The dinner and the conversation went on, the long tapers burning down and voices getting louder and more relaxed with bottle upon bottle being brought from the castle’s vast wine cellar. The dinner ended with petits fours and black coffee. When the guests had eaten and drunk their fill, the King and Queen put their knives and forks down—and, as per royal etiquette, everyone else did the same. Then the King rose to his feet, offered his arm to the Queen, and they left St. George’s Hall for the Grand Reception Room.
The P.M. and Mrs. Churchill followed behind, along with the rest of the high-ranking officers and War Cabinet Ministers. Maggie stood up with the others, waiting for the head of the table to file out first.
“I’d love that dance later, David,” Maggie said.
“Oh, darling, and I’d love to oblige, but I have some work to do, I’m afraid.”
“Maggie,” Gregory said. “Let’s show your friend to my office and set him up there. If you must do work on a holiday weekend, at least do it in comfort. I have a fantastic bottle of twenty-two-year-old Scotch, by the way.”
David smiled. “I like the way you think. Lead on, Macduff.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Maggie, David, and Gregory strolled the chilly corridors of the castle, en route to the Equerry’s office. When Maggie saw Hugh in one of the hallways, staring intently at one of the Sleeping Beauty posters, she stopped.
“You boys go ahead,” she told David and Gregory. “I think someone might be lost.”
After the conversation of the two men had receded into the distance, Maggie spoke. “How—how are you?”
Hugh took a casual tone. “Oh, fine. Trying to explain to my mother why I’ll be away for the holidays again. It’s bad enough I’m not in the armed services, as far as she’s concerned, but to miss Christmas.…”
Maggie heard voices in the distance. “In here,” she said, leading him into a dark room with high ceilings and sheeted furniture. They were alone. She closed the door. They both leaned against the wall, their eyes adjusting to the darkness.
Hugh was silent for a long moment. “Because of the secret nature of their work, there aren’t any memorials or tombs for MI-Five veterans. But there’s a wall at MI-Five, a marble wall with poppies carved in it, on the left-hand side as you enter. And on that wall are names. Names of agents lost in action. No clues as to how or where—or even when. All we know is that they died in service to Britain.”
He took a deep breath. “I was five when my father’s name was chiseled into that wall. And now I pass it every day.”
“Hugh, I’m so sorry.”
For a moment, Hugh looked as though he was going to say something. Then he changed his mind.
“It’s fine, Maggie. I mean—well, it’s not fine. But it’s done, it’s over, and you certainly had nothing to do with any of it. I want you to know that. That it’s nothing you had anything to do with. I don’t blame you.”
He reached into his black dinner jacket pocket and pulled out a small package, wrapped in silver paper and bound with a red satin ribbon. He handed it to Maggie.
“What?” she said, surprised. “Oh, really—you shouldn’t have.”
“I know. It’s highly irregular. But I was thinking of you … and it is Christmas, after all.” He shifted his weight. “Anyway, I hope you like it.”
“I’m sure I will,” Maggie promised.
Slowly, she raised herself up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips.
He put his hands on her waist and drew her close. Then he leaned down and they kissed again, longer, this time. It’s different from the way it was with John, Maggie realized, and then she stopped thinking.
Finally, they broke apart. “We can’t do this,” Maggie said.
“I think we just did.” Hugh reached out to stroke her cheek.
She put her arms around his neck and leaned against him, smelling his bay rum cologne. “We do work together, after all.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” he whispered. “But I do think you’re wonderful.”
Maggie pulled away. “We can’t …”
“Of course,” Hugh said. “You’re right.”
Maggie stepped past him and opened the door.
“Happy Christmas, then,” Hugh said, and turned to walk away.
“Happy Christmas, Hugh,” Maggie called after him.
Back up in her sitting room in Victoria Tower, fire already lit, Maggie sat down, gift in her hands. She pressed her fingers to her lips, smiled, and shook her head. She undid the red ribbon and took off the paper.
In a small silver frame, there was a watercolor portrait of her. While the colors were delicate, her features were defined and strong, vibrant and alive.