Mr.Churchill's Secretary(16)

And yet.

And yet it had been hard on Margaret. Edith sighed. Margaret hadn’t understood. And why should she? She was young and had her life in front of her.

“I’m a college graduate now,” Margaret had snapped any number of times before she’d left. “Don’t you think it’s time to start treating me as an adult?”

An adult? When Edith looked at her she still saw a newborn, small and mewing like a kitten. She saw an inquisitive toddler, a precocious child, and a determined teenage girl. But a grown woman? Edith tried not to let her lips twitch into a smile. “I’m well aware of your age, Margaret. And if you want me to treat you like a grown-up, you will need to behave like one.… I’m sorry, but there it is.”

And that was the end of the discussion.

Until, of course, Margaret started to make noise about staying in London—poppycock and nonsense about truly living in London, not merely getting a job long enough to sell the house and then returning to Boston, where she belonged. What’s that girl thinking? In response, Edith had sent off the letter, revised and rewritten so many times, she knew it by heart.

Wellesley, Massachusetts

Margaret,

I feel it is my duty to write to tell you how disappointed I am by your decision to stay in England. When I asked you to go, it was simply to oversee the details of the house sale, so that the money would offset the cost of M.I.T. It seemed a perfect opportunity for you to see something of the world before going back to your studies.

However, now that war is beginning in earnest, I feel that it was the wrong decision; I should never have allowed you to go. Perhaps you’ve been too sheltered all your life, and this first taste of freedom was too intoxicating. But I will warn you that ultimately it will come to naught. Why do you think women such as myself have fought so hard to be educated, to work in academia? Do you realize the sacrifices we made for your generation?

And for you to throw it all away, to stay in a country hunkering down for war, to waste your talents … It’s a slap in the face. Why do you think I left London for the States? One reason was the Great War; believe me, you don’t want to go through something like that. Leave it to the British.

Come home, Margaret. I insist. You can’t do anything more in London.

Edith



There was the war, there was the threat of imminent invasion.

There was also the chance, however slight, that Margaret would find out the truth about her father.

And that was what worried Edith the most.





FIVE





AT NO. 10, Maggie had seen Mr. Churchill only in passing, always in a hurry, his endless Romeo y Julieta cigars leaving a pungent trail of smoke behind him wherever he went, faithfully shadowed by his private detective, Mr. Walter Thompson. But it was obvious when he was in—the office crackled with electricity and there was a sense of urgency in the air.

Mrs. Tinsley had come down with a bad case of flu. Despite her exclamations that she should stay and work, she was being sent home by Miss Stewart.

“Really, Miss Stewart,” she managed to croak, “I’m quite capable of—”

Notwithstanding her air of genteel diffidence, Miss Stewart wasn’t having any of it. “Mrs. Tinsley, you’re not well. You must go home and rest, so you may return as quickly as possible at full strength.”

“London may be attacked at any moment, and—”

“Mrs. Tinsley, I must appeal to your common sense.” Miss Stewart pulled out her trump card. “What if the P.M. became ill?”

Mrs. Tinsley paused to consider. Then she sneezed into her starched cambric handkerchief. “Oh, very well. But it’s only for one evening.” She stood up and put on her hat, stabbing it with long pearl-tipped pins. “I assure you,” she declared as she made her way out the door, “I shall return tomorrow, first thing.”

As the sound of Mrs. Tinsley’s footsteps echoed down the hallway, Miss Stewart gave a gentle sigh and folded her tiny, plump hands. “Miss Hope?”

Maggie was typing a letter to one of the constituents. “Yes, Miss Stewart?”

“I think it’s high time you worked with Mr. Churchill. Would you mind stepping in tonight?”

“Of course not, ma’am,” Maggie replied. As nervous as she was, she wanted to get started.

“Very well, then, dear. Go into his study and wait. He’ll be coming in from dinner and will be here shortly.”

Maggie did as she was told and found herself in the Prime Minister’s study. It was large, with dark wood paneling, a red Persian carpet, and several oil paintings of the seaside in ornate gilt frames, with W. Churchill signed in thick script.

Her heart was beating so loudly she was sure everyone in the building could hear it. With sweaty palms, she rolled the paper into the typewriter. She arranged and rearranged her fountain pens and thick, stubby pencils. She looked up at the black hands of the clock a half-dozen times. She waited. And waited.