Mr. Churchill's Secretary (5 page)

In spite of her own ego and inherent selfishness and petty concerns, she’d grown to love England. London was not just the place where her parents had lived before their tragic car crash but where she would have grown up if that hadn’t happened.

She found she’d given her heart to England and wanted her to be safe. She couldn’t leave now. Running back to America would have meant turning her back on her heritage, on her home—ultimately, on herself. It didn’t matter whether John understood that, or whether Aunt Edith did, either, for that matter. Maggie had made her decision to stay, and she was going to stand by it.

“True,” she said finally, “but if we left, then where would you lot be?”

“If only we could get the United States—and not just
you two—to join in the fray,” David said wistfully. “The Old Man’s trying everything, you know. Practically getting down on his knees and begging Roosevelt for some old warships.”

“I can see Roosevelt’s point, though,” Paige said. “Another war? After the last one? And the Depression?”

“Americans,” John said, snorting. “Late to every war.”

“The Americans
will
join!” Maggie said, annoyed, for John took every opportunity to snipe at what he saw as a lack of American involvement. “And not just to supply boats and bullets but troops, too.”

John was nonplussed. “I fear your President has the moral compass of a windsock.”

Maggie glared. “And Britain didn’t sit by and watch while Hitler annexed Austria and invaded Sudetenland? What about Czechoslovakia? And Poland?”

John was taken aback. “Not if it had been up to Churchill—”

“And up until the last few months, Churchill’s been painted by the papers as old, insignificant, a warmonger—spilling English blood thoughtlessly, and trying desperately to preserve a way of life that’s been over since the death of Queen Victoria,” Maggie concluded.

“All right, all right, you two!” Paige exclaimed. “Do we need to separate you?”

“
And
I’m not so certain it’s such a good idea to let foreigners have such sensitive positions in wartime,” John added.

Annoying, annoying man
. “John, not only am I British by birth, but I’m doing my part for the war effort.” Maggie put her hands on Chuck’s and Paige’s. “We
all
are. So maybe you should be grateful for a little help.”

David grinned. “Ah, that charming Yankee modesty.”

“Look, I don’t mean to insult you,” John said, tracing an ancient pint ring stain on the wooden table. “It’s just that … these are uncertain times—as Diana Snyder learned too late.”

“The girl who worked at Number Ten?” Nigel said.

“The papers said she was mugged,” Chuck said. “Her wallet was missing. Open-and-shut case.”

“Of
course
that’s what the papers say,” John said. “It’s wartime. Things happen. Unpleasant things. And sometimes they aren’t as straightforward as they seem. Certainly you don’t believe everything you read in the papers, do you?”

“So
you
think she was … murdered?” Maggie asked. “Why?”

“Let’s just say it’s an ongoing investigation.”

“Mercy, John,” Paige said, conjuring her best southern-belle accent and wrapping her arm around Maggie. “Just because
you’re
paranoid doesn’t mean everyone’s out to get you. Besides,” she said, sniffing, “no one’s even noticed my new hat—spent nearly all my clothing rations on it.”

Chuck rolled her eyes; Maggie gave her a gentle kick under the table.

John didn’t rise to the bait. “Wouldn’t be a problem if the U.S. was actually in this war.”

“I truly believe that America will join the fight,” Maggie said.

“Yes, one can always count on the United States to do the right thing—after all other options have been exhausted,” John said.

Maggie was about to retort when David rose gracefully to his feet. “Right-o, then, let’s not tear each other apart when there are plenty of Germans just waiting to do that very thing. Let’s go dancing, shall we?”

“Fine,” grumbled Maggie and John simultaneously.

David turned to Paige. “And may I say, my dear, I love your hat. You look absolutely adorable in it.”

Paige glowed beneath her confection of bluebells and ribbons. “Why, thank you, David.
You’re
a true gentleman.”

