Mr. Churchill's Secretary (40 page)

They leaned forward to listen.

It was a good speech. A great speech.

And Maggie felt that it—and everything—had been worth it.

The broadcast was concluded, and Mrs. Churchill went up to the P.M. and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Time for dinner now, Mr. Pug.”

“Blast, I was just getting started,” Mr. Churchill said, lip jutting forward in the beginnings of a pout.

“Oh, Winnie, you’re impossible,” she said, turning around and walking to the thick oak door.

“I know, Clemmie. You’re too good to me. What’s for dinner?” he said, making his way to the door.

She turned. “Just what you requested,” she replied. “Clear soup, oysters, trout, roast beef with pommes Anna, and glazed carrots.”

“Pudding?”

“Cook has prepared your favorite—chocolate éclairs.”

“Well,” he said, considering. “Then I shall be persuaded.” He turned back and gestured to Maggie and John. “Carry on.”

“I’ll have Cook send up two trays,” Mrs. Churchill said to them.

“Wait, Clemmie. There’s something I want to do first,” he pronounced, walking over to one of his bookshelves. He pulled down a leather-bound book and turned to the first page, where he scribbled a few lines with his gold fountain pen.

“Before I forget, Miss Hope, I have something for you. Read it in good health.” Too stunned to speak, Maggie accepted the thick, gold-stamped copy of the first volume of Mr. Churchill’s
Marlboro: His Life and Times
, about his illustrious ancestor.

Mrs. Churchill gave a small sigh of exasperation. “Winnie, do you always have to give people
your
books?”

“Why else would I write them?” He gave her his most cherubic smile.

“Perhaps Miss Hope would prefer another book. One
not
written by you.”

He looked at her over his gold-rimmed glasses and blinked. “I don’t see why.”

“I’m honored to receive
Marlboro
, Mr. Churchill,” Maggie said, “and shall treasure it always.”

“There! You see? ‘Honored.’ ‘Shall treasure it always.’ The proper response to being given a book. Most proper indeed. You see, Clemmie?” he said, walking over to her and offering his arm.

“Yes, Mr. Pug,” she said, tucking her hand under his arm.

He grasped it tightly and patted it. “Thank you, Mrs. Pussycat,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek, causing her to giggle.

As they made their way out the door and into the hallway, Maggie opened the book to see his inscription.

“So I’ve heard you’re moving over to MI-Five,” John said later that evening, when the day’s duties were finished. They walked Chartwell’s grounds, through the
winding paths of the vegetable gardens, past the stables and the sheds. There were some apple boxes in front of the pig pens. The pigs were inside, sleeping on their beds of hay, snoring and snorting lightly.

“Oh, John,” Maggie said, teasing, “you do take me to the nicest places.”

He took her hand in his; they fit together well. “I’m very happy for you, Maggie. You deserve it.”

She couldn’t help but feel a warm rush of pride. “Thank you. And thanks, too, for everything you did, you know, with the code. At Bletchley. With Pierce, that bastard. David told me how resolute you were.” They sat down on a low weathered wooden bench.

“You’ll still be in London, yes?” he asked.

“I’ll be in London, yes.”

“And when do you start?”

“Well, I’m taking some time off—a month. I just need—you know—to think about everything that happened.”

“That makes sense,” John said. “You’ve been through a lot.”

She looked into his face; the bruises from the attack were still evident. “Ah, that British understatement.”

“What about your father?”

“He’s staying in London for a little while. We’re taking it slowly. Getting to know each other.”

“Ah.”

“It’s not easy. Still, I’m glad he’s alive, and I’m glad he’s here. But it’s …” She searched for the right word. “Complicated.”

“It generally is. And how are you doing after, well, you know …”

“The death of Claire?”

“Yes.”

Maggie sighed. “I’ve already mourned Paige, at the
funeral with all of you. Claire? Well, I never really knew her.”

“I see,” John said.

There was a silence, a companionable one. “And as you know, the twins have left for their tour. And Sarah, Chuck, and I are moving in with David, right?”

“What? David?” Obviously, John hadn’t heard. “David and all those women …”

“Well, he has that huge flat in Kensington. We’ll be the three sisters he never knew he always wanted.”

“Perfect.”

“Much better than going, well, home. After everything that happened, I just couldn’t …”

“Of course,” John said. “No one would expect you to.” Then, “What about your house?”

“Ah,” Maggie said. “I’m renting it out.”

“Good, good, that takes care of that, then.” John’s brows knit. “And even after everything that’s happened, with your new job, your new flat, you’ll still want to stay in touch? Because I’d really like that. After everything that’s happened.”

“
Especially
after everything that’s happened. I can’t imagine not seeing you.”

“Well. Good.” He traced the line of her cheek with one finger.

“Yes. Good,” she said, smiling, as their lips met.

T
HE
F
OLLOWING
M
ONDAY
, Mrs. Tinsley and Miss Stewart were both delighted to see Maggie back at No. 10, if only to pack up her things.

