“Codes?” David raised an eyebrow. “Really, now.”
“Lilibet’s an excellent student,” Maggie said.
The Princesses giggled and wandered off, arm in arm.
Maggie spotted Mrs. Tinsley in the crowd. Mrs. Tinsley was still Mr. Churchill’s head typist and the woman Maggie had once reported to; once upon a time, she had found the older woman intimidating. But now it was a joy to see her, with her customary rope of creamy pearls around her neck. “Mrs. Tinsley!” she exclaimed.
“Why, hello, Miss Hope,” Mrs. Tinsley said, taking the younger girl’s measure over the frames of her glasses.
Just like old times, Maggie thought.
Mrs. Tinsley tucked back a strand of black hair threaded with gray. “You look well. The country air agrees with you.”
“And you look as lovely as always. How is Miss Stewart?”
“She’s well. Back at Number Ten, holding down the proverbial fort. She sends her well wishes to you—and I’ll tell her you asked after her.”
“May I offer you a cup of tea, Mrs. Tinsley?”
“Thank you, that would be delightful,” she said, making a beeline to one of the gilt and red-silk chairs.
Maggie went to the large table and poured a cup of tea, black just the way Mrs. Tinsley had taken it at No. 10. When she returned with it, handing it to the older woman, she heard, “Well, Hope’s at Windsor Castle now!” in a loud, gruff voice. “And all’s right with the world.”
It was the Prime Minister, wearing a navy blue suit with a burgundy polka-dotted bow tie and a sprig of holly in the buttonhole—probably placed there this morning by Mrs. Churchill, Maggie thought.
“Mr. Churchill!” she exclaimed.
“Miss Hope,” he replied, bowing slightly.
“Is Mrs. Churchill with you, sir?”
“She’s joining us this evening.”
Suddenly Gregory was at her elbow. “Maggie, you never told me you traveled in such impressive circles.”
And then the male staff, under the watchful eye of Lord Clive, began to escort the guests to their rooms.
“Toodle pip for now, love,” said David to Maggie, as his escort appeared.
“Maybe we can all get a drink before dinner tonight, yes?” Gregory suggested.
“Suits me,” David replied. “Maggie?”
“Of course,” Maggie answered. But she had already spied Frain and Hugh in the crowd. She knew they were coming, of course, but it was still a shock to see them at Windsor. She stood perfectly still, uncertain of how to proceed, her heart beating fast as a hummingbird’s.
David sized up the predicament and called Frain over. “Mr. Frain,” he said, “you remember Maggie Hope, don’t you? One of Mr. Churchill’s typists?”
“Of course,” said Frain. “Miss Hope, a pleasure to see you again.”
“And you, Mr. Frain.”
“This is my associate, Hugh Thompson,” Frain said.
“How do you do, Mr. Thompson,” Maggie said, offering her hand, which he took.
He winked at her. “How do you do, Miss Hope?” As Frain made his way over to the Prime Minister and David and Gregory drifted off, Maggie and Hugh stood, face-to-face, in the crowd. “You have a little something—” He reached for her hair.
“What?” Maggie said. “What is it?”
“Fairy dust—or so it seems.” She stood very still as he pulled something from her hair, then handed it to her. It was white and sparkling, like an opal. “Oh,” she said, cheeks turning pink, as she took it from him. “It’s the artificial snow they’ve put on the Christmas tree and some of the garlands. Gets onto everything if you’re not careful …” Maggie said, flustered.
“I hope you’ll save me a dance, Miss Hope,” he said, giving an almost imperceptible bow as one of the servants came to lead him to his room.
“Of—of course, Mr. Thompson.”
In the Submarine Tracking Room in the Admiralty Arch, a young man moved a red pushpin on a map-covered table, one of thousands of different colored pins on the turquoise blue areas of the map representing the Atlantic. Donald Kirk was reading a memo, but he caught the movement out of the corner of his eye.
He limped over, leaning heavily on his walking stick, to take a closer look. “That U-boat there,” he said, pointing to the red pin the young man had just moved, “U-two-forty-six. What’s it doing?”
The man, olive-skinned with a shiny nose and forehead, shrugged. “Seems to be on the move now, sir,” he said. “Heading closer to shore than we’ve seen before.”
Kirk looked at the map, to the Norfolk coast. What’s the Captain doing? Kirk thought. He looked up the submarine’s captain, a Captain Jörg Vogt. Vogt might not even know himself, yet, what they were doing there.