His Majesty's Hope (40 page)

“The one and only.” The girls, both trainees, giggled. Maggie was strict. She was hard on her students. She never smiled. None of the women at Arisaig House liked her. None of the men liked her much either, for that matter.

Gwen grimaced. “I hate being in Lady Macbeth’s section.”

Yvonne leaned in. “Why does everyone call her Lady Macbeth?”

“Because she’s a monster.” Gwen lowered her plummy Welsh-inflected voice. “Rumor is, she has
blood
on her hands.”

Yvonne’s eyes popped open wide. “Really?”

“I heard she killed a man in France.”

Two trainees walking down the staircase, a man and a woman, had overhead their conversation. “I heard she killed three men in Munich,” the woman offered.

The man said, “I heard she was interrogated by the Gestapo and never talked—”

All right, that’s enough
. Maggie swept inside, giving them what she’d come to call her “best Aunt Edith look.”

“Two, Five, and Eight—aren’t you supposed to be out running?” Maggie had given her trainees numbers instead of names. She didn’t want to become too attached to them.

There was a lengthy silence, punctuated only by the ticking of a great mahogany longcase clock. Then, “I’m on desk duty …”

“And I was waiting …”

Maggie held up one hand. “Stop making excuses.”

“I’m—I’m sorry, Miss Hope,” Gwen stuttered.

“And stop apologizing. In fact, stop speaking entirely.” Maggie looked them all up and down. “You, stay here and do your job. You two—go run on the beach. Relay races on the stony part of the
shore—they’re good for your ankles and knees and will help with your parachute jumps. I’ll be there shortly.”

Her charges stared, frozen in place.

Maggie glared. “I said, go!”

They nearly fell over themselves in their haste to get away from her.

Mr. Harold Burns, a fit man in his fifties with smile lines etched around his eyes and rough skin dotted with liver spots, walked in from one of the other huge rooms of the house now used as administrative offices. The instructor favored her with a wintry smile. Maggie was a physical education instructor and Mr. Burns was her commanding officer. “Impressive, Miss Hope. I remember a time when you could barely run a mile without passing out. Or twisting your ankle. Or dropping your fellow trainees in the mud.”

Maggie put a finger to her lips. “Shhhhh, Mr. Burns. That’s our little secret.”

“When you first trained with me, you were terrible. One of the worst. But you came back. And you worked hard. I’ve heard of some of the things you’ve accomplished, Miss Hope, and I must say I’m proud.” Mr. Burns was a survivor of the Great War. Maggie could see in his eyes that, like her, he had seen things.

The clock struck. Maggie started, breath quickening, pupils dilating.

“It’s all right,” Mr. Burns said gently, nearly putting a hand on her arm, and then withdrawing it. “You’re safe here, Miss Hope.”

Safe. Who’s safe, really? Certainly not children with any sort of illness in Germany. Certainly not the Jews. Certainly not young men who just happen to be on the wrong side of a gun
. But Maggie liked Mr. Burns, she did, even though he’d been hard on her when she’d been in his section. In fact, much of what he taught her had helped keep her alive in Berlin.

“Thank you, Mr. Burns.”

He shifted his weight from side to side. “You know, I served, too—over in France, in the trenches. I was a soldier then. Oh, you wouldn’t know it now, but once I was young—almost handsome, too. We all were, back then. Saw a lot of my friends killed, better men than I ever was, and killed a fair number myself.”

“Mr. Burns—”

“I don’t remember their faces anymore, but I still think of them. What I try to remember is the Christmas truce—Christmas of fourteen, we had a ceasefire over in France. We even sang songs, if you can believe—us with
Silent Night
, and them with
Stille Nacht
. Same melody, though. We even had a game of football that afternoon, the ‘Huns’ versus the ‘Island Apes.’ Then, the next day, back to the trenches.…” He shook his head. “I’ll leave you to read your message, Miss Hope.” He turned back to the mail cubbies and extracted a packet of letters from his slot, and began to go through them. The girl at the desk pretended to be very interested in the contents of a folder.

“Thank you, Mr. Burns.” Maggie looked at the note the girl had written:
Sarah Sanderson called to say that the Vic-Wells Ballet is performing La Sylphide at the Royal Lyceum Theatre in Edinburgh. Possibility she may be going on as the Sylph (she says, “the lead one, not one of the idiot fairies fluttering uselessly in the background”). She’ll put house seats on hold for you this weekend. She hopes you can make it
.

