“Even the secretaries,” John said with a sly grin, nudging Maggie.
“Especially the secretaries,” she said.
“What a triumph the life of these battered cities is over the worst that any fire or bomb can do …” the P.M. said. “This is indeed the grand heroic period of our history, and the light of glory shines on all.”
John squinted at her. “I think I see your ‘light of glory.’ ”
She elbowed him in the ribs. “Shut up.”
“Last time I spoke to you I quoted the lines of Longfellow which President Roosevelt had written out for me in his own hand. I have some other lines which are less well known but which seem apt and appropriate to our fortunes tonight, and I believe they will so be judged wherever the English language is spoken or the flag of freedom flies.”
They leaned forward to listen.
“ ‘For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light,
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!
But westward, look, the land is bright.’ ”
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.
Dear Miss Hope,
K.P.O.
Yours with great respect and admiration,
Winston Churchill
“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.