hummed to himself, an old Irish ditty his grandmother used to sing.

Gran, you’d be so proud
, he thought, surveying his work.
And using Da’s watch, too—that’s the perfect touch
.