Long-legged and high-cheekboned, Sarah was one of Maggie’s closest friends. Once upon a time, Sarah and Maggie had been flatmates in London. At first Maggie had found Sarah intimidating—she was so worldly, after all, so beautiful and glamorous, with the slim figure of a fashion model, dark sparkling eyes, and long dark hair. But Sarah had a droll sense of humor and was given to witty retorts in a decidedly Liverpudlian accent. She was truly herself.

Maggie had only seen Sarah a few times since they’d parted ways in London the summer of the attempted bombing of St. Paul’s Cathedral, and missed her terribly. If it were at all possible, she decided, she’d make it to Edinburgh for the performance. The trouble was the black dog. Would the black dog let her? Sometimes it was hard to know.

“Mr. Burns—” Maggie called over to him.

“Yes, Miss Hope?”

“I haven’t taken any leave since I arrived here three months ago. A friend of mine is in Edinburgh this weekend, and I’d really like to see her.”

“Go, Miss Hope”—Mr. Burns waved a leathery hand—“with my blessing. As I’ve been telling you, you need a change of scene. Go, and if there’s a decent bottle of single malt to be had, bring it back for me.”

Maggie picked up the telephone receiver. Black dog or no, she wasn’t going to miss seeing her friend. She dialed and waited, then: “Yes, please tell Miss Sarah Sanderson that Maggie Hope returned her call. And let her know that I’ll be at Saturday evening’s performance.”

There, now I have to go
, Maggie thought.
Take that, black dog
.

The coastline of Arisaig, even in November—perhaps especially in November—was stunning. Snow-covered mountains poked into leaden clouds in the distance, while the stony shoreline melted into green water. The islands of Rhum, Eigg, and Muck peeked through the mist in the distance, as well as a few smaller, unnamed islands, home to gray seals.

Maggie jogged from the House to the shore, over well-trampled paths lined with lurid green moss on stones and tree trunks, the roar of rushing streams in the air. The trainees were on a different
part of the shore, hidden from her view. Exhausted by her vigorous pace, Maggie leaned against a lichen-covered rock, taking a moment to gulp burning breaths. The cold, damp air tasted of salt and seaweed. Blood pounded in her ears as a hawk circled overhead.

Since she’d arrived in Arisaig, she’d often found herself on the jagged shore, sitting on one of the larger rocks, watching the water as the tide rushed in or out. It was a beautiful part of the world, if you could ignore the occasional loud bang from the training groups learning to use explosives on various parts of the grounds. The neighboring sheep had gotten used to the noise, placidly grazing despite the explosions, but it still startled the birds, who would chirp and twitter in alarm from the ancient oaks.

Looking out over the water, she remembered one of the American literature classes she’d taken at Wellesley where they’d read Kate Chopin’s novel
The Awakening
. In the end, the heroine, Edna Pontellier, walked into the Gulf of Mexico.

She’d written a paper for that class on the ending—did Edna commit suicide? Or did she swim back to shore? Did she literally die to be reborn or was it a metaphorical death? Most people assumed Edna died, despite the fact Miss Chopin had left the ending vague. Maggie remembered how in her paper she’d argued for Edna’s actual death: the clues the author left were in the allusions to Walt Whitman’s poem “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking.” The ocean, a background chorus in Whitman’s poem, was like the wise mother who reveals the word that awakened Whitman’s own songs:
“And again death, death, death, death … Creeping thence steadily up to my ears and laving me softly all over.”

Looking out into the grim gray water, Maggie thought about death, as she had so many times since she’d arrived. She thought how easy it would be to load up her pockets with stones—like
Shelley and Virginia Woolf, like Ophelia and Edna Pontellier—and walk into that cold water never to come back, putting an end to the pain. No more heartache, no more guilt, no more sleepless nights … no more black dog. If she died, he would die along with her. And, she had to admit, there was a certain satisfaction in that.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a young man who had just arrived, leaning against one of the lichen-stained boulders.
What’s Three doing here? And why isn’t he running?
Her eyes narrowed as she watched the young man, who’d lit a cigarette, the blue smoke surrounding his head like the tentacles of a Portuguese man-o’-war.
Trainees
, Maggie thought with a flicker of annoyance.
They’re everywhere. I can’t even contemplate my own suicide in peace
. She rose.

