Maggie sat down and watched as Gregory removed his overcoat. A young waitress with a blond bun made her way toward them in the dim golden glow from the brass sconces with Victorian etched-glass globes. “What would you like?” she asked over the noise of the crowd and a recording of the Andrews Sisters singing “Begin the Beguine.”
Maggie had already glanced at the menu. “Cider, please. And the shepherd’s pie.”
“Two. But I’ll have an ale.” The waitress stared in horror at Gregory’s face for a moment before composing her features. She gave a nervous smile and walked away.
“You know, Clive’s not really so bad,” Gregory said, turning back to Maggie. “Distinguished military career, then private secretary to the Sovereign. Retired just a few years ago to Windsor and only recently been named Governor. He tries to run things with military precision—a bit obsessive about time, but I think he quite misses ordering a bunch of sailors about.”
“Of course.” Maggie was ready to be magnanimous, now that her toes were beginning to warm up. “And what about you? What brings you to Windsor?”
Something closed in Gregory’s face. “I’m here as equerry—an assistant of sorts—to the King. Was a pilot before that, if you couldn’t tell by the jacket. Got a bit singed early on in Norway. Not just my face, either. Scars go down my left side.”
“I’m so sorry,” Maggie said. What if it had been John? she thought. What if it is John, burned and somewhere in France or Germany?
“The equerry position goes to some poor wounded soldier every six months or so,” Gregory said, arranging and rearranging the table’s salt and pepper shakers, bottle of vinegar, and HP Sauce. “We get to live in the castle, do a few things for His Majesty, heal up a bit. Not a bad situation, by any means.” His face darkened, eyes looking to the middle distance, seeing things only in his memory. Then he shook his head, as if to clear his nightmares. “All things considered. I’ll have to go back to military duty after the new year. I’m not looking forward to it.”
The waitress brought their drinks and pies.
“Oh, heaven,” Maggie said, eyeing the steaming plate of vegetables and some kind of meat covered with a browned crust of mashed potatoes.
“Careful, it’s hot,” Gregory warned, as he took a sip of his beer. “And probably made with actual shepherd.”
“At this point, I don’t care,” she declared, sticking her fork into the mashed-potato crust. “I’m starving.”
After she’d eaten a bit, and Gregory had pushed his food around on his plate, he said, “So you’re teaching the little Princesses maths, then?”
Of course she couldn’t tell him MI-5 had placed her there. “Yes,” she said, through a bite.
“Excellent idea! Crawfie’s a good Scottish lass, but she’s not that well educated, really. Of course, Lilibet’s taking a few classes at Eton, my alma mater, but if she’s going to be Queen someday …”
“Exactly,” Maggie agreed, taking a sip of cider. “So, not just pure maths but statistics, economics, even physics, architecture, engineering—”
“And how do you know all that?” Gregory asked, surprised. He’d finished his ale and set down the empty glass. “No offense, of course.”
“Long story.” Maggie laughed. “I majored in mathematics at Wellesley College, back in the States. I was going to go on to do a Ph.D. at M.I.T. when my British grandmother passed. So I came to London in thirty-eight to sell her house, and, well, never left.”
“Well, good for you, then,” he said. “I studied classics when I was at university—could hardly get past algebra, let alone calculus. How’d you get the position with the Royal Family?”
Maggie had practiced her cover story. “I worked as a typist at Number Ten Downing Street for a while, but I wasn’t that fast. Or accurate, if you must know. When word came the King and Queen were looking for a maths tutor, I was recommended. Seemed like a good fit.”
“Hmmm. Downing Street, you say? Did you know Churchill?”
Oh, if he only knew … “Not really.” Maggie shrugged. “Just in passing. I was pretty low in the pecking order.”
Gregory motioned to the waitress to bring another drink, and she nodded her assent.
Maggie noticed his still-full plate. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“I had a late lunch.” Then he smiled. “Of course you must have a beau pining for you.”
Maggie stopped, fork hovering in midair.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I just assumed, pretty girl like you …” The waitress brought his drink and he took a gulp.