away, to stay in a country hunkering down for war, to waste your talents … It’s a slap in the face. Why do you think I left London for the States? One reason was the Great War; believe me, you don’t want to go through something like that. Leave it to the British
.
Come home, Margaret. I insist. You can’t do anything more in London
.
Edith
There was the war, there was the threat of imminent invasion.
There was also the chance, however slight, that Margaret would find out the truth about her father.
And that was what worried Edith the most.
FIVE
A T N O . 10, Maggie had seen Mr. Churchill only in passing, always in a hurry, his endless Romeo y Julieta cigars leaving a pungent trail of smoke behind him wherever he went, faithfully shadowed by his private detective, Mr. Walter Thompson. But it was obvious when he was in—the office crackled with electricity and there was a sense of urgency in the air.
Mrs. Tinsley had come down with a bad case of flu. Despite her exclamations that she should stay and work, she was being sent home by Miss Stewart.
“Really, Miss Stewart,” she managed to croak, “I’m quite capable of—”
Notwithstanding her air of genteel diffidence, Miss Stewart wasn’t having any of it. “Mrs. Tinsley, you’re not well. You must go home and rest, so you may return as quickly as possible at full strength.”
“London may be attacked at any moment, and—”
“Mrs. Tinsley, I must appeal to your common sense.” Miss Stewart pulled out her trump card. “What if the P.M. became ill?”
Mrs. Tinsley paused to consider. Then she sneezed into her starched cambric handkerchief. “Oh, very well. But it’s only for one evening.” She stood up and put on her hat, stabbing it with long pearl-tipped pins. “I assureyou,” she declared as she made her way out the door, “I shall return tomorrow, first thing.”
As the sound of Mrs. Tinsley’s footsteps echoed down the hallway, Miss Stewart gave a gentle sigh and folded her tiny, plump hands. “Miss Hope?”
Maggie was typing a letter to one of the constituents. “Yes, Miss Stewart?”
“I think it’s high time you worked with Mr. Churchill. Would you mind stepping in tonight?”
“Of course not, ma’am,” Maggie replied. As nervous as she was, she wanted to get started.
“Very well, then, dear. Go into his study and wait. He’ll be coming in from dinner and will be here shortly.”
Maggie did as she was told and found herself in the Prime Minister’s study. It was large, with dark wood paneling, a red Persian carpet, and several oil paintings of the seaside in ornate gilt frames, with
W. Churchill
signed in thick script.
Her heart was beating so loudly she was sure everyone in the building could hear it. With sweaty palms, she rolled the paper into the typewriter. She arranged and rearranged her fountain pens and thick, stubby pencils. She looked up at the black hands of the clock a half-dozen times. She waited. And waited.
And waited some more.
Nelson, Mr. Churchill’s cat, came into the room and jumped on a cushioned window seat, sitting down and tucking his paws and tail under him.
Maggie looked out the window at the dying light. It was a glorious June evening—bright and warm in the waning sunshine, growing chilly in the shadows. She could hear the low chimes of Big Ben and then the lighter bells of the Horse Guards Parade strike the hour.
The fine weather was a blessing, because beneath the thin veneer of civility and pleasantries, England was anation bracing for the worst. Underneath their polite façades, people were anxious, uneasy, depressed, fatalistic. Children were being evacuated to the countryside. Plans were proposed to relocate the royal family to Canada. The contents of the Tate and the national museum had been put into storage. Dogs were being put down. People were warned about fifth columnists, spies living among them. A blackout was in effect night after night.
The men,
.
Come home, Margaret. I insist. You can’t do anything more in London
.
Edith
There was the war, there was the threat of imminent invasion.
There was also the chance, however slight, that Margaret would find out the truth about her father.
And that was what worried Edith the most.
FIVE
A T N O . 10, Maggie had seen Mr. Churchill only in passing, always in a hurry, his endless Romeo y Julieta cigars leaving a pungent trail of smoke behind him wherever he went, faithfully shadowed by his private detective, Mr. Walter Thompson. But it was obvious when he was in—the office crackled with electricity and there was a sense of urgency in the air.
Mrs. Tinsley had come down with a bad case of flu. Despite her exclamations that she should stay and work, she was being sent home by Miss Stewart.
“Really, Miss Stewart,” she managed to croak, “I’m quite capable of—”
Notwithstanding her air of genteel diffidence, Miss Stewart wasn’t having any of it. “Mrs. Tinsley, you’re not well. You must go home and rest, so you may return as quickly as possible at full strength.”
“London may be attacked at any moment, and—”
“Mrs. Tinsley, I must appeal to your common sense.” Miss Stewart pulled out her trump card. “What if the P.M. became ill?”
Mrs. Tinsley paused to consider. Then she sneezed into her starched cambric handkerchief. “Oh, very well. But it’s only for one evening.” She stood up and put on her hat, stabbing it with long pearl-tipped pins. “I assureyou,” she declared as she made her way out the door, “I shall return tomorrow, first thing.”
As the sound of Mrs. Tinsley’s footsteps echoed down the hallway, Miss Stewart gave a gentle sigh and folded her tiny, plump hands. “Miss Hope?”
Maggie was typing a letter to one of the constituents. “Yes, Miss Stewart?”
“I think it’s high time you worked with Mr. Churchill. Would you mind stepping in tonight?”
“Of course not, ma’am,” Maggie replied. As nervous as she was, she wanted to get started.
“Very well, then, dear. Go into his study and wait. He’ll be coming in from dinner and will be here shortly.”
Maggie did as she was told and found herself in the Prime Minister’s study. It was large, with dark wood paneling, a red Persian carpet, and several oil paintings of the seaside in ornate gilt frames, with
W. Churchill
signed in thick script.
Her heart was beating so loudly she was sure everyone in the building could hear it. With sweaty palms, she rolled the paper into the typewriter. She arranged and rearranged her fountain pens and thick, stubby pencils. She looked up at the black hands of the clock a half-dozen times. She waited. And waited.
And waited some more.
Nelson, Mr. Churchill’s cat, came into the room and jumped on a cushioned window seat, sitting down and tucking his paws and tail under him.
Maggie looked out the window at the dying light. It was a glorious June evening—bright and warm in the waning sunshine, growing chilly in the shadows. She could hear the low chimes of Big Ben and then the lighter bells of the Horse Guards Parade strike the hour.
The fine weather was a blessing, because beneath the thin veneer of civility and pleasantries, England was anation bracing for the worst. Underneath their polite façades, people were anxious, uneasy, depressed, fatalistic. Children were being evacuated to the countryside. Plans were proposed to relocate the royal family to Canada. The contents of the Tate and the national museum had been put into storage. Dogs were being put down. People were warned about fifth columnists, spies living among them. A blackout was in effect night after night.
The men,
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