Mr.Churchill's Secretary(30)

The twins giggled. “Oh, we should get a cat!” Annabelle exclaimed.

“Two!” said Clarabelle. “They could be—”

“Sisters!” they both exclaimed.

Chuck ground her teeth in exasperation. “And just who’s going to feed them and clean up their messes? Who’s going to chase them around during an air raid, hmmm?”

“I loathe cats,” Paige said. “And I’m allergic. By the way, he’s lucky to have you. I hope he appreciates you.”

“Nelson? Of course. The Churchills’ pets are better fed than most Londoners these days.”

Paige sniffed. “Mr. Churchill, silly. Because if he doesn’t, I’ll have to come down to Number Ten myself. And it won’t be pretty.”

Nigel grinned; he and Chuck exchanged a look. “Uh-oh, watch out,” Nigel said.

“You’re a good friend,” Maggie said, patting Paige’s hand, “but really, it won’t be necessary. Not yet, anyway.”

When breakfast was over, Chuck walked Nigel to the front door for a prolonged goodbye kiss, then disappeared upstairs. Paige and Sarah set to work on the dishes while the twins busied themselves with the newest Tatler.

Maggie went back to the front hall to look for her valise; it wasn’t there. “Has anyone seen my suitcase?” she called into the kitchen. “I swear I left it at the door.”

Her query was met with a resounding chorus of noes.

Puzzled, Maggie went upstairs. Hearing noises from Chuck’s room, she opened the door. There was Chuck, opening the valise on the bed, rummaging through the contents.

“Oh, Maggie,” Chuck said, her face reddening. “I just thought I could help out by doing your washing. I know you’ve had a tough time of it lately.…”

Maggie didn’t have any important papers in her suitcase, but still. She went over and took the case.

“Thank you, Chuck,” she said, feeling protective of her things and as though her privacy had been violated. “But it’s really not necessary.”





NINE





LATER THAT DAY Sarah invited Maggie to the Wells, to watch the company’s class and a rehearsal. One by one, dancers wandered into a large, mirror-filled room with a hardwood floor. Maggie sat on a folding chair to one side. The not-unpleasant scent of fresh sweat and cologne hung in the air.

Looking at their lithe frames, she felt as clumsy and huge as Alice after she drank from the bottle in Wonderland. An older man sat down behind the battered-looking upright piano and began to play an accompaniment, while the teacher, a heavy-set woman with large, kohl-rimmed eyes and a black turban, surveyed the class and gave the count: “Five, six, seven, and—”

The girls were all ridiculously gorgeous, dressed in leotards and short skirts, their long legs bare, scuffed pink satin slippers on their feet. Sarah was wearing a darned black leotard and raggedy leg warmers. She’d tied back her hair with a striped grosgrain ribbon. There were just a few men, wearing black shorts, white shirts, and black dance slippers. All of the dancers held on to the barre; the motion of their feet became faster and faster, until Maggie became dizzy just watching them.

After adagio in the center, they began to cross the floor in diagonals, running and leaping into the air in combinations of complex steps. Sarah ran and jumped with equal amounts of precision and abandon. What joy it was to watch them. Maggie could see how hard they worked, how demanding their art form was, and yet they looked so free.

When class was over, a tall, dark-eyed man with a long, thin face clapped his hands. “All right, then—who’s staying for rehearsal? Margot and Michael, of course. The rest of you have the day off, unless you’re in tonight’s performance.” Dancers ran to their dance bags, swinging them over their shoulders and talking and laughing as they left; the ones he’d asked to stay sat down on the floor or wandered to the barre to stretch their muscles.

Sarah walked over to Maggie; her gait, now that class was done, was more like a boxer’s than a ballerina’s. “So what do you think?” she asked as she opened her dance bag and took out a towel to blot sweat from her face.

“It was marvelous,” Maggie said, “but I’d be in traction if I tried it.”

“Nonsense,” Sarah insisted.

“Miss Sanderson,” the tall man called, looking down his long, aquiline nose. He was dressed in khaki and a white linen shirt, open at the collar. “Did you ask permission to bring a guest to rehearsal?”

Maggie immediately stood up, prepared to leave, but Sarah just laughed. “Oh, come on, Fred. This is my flatmate Maggie Hope. She’s just curious as to what we dancers do all day.”