A
T THE
B
LUE
Moon Club, the light was dim. Trumpets and clarinets blared through clouds of smoke and Shalimar as the group crammed into a small velvet banquette lit by a low-shaded lamp. As the Moonbeam Orchestra played a cover of Jelly Roll Morton’s “King Porter Stomp,” a group of dancers on the floor twisted and shimmied through intricate turns and lifts. There was a narrow marble bar and a small sign next to the bald, nervous-looking barman, proclaiming
NO GIN
.

“Well, we’ll just have to drink champagne, then, won’t we?” David said. “Might as well, while our money’s still worth something.”

Chuck and Nigel hit the dance floor, moving with more enthusiasm than grace, while the rest of the group settled into their seats.

David elbowed John. “Look—over there. Is that …”

John squinted. “Simon Paul? I think it is. Heard he’s been working for Halifax.”

At a table across the dance floor was a young man, tie askew, a distantly amused expression on his pale, fleshy face. He reminded Maggie of a painting of a young Henry VIII at the National Portrait Gallery, a big fellow, good-looking in a slightly paunchy way. His ginger hair
was wavy, and his skin, especially around the nose, was reddish. David waved him over.

A jovial expression transformed his features as he walked across the dance floor to the table. David rose to his feet. “Si, it
is
you, you old sod! How long has it been? Five years now?”

Simon gave a tilted smile. “ ’Thirty-six, old boy. Graduation—spring of ’thirty-six.”

“Ah, the infamous Simon,” Paige whispered to Maggie as the young men talked.

“ ‘Infamous’?”

“He was up at Oxford with John and David. NSIT.”

“NSIT? What’s that mean?”

“ ‘Not Safe in Taxis.’ A real taxi tiger. As opposed to ‘Very, Very Safe in Taxis, Probably Queer.’ Now, hush …”

“… lifetimes since Magdalen,” Simon was saying. “I’ve heard what you two have been up to, working for old Winnie. Is he really as drunk as people say?”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Hardly.”

David remembered his manners. “Maggie, Paige, may I present Simon Paul. Oxford man—friend, scholar …”

Simon laughed. “You forgot drunkard.”

Paige held out her hand for Simon to shake, but instead he leaned across the table to kiss it.

“Delighted to meet you,” he declared, keeping Paige’s hand in his. Then, to Maggie, “And you—you look just like one of those glorious Rossetti redheads.”

“Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Paul?” Paige cooed. Under her breath, “Maggie, move over.” Maggie slid in farther, and Simon sat down next to Paige.

“Please, call me Simon.”

“So you all know each other from school?” Maggie asked.

“Oxford, Magdalen College,” David said. “Parties, punting, picnics, Pimm’s …”

Simon took out a pouch of tobacco and a paper and proceeded to roll a cigarette. “Those were the days, eh, boys?” He finished rolling his cigarette and put it in his mouth, removing it only to pull a few stray tobacco leaves off his tongue with his broad fingers before lighting up.

“And now he’s working as a private secretary to Lord Halifax,” John concluded.

“Halifax?” Maggie said. “Britain’s Foreign Secretary, right? He was with Chamberlain for appeasement, right?”

“Now, now,” said Simon. “Just because he’s a Tory and hunts the occasional fox …”

“He was tight with Ambassador Kennedy,” Paige ventured. “Saw him around the offices quite a bit. Quite the hatchet-face—not at all attractive.”

“Halifax believes in realpolitik,” Simon said. “Without commitment from Russia and America, this war …” He shrugged.

“Thank God he didn’t become Prime Minister, and Churchill got the job instead,” Chuck rejoined.

“Had a bit of a falling-out there, didn’t we, boys?” Simon said, taking a long drag on his cigarette.

“Nice to see you’ve come around to our viewpoint,” John said.

“Wouldn’t say that, really—wouldn’t say that. What are we fighting for, anyway? Hitler doesn’t want England. If we leave him alone in Europe, we’ll all be having dinner together by Christmas.”

“How about for the duration of the war,” John said, “there’s
one
national government
—one
England. Come, now—even Halifax is part of the coalition.”

