Mr. Churchill's Secretary (38 page)

“To Mr. Snodgrass,” Maggie said, lifting her glass.

“Why, thank you, Miss Hope,” Snodgrass said, reddening slightly but looking pleased nonetheless. “I hope now you’ll forgive me for the private-secretary matter.…”

“Of course,” Maggie said.

“Let’s not forget poor Diana Snyder,” David said.

And she was toasted as well.

Suddenly, Maggie spotted a sparkle on Chuck’s left hand. “What’s this?” she asked, pulling it into the light.

“Nigel got me a ring,” Chuck said, surveying the huge cushion-cut diamond set in filigree. “I was thinking maybe a plain gold band, but he had to get
this.…
”

“And the wedding?” Maggie asked, her voice squeaking in excitement.

“This Christmas, in Leeds—if he can get leave. God help me,” she said, rolling her eyes.

The twins, breathless, joined the group. “The ring!” Annabelle said. “Isn’t it just—”

“—beautiful?” Clarabelle finished.

“It is, indeed. To Chuck and Nigel,” Maggie said, lifting her glass.

“Chuck and Nigel,” the table intoned.

Chuck blushed. “And to the Belles,” she said, raising her own glass.

“Really?” Maggie said. “Fill me in?”

“We’re going on tour,” Annabelle said. “It’s a great opportunity. We’ll be able to get out of London—”

“—and we’ve both been promoted,” Clarabelle added. “Annabelle’s going to be playing Rebecca and I’m going to be in charge of costumes.”

“Well, congratulations, girls,” Maggie said. “To you and the tour of
Rebecca
!”

When the song changed to “Bugle Call Rag,” Chuck and the twins left to dance once again.

“And what about Claire?” Maggie asked. It was easier, she found, to refer to Paige as Claire.

“What
about
her?” Chuck asked, her face dark. She’d only just been brought up to speed after signing her own Official Secrets Act. They’d all had to, even the twins.

“Should we toast to her?” Maggie really didn’t know anymore. “She died helping us find the key.”

“Her boyfriend built the bomb!” Will said, and took a swig.

“I understand she was your flatmate?” Edmund asked. “And that you were at school together?”

“Yes,” Maggie said. “You think you know someone …”

“And then they surprise you,” Edmund said with a wry smile. “I’m sorry to have been such a surprise, Maggie.”

“Of course,” she replied. “I’m just glad it all turned out all right in the end.” Then, “Well, mostly all right.”

“Miss Hope,” Snodgrass said. “I’ve been speaking to Mr. Frain about your new position—”

Maggie held up her hand. “I haven’t decided anything yet, sir.”

“You’re leaving?” John asked, face falling.

“Weren’t cleared for that piece of news, were you?” David muttered. John glared at him.

Maggie looked at John and smiled. “Nothing’s been decided. Besides, it’s not as though I’d be leaving London—”

“Well, good, then,” John said.
He wants me to stay
, she thought with a sudden thrill of happiness.

Edmund cleared his throat. “Working with Mr. Frain sounds dangerous.…”

“Working at Bletchley isn’t?” She had him there.

“Not the same thing,” he said solemnly. “Now that I’ve found you again, I’d hate to lose you.”

“Come on, all of you, this is getting much too serious,” Maggie said. “We’ll work it all out tomorrow. In the meantime, I’d like to dance.” She looked at her father and held out her hand.

“My dear,” he said, as he led her onto the floor and into the dim, smoky haze. “It would be an honor.”

Out on the dance floor, under the muted glow of the chandeliers, Edmund held Maggie easily, as though he’d
taught her to dance when she was young. As though she’d made her debut on his arm.

“Are you going to take Frain up on his offer?” Edmund asked.

“I really don’t know,” Maggie said coldly. Maggie felt angry, resentful. Who was he—this man, this stranger—to suddenly appear in her life?

“I know I have no right to ask … no right to know.…”

“No, you don’t,” she said. “You—you took the easy way out. Even when you got better, you still took the easy way.”

“Yes, you’re right,” he said. “It was wrong. And I’m sorry. I’m going to try to make it up to you if it takes the rest of my life.”

The conversation was awkward, painful, but Maggie was filled with a sudden need to talk. “I’m going to need you to talk about … my mother.”

