Maggie walked forward to Crawfie, standing near the platforms of the makeshift stage. “How goes it?”
“Oh, Maggie.” Crawfie sighed. “I’d be better off directing corgis, for as much as the children listen … and the performance is in less than two weeks.”
“That’s quite a bit of time—I’m sure it will be wonderful,” Maggie assured the woman.
“The sets look fantastic,” Crawfie said.
“Thank you. The girls and Gregory are responsible.”
“Oh, but the shading—it really looks like a storybook brought to life!”
“Well, it’s a bit intimidating, making a castle set to go into an actual castle—but somehow we managed by making it a bit less literal. Thank Gerda Wegener—I loved her illustrations when I was a child.”
“You’ll be with us? For the performance? To make sure everything goes the way it should?” Crawfie looked pale.
“Of course I shall. Wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else.” Maggie looked intently at Crawfie. “Are you all right? Maybe you could do with a cup of tea yourself?”
“Oh, I’m fine.” Crawfie shrugged. “It’s just that, with the Prime Minister coming and all of his people, and the King and Queen, of course … and it’s such a big event for the children. The first time most of them have been onstage.” She shook her head. “I just don’t want anything to go wrong.”
“No,” Maggie said, looking out into the shadows, realizing how vulnerable Lilibet and Margaret were onstage. “No, indeed.”
Chapter Eighteen
Letters arrived for Maggie occasionally, care of Windsor Castle. The twins, Annabelle and Clarabelle, sent missives describing their adventures as Land Girls working on a farm in Scotland, writing on the same page in two alternating colored inks, purple for Annabelle and Moroccan red for Clarabelle. Sarah sent cards from various stops on the Vic-Wells Ballet’s tour of Britain, deftly drawn cartoons of some of her fellow dancers, including ballerina Margot Fonteyn and choreographer Frederick Ashton.
Aunt Edith sent long letters in small, elegant script, lamenting Maggie’s career move from typist to tutor. Of all the people she had to keep her secret from, Maggie would have loved to have told Aunt Edith what she was really doing.
And she knew David well enough to realize he’d never even think to write.
From Chuck, she received various hastily written missives, in pencil on scrap paper, detailing wedding plans. Then came the day she received the invitation, engraved on heavy cream stock.
DR. AND MRS. IAN MCCAFFREY
REQUEST THE HONOR OF YOUR PRESENCE
AT THE MARRIAGE OF THEIR DAUGHTER
CHARLOTTE MARY
TO
FLIGHT LIEUTENANT NIGEL ALFRED LUDLOW
ON SATURDAY, JANUARY 2
AT HALF PAST TEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
LEEDS CATHEDRAL
GREAT GEORGE STREET, LEEDS
She wrote back to say she would be attending, especially as Chuck had asked her to be a bridesmaid.
Dear Chuck, she wrote, or should I call you Charlotte Mary? I’ll be there with the proverbial bells on. Xoxo—M.
And her father had sent a package. She cut through the twine and removed the heavy brown paper. Inside was a volume of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, with Arthur Rackham illustrations. She opened the book and inhaled the musty papery scent.
Turning through the frontmatter, she noticed an inscription: To my darling Clara, with all my love, Eddie. 20 October 1915. Clara was Clara Hope, her mother. Eddie was Edmund, her father. And 20 October 1917 was only weeks before her mother’s death.
Dear Margaret, her father had written on a scrap of graph paper. So sorry we missed each other. Thought this book might answer some of your questions.
Oh, right, Maggie thought. My life might resemble a Grimm Brothers tale, but I doubt I’ll find any answers in here. With a deep sigh, she put the book away on the shelf.
“Maggie, may we do maths in your sitting room today?” Lilibet asked as Maggie entered the nursery the next morning, carrying several books and folders of notes.
Maggie was surprised but willing to consider it. “Of course, Lilibet, but why? Your rooms are so much prettier. And warmer.”
Lilibet sighed. “It’s just … I’m so restless here. It’s always the same. We always do the same things, in the same order, every day. I just thought a change of scene …”
“Indeed!” Maggie said, warming to the idea. “That’s something Mr. Churchill always said, when he’d go to Chartwell or Chequers or Ditchley to work.” She affected her best Churchillian voice: “ ‘A change of scene is as good as a rest.’ ”
Lilibet giggled.
“We’ll have tea and lessons up there. Come on!”