“I used to step out with an actual RAF pilot.” Yes, and look how that turned out.
“John Sterling. Yes, gone now—to make cartoons for Walt Disney. Not exactly men’s work.”
“Wartime propaganda,” Maggie corrected, concealing her surprise at how much he knew. “Words and images—just as important as bombs these days, if not more so.”
“You know,” Max said, taking the last bite of cake, “before this war started I was studying to be a doctor.”
“The military can always use doctors, of course.”
“I was thinking, maybe instead of joining the RAF, about going back to finish medical school. Only a year left in my training…But the idea of flying a Spitfire is hard to shake off.” He grinned.
“You won’t continue to work for Mr. Churchill?”
Max shrugged. “The Boss knows I’m not going to be around forever. Although I feel sorry for him—losing all of the best and brightest young men to the services. Soon we’ll be down to a few nearsighted Jews and women.”
“Are you trying to be offensive, Mr. Thornton?” she asked, warning in her tone. “Or are you just stupid?”
It took a moment for her remark to register. “Sorry, sorry!” He laughed. “Don’t be so spiky! Look, Maggie,” he said, with his most earnest gaze. “We’ve obviously gotten off on the wrong foot. Let me make it up to you with dinner tonight—”
“Miss Hope!” The Queen stopped by their table, a trail of corgis following in her wake like ducklings.
Maggie and Max rose. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Walk with me, please, Miss Hope,” the monarch commanded. “We didn’t get to finish our conversation earlier.”
Maggie shot a look at Max, then returned her gaze to Queen Elizabeth. “Of course, ma’am.”
The corgis all waddled after the Queen as she led Maggie out of the drawing room. The massive oil paintings in the corridor had been removed for safekeeping, but the ornate Sansovino frames remained, works of art in themselves. Still, there were stains on the ceiling from water damage, and some of the plaster on the walls had been shaken loose, probably from bombing. Although there were a few guards in sight, Maggie and the Queen had relative privacy underneath the glittering chandeliers.
“It looks better at night,” the Queen confided. Maggie noticed she was holding a glass of what looked—and smelled—like Dubonnet and gin. “And I must confess I prefer Windsor. I live for the weekends, when we can get back to our girls.”
Maggie dared a look at the Queen’s face. Her opalescent powder had settled in the creases around her eyes. She had aged in the last years. “It sounds challenging, ma’am.”
The corgis’ claws clicked on the gleaming wood not covered by the carpet, and a few had decided to start yapping. “Hush, darlings.” The Queen opened her handbag and pulled out a small box of treats. She shook some onto the carpet, and the dogs dove, silent at last. So that’s what the Queen keeps in her handbag.
One of the dogs looked up at Maggie, bared his sharp teeth, and growled low in his throat.
Oh, heaven help me. “Is that Dookie? I think he remembers me from Windsor.” And ruining my lovely leather gloves.
“Of course he does! You remember Miss Hope, darling Dookie?”
Dookie the Corgi. My canine nemesis. But a loyal defender of the Princesses.
As Dookie took his biscuit, continuing to glare, the Queen turned back to Maggie. “Did you enjoy the tea?”
“Yes, ma’am, thank you. And your words were inspiring. It’s wonderful you’ve taken the time to acknowledge and appreciate women’s war work.” Then, impulsively, she went on. “It’s not always easy. You know. To be female in the professional world.” She took a breath. “I know Your Majesty has many concerns, but women in the SOE—”
The chewing corgis all plopped themselves down on the carpet with a collective sigh.
“Yes, Miss Hope?” the Queen prompted.
“They’re doing the same job as the men, but not being paid the same salary or receiving the same benefits. Not all of them return, of course, from their missions—and their families are cheated out of a pension.”
“Hmmm…” The Queen pondered. “I’ll look into it. I don’t know the details of what you actually do for the war effort, Miss Hope, but I know—and Lilibet certainly knows!—all you have done and how much you’ve sacrificed for the Royal Family. I can’t even imagine working in such a male-dominated profession—which is why I want to say to you as a fellow Briton, a fellow woman, and a grateful mother, if there’s anything I can ever do to help you—anything—please don’t hesitate to ask.”
Maggie felt the enormity of this offer. It was dizzying, as if she were a knight having a Queen’s token bestowed on her before battle. “Th-thank you, ma’am.”
Once again, the Queen reached into her handbag. This time, she pulled out a guilloche and gold card case, and removed a thick white card, engraved with black lettering. “Should you ever need to see me, dear—in an emergency—merely show this.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Maggie accepted the card with awe and gratitude. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“And I’m very glad this is not goodbye; we will meet again tomorrow night.”
“Ma’am?”
“For dinner! Just a small one, but the Princesses are here at Buck House and they do so want to see you. What? You didn’t receive that invitation? It’s for you and a guest—”
“I’ve been traveling—and changing addresses, ma’am.”
“Well, then, let me extend a personal invitation—come to Buckingham Palace tomorrow evening at seven-thirty, for dinner. Formal dress, of course.”
Chapter Eleven
By the time Maggie passed back through Buckingham Palace’s gates and into the dingy gray afternoon, the snow had stopped falling, but the slicing cold wind had once again picked up. The marble statue of Queen Victoria looked down worriedly at her subjects as the streets filled with people making their way through the slushy snow, desperate to get home before the sun set and blackout commenced. There was always an urgency at this time of day, to find safe haven.
“Ah, there you are!” Max approached, red-striped university scarf flapping. “This is a dangerous wind.”
“You caught me, Mr. Thornton,” Maggie said, her voice lost in the gusts. And here I thought I was getting away….
“Max, please. And, again, I’d like to take you to dinner. To make up for my beastly behavior. Would you let me, Maggie?” He turned the full force of his charisma on her.
“Dinner, fine,” she said loudly, almost shouting. “But it’s going to have to be an early night.”
They took a taxi to Covent Garden as the sun set, transforming London into an unfamiliar shadow world. “This place is one of my favorites,” Max announced, seizing Maggie’s arm in a viselike grip and steering her up the stairs of the Market’s gray stone piazza to the Punch and Judy pub. As they walked, snow, leaves, newspaper pages, cigarette stubs eddied and swirled at their feet. She fought the urge to shake off his grasp. Her gut was telling her to. But there is no “gut,” she admonished. Think like the mathematician you were trained to be. Aunt Edith would be appalled at the very idea of “the gut.”
And you don’t want to be rude, after all.
The bright, bustling dining room of the pub seemed far removed from the dark, windy world outside, with its ornate gilded mirrors and shining brass chandeliers with frosted globe shades. The waxed, wooden walls glowed.
Maggie and Max checked their coats with a young woman with lank brown hair drawn back in a velvet snood, then maneuvered between the front tables near the bar, where diners sat with gas masks at their feet. Finally, they found a small table in the corner.