“Clara?” Edmund said with great effort. “Maggie, those were—dark days. Best forgotten.”

“No,” she said forcefully, causing a nearby couple to stare. “I need to know. I need you to tell me.” Then, quietly but still intently, “Don’t you think you ought to talk about it? Get it out? Isn’t that what Freud would say?”

“Freud …” Edmund said. “Freud was not British.”

Maggie was silent.

“But yes, yes, you’re right. You deserve to know. And I need to tell you.”

There was another silence but less tense this time.

Edmund cleared his throat. “I do … I do want you to know how proud I am of you. And I know I’ve given up all rights to be your father. But perhaps we can be friends?”

“ ‘Friends’?”

Suddenly, Edmund’s self-control broke and he smothered a racking sob. “Friends. Anything. I’ll take anything.
Oh, Maggie, I just want to be part of your life, while we still have this chance. While there’s still time. I know I was wrong. And I want, more than anything, to make things up to you. As best I can.”

In a desperate voice he added, “My dear girl, can you ever forgive me?”

“Maybe not tonight,” she said finally, blinking back her own hot tears. “But someday. Maybe someday.”

“I’ll take that,” Edmund responded. “Thank you.”

David and Chuck were dancing, Chuck a full head taller and David with his head on her impressive bosom. Together they turned to watch John thread his way through the couples on the dance floor. “May I cut in?” John asked.

Maggie looked up at him and nodded.

“Of course,” Edmund said, relinquishing his place and returning to the banquette.

John took Maggie’s hand and drew her toward him. As the blond singer, her peachy flesh spilling out of a tight red-satin dress, segued into a slow rendition of “I Get Along Without You Very Well,” he drew her into him, and they began to dance.

“This is all very strange,” Maggie said, leaning her head against his chest, smelling his bay rum cologne.

“Which part?”

Maggie considered. So much was strange these days.

“What are your parents like?” she asked instead.

“My parents?” John laughed. “My father, Archibald Sterling, flew Sopwith Camels and Bristol F-Two-Bs in the Great War. Now he lives in Derbyshire and is a crotchety old M.P. in the House of Commons. And my mother, Jane Sterling, writes children’s stories. Naughty puppies, bluebirds who talk, fluffy chicks who lose their way—that sort of thing.”

Maggie gave a wistful smile. “So they didn’t fake their own deaths?”

John twirled Maggie around and then drew her in again. “Listen, Maggie. You know, parents—all parents—have secret lives. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be parents after all.”

“So you think I should forgive him?”

“I think—I think you should give it some time.”

The song came to an end, but John didn’t release her. As the blond chanteuse relinquished the microphone, the orchestra began to play “Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered,” the lush melody carried by a golden trumpet.

Maggie looked up at John, her arms still tight around his neck. “Do you
like
your father?”

“I suppose. I don’t really
know
my father. He was always in the office or away in London when I was growing up.” Then, “But, nonetheless, I’d have to say that I do love him.”

“Well,” Maggie said. “I don’t know if I love my father.”

“That’s understandable.”

“He left me. He lied to me.” Maggie stopped dancing in the middle of the floor. “My father’s a liar.”

John stopped as well. Together, they stood in the middle of the floor as the other dancers slowly spun around them.

“It’s hard to trust someone who’s abandoned you.”

“Am I terrible for not wanting to let myself care about my own father?”

John sighed. “He might do something tomorrow that might hurt you. How would you—will you—deal with that?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Does that make me a bad daughter?”

John put his arms around her, and together they began to dance once again. “You’re a good person,” he
replied, and kissed the top of her head. “And you’ll figure it out. You’ll see.”

Much, much later, John walked Maggie to the door of the Blue Moon. They stood in the silver-papered entrance hall, while men in dark jackets and women in low-cut dresses made their way past them. They stepped out onto the sidewalk, into the bruised blue of the evening. The light from the passing traffic was dim, and a cool breeze had begun to blow, whispering through the tree leaves. The air smelled of damp and petrol fumes.

“I’m fine, really,” she said, pulling her wrap more tightly around her. “I’ll just take a taxi back to the hotel.” It was late, she was exhausted, and her arm was starting to throb again.

“Are you sure?” he said. “I can go with you. I mean, as an escort.” He put his hand up and started to rub the back of his neck. “What I mean is, to escort you to your room—and leave you there. To go to bed. Er, I mean, get some sleep.”

