“And I can’t ask you about what you’re doing. Although, how’s Frain?”
Hugh had Maggie’s hair down and was pulling her close. “Can we not talk about my boss for the moment, please?” he murmured against her ear. “You must be starving. Do you want dinner?”
“Yes—anything, though. Don’t go to any trouble.”
But Hugh had gone to trouble, lots of it. China and silver were laid out on his dining table. He lit new tapered candles as she watched, drink in hand. “We’re having vegetable turnovers, straight out of the war ration cookbook. Not exactly a Sunday roast, but I’ve been practicing just for this occasion.”
“I’m honored,” she said. “What can I do to help?”
“Everything’s done. But you can pour the wine, if you’d like.”
Maggie watched him through dinner, not sure whether she could trust her vision. They had written to each other, of course, long letters, while she was at the various training camps, where they knew whatever they wrote would be seen by censors, but they didn’t really care. They kept gazing at each other, as though wanting to make sure each was not a mirage.
At eleven o’clock, Maggie had to leave. In the light of one candle, she gazed down at Hugh on his bed, wrapped in a sheet. She thought about waking him, then decided just to kiss him on the forehead and let him sleep. She found herself not wanting to leave, almost physically unable to put on her hat and open the front door. To stall for time, she wrote a note. Dearest Hugh, Off on yet another adventure. I’ll be back as soon as I can.
She contemplated writing I love you, then decided on xxoo Maggie.
Unwilling to deal with the vast sea of humanity settled into the Tube stations for the night to escape the Blitz, Maggie splurged and took a taxi from Westminster to Knightsbridge. In the damp darkness, she realized how much she’d missed London. The people. The narrow, winding streets. Pubs with names such as The Bag o’ Nails and Hat and Feathers.
When she finally arrived at David’s flat, she let herself in with the iron key she kept in her handbag. Inside, it was inky black. She made sure the door was closed completely, so no light would escape and alert the ARP warden, and only then switched on the foyer light. From the parlor, she heard a soft scuffling. “Hello?” she called, body tense, months of combat training triggered instinctively.
David Greene appeared in the French double doorway to the parlor, his tie undone, wire-framed glasses askew, shirt unbuttoned, fair hair uncharacteristically mussed. He looked like a guilty choirboy. “Merciful Minerva! What are you doing home?” Then he collected himself and grinned. “Not that I’m not thrilled to see you, of course, darling Mags,” he said, walking toward her and kissing her on both cheeks.
Maggie took in his appearance. “Good to see you, too, David.” He had the grace to blush. “Are you … alone?” she asked in a sisterly tone.
“Well, ah, you see—the strangest thing happened—”
Another man stepped from the darkened parlor to the French doors. He’d already taken the time to button up his shirt and fix his tie. “How do you do?” he said to Maggie. “I’m Freddie Wright. You must be Maggie Hope. David’s told me all about you.”
Has he now? Maggie stepped past David and extended her hand. “Lovely to meet you. Now that I know you’re not a burglar.” They shook. Maggie was impressed; it was a good handshake, firm and confident. “Mr.… Wright, is it?”
She glanced back at David, who shot her a significant look. Maggie smiled back at him. After all, he’d had many, many Mr. Wrongs in his life. Maybe it was time for Mr. Right? Or, at least, Mr. Wright? “From the Treasury?”
“Call me Freddie, please. And yes, I work at the Treasury.”
“Freddie. Of course. David’s mentioned you.”
There was another moment of awkward silence. “Oh dear!” Maggie made herself yawn. “It’s late, and I’m absolutely knackered—so I’m going to turn in. Good night, David. Again, lovely to meet you, Freddie.” She began to walk down the long hallway that led to the bedrooms. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to go to sleep. I sleep soundly,” she added, significantly. “Quite soundly.”
“Good night, Mags,” David called after her with affection. “It’s good to have you home again—even if you do have terrible timing.”
“Elise?” Clara Hess called.
She strode into the lavish master bedroom, dressed in satin and rubies. She flung her beaded evening purse on the dressing table, then sat down on the small stool at her vanity and took off her high heels. Her feet were red and angry-looking, with blood blisters beginning to form. “Elise!” Clara called again, shrill this time.