“We’re leaving Savoy Hill?”
“Don’t get sentimental about the old pile,” Hilda warned, pointing a parsnip at her. “It’s been a perfectly good starting spot, but the BBC is going to become something even more. If I have anything to do with it,” she added with sudden blood in her voice. “We deserve it. We need a massive hulking beast of a building—elegant and beautiful, of course, but fantastically imposing, with ‘BBC’ emblazoned across the top. And we’re going to get it. Not till 1932, though, dash it. I abhor waiting.”
“I suppose it took longer to build St. Paul’s?”
“Yes, yes. And the pyramids. And at least our builders will get a nice salary, but damn, I want that space. Imagine the studios! And the IEE will be pleased to have the whole of Savoy Hill to itself again. I bet they’ll throw a monthlong party.”
Even the thought of the Institute of Electrical Engineers indulging in Bright Young Thing–style frivolity couldn’t make Maisie smile, not when it meant leaving Savoy Hill. It was home, probably the place Maisie thought more like home than anywhere she’d actually lived, she realized with some astonishment. Then she was more astonished to find she was expecting to still be there in four years. There wasn’t anywhere she’d rather be.
“Now, Miss Musgrave, I must ask. Do you want to continue as my secretary?”
Maisie clutched the table to keep from smashing through the carpet and into the basement. Hilda’s expression was merely curious, as if she’d only asked if she wanted more wine. She opened her mouth to insert something in the crater-sized gap Maisie created, but a sudden, “Ah, Miss Matheson!” made them both look up.
Lady Astor was standing by their table.
“Goodness, Lady Astor, hello!” Hilda cried, jumping up to shake her hand. “It was so good of you to give us that scoop. Do sit down.”
“No, no. Shan’t be stayin’ but a moment. Knew you’d be here and wanted to offer my congratulations. Very nice work you did, though of course I knew you would.”
“It was largely down to Miss Musgrave, really.”
“Was it?” Lady Astor scrutinized Maisie as though she were a shiny trinket. “Marvelous. I suppose no good imaginin’ Reith was admirable about it all?”
“I think the idea of any women voting is still a bit of a shock for him, to be honest.”
“I’ve drunk sugar water made of sterner stuff than that man, though he’s an impressive tyrant.” She turned to Maisie. “I met his mother once, you know. Oh yes, he’s got one. Brought her to lunch at the House of Commons, presumably to show off how grand and important he’s become. Well, so he introduced me and, not being one to pass up an opportunity, I asked her if was it from her that he got his Mussolini-like qualities.”
Hilda choked into her burgundy.
“What did she say?” Maisie breathed. It was extraordinary, what the upper classes could get away with.
“Oh, she seemed a bit put out,” Lady Astor answered with shrug. “That sort always is. Not stern stuff, that’s what I say. Not where it counts, anyway. Hence, tyranny. Though she probably thinks he’s very fine. Well, shan’t interrupt you any further. I’d recommend the Bakewell tart,” she advised Maisie before sashaying off.
“How did she know how to find you?” Maisie asked after Hilda had ordered two Bakewell tarts and coffee.
“She had a tail put on me when I left her employ,” Hilda said, finishing her wine. “I jest. This is where we always dined after a particularly memorable triumph.”
They grinned at each other. Then Maisie remembered Hilda was upending her world.
“Try to look at it from an outsider’s perspective,” Hilda said, seeing what Maisie was thinking. “You’re an excellent secretary, but with your first-rate mind, fearlessness, and knack for finding good stories, you could be just the sort of journalist the newspapers need more of. If you want to pursue it, I’d be happy to introduce you to some useful people. There aren’t many women reporters, very few doing serious writing, but I’d lay money you’d be one to break through.”
Even the arrival of the tarts didn’t break through Maisie’s whirring brain. A mind that was first-rate. Knack for finding stories. Fearlessness. She remembered reading about Nellie Bly, who had written some extraordinary stories. Was Hilda Matheson, Oxford-educated director of Talks at the BBC, extolled in all the papers for her own fine mind and taste and capacity, was she really saying this about Maisie? Mousy Maisie? Perhaps she could join a newspaper, or a magazine, and write every day. Nearly all of Simon’s notes told her how tremendous it was to write articles, giving people information and with your name on it, too.
But she had something else to do.
“Miss Matheson, I . . . Thank you, truly. That is . . . Thank you. But I don’t want to leave the BBC. I really don’t. I love it there.”