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Authors: Susan Elia MacNeal
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hometown.
Maggie considered. “I don’t know where I’ll be yet.…” Then she caught the unmistakable look of joy and excitement in her friend’s eyes. “What’s happening in Leeds?” she asked, her smile growing, for she knew the answer.
“The wedding! Nigel and I finally set a date!”
“That’s wonderful, Chuck,” Maggie said, taking her friend’s hand. “I’m truly, truly happy for you and Nigel. And you know I’ll move heaven and earth to be there.” Maggie tried her best to focus on Chuck and Nigel’s happiness, and not on thoughts of John.
“Oh, am I being terribly rude? You know me—I’m such a tactless oaf. I didn’t even ask you about John.”
“Nothing new,” Maggie said, fighting back sudden tears.
“They’ll find him.” Chuck patted Maggie’s hand.
“Of course.” Maggie rubbed a fist over her eyes. “Now, let’s talk wedding.”
Chuck groaned. “You know I loathe all that girly-girl frippery. Not that there’s any to be had, with the rationing. I thought I’d just make over one of my dresses.”
“But there are readings to choose, flowers, saving sugar rations for wedding cake.…”
Chuck looked serious. “Maggie, would you be my bridesmaid?”
“Of course!” she said, thrilled.
“I want you and Sarah to be there with me, at the altar. We’ve already been through so much together.…”
“Of course I’ll be your bridesmaid, Chuck. I’m honored.”
This is when I would have asked Chuck to be
my
bridesmaid, if only …
“If it’s too hard, you know, with John … missing …”
“Chuck,” Maggie said, looking her straight in the eyes. “I’m so happy for you and Nigel—you two are perfect for each other and deserve your happily ever after. I’d be delighted to be part of the wedding party.”
Pleased, Chuck sat up. “What did you say you and David made? Now that you mention it, I’m absolutely
starving.
”
It had taken Alistair Tooke several impassioned letters, dozens of pleading phone calls, and a serious threat to let Windsor’s gardens go to seed, but finally he was able to obtain a late-evening interview with the King.
He approached King George VI cautiously, hat in hand. He had spoken to the King before, of course. But it was always outside, in the fresh air, and the topic was the health of the Windsors’ many varieties of roses or the productivity of the victory gardens. This was different.
The King’s study was a large room, with high-vaulted ceilings and tall windows. The monarch himself was at a large carved rosewood desk.
“Yes, Tooke?” the King said, looking up from his paperwork, his face long and careworn, his eyes clear and blue. The walls were upholstered in red watered silk, although the heavy gold frames that had once displayed paintings by artists such as Rembrandt, Rubens, Canaletto, and Gainsborough were empty, the canvases in indefinite storage. But floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with leather-tooled volumes still graced the walls, alternating with long tapestries. The windows behind him were blinded, covered in impenetrable blackout curtains.
Alistair gave a nervous bow. “Your Majesty,” he said, taking a few steps forward on the soft Persian carpet. Suddenly realizing how dirty the thick soles of his shoes were, he stopped.
The King blinked. “Well?”
“It’s—it’s about my wife, sir. Marta? Marta Tooke? She teaches piano to some of the young ‘uns? Well, they came for her.” He took a step closer as the words tumbled out of his mouth. “They just came in the middle of the night and took her away. In handcuffs, sir.”
The King scratched his head. “Who? Who came in the night?” Then, “Ah, yes, Marta
K-k-k-kunst
Tooke. She’s your wife, is she? Something to do with sending letters to Germany?”
Tooke felt a hot wave of rage crash through him. He took a ragged breath and continued. “My wife is innocent, sir,” he insisted, hands wringing his hat. “She’s a good woman, a fine
Maggie considered. “I don’t know where I’ll be yet.…” Then she caught the unmistakable look of joy and excitement in her friend’s eyes. “What’s happening in Leeds?” she asked, her smile growing, for she knew the answer.
“The wedding! Nigel and I finally set a date!”
“That’s wonderful, Chuck,” Maggie said, taking her friend’s hand. “I’m truly, truly happy for you and Nigel. And you know I’ll move heaven and earth to be there.” Maggie tried her best to focus on Chuck and Nigel’s happiness, and not on thoughts of John.
“Oh, am I being terribly rude? You know me—I’m such a tactless oaf. I didn’t even ask you about John.”
“Nothing new,” Maggie said, fighting back sudden tears.
“They’ll find him.” Chuck patted Maggie’s hand.
“Of course.” Maggie rubbed a fist over her eyes. “Now, let’s talk wedding.”
Chuck groaned. “You know I loathe all that girly-girl frippery. Not that there’s any to be had, with the rationing. I thought I’d just make over one of my dresses.”
“But there are readings to choose, flowers, saving sugar rations for wedding cake.…”
Chuck looked serious. “Maggie, would you be my bridesmaid?”
“Of course!” she said, thrilled.
“I want you and Sarah to be there with me, at the altar. We’ve already been through so much together.…”
“Of course I’ll be your bridesmaid, Chuck. I’m honored.”
This is when I would have asked Chuck to be
my
bridesmaid, if only …
“If it’s too hard, you know, with John … missing …”
“Chuck,” Maggie said, looking her straight in the eyes. “I’m so happy for you and Nigel—you two are perfect for each other and deserve your happily ever after. I’d be delighted to be part of the wedding party.”
Pleased, Chuck sat up. “What did you say you and David made? Now that you mention it, I’m absolutely
starving.
”
It had taken Alistair Tooke several impassioned letters, dozens of pleading phone calls, and a serious threat to let Windsor’s gardens go to seed, but finally he was able to obtain a late-evening interview with the King.
He approached King George VI cautiously, hat in hand. He had spoken to the King before, of course. But it was always outside, in the fresh air, and the topic was the health of the Windsors’ many varieties of roses or the productivity of the victory gardens. This was different.
The King’s study was a large room, with high-vaulted ceilings and tall windows. The monarch himself was at a large carved rosewood desk.
“Yes, Tooke?” the King said, looking up from his paperwork, his face long and careworn, his eyes clear and blue. The walls were upholstered in red watered silk, although the heavy gold frames that had once displayed paintings by artists such as Rembrandt, Rubens, Canaletto, and Gainsborough were empty, the canvases in indefinite storage. But floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with leather-tooled volumes still graced the walls, alternating with long tapestries. The windows behind him were blinded, covered in impenetrable blackout curtains.
Alistair gave a nervous bow. “Your Majesty,” he said, taking a few steps forward on the soft Persian carpet. Suddenly realizing how dirty the thick soles of his shoes were, he stopped.
The King blinked. “Well?”
“It’s—it’s about my wife, sir. Marta? Marta Tooke? She teaches piano to some of the young ‘uns? Well, they came for her.” He took a step closer as the words tumbled out of his mouth. “They just came in the middle of the night and took her away. In handcuffs, sir.”
The King scratched his head. “Who? Who came in the night?” Then, “Ah, yes, Marta
K-k-k-kunst
Tooke. She’s your wife, is she? Something to do with sending letters to Germany?”
Tooke felt a hot wave of rage crash through him. He took a ragged breath and continued. “My wife is innocent, sir,” he insisted, hands wringing his hat. “She’s a good woman, a fine
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