Mr.Churchill's Secretary(9)

In spite of her own ego and inherent selfishness and petty concerns, she’d grown to love England. London was not just the place where her parents had lived before their tragic car crash but where she would have grown up if that hadn’t happened.

She found she’d given her heart to England and wanted her to be safe. She couldn’t leave now. Running back to America would have meant turning her back on her heritage, on her home—ultimately, on herself. It didn’t matter whether John understood that, or whether Aunt Edith did, either, for that matter. Maggie had made her decision to stay, and she was going to stand by it.

“True,” she said finally, “but if we left, then where would you lot be?”

“If only we could get the United States—and not just you two—to join in the fray,” David said wistfully. “The Old Man’s trying everything, you know. Practically getting down on his knees and begging Roosevelt for some old warships.”

“I can see Roosevelt’s point, though,” Paige said. “Another war? After the last one? And the Depression?”

“Americans,” John said, snorting. “Late to every war.”

“The Americans will join!” Maggie said, annoyed, for John took every opportunity to snipe at what he saw as a lack of American involvement. “And not just to supply boats and bullets but troops, too.”

John was nonplussed. “I fear your President has the moral compass of a windsock.”

Maggie glared. “And Britain didn’t sit by and watch while Hitler annexed Austria and invaded Sudetenland? What about Czechoslovakia? And Poland?”

John was taken aback. “Not if it had been up to Churchill—”

“And up until the last few months, Churchill’s been painted by the papers as old, insignificant, a warmonger—spilling English blood thoughtlessly, and trying desperately to preserve a way of life that’s been over since the death of Queen Victoria,” Maggie concluded.

“All right, all right, you two!” Paige exclaimed. “Do we need to separate you?”

“And I’m not so certain it’s such a good idea to let foreigners have such sensitive positions in wartime,” John added.

Annoying, annoying man. “John, not only am I British by birth, but I’m doing my part for the war effort.” Maggie put her hands on Chuck’s and Paige’s. “We all are. So maybe you should be grateful for a little help.”

David grinned. “Ah, that charming Yankee modesty.”

“Look, I don’t mean to insult you,” John said, tracing an ancient pint ring stain on the wooden table. “It’s just that … these are uncertain times—as Diana Snyder learned too late.”

“The girl who worked at Number Ten?” Nigel said.

“The papers said she was mugged,” Chuck said. “Her wallet was missing. Open-and-shut case.”

“Of course that’s what the papers say,” John said. “It’s wartime. Things happen. Unpleasant things. And sometimes they aren’t as straightforward as they seem. Certainly you don’t believe everything you read in the papers, do you?”

“So you think she was … murdered?” Maggie asked. “Why?”

“Let’s just say it’s an ongoing investigation.”

“Mercy, John,” Paige said, conjuring her best southern-belle accent and wrapping her arm around Maggie. “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean everyone’s out to get you. Besides,” she said, sniffing, “no one’s even noticed my new hat—spent nearly all my clothing rations on it.”

Chuck rolled her eyes; Maggie gave her a gentle kick under the table.

John didn’t rise to the bait. “Wouldn’t be a problem if the U.S. was actually in this war.”

“I truly believe that America will join the fight,” Maggie said.

“Yes, one can always count on the United States to do the right thing—after all other options have been exhausted,” John said.

Maggie was about to retort when David rose gracefully to his feet. “Right-o, then, let’s not tear each other apart when there are plenty of Germans just waiting to do that very thing. Let’s go dancing, shall we?”

“Fine,” grumbled Maggie and John simultaneously.

David turned to Paige. “And may I say, my dear, I love your hat. You look absolutely adorable in it.”

Paige glowed beneath her confection of bluebells and ribbons. “Why, thank you, David. You’re a true gentleman.”





THREE





AT THE BLUE Moon Club, the light was dim. Trumpets and clarinets blared through clouds of smoke and Shalimar as the group crammed into a small velvet banquette lit by a low-shaded lamp. As the Moonbeam Orchestra played a cover of Jelly Roll Morton’s “King Porter Stomp,” a group of dancers on the floor twisted and shimmied through intricate turns and lifts. There was a narrow marble bar and a small sign next to the bald, nervous-looking barman, proclaiming NO GIN.