I’ll be thirty on—”
“September third. Yes, of course I know when your birthday is, you lout.” Maggie contemplated David’s parents’ ultimatum. It was horrible, of course, but still just a bit funny. She snorted a little. David did love his luxuries so. The idea of his making do without seemed … interesting. “You know, the rest of us seem to survive without vast sums from rich relatives.”
“I’m cursed with exquisite taste, Mags! Cursed, I say! Plus, this flat is in their name. I’d have to find somewhere else to live.” He leaned in toward her. “We’d
all
have to find somewhere else to live,” he said pointedly.
Maggie did still own her late grandmother’s house on Portland Place in Marylebone, but there were too many ghosts there, so she had rented it out. “I understand.” She put on her best serious face. “So what do you plan to do?”
“No idea.” He took an enormous bite of toast. “Speaking of love, how’s what’s-his-name?”
David had been best friends with Maggie’s late almost-fiancé, John Sterling. They had all worked together at Number 10 for Mr. Churchill, before John joined the RAF. His Lancaster had crashed somewhere near Berlin and he was officially classified as “missing and presumed dead.” His family had held a memorial service a few months ago; Maggie had taken the train from Scotland to London to attend and mourn, along with David. Loyal to the core to his late friend, David wasn’t enamored of Maggie’s current beau, Hugh Thompson. “What’s his name again? Stew? Lou? Prue?”
Maggie frowned. “You know perfectly well what his name is. And
Hugh
is fine, thank you. In fact, I was coming from his flat last night. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“You’re right, Mags.” David had the decency to look ashamed. “You’re a grown woman—you have the right to live your life.”
“David, I loved John,” Maggie said. “I did. He was my first love. And it nearly killed me to find out his plane had been shot down. To have Nigel write to me to say that they’d given up hope. I was at the memorial service if you recall, holding up his mother.” Maggie raised her chin. “But life
does
go on.”
“I know, I know,” David amended. “So—how is
Hugh
?”
She smiled. “
I
don’t kiss and tell. Besides, it’s the last time we’ll see each other, for a while.”
“Really?” David didn’t know exactly what Maggie was up to, but as Winston Churchill’s head private secretary, he had a fair amount of clearance; he knew she’d been training with SOE. “Off so soon? No rest for the weary, apparently.”
“You know I can’t give details.”
“Well, I hope I still have the flat whenever it is you return. If I can’t figure anything else out—” David stood and walked over to Maggie, then dropped down dramatically on one knee. He took her hand in both of his. “Maggie, my redheaded shiksa goddess, would you do me the supreme honor of marrying me?” He grinned. “After you convert, of course.”
Maggie nearly spat out her tea. “I’m, ah, very flattered, David, and will keep it in mind. But as one of the ‘overlooked people’—and a Jeffersonian agnostic at that—I’m not sure marriage to me specifically would do the trick. Not that I don’t appreciate the lovely offer, of course.”
David looked serious as he stood up. “Far safer to be one of the overlooked at this point, I should think. By the way, give ’em hell, Mags.”
She gave him a tight smile. “I certainly intend to.”
Hell was just what Maggie Hope had trained for.
When she returned to the SOE office later that morning, she was directed to Noreen Baxter, a woman about Maggie’s age, with pale skin, rosebud lips, and crimped brown hair. “Don’t be nervous, darling,” she said, slipping her arm through Maggie’s as they walked the corridors of 64 Baker. She drew close and whispered in Maggie’s ear. “You’re the first woman to be
“September third. Yes, of course I know when your birthday is, you lout.” Maggie contemplated David’s parents’ ultimatum. It was horrible, of course, but still just a bit funny. She snorted a little. David did love his luxuries so. The idea of his making do without seemed … interesting. “You know, the rest of us seem to survive without vast sums from rich relatives.”
“I’m cursed with exquisite taste, Mags! Cursed, I say! Plus, this flat is in their name. I’d have to find somewhere else to live.” He leaned in toward her. “We’d
all
have to find somewhere else to live,” he said pointedly.
Maggie did still own her late grandmother’s house on Portland Place in Marylebone, but there were too many ghosts there, so she had rented it out. “I understand.” She put on her best serious face. “So what do you plan to do?”
“No idea.” He took an enormous bite of toast. “Speaking of love, how’s what’s-his-name?”
David had been best friends with Maggie’s late almost-fiancé, John Sterling. They had all worked together at Number 10 for Mr. Churchill, before John joined the RAF. His Lancaster had crashed somewhere near Berlin and he was officially classified as “missing and presumed dead.” His family had held a memorial service a few months ago; Maggie had taken the train from Scotland to London to attend and mourn, along with David. Loyal to the core to his late friend, David wasn’t enamored of Maggie’s current beau, Hugh Thompson. “What’s his name again? Stew? Lou? Prue?”
Maggie frowned. “You know perfectly well what his name is. And
Hugh
is fine, thank you. In fact, I was coming from his flat last night. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“You’re right, Mags.” David had the decency to look ashamed. “You’re a grown woman—you have the right to live your life.”
“David, I loved John,” Maggie said. “I did. He was my first love. And it nearly killed me to find out his plane had been shot down. To have Nigel write to me to say that they’d given up hope. I was at the memorial service if you recall, holding up his mother.” Maggie raised her chin. “But life
does
go on.”
“I know, I know,” David amended. “So—how is
Hugh
?”
She smiled. “
I
don’t kiss and tell. Besides, it’s the last time we’ll see each other, for a while.”
“Really?” David didn’t know exactly what Maggie was up to, but as Winston Churchill’s head private secretary, he had a fair amount of clearance; he knew she’d been training with SOE. “Off so soon? No rest for the weary, apparently.”
“You know I can’t give details.”
“Well, I hope I still have the flat whenever it is you return. If I can’t figure anything else out—” David stood and walked over to Maggie, then dropped down dramatically on one knee. He took her hand in both of his. “Maggie, my redheaded shiksa goddess, would you do me the supreme honor of marrying me?” He grinned. “After you convert, of course.”
Maggie nearly spat out her tea. “I’m, ah, very flattered, David, and will keep it in mind. But as one of the ‘overlooked people’—and a Jeffersonian agnostic at that—I’m not sure marriage to me specifically would do the trick. Not that I don’t appreciate the lovely offer, of course.”
David looked serious as he stood up. “Far safer to be one of the overlooked at this point, I should think. By the way, give ’em hell, Mags.”
She gave him a tight smile. “I certainly intend to.”
Hell was just what Maggie Hope had trained for.
When she returned to the SOE office later that morning, she was directed to Noreen Baxter, a woman about Maggie’s age, with pale skin, rosebud lips, and crimped brown hair. “Don’t be nervous, darling,” she said, slipping her arm through Maggie’s as they walked the corridors of 64 Baker. She drew close and whispered in Maggie’s ear. “You’re the first woman to be
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