“And you’re going to need us.” Maggie smiled. To Sarah, “I don’t know if you’ve met her in-laws yet, but they make the Germans seem like Beatrix Potter’s bunnies.”
Holy Trinity Church was small and stone, with a sharp Gothic bell tower pointing heavenward. The young women and Chuck’s parents parked in the lot, then walked in the cold, crisp air, past the graveyard with its gray lichen-covered headstones, to the entrance. They passed over the threshold and waited in the vestibule for the organ music Chuck and Nigel had chosen, Purcell’s “Welcome, Glorious Morn.” The sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, making them glow and casting reflections of sapphire, ruby, amethyst, and emerald on the hard wooden pews.
Chuck’s mother proceeded down the worn stone aisle, followed by Maggie and Sarah. There was a pause and the small group in the first few rows of the church rose as Chuck took her father’s arm and began the walk down.
Nigel waited for her at the altar, smart in his RAF dress uniform, still a bit barrel-shaped, but thinner now, his face showing more angles and planes. As Maggie took her position at Chuck’s side, she managed a glance at the congregation in the pews. David was there, looking handsome.
Maggie looked away, back to Chuck and Nigel, as her heartbeat quickened. She was overwhelmed with conflicting feelings—happiness, relief, longing, anger, and anguish, all at once.
The ceremony was short, solemn, and sweet. And after it was over, the bride, groom, and wedding guests walked over to the wedding luncheon, held in the back room of Anthony’s, the town’s finest restaurant. In the small room, tables were pushed together. The guests sat down as waiters brought in trays of champagne coupes, for the toast. As soon as the speeches were made, waiters brought bowls of steaming parsnip soup and trays of dainty-looking sandwiches—cucumber, ham, and mustard, mock crab salad. The drinks began in earnest—pints of beer, shandies, and gin-and-tonics pink with Angostura Bitters and glistening ice cubes.
Maggie found herself caught up in the swirling joy of the day, raising her glass to Nigel and Chuck’s health and happiness for at least the fifth time. It was infectious and there was no way she could resist.
“You doing all right, love?” Sarah asked.
Warmed by a glass and a half of shandy, Maggie answered, “I’m fine. Really. It’s Chuck and Nigel’s big day and I couldn’t be happier.”
Chapter Thirty
Back at David’s flat in London that evening, Maggie telephoned Hugh at the office. “So, we don’t work together anymore, do we?”
“Well, technically, we both work for MI-Five, yes. But, to the best of my knowledge, since the Windsor case is closed, I’m not your handler anymore. So, yes—and no.”
“Well, David’s going to be out and I’m going to try and cook something tonight. If you happen to be passing by—”
“I’ll be there,” Hugh interrupted.
From across the room, Mark laughed.
Hugh grinned and mouthed, “Shut up.”
Over dinner, Maggie’s attempt at Potato Jane, a bake of potatoes, leeks, cheese, and bread crumbs, and vinegary red wine, the two had their first somewhat normal conversation. “You have the advantage, though,” Maggie said, “because you know more about me than I know about you. You have my file.”
“You’re more than your file.”
“Well, I know you’re a Chelsea Blues fan.”
“How did you know that?”
She smiled. “You wear blue socks on game days. Also, you play the guitar.”
“No.” This time he smiled, and reached for his wine.
“No?” Maggie was surprised. “You have calluses on the tips of your left fingers, but not your right.”
“Cello,” Hugh admitted.
“Ah. A lovely instrument. Very soulful.” Then, “So, what did I miss?”
“You know most of the other details. My mother raised me. I ended up at Selwyn College, at Cambridge, for a degree in theology. And, for a while I thought I wanted to be a priest.”
“Catholic?”
“Anglican.”
“Well, well, well.” Maggie had no idea of Hugh’s religious proclivities.
“Do you go to church?”
“Er, no,” Maggie said. “I was raised Episcopalian—what you’d call Anglican—but more because my Aunt Edith said it was a cultural necessity. That the Episcopalians use the King James Bible, which, according to her, is the best—meaning most literary—translation. And it would be impossible to understand history and literature without reading it. But I consider myself a scientist, first and foremost.”