“I still don’t see why British blood needs to be spilled in this mess,” Simon said, rubbing out his cigarette. “Goddamned waste, if you ask me. If we keep going along Churchill’s path, this entire island could look like
Calais. Western Europe has fallen. France is falling, even as we sit here with our pints. There’s only going to be about twenty miles of English Channel between us and the Germans once they take France. Perhaps a poor peace
is
better than a miserable war.”

“A ‘poor peace’? Are you mad?” John said, his voice tight.

“If we don’t survive, there’s no hope,” Simon rejoined. “As Lord Halifax was quick to point out.”

David colored. “I doubt a ‘poor peace,’ as you say, would ever come to pass,” he said. “As the Boss once said about Hitler annexing Austria, ‘After a boa constrictor has devoured its prey, it often has a considerable digestive spell’—that is, before attacking again. What do you think a ‘poor peace’ would ultimately bring?”

“That’s why we need to act now,” Simon said. “Play the Italian card.”

“The ‘Italian card’?” Paige asked.

“Some people,” John said, giving Simon a pointed look, “believe that Hitler listens to Mussolini. And if we give him some of our Mediterranean territories, he’ll have a little chat with Herr Hitler. Convince him not to invade.”

“Otherwise,” Simon said, “we’re going to end up fighting them both.”

The table was momentarily silent, a chill falling over them.

Maggie looked at Simon. “Do you actually think that Hitler and the King could really someday sit down to tea and crumpets together? Really? Because I don’t. Maybe it’s because I’m an outsider, but surely you know this war is about more than that.”

“Really, darling?” Simon said with a smirk.

Maggie caught his sarcastic tone but was undeterred. “It’s, it’s—” She flung her arms wide, encompassing the dance floor, the park, the city, the country itself.
“It’s … this. Your island. Your England. What makes you different. And if you can’t see that, well, then maybe you don’t deserve the”—she fought for the word—“
privilege
of being English.”

She took a breath. “Yes, things need to change in England. It’s not an empire anymore, and the days of colonialism are over. It’s time for there to be more opportunities for the poor and working class—and women, of course,” she said, giving a hard look to John and David. “But the point’s moot if England’s invaded by Nazis.”

It had been a long day and Maggie grabbed Paige’s wrist. “We’re going to freshen up,” she snapped, leading a surprised Paige away to the ladies’ room.

As the girls left, David gave a soft whistle. “Not bad—for a Yankee. If we could get a few more like her, we might actually win this thing.”

The lounge area of the ladies’ toilet was papered with a silver art deco print that glowed pink in the soft rosy lights that circled the mirrors. Paige took a look at her reflection, smiled, and pulled out a tube of lipstick. “So,” she cooed, painting a crimson bow on her lips. “Feel better now that you’ve got that out of your system?”

A blowsy woman in a low-cut dress left, and Maggie leaned against the marble counter. The ornate gold-framed mirror showed both girls, the same middle height and slight build, one redheaded and one blond.

“It’s just … the waiting, the stress, the talk of invasion. That bastard Dicky Snot-ass. And then that man, that Simon …”

“He’s not that bad, really,” Paige said. “I think he’s just trying to play devil’s advocate. Personally, I think he’s rather handsome.”

“I noticed,” Maggie said. “Simon was acting very … friendly with you.”

“Simon’s
such
a flirt!” Paige blotted her lips with a tissue. “Want to borrow? Go on, just a little bit. It’ll look so nice with your hair.” Even at Wellesley, Paige had always been generous with her things, lending out lipsticks and Worth satin ball gowns indiscriminately. Maggie smoothed some on.

“Ta-da!” Paige said, spinning around, her shining blond hair floating around her like a halo. “And David’s not an option, of course,” she said, considering, “being Very Very Safe in Taxis, Probably Queer, but—have you ever considered John? You’ll be working together in”—she gave Maggie a significant look—“
close proximity
now.”

Maggie had a sudden image of John, trim in his dark suit and tie, his expression wry, a stray curl straggling across his forehead.

“He’s a dish, isn’t he?” Paige said, reaching down behind her and straightening the seams in her stockings. “Even with that dreadful hair.”