Mr.Churchill's Secretary(45)
“I don’t care what I come back with, it’s what I’m coming back to,” Nigel said, looking at Chuck. They could all tell she was trying hard not to cry.
“Good Lord, I didn’t mean to do this now, and at the dinner table, of all places, but here goes.” He took a deep sigh and suddenly got down on one knee, taking her hand. “Charlotte, my dearest Chuck, would you do me the incredible honor of—becoming my wife?”
Chuck looked stunned. Everyone at the table was dumbfounded.
“Ooooooh!” the twins exclaimed together, eyes wide.
Chuck blushed furiously. But without hesitating, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him long and hard, causing everyone at the table to clap.
“Yes, yes, yes! I would love to be Mrs. Nigel Ludlow,” she declared, holding his ruddy perspiring face between her hands, laughing and crying at the same time.
As Nigel and Chuck turned back to each other for another kiss, Maggie led everyone in a round of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” and David refilled everyone’s glass.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have a ring yet, sweetheart,” Nigel said as he sat down and pulled Chuck onto his lap.
“It’s fine,” she murmured, her lips against his collar. “Don’t need any goddamned ring. I’m not some gold-digging debutante.”
“Good gracious,” Annabelle said, taken aback.
“No ring?” Clarabelle added.
“I don’t care about any ring,” Chuck said to Nigel, burying her face in his shoulder. “I just care about you.”
“Well, you’ll have one by the time I get back from my first leave—and then we’ll start planning the wedding. What do you say, my love?”
Chuck considered. “Will your parents have to come?”
“Well, that is traditional, darling.”
A pause. “Why don’t we just elope?”
Nigel laughed. “Ah, that’s my girl,” he said as he wiped his red face with his handkerchief.
Later in the evening, as they left the table to relax in the parlor, Maggie realized why ladies and gentlemen were encouraged to separate after dinner. The men clustered around the fireplace, drinking brandy and engrossed in yet another political argument. At least David didn’t join in; instead, he played “Mad About the Boy” on the piano.
Maggie wandered over to David. “Sounds wonderful,” she said, suddenly conscious that the piano was out of tune and missing an F string. “Or at least as wonderful as possible on this old thing. You’re very talented.”
“Thanks, Magster,” David said. He moved over on the bench to make room for her, then launched into a Noël Coward medley. Maggie took the opportunity to study his long and graceful fingers as they moved across the keys. He had a lovely tenor voice and was perfectly at ease at the keyboard as he launched into a sprightly melody:
“The Stately Homes of England we proudly represent,
We only keep them up for Americans to rent,
Though the pipes that supply the bathroom burst
And the lavatory makes you fear the worst,
It was used by Charles the First, quite informally,
And later by George the Fourth on a journey north.
The State Apartments keep their historical renown,
It’s wiser not to sleep there in case they tumble down
But still if they ever catch on fire, which, with any luck, they might
We’ll fight for the Stately Homes of England!”
As he segued into “Mad Dogs and Englishmen,” he said, “Lovely dinner party.”
“Thank you. I’m so glad it turned out all right—”
But Simon and John’s discussion was quickly turning into an argument. John’s voice was getting louder. “Look, it’s like the Old Man said—the way you all wanted it, if Saint George had tried to save the fair maiden from the dragon, he’d have been accompanied by a delegation instead of a horse—and had a secretary, not a lance. Then, after signing some sort of meaningless agreement with said dragon, the maiden’s release would be referred to the League of Nations. Then, finally, Saint George would be photographed with the dragon, and it would have run on the front page of The Times.
“But when all was said and done, the damned dragon would have kept the damned maiden—and Saint George, his secretary, the Round Table, the agreement, the entire blasted League of blasted Nations—all would have been burned to a crisp.”
“That’s hardly what I was proposing, John, and you know it,” Simon said, his voice turning menacing. “We were all there for the King-and-Country debate. I signed it, you signed it, David and Nigel signed it—”