“Poor John,” David said, walking up to the duo. “Just kiss him and get it over with, won’t you?”

Maggie put her hand on his arm. “I’m fine, really.” She lifted up onto tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow, all right?”

A shiny black cab pulled up. “This is my ride,” she said.

John opened the door. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” she said firmly. “But thank you, just the same.”

Maggie smiled and got into the backseat of the taxi. John closed the door. “To the Savoy, please,” she said to the driver. Then she let her head lean onto the seatback. It felt so good to finally rest, to be still, if just for a moment.…

As the cab pulled out and headed on its way, she felt a crawling sensation on her skin, as though someone was watching her. She opened her eyes and looked up to the rearview mirror. The driver was staring at her.

“Hello, Miss Hope,” the man said, with a charming grin. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Just like that?” Back at their banquette, Frain was incensed. “You let her get into a taxi that pulled up”—he snapped his fingers—“just like that?”

“She insisted she was fine, sir,” John said.

Chuck wasn’t about to let someone like Frain intimidate her. “Maggie’s a big girl now—she can take care of herself.” Then, to Edmund, “Er, sorry.”

“What’s going on?” Edmund asked.

“Our brilliant friend here just let Maggie get into a taxi. Alone,” Frain said.

David considered. “Well, it’s not
that
late. I do think she’ll—”

“You don’t understand,” Frain said, rising to his feet. “Michael Murphy is still at large.”

“What happened to Claire?” the driver asked, his eyes in the rearview window wild. “What happened at Saint Paul’s?”

“Claire’s … in custody,” Maggie managed.

“Liar!” he spat. “They’ve probably already hanged her, haven’t they? My dear, sweet Claire …”

Even through her fear, one corner of her mind kept working.
This is the man Claire was in love with? God help us
.

Without warning, the low wail of the siren began.

“Oh, Christ,” he muttered. “Fucking raid.”

Then, without further preamble, bombs began to drop.

There was a terrible crash as they passed alongside a
building as it was hit. The glass of the front windows shattered, and dazzling orange-and-blue flames began to devour the structure. The taxi was caught in the rain of broken glass, papers, and books. A pink knit baby bootie landed on the windshield.

The vehicle lurched and swerved, and crashed into a metal streetlight post with a resounding crunch. The car’s hood was suddenly folded like an accordion. Metal rubbish bins fell over, clattering on the pavement, and a dog began barking in the distance.

Maggie’s head hit the seat in front of her, and she blinked, several times, trying to think. Her hands worked at the door handle, now seemingly stuck. “Come on, come on, come on,” she muttered.

All she saw was Michael Murphy’s fist coming at her face, and then everything went black.

Maggie turned over and groaned, waves of pain and nausea washing over her. As she blinked her eyes open, she realized she was in complete darkness. She rolled over and started to feel her way around. Hard-packed dirt floor, a few cigarette butts, a bunk bed, low curved aluminum roof—she realized he must have knocked her out and then dragged her into the house’s Anderson shelter.

The raid seemed to be over, for the moment.

Of course, she now had bigger problems to worry about.

“You’re not going to get away with this,” she heard him muttering outside the shelter’s door.

She groped around in the dark to see if there was anything handy to use as a weapon.

Nothing.

She tried the door. It was locked. There was no way out. The air suddenly felt hot and suffocating. She took a ragged breath in.

“Dear Maggie—what have they done with Claire?” His voice was coming from overhead. He must be sitting on top of the Anderson.

“I told you already.”

“I’ll let you out when you tell me where Claire is.”

“That’s all right,” she said, knowing that he wouldn’t like the truth and it would be pointless to lie. “I’ll just stay right here, thanks.”

She heard Murphy’s footsteps, then the sound of liquid hitting the Anderson’s steel roof. Then there was the smell of gasoline, sharp and heady.

“You want to know something about Claire, Maggie Hope? She was ready to die for her cause. But she’s not going to die in a British prison. I won’t let her! Where is she?” He screamed into the night, “Where is Claire?”

Maggie was frantically trying to dig a hole in the dirt underneath the Anderson large enough to fit through. It was an impossible task, and her hands were scratched and filthy, but she continued digging, flinging the dirt behind her.