In the dimness, Maggie thought of the next generation and, God willing, the next. She thought of Chuck and Nigel’s baby—his cuddly roundness and the way his head smelled like shortbread, warm from the oven. If our generation doesn’t do something, what will the world be like for the next? I may physically die. I may morally die. I may lose my soul. But it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. Take me, use me. I’m ready.
She noticed that, a row away, John was watching her. He made a little walking motion with his fingers and she nodded. They left the room together. John found their coats, and they went up to the roof, where the P.M. used to watch the Blitz, to the deep consternation of his private detective and Mrs. Churchill. The edges were lined with walls of sandbags.
“London doesn’t look so bad,” Maggie remarked, “at least, covered in snow. I was thinking about that earlier. It hides a lot. Although all the damage is still there, underneath.” Her hand went to her own bandage. But her wound—her wounds—were healing now.
“At least the bombing’s stopped—for the moment—while Hitler turns all of his attention to Russia.”
“Oh, Lord,” Maggie said, looking at the devastation below, realizing. “While I was gone, they took out the Admiralty. Mr. Churchill must have been disconsolate.”
“Actually, what he said was, ‘Now I can see Nelson on his column more clearly.’ ”
“Yes, that sounds like him.” Maggie smiled.
“So,” John began, “how was your time in Scotland? I picture you like Artemis, running the moors of Scotland with a bow and arrow.”
“Artemis has a gun these days. I suppose David can be my Apollo.”
John ran his hands through his hair. “Well, please don’t turn me into a deer, like poor what’s-his-name.”
“Actaeon. No, you’re more like Orion, I suppose.”
“Not Adonis?” John said, with an arched eyebrow.
“Oh, you’d like that, would you?” She laughed. “But these days I’m sure I’ll end up alone. Like Artemis. Or Athena. Or even Bastet, the cat goddess.”
They stood for a moment in silence, as large lacy snowflakes began to fall. Then John said, “I wonder what everyone’s doing downstairs now. Probably breaking out the Champagne. The good Champagne.” He looked down at Maggie. “Sorry you’re missing it. And you must be cold. Shall we go downstairs now?”
“Well,” Maggie said with a grimace, remembering the last time she’d been drunk, and had made herself a fool in front of John, “I’ve more or less sworn off liquor these days. Besides, I know exactly what’s happening. Mr. Churchill will swear. Then Mrs. Churchill will say, ‘Oh, darling, please don’t use that word in front of the ladies!’ And Mr. Churchill will say, ‘Oh, bother, Clemmie. Lady Hamilton never chided Lord Nelson for his language …’ And then David will offer them both drinks and smooth everything over.”
“He does love that film.”
“I love it, too. I thought of you tonight, while I was watching it. Especially when Lady Hamilton mocks Lord Nelson. “ ‘And there sits John Sterling, exhibiting his various moods, one by one. John Sterling in a bad mood. John Sterling in a good mood. John Sterling in an exuberant mood …’ ”
“Yes, well …” John looked at Maggie and took her gloved hand in his. “What mood is this?”
She remembered the film enough to remember the line was “in love,” but didn’t want to say it. “John Sterling—allowing himself to be just a wee bit happy?”
“It will be Christmas soon, and then New Year’s—1942. How strange it sounds …”
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently, like a chivalrous knight.
“This doesn’t change anything, you know,” Maggie managed.
“No, of course not,” John said, tucking her hand under his arm.
“In Washington, our relationship will be strictly platonic,” she insisted. “We shall be consummate professionals.”
He smiled. “Consummate,” he agreed.
As they headed back down to the party, Maggie said, “I like what Mr. Churchill said about beginnings and ends tonight—‘This might not be the beginning of the end, but it may be the end of the beginning.’ ”
Chapter Twenty-four
Clara Hess was ready to die.
Like German spy Josef Jakobs before her, she had been court-martialed in front of a military tribunal at Duke of York’s Headquarters in Chelsea. Because of her unwillingness to participate in the Double Cross system, she’d been convicted after a one-day trial and sentenced to death.