“Now, you
will
be careful, won’t you?” Miss Stewart asked. “Goodness, we’ve been so worried about you.”

“And you left us with an
extraordinary
amount of work to do, let me say,” Mrs. Tinsley said. “Although,” she amended, “we’re gratified to see you’ve come back in one piece.”

“It was only a weekend at Chartwell,” Maggie said as she packed up her few belongings from the desk.

“Don’t be impertinent with me, young lady!” Mrs. Tinsley said.

“We’re terribly proud of you, Maggie,” Miss Stewart said, her blue eyes threatening to overflow.

“Oh, really,” Mrs. Tinsley snapped at Miss Stewart. “Must you praise her? It will only go to her head.”

“I just meant—”

“Enough is as good as a feast.” Then, to Maggie, “But you will come back once in a while, won’t you? Just to say hello.”

“Of course I will,” she answered, meaning it.
I’ll miss you, too
, she realized.

David stuck his nose into the office. “Almost ready to go, Magster?”

“One more minute, please,” Maggie said, then hugged each woman in turn. Miss Stewart squeezed her back and sniffled. Mrs. Tinsley gave Maggie’s shoulder a few awkward pats. “Well, really …” Mrs. Tinsley said, taking out her handkerchief and giving a good sniff.

There was one last task Maggie had to do.

She gave the folder marked
TOP SECRET
with the carbon of her report, as well as the journal of everything that had really happened, to Mrs. Tinsley. “For the archives,” she said.

Mrs. Tinsley nodded and accepted the folder.

“And I’ll take this one to him myself.”

Papers in hand, Maggie walked down the hall, for the last time, to Mr. Churchill’s office. She knocked at the heavy wooden door.

“Come in!” he boomed.

She walked in and placed the papers on his desk. “Here’s the after-action report, sir.”

“Ah,” he said, chewing on the ever-present cigar and looking at her over the tops of his spectacles. “Right. You’re off to work for Frain, then, are you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, our loss is their gain, I suppose,” he said, rising to his feet to shake her hand. “Need some Hope in their offices, too, what?” He chuckled, then turned back to his papers. “It’s all right to take some time off, but don’t keep Frain waiting. He’s a brilliant man, but not what you’d call patient.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, standing before him. “Thank you, sir. For everything.” She turned and walked to the door.

As she reached it, he spoke again. “Just remember, Miss Hope,” he said, stabbing the air with his cigar for emphasis, “kicking! Kicking, I say!”

Her eyes suddenly filled with tears as she turned to respond one last time. “Yes, sir. Kicking, sir.”

Maggie got into David’s car and closed the door with a resounding thud. They looked at each other and smiled, then he put the car into gear and pulled out into traffic to drive Maggie to his—and now hers and the girls’—new home in Kensington.

“Would you mind driving by Saint Paul’s first?” Maggie asked.

Above the city, the great dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral soared. The church, in its different incarnations, had been ransacked by Vikings, struck by lightning, defaced during the British Civil War, and nearly destroyed in the Great Fire of London. It had been rebuilt by Christopher Wren only to be bombed by Nazis from the air and nearly brought down by a bomb planted inside. And yet here it still stood.

The warm autumn evening had drawn a crowd beneath the stern gaze of the statue of Queen Anne. She looked down from her pedestal, adorned with her golden crown, scepter, and orb, a fat gray pigeon perched on top of her head.

Below her, the crowd milled, men and women in khaki, dark blue, and gray uniforms, and women in jewel-toned colored dresses, looking like exotic birds amid foliage. A group of laughing RAF pilots on leave posed arm in arm for a photograph, which a young woman in a red-flowered hat looked delighted to take. The lemony sunlight slanted across the square, and an older woman sitting on the steps, wrapped in a long fringed shawl, fed pigeons crumbs from a bag of bread.

A man in an old mackintosh pulled the brim of his hat down as the car passed. Maggie knew that while Murphy was dead, there could be any number of secret agents mixed in among the crowd. She’d almost gotten
used to the fact that she still saw Murphy everywhere, including in her nightmares. She gave a barely perceptible shudder.

“Are you all right?” David asked.

It was strange to imagine a world where men like Malcolm Pierce and Michael Murphy still plotted in the darkness. For that matter, a world where she had a father. One where someone like Paige could have led a double life. Where Sarah almost died. And where bombs still rained down from the sky on any given night …

“You all right?” David repeated.

Maggie rolled down the window and felt the warm air on her face.

She wasn’t happy, exactly; she was still too raw for that. But she was satisfied. Satisfied and relieved, too, with maybe just a bit of joy thrown in for good measure. Yes, that was it. She’d made it through so much already. She knew now that she was strong. She’d survive. And she had friends and family to support her.

“Fine, David.” She smiled at him. “Better than fine.”

The sun was setting with a brilliant flare of scarlet, gold, and azure. Maggie lifted her face to catch the warmth of the last rays shining from behind the dome, glad to be alive, glad to be just where she was, with the wind on her face.