Princess Elizabeth's Spy(63)

The return address was an official Whitehall address, and it was written on official-looking RAF stationery.

“Oooh, what is it?” Lilibet said, running over to Maggie’s side. “How glamorous!” Then, seeing Maggie’s expression, “Oh, I do hope everything’s all right. He is all right, isn’t he?” she asked earnestly. Lilibet reached out her hand and placed it on Maggie’s. Her nails were rough and bitten and decidedly un-princess-like. Even in the midst of her own crisis, Maggie realized what a strain the war must be on the young girls, even if they were Royal.

“I know how you must feel, or at least a little bit. If anything happened to Philip …”

Maggie slipped the envelope into her skirt pocket. “It’s nothing that can’t wait until we’ve finished our lesson,” she said briskly. “Now, let’s get down to business.”


It was only later, after Lilibet had closed the door behind her, that Maggie allowed herself to open the letter. It was from Nigel; she’d know his handwriting anywhere. It was shaky and less legible than she was used to, but it was Nigel’s.

She sat down, not sure if her legs would hold her.

Dear Maggie,

As a follow-up to our telephone conversation a few months ago, I am writing to confirm that we still have received no word from John.

He is an extremely able pilot and a loyal officer with a deep sense of duty.

However, he has not been able to contact us for over six months, and the odds of him surviving that long in enemy territory are, I’m sorry to say, quite low.

He is now listed as “Missing, presumed dead.” I thought you would want to know.

Yours sincerely,

Nigel




About a half an hour later there was a knock on the door to Maggie’s room. It was Lilibet, to pick up the ink bottle she’d left.

There was no answer.

Lilibet knocked again.

Nothing.

Just as she was about to turn and climb back down the cold, narrow steps, she heard a noise. It was a high-pitched keening sound. She opened the door.

There was Maggie, facedown on the sofa, clutching the missive in her hands and weeping.

“Maggie?” Lilibet said at the doorway. There was no response, but the wailing died down slightly, then stopped. The Princess could hear long ragged breaths and the occasional sniffle. “Maggie? Are you ill?”

Lilibet cautiously made her way in, walking gently toward the prone form on the sofa, as though not to startle a wild animal. “Maggie?”

Maggie sat up in a sudden movement, pulling her hair back and then wiping furiously at her red and swollen eyes.

“Lilibet, do you—do you have a handkerchief?” she asked finally.

“Of course,” said the Princess, procuring a clean cambric one. “Here you go. Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

Maggie gave her nose a good, honking blow, then pushed the letter to Lilibet, who read it. She set it down, then reached over to place her hand on Maggie’s.

“ ‘Missing and presumed dead.’ ” Maggie reached for the envelope and paper and crumpled them her hands. Then threw them both in the fire. The two watched as the orange flames consumed both papers until they turned black and into lacy ash that flew up the chimney. Maggie felt gutted, as though she’d been kicked, hard, in the stomach. It was a physical sensation so fierce, she momentarily put her arms around herself in self-protection.

“Shhhhh …” Lilibet said in motherly tones, stroking Maggie’s hair as she might pet a horse or corgi. “It will be all right, Maggie. It will be all right.”


Some time later, Lilibet had convinced Maggie to wash her face with cold water and come down to the kitchen for some hot tea.

“Maggie’s had some bad news,” she said to Cook, who immediately went to brew a pot of tea. Then she returned to her work, making up a new tray for Audrey to take upstairs.

“Here you go, Cousin,” Cook said to the Parisienne, who smiled at Maggie and bobbed a curtsy at Lilibet before she picked up her tray and left.

At the long wooden table, Maggie didn’t want to discuss what had just happened; the pain was still too raw and she was still too numb. Lilibet seemed to understand, and sat next to her in supportive silence. Better to try to think of other things.

“Audrey Moreau is your cousin?” she asked Cook, taking a sip of the hot tea.

“No, Miss,” said Cook. “My husband’s cousin. She came from Paris. Got out just in time, poor thing. Parents are gone—got an older brother, but he joined the military. Not sure where he is now.”

“Thank goodness she made it in time!” Lilibet exclaimed.

“And so she’s been here for, what, about eight months?” asked Maggie. “How does she like it?”