But it had been rough going. The roof was the first thing to be fixed. It wasn’t easy to watch the small amount of money she’d inherited from her parents, so prudently invested and guarded by Aunt Edith, dwindle away as the roof-repair project grew exponentially. Just as one spot was patched, another would spring a leak. Maggie reasoned she’d make it back and more when the house sold, but it was hard not to worry in the early hours of the morning.
She’d found the amenities to be old-fashioned compared to Aunt Edith’s. In the evenings, Maggie read, wrote in her journal, or worked on a few problem sets in a soft circle of lamplight at the wooden kitchen table as she listened to It’s That Man Again on the wireless.
The kitchen had been updated in the late twenties. The floor was tiled with a checkerboard of blue and black squares, and the walls were painted lemon-yellow, stained and shadowed by years of smoke from the small stove in the corner. Flower-sprigged muslin curtains hung from windows that opened onto the back garden, overgrown with weeds and a tangle of red and pink tea-scented roses.
It had been in the kitchen that Maggie had begun to feel at home, waiting for her coffee to brew and listening to the wireless or eating supper and reading a book at the round, well-worn wooden table. The dining room was too intimidating for one person alone—although she’d been sure her grandmother would have been appalled at her casual American ways.
It was hard to believe, but she’d spent almost an entire year in London living alone. That was before Paige, who’d resigned from her job with Ambassador Kennedy, moved in with her. Chuck followed after, then the twins, and finally Sarah, who’d moved in last week.
Maggie took out the heavy iron key and let herself into Grandmother Hope’s house, wiping her feet on the mat. The sight of the front hall still took her breath away. An ornate curved wooden staircase dominated the foyer, a grand dining room to the left, the parlor to the right. Sliding doors fitted with stained-glass peacocks in brilliant blues, emeralds, and violets divided the parlor in two.
Adjacent to the parlor was the library, two stories high with a stairway to the second level and a curved stepladder for reaching the higher shelves; each wall was lined floor-to-ceiling with dusty leather-bound books. A massive cherry desk stood in one corner, and various couches and chairs covered in protective sheets were scattered throughout. The rest of the house was crammed full of threadbare Persian and Chinese carpets, oil paintings of misty green English countrysides, and dusty Victorian bric-a-brac.
When she heard Maggie come in the door, Paige came running in her powder-blue quilted robe, giving her a peck on the cheek. “There, now, you must be exhausted!” Paige said, giving her a big hug, smelling of sleep and sugar.
Maggie set her battered leather valise down and allowed Paige to lead her into the kitchen, where the twins greeted her with enthusiasm. “You’re too sweet,” Maggie said to all three of them. “What would I do without you?” She slumped into a worn wooden chair with a sigh and looked around in gratitude. The delicious smell of baking hung in the air.
Just then, Sarah staggered through the door in her red-satin dressing gown.
When Sarah’s flatmate had left the ballet after getting married and moving out of London, Sarah had moved in, choosing a small pink bedroom on the second floor between Maggie’s and Paige’s. Maggie hardly even knew she was there. She usually left for class early in the morning and then rehearsed all day, grabbed a quick bite, and then performed in the evenings, coming home well after midnight.
She hadn’t brought much with her, just a suitcase jammed with clothes and a big bag of pink-satin toe shoes and silk seamed stockings. “I’m a gypsy, darling, what can I say?” she’d said, shrugging. Maggie really saw her only on Mondays, the company’s day off.
“Maggie!” she said in her froggy voice, her face brightening. Her long brown hair was tangled, and there were black smudges under her eyes—remains of the previous evening’s performance makeup. “Darling, you’re back!”
“Just to wash out a few things in the bathroom sink and pack up again, but it’s good to see you. I’ve missed you all so much.”
Paige said, “I’m making scones, and then there’s the ubiquitous National Loaf—”
“Blech.” Annabelle made a face.
“Forget bombs,” Clarabelle added, “just drop a few loaves on the Germans.”
“—and homemade strawberry jam, from our victory garden. There’s some tea and—voilà!” Paige opened up the icebox with a flourish. “An egg! We all saved it for you.” She carefully cracked it into a pot of boiling water.