But before she could sit down, David deftly took the place card next to her on the other side and switched it with his own.
“David!” Maggie exclaimed. “Really, now.”
“Oh, don’t take that older-sister tone with me,” he said. “War rations on priceless Royal china, how droll.” He picked up the charger in front of him, with panels of cobalt blue, a gold-stippled border, and painted birds and insects. He flipped it over to look at the maker. “Tournai, 1787. Excellent.”
“David!” Maggie whispered. The plate had been set with military precision between a full set of gleaming vermeil flatware and multiple crystal wineglasses, engraved with the Order of the Garter star and the royal emblem.
As per tradition, everyone remained standing behind his or her chair as the head table was led in by the King, in his military uniform with the Order of the Garter sash and star, and the Queen, in a powder blue gown and ruby and diamond Oriental Circlet tiara. They were followed by Prime Minister Churchill and Clementine Churchill. When the four reached the head table, the pipers stopped playing and stood at attention. An empty place next to them was set in memory of those killed during the war. After the King said a prayer, the pipers played “Flowers of the Forest.” And after the Irish and Scots Guards played “God Save the King,” the King made a champagne toast to the Prime Minister.
Everyone sat down, settling in, pulling the elaborately folded white damask napkins to their laps, and the staff began to serve. Gregory began, “I’m amazed you two got any work at all done at Number Ten.”
“Well,” Maggie allowed, tasting the consommé with sherry, “we did have a few laughs. But it really was hard work. Or, as Mr. Churchill would prefer us to say, ‘challenging.’ ”
Seated next to Gregory was a dowager, her sagging neck swathed in emeralds and diamonds. “And. Who. Are. You?” she asked Maggie over her pince-nez as the fish course was served, sounding like the Caterpillar from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
“Maggie Hope, ma’am. I tutor Princess Elizabeth in maths.”
“Really,” she said, turning her attention to the poached salmon in sauce mousseline, clearly not pleased to be sitting near a glorified governess.
“And Mr. David Greene works with the Prime Minister. Don’t you, David?” Maggie asked, giving him a poke.
“True, true,” he admitted, then led the conversation to the antics of the Churchills’ menagerie of pets, all of whom roamed No. 10 freely. Once he had everyone, including the dowager, laughing, Maggie relaxed. Across the table, Gregory winked at her with his good eye, and she smiled back as the meat course was served: filet mignon with mushroom sauce, with beans, broccoli, and potatoes Anna.
“Maggie,” David said with a sigh, watching her put down her knife and pass her fork from her left hand to her right, “why must you continue to eat in that revolting American style?”
“Because it’s what I do, David, and I’m not going to change because I’m in Saint George’s Hall.”
“Young man!” called an old Admiral from a few places down, fixing his gaze on David.
“Yes, sir.”
“Say, you work for Churchill, do you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any idea when the damn Yanks are going to get here?”
“No, sir,” David said. “I’m afraid they haven’t sent in their R.S.V.P. yet.”
Maggie shot him a look.
“Yanks,” the Admiral muttered. “Late to every war!”
“The Prime Minister is in constant contact with President Roosevelt, of course—”
“As much good as that’s done. But as we all know too well from the last war, you can always count on the Americans to do the right thing—after they’ve tried everything else.”
After the meat course came the salad. Maggie noticed Gregory didn’t eat much throughout the dinner but called the footman over to refill his glass more than a few times.
“So, Maggie tells me you rowed for Cambridge?” David asked Gregory over the torte au chocolat blanc.
“Yes,” he replied, taking a sip of champagne. “Eton and then Cambridge. Thirty-four was the dead heat. In thirty-five, we won the Boat Race.”
“That’s the annual race between Cambridge and Oxford,” David explained to Maggie. Then, to Gregory, “I was on the Oxford team a few years later than you. Coxswain.”
“Brothers in blue,” Gregory said, smiling. “I was at Trinity.”
“Magdalen? Excellent,” David said, dunking his fingertips into the proffered glass finger bowl and wiping them on the provided linen napkin, then tucking into the fruit course—red Windsor apples served with elderflower-wine-marbled Windsor red cheese, fig jam, and walnuts, served on Queen Victoria’s Royal Minton china, bordered in turquoise with panels of flowers and gilding. The conversation had given Maggie pause, for although she was happy to see David and Gregory discover they’d both rowed, John had gone to Magdalen with David. Even hearing the name of John’s college brought back a rush of memories and a stab of pain to her heart. Still, it wasn’t quite as bad as before.