As she walked closer, stepping silently over broken shells and seaweed left by the tide, she stared him down with her best Aunt Edith look, which she relied on as a trainer. “You’re supposed to be running.”

Seagulls screeched in the distance. “I’m a fast runner, so I have time for a smoke.” His eyes twinkled. “And to look for mermaids. Although we’re more likely to see seals. That’s what the sailors of yore mistook for mermaids, most likely.”

His accent was posh, she noted. He was handsome. She looked at his hands: they were white and soft.
A gentleman
, she thought dispassionately.
Let’s see if he makes it through to the end
.

“Yes, seals, most likely.” Maggie had no energy left to admonish him; keeping the black dog at bay absorbed it all. She watched the waves crest and break over the rocky shore. Another explosion sounded in the distance.

Three kicked at a thick rotting rope left behind by the family, when the beach had been used as a launch, the wind ruffling his straight dark hair. “They’re blowing up bridges today.”

“So I’ve heard.” Then, “It’s not good to run and smoke.”

“Who says?”

“I do. When I came back here, I quit. It was affecting my time.”

Three gave a crooked grin and smiled at her through thick black eyelashes. She noticed his eyes were preternaturally green. He threw away his cigarette. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

“Of course I do, Three. Decent at Morse code, not a bad shot, but always end of the pack in any race.”

He laughed. “No, I mean, you don’t recognize me.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow.
Who is this arrogant twit?
“Should I?”

“Most people around here do, or at least think they do. Although I always thought—who better to be a spy than an actor.”

“You’re an actor, then.” Maggie knew the type—good-looking, charming, utterly self-absorbed. “Sorry, but I don’t think I’ve seen anything you’ve done.”

“Really?” His face drooped in disappointment.
“Home Away from Home? Dead Men Are Dangerous? The Girl Must Live?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, how about theatre, then—I played Jack Favell, the first Mrs. de Winter’s lover, in
Rebecca
. West End, summer of forty.”

“Ah,” Maggie said. Her twin flatmates had been the stage manager and costume assistant for
Rebecca
, and of course she and the other flatmates had gone to see it. Maggie remembered him now: handsome with a mustache and slick Brylcreemed hair. Decent chemistry with Mrs. Danvers. “Yes, I saw that.” She realized that, puppy-like, he was waiting for more, so she added, “You were quite good.”

The young man pushed away from the rock and gave a small bow. “At your service, Lady Macbeth.”

Maggie’s face twisted into a smile. “Yes, that’s what this group calls me. The last one called me Nessie.”

He looked blank.

Maggie sighed impatiently. “Nessie? You know—the Loch Ness Monster?”

Three did his best to hide a smile behind a hand. “Ahem, I’m afraid so. But it’s better to be feared than to be loved, isn’t it?”

“If you’re Machiavelli. Or a prince.” Her smile turned grim. “Or a spy, for that matter.”

“My actual name is Charles Campbell, by the way. The press calls me Good Time Charlie.”

“Hello, Charles.” She tilted her head. “Where are you from?”

“Glasgow, actually.” Maggie was surprised; he didn’t have the distinctive accent. “Aye, lassie—ye pro’ly think we all wear kilts, eat haggis with tatties and neeps, an’ get drunk on whisky ev’ry day!” He switched from Glaswegian back to his upper-crust enunciation. “It’s true, actually, but only on Sunday.”

“How—?”

Charles smiled. “I watched films, imitated the voices. When I started to make some real money, I hired an accent coach, a regular Henry Higgins of a fellow. Trained all my bad habits out of me. Now I can speak with almost any accent—used them in plenty of films, some even in Hollywood.”

“The ability to switch accents—that’s useful, for a spy.”

Charles looked deep into her eyes. Maggie looked back, coolly. “You’re not in love with me, are you?” he asked, sounding just a touch disappointed.

Despite the razor in her heart, Maggie nearly choked with laughter.
Love?
Love was the
last
thing on her mind these days. “In love with you? I just met you!”

“Most of the girls here are in love with me.” He said it factually, not bragging. “Or at least the
image
of me they have from my films. It can be quite annoying, really.”

My goodness he’s young
. “Well,” Maggie replied, “never fear. Not only have I never seen your films, but I have no interest in romance, whatsoever. Ever again.”