Despite the bomb damage, the targeting of Buckingham Palace by the Luftwaffe had resulted in only partial success. Physical damage was limited, and there had been no mass casualties. After one of the attacks, the Queen had expressed her solidarity with fellow Londoners, remarking, “I am glad we have been bombed. It makes me feel I can look the East End in the face.”
Still, as Maggie eyed the balcony she was keenly aware this war would end in one of two ways: with the victorious King and Queen waving to crowds of their beloved people from above with the Union Jack waving proudly—or, instead, with them being hanged publicly from the same balcony, under red swastika banners.
Maggie showed her engraved invitation to the guard on duty and was directed beyond the fa?ade to the inner quadrangle, decorated with symmetrical yellow stone panels, with oeils-de-boeuf, roses, garlands, and angels.
Another security check at the stairs of the entrance, and Maggie was escorted up the crimson carpet of the dramatic double staircase, then through the Grand Hall, with its gilt and mirrors.
Queen Elizabeth stood near the door of the Blue Drawing Room, flanked by ladies-in-waiting, greeting her guests. Petite yet commanding, Elizabeth wore a trademark Norman Hartnell–designed dress in powder blue, light brown hair coiffed in perfect marcel waves with a wispy fringe of bangs. Her jewelry was her usual triple strand of graduated pearls, swaying teardrop earrings, and a diamond-and-pearl shell brooch. At her feet swirled a number of corgis, their eyes button-shiny and fur glossy.
Maggie tried not to startle, as she remembered one of those dogs had once given her hand a good chomp at Windsor Castle. The corgis appraised her, but didn’t approach. Well, that’s a relief.
“Good afternoon, Miss Hope,” the Queen declared in her silvery, high-pitched voice. “Thank you so much for coming. It’s delightful to see you again.”
Maggie curtsied. “Your Majesty, thank you for inviting me. I’m honored to be here.”
When the Queen extended her delicate gloved hand and gave Maggie’s a gentle squeeze, the younger woman tried not to giggle at a sudden vision of the Queen eating Mrs. Roosevelt’s proffered hot dogs at Hyde Park.
“The Princesses are here at the Palace today,” the Queen told her.
“How are they, ma’am?”
A cloud passed over the Queen’s face. “They’re strong and resilient young women,” she answered firmly. “The King and I are proud of them and all they’re doing for the war effort. Although”—here the Queen leaned in, and Maggie detected the faint scent of lavender water—“between us, Lilibet’s knitting is still rather lumpy.”
Maggie repressed a smile. “It always was a bit, ma’am.”
“However, there is some cheerful news,” the Queen added with a proud smile. “Princess Elizabeth is to be Colonel of the Grenadier Guards!”
“Oh, how perfectly wonderful! Please convey my congratulations to the Princess.”
“And speaking of women doing their all for the war effort, what are you doing these days, Miss Hope? Only what you’re allowed to share, of course.”
“I’ve recently returned from the White House, ma’am, where I worked for the Prime Minister during his trip to see President Roosevelt. And now I’m with SOE here in London, while waiting for the arrival of my sister—half sister.”
The Queen clapped her hands together. “How wonderful! When I see how close Lilibet and Margaret are…Well, I think everyone should have a sister.”
I only hope Elise and I will be that close. Maybe someday.
A line of guests was starting to grow behind Maggie, and the Queen took notice. “We’ll chat more later, Miss Hope,” she told her. “Enjoy the tea.”
Maggie bobbed another curtsy. “Thank you, ma’am.”
The Blue Drawing Room was ornamented in the Georgian style, in crimson and gilt. The walls were covered in cobalt flock wallpaper punctuated by tall columns painted to resemble onyx. Maggie suppressed another smile as she looked at the assorted curly, gold-legged furniture with sculpted backs, knowing David had called similar pieces “Ministry of Works Louis XIV.” The tall windows overlooked private gardens, and Maggie could see the snow falling heavily now, collecting in the tufts of grass on the lawn.
The room was set up for afternoon tea, with silver urns, platters of sandwiches, scones, and cakes on a large plantation table, and armchairs with low side tables provided for informal seating. A harpist plucked arpeggios in a corner.
Upon closer inspection, Maggie saw little ivory cards with calligraphy that proclaimed the sandwiches beetroot and faux mayonnaise, liver paté and celery with mustard, and cucumber and margarine. The scones were potato, with mock cream, and the cakes were eggless, made from carrots with spices. Forced yellow jonquils decorated the tables, and the china service for the austere meal, she was amused to see, was venerable Minton.
As she selected a few sandwiches and a scone, she heard a low voice behind her. “Ah, it’s the infamous Spinster Tartlet!”
Maggie turned. “Mr. Thornton—good afternoon. I believe the last time we met I was throwing you out of my party.”
Max Thornton made a low bow. “Forgive me, Miss Hope. I perhaps had too much to drink that evening.” He used silver tongs with lions and unicorns to place a piece of cake on his plate.
“What brings you to Buckingham Palace, Mr. Thornton?” Maggie asked as they made their way down the table, selecting various tidbits. “I do hope you won’t be turned out of here as well.”
Max smiled. “I’m on the Women’s Advisory Committee for Aviation.”
Maggie tried not to gasp. “You?”
“Yes, I.” He added in a low voice, “It’s a wonderful way to meet pretty young ladies, you know.” As they made their way to the delicate chairs, he asked, “May I sit with you, Miss Hope?”
“Suit yourself.” As she took a bite of a beet sandwich, she was mortified to see red and white cat hair on Paige’s skirt.
Their table was near a taped-up window looking out at the lawn, enormous urns empty and statuary stark and cold against the hazy gray sky. As the snow flew thicker and faster, Max took a sip of tea and looked around. “Rather flash, no?”
“I would call it…theatrical,” Maggie countered, trying to be diplomatic. As they ate, they were surrounded by more guests, ladies of all ages in flowered dresses, hats, and waxy lipstick, and a few older men in well-worn Jermyn Street tweed suits.
When the crowd had finished their tea, the Queen, who’d been making the rounds, stopped in the front of the room, corgis at her feet. She drew the guests’ collective attention and silence without having to say a word.
One of the corgis gave a huge yawn, then settled with his head on his paws and closed his eyes.
“I speak to you, the women—and yes, I see we have a few men here as well!—of the British Empire, who have been forced into war.”
All attention was focused on the Queen. “Let us not forget those on whom the first cruel and shattering blows of war have fallen—the women of Poland,” Elizabeth continued in her singsong way. “Nor do we forget the gallant womanhood of France, who are called on to share with us again the hardships of war. War has at all times called for the fortitude of women.
“When it was an affair of the fighting forces only, wives and mothers at home suffered constant anxiety for their dear ones, and too often the misery of bereavement. They could do so little for the men at the Front. Now, this is all changed.
“For we, no less than the men, have real and vital work to do. To us also is given the proud privilege of serving our country in her hour of need. The tasks that you have undertaken are in every field of national service.
“I would like to thank you for giving your help in these trying times. When war is over we will continue to work for the continued well-being of all mankind.”
She gifted them with a brilliant smile. “Thank you all.”
When the applause had died down, Max told Maggie, “Of course, when the men come back from battle, it will be quite a different story.”
“Yes,” Maggie replied in kind, “they’ll have a lot of changes to get used to, won’t they?”
Max ignored the gibe. “Want to step out with a future RAF pilot?” he asked, using his handsome profile to great advantage.