The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(62)

Maggie looked down at the low table with its tray of food. “Look at the beetroot sugar—beautiful, right? I hate beets. But I love chocolate and anything with chocolate, especially a chocolate cake my Aunt Edith used to make—well, buy and then try to pass off as her own. But still, she tried. And it was my favorite.

“And I love math, love it—love it obsessively. But I’m terrible at art—can’t even draw a stick figure. And I was awful, tragically awful at sports, until, well…until this war gave me some pretty good incentives to improve.” Maggie snorted as she remembered her original failures. “The first time I went to training camp, I washed out.”

“Really?” Elise said. In Berlin, almost a year ago, she’d seen Maggie take down a German soldier.

“Really. I was awful.”

“What happened?”

“I worked hard to catch up and then tried all over again. Made it through the second time. I fell in love, once—with John, you remember him. And I ruined that, too. He broke my heart, and I, well, maybe I broke his a bit. And then I really liked someone, and botched that up, as well. And then—” She laughed with practiced self-deprecation. “It’s complicated.”

“I’m sorry to hear about John. I really liked him. Thought you two would be married by now, actually. Maybe a niece or nephew on the way.”

I rather thought so, too. “Wartime isn’t exactly conducive to happily ever after.”

“True. But maybe someday?”

Maggie changed the subject. “How about you? Are you a nun now?”

“A novice—an apprentice nun.”

“Do you think you’ll take the vows?”

“I love God—I just have problems with promising lifelong poverty, obedience, and chastity.” The hint of a smile tugged at Elise’s lips. “Especially chastity. And really, obedience, too—when you get down to it.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Maggie pictured Elise’s escape from SOE and her desperate dash into hiding. “I’d have a lot of trouble with obedience myself.”

“I can see that.” Elise continued, “You love math? Well, for me it was science. I used to take a straight razor to my dolls and rip them open—no, not like that!” she said, seeing Maggie’s expression. “I not only always saved their lives but stitched them up, and gave them milk and cookies after. I wanted to be a doctor—”

“Before wanting to be a nun?”

“I thought I could do both.”

“Doctor Sister?” Maggie smiled.

“Sister Doctor!” Elise smiled, too. “But then the war broke out and nurses were needed…I like chocolate cake, too, and sweets and ice cream—really, there isn’t anything I don’t like to eat, as my—our—mother often lamented. She wanted me to wear couture, like her, but I had too many curves.”

Elise laughed softly, looking down at her thin frame. “Well, that’s not a problem now. And I play the piano—but you know that.”

“I play the viola!”

“We could perform quite the duet.”

“I’d like that.”

“How did you get here? To France?”

“By plane. SOE. The same organization that got you out of Berlin. Or tried to.”

Elise shook her head. “I didn’t want to be taken out of Berlin, to be ‘saved.’ I know you meant well and I apologize for running—”

“Please don’t.”

“But how did you manage it? Another mission?”

“I called in a favor.”

“He must be someone quite important.”

Maggie remembered Queen Elizabeth, waving her off at the airport. “She, actually….At any rate, I’d like to bring you back to England with me, when I go back. I have a house. And I have a cat, a tabby named Mr. K, who really has me. And my friend Chuck—Charlotte—and her baby are living with me while her husband’s serving in the Middle East. It’s quite nice, really.”

“And what if I don’t want to go back to England?”

“Then I will respect your decision,” Maggie promised sincerely. “It seems nice here, removed from the insanity of Paris. You’re interested in being a nun—this way you can see that sort of life up close, and make an informed decision. And Mère St. Antoine says you’re working in an infirmary?”

“Yes.” Elise nodded. “With mentally ill women.”

“So you can practice medicine as well. Doctor Sister.”

“Or Sister Doctor.” Elise bit her lip, as if deciding how much she could trust Maggie. “Would you like to see our grounds?”

“I’d love to.”

—

Henrik Martens arrived seventeen minutes early for his meeting with Colonel Gaskell at SOE offices. He was surprised to see the colonel emerge from the building wearing a light coat. “Let’s take a walk,” Gaskell said by way of explanation. “Jolly good day to get some fresh air.”

The two men made their way up Baker Street to Regent’s Park, passing John Nash’s elegant white terrace houses, crossing the Outer Circle, and heading over gravel paths through lush green grass toward Boating Lake. All of the metal gates and fences had been removed—to be melted down for munitions—but the park had sustained little bomb damage and retained its beauty. They reached the “lake,” which was more of a pond, filled with paddling ducks, two black swans, and a long-legged gray heron, posing on a fallen tree trunk. The paths were full of men and women in uniform; children played tag in a grove of trees.