Princess Elizabeth's Spy(22)

Princess Elizabeth rolled her eyes. Obviously it wasn’t the first time she’d heard that. “You don’t need to be a queen to be polite.”

Ainslie gestured to the woman seated across the room. “Mrs. Knight, this is Miss Hope, the Princess Elizabeth’s new maths tutor. Miss Hope, this is Mrs. Knight, the Princesses’ nanny, known as Alah.” Alah was an older woman with black hair, handsome features, and a no-nonsense expression. “Alah was originally nanny to the Queen.”

“How do you do,” Maggie said.

“How do you do,” Alah responded with a Hertfordshire accent. She went over to young Margaret and smoothed her curls protectively. Margaret looked up at her with an expression of absolute adoration.

Ah, Maggie realized, she’s territorial. Of course. It must be difficult to have someone new come in.

“Alah is responsible for the Princesses’ out-of-school life—their health, their baths, their clothes. To help her, she has an undermaid and a nursemaid. You shall meet them later. You’ll also meet Crawfie, Miss Marion Crawford, the girls’ governess,” Ainslie explained. “She’s responsible for them from nine until six. You’ll discuss Princess Elizabeth’s academic schedule with her.”

“Of course,” Maggie said, raising her chin just the slightest bit. “I look forward to it.” She looked at Alah. Maggie could sense the love that the woman had for her young charges. There may be a threat at Windsor, Maggie thought, but I doubt it comes from Alah. But who knows about the rest of the staff?


After the perfunctory goodbyes, there was more walking through maze-like icy stone corridors. “I feel there must be a Minotaur lying in wait somewhere,” Maggie joked, disconcerted by the silence.

Ainslie did not respond.

Finally, he announced, “The Victoria Tower, Miss.” They began to climb a circular staircase. The stone of the steps was worn smooth in the center. A few of them were crumbled at the edges. Ainslie and Maggie climbed. And climbed. And climbed.

Maggie was a bit out of breath when they reached the top. “Here are your rooms,” the butler said, opening the heavy wooden door for her. She felt a prickle of girlish excitement. I’m going to live in a tower in a castle!

She took a few steps inside; Ainslie followed, turning on a few lamps with silk fringed shades. The sitting room was small, with kelly-green walls dotted with a few oil landscapes and a small chintz-covered sofa and small table pulled in front of a stone fireplace. A fire, set and lit by one of the castle’s fender smiths, popped and cracked merrily behind the iron grate, although it didn’t seem to be throwing much heat. Maggie shivered.

Ainslie opened a door to the bedroom; the canopied bed was piled high with large pillows encased in white linen with handmade lace, topped by a crimson duvet. “There’s a radiator in here, Miss. In case you get cold.” In case? Maggie thought but refrained from saying anything.

“The toilet and bath are”—Ainslie paused delicately, indicating a steep and narrow staircase—“on the roof.”

“On the roof?” Maggie repeated, dumbstruck.

“Castles weren’t originally built with indoor plumbing, Miss Hope.”

“It’s enclosed?”

“Of course,” Ainslie replied, looking shocked.

“Well, how refreshing,” Maggie managed.

He pointed to a bell, wired near the main door. “In the event of an air raid, you will be warned by watchers stationed on the Round Tower, and then the Wardens will ring the bell. After dinner, I shall show you the way to the shelter. It’s in the dungeon.” As he walked to the door, he added, “You’ll be expected to join the rest of the staff at eight sharp for dinner in the Octagon Room.”

He cleared his throat. “We dress.”


It didn’t take Maggie long to unpack her suitcase. Better than the dock in the War Rooms anyway, she decided, although she wasn’t thrilled by the idea of nights in a dungeon. It must be quite safe from raids, at least. And it can’t be any worse than an Anderson shelter.

She glanced at the tiny gold watch on her wrist. Seven o’clock. How did it get to be so late? And Ainslie’s “We dress.” What does it mean, exactly? She was annoyed yet again that Frain was in such a rush to get her installed that he hadn’t found time to get her properly briefed. “You’re a bright girl, you’ll manage,” indeed. Maggie was glad he thought so highly of her, but it didn’t help her figure out what to wear for dinner.

She’d brought all she had, but it wasn’t that much. Skirts and blouses, mostly. Some sweaters. A few pairs of flannel trousers. Several wool dresses. Oxfords, plimsolls, and fur-lined boots. One sky-blue gown tipped in black velvet. Back in London, she’d had flatmates to borrow from.