Free Princess Elizabeth's Spy by Susan Elia MacNeal

Gate, through the Lower Ward and parade ground. They passed the changing of the guards, in their long gray coats and white sashes, with drums and fifes. Tires crunching on gravel, they drove past the Round Tower and the Middle Ward, through the Norman Gate. Under the unblinking eyes of stone grotesques and gargoyles, David pulled up the car and stopped at an unassuming double doorway of oak and glass: the tradesmen’s and servants’ entrance. They were greeted by a tall and slim older man in an elegant black morning coat and starched white collar. He had a beak-like nose, hooded eyes, and bushy silver eyebrows.
    “Welcome to Windsor Castle,” he said solemnly, as he opened the car door. “You must be Miss Hope. We’ve been expecting you. I am Ainslie, the Royal Butler.” As the Royal Butler, Ainslie oversaw the castle’s male staff, which included footmen, underbutlers, pages, coal porters, fender smiths, a clock winder, and the so-called Vermin Man.
    “Thank you, Mr. Ainslie,” Maggie said, taking his proffered white-gloved hand and getting out of the car.
    “Just Ainslie, Miss.”
    Oh, right—
Maggie remembered David’s lessons on addressing household staff. “Of course, Ainslie,” she said.
    Ainslie went to the car’s trunk and took out her valise and a worn blue-leather hatbox full of photographs and ephemera. “Thank you,” she said.
    “Yes, Miss.”
    Maggie turned. “Thanks, David. For the ride, for everything—”
    “My pleasure, Magster,” he replied, as he slid back into the driver’s seat. “Remember, KBO.”
    That was
not
how the chivalrous Mr. Churchill had introduced the initials to her when she’d been one of his typists, and he’d admonished her to “Keep plodding on.” “David, I’m touched. Have I graduated from ‘plodding’ to ‘buggering’?”
    He gave her a puckish look over the rims of his round glasses. “You’ve earned the right, Magster.”
    She spluttered laughter. “
Non illegitimi carborundum
then, David.”
    “I’ve told you I was always terrible at Latin.”
    “It means ‘Don’t let the bastards wear you down.’ “
    He grinned at her. “I shan’t,” he answered. And with a quick toot of the horn, he drove off over the cobblestoned pavement, making his way back to the Long Walk.
    As two footmen appeared and picked up her bags, Ainslie blinked. “Miss Hope, please follow me.”
    They entered the castle through the servants’ entrance, passing through the porter’s room. Inside, as they walked the endless Gothic corridors, the air was chill, damp, and gloomy, with thick violet shadows. The dim wartime bulbs made the corridor look almost gaslit. Pictures had been removed and ornate gilt frames stood empty, like blind eyes, lining the hall in long perspectives. There were a seemingly infinite number of malachite pedestals minus their marble busts of royals and dignitaries. The high, ornate, gilded ceilings, like fondant on a society wedding cake, were besmirched with water stains.
    The paneling was dark, almost black in the dim light. The air smelled of ancient stone, antique furniture, and wood polish—beeswax and turpentine. It smelled of majesty.
    Here and there, doors were open and Maggie could peer into some of the rooms. There were holes in the ceiling, tangled wires dangling down like tree roots, where grand crystal chandeliers must have once hung. Cupboards and cabinets were turned to tapestry-covered walls. The high ceilings, high enough to induce vertigo, were adorned with scrolls, flourishes, and gilt. What furniture was left was covered with sheets, to protect it from dust.
    As Maggie and Ainslie walked on, their footsteps echoing off the thick walls in the long, icy corridors, Maggie saw a large black spider skitter behind a heavy tattered velvet drape. They passed other rooms with shadowy figures of what had to be servants, ARP Wardens and volunteer firemen, blacking out the mullioned windows, the square panes of glass pierced by the last