After everything she had learned about her father and what she’d had to share with Hugh, Maggie was grateful for the distraction of seeing David and Mrs. Tinsley from the Prime Minister’s office, in addition to Mr. Churchill himself, of course. Frain was coming as well. Maggie felt as though her worlds—No. 10, MI-5, and Windsor Castle—were all about to collide.
The morning’s long procession of black cars from London—Daimlers and Bentleys and Rolls-Royces—rolled slowly up the Long Walk, through an avenue of elm trees planted by Charles II. Maggie watched from one of the high lancet windows in the York Tower as, finally, they reached the Sovereign’s Entrance. Drivers in livery came around to the passenger side of the cars, opening the doors, and helping their occupants out. When she saw Mr. Churchill and David walk up the stone stairs to the entrance and the doors swing open, she gave a small gasp, then ran to the entrance.
Footmen in white-powdered wigs and dress uniforms flanked the Grand Staircase, dominated by an enormous white marble statue of King George IV. At the very top, under the glazed Gothic lantern ceiling, were the royal couple, the King in dress uniform, the Queen in a becoming wisteria wool dress and a bib of glistening graduated pearls. Next to them were the two Princesses, dressed alike in matching plaid skirts, white blouses, and red wool cardigans.
Maggie peeked from around a corner as Mr. Churchill made his way up the stairs. The P.M.’s face looked thinner than she remembered; the strain of war had aged him. He bowed to the King and then the two shook hands with great vigor. Maggie could see the twinkling blue eyes she remembered. He bowed low to the Queen, kissing her bejeweled hand with great reverence. And then he bowed gravely to the two Princesses, making them giggle and blush.
While more of the War Cabinet continued to march in—Lord Hastings Ismay, Clement Attlee, Arthur Greenwood—those already greeted milled about in the Grand Vestibule under the watchful eye of the marble Queen Victoria, before moving on to the Crimson Drawing Room.
There, in red silk and golden gilded splendor, guests congregated in front of the enormous black marble fireplace with its bronze satyrs, the dancing carroty flames trying to cheer the room and provide heat, although there was still a damp creeping chill in the air. The room was decorated with great boughs of fragrant evergreens, white roses, and holly with bright red berries.
As the hall rapidly filled with guests—men in uniforms or dark suits and a few women here and there in dark day dresses—Maggie found David. “You came!” she cried above the growing din of upper-class accents and the chords of a harpsichordist playing a Handel gigue in the background.
“Maggie!” he exclaimed, kissing her on both cheeks.
“Welcome to Windsor Castle.”
“Love what they’ve done to the place,” David said, looking around.
“It’s not as glamorous as it might seem today. Mostly it’s like living in a very cold museum in the off-season.” Maggie noticed that David was carrying a briefcase. And that it was chained to his wrist. “I’ve heard of being chained to your desk—but, really.…”
“Just until I can get it to the safe,” he assured her. “I won’t be attending the ball with a briefcase as my escort, I can assure you.”
“Well, good. Because I’d like a dance.”
“Don’t suppose there’s anything to drink?” David said. “Long ride from London, you know.” He spied a long table at the other end of the room, covered in white linen and piled high with porcelain tea settings and silver urns, etched trays piled high with pastries. “Suffering Sukra, I suppose tea will have to do. Come on!”
Lilibet and Margaret appeared at Maggie’s side. “We’re making the butter pats for the dinners,” Margaret announced proudly.
“They have little crowns on them,” Lilibet added. “We’re making ever so many—and we’re not allowed to eat any of them.”
“You don’t say, Your Highnesses,” David said, bowing. “I don’t know how I shall eat any butter pats at all during my stay, knowing that your Royal hands have touched them.”
The girls giggled.
David asked Lilibet, “And how is Miss Hope doing as your maths teacher? Is she any good?”
“She’s terrible!” Margaret exclaimed, pulling on Maggie’s skirt and laughing. “We need to send her to the dungeons, where she’ll be eaten alive by a horrible dragon!”
“She’s quite wonderful.” Lilibet glared down at her sister. “I’ve learned ever so much. Not just maths but codes and things.”