The funny thing about Margaret, she’s not all that interested in Nassau, in the Windsors, the glamour. Last night, on the train, I explained how we met, Thorpe and I, and how I worked for Metropolitan and went to parties for a living, and her face took on this distant expression, and her mouth curved with something that, if it wasn’t quite disapproval, was certainly disdain. Fine, then. Margaret Thorpe doesn’t give a damn about parties and duchesses. I might have guessed.

The only thing that moves her is Thorpe. When I told her how he was attacked on the docks one night, her eyes turned glossy and she reached for her cigarettes, just as she’s doing now, sitting at the kitchen table at Dunnock Lodge with a plate of eggs—real ones—and a cup of tea before her. At the giant, ancient range, a woman fusses about, skinny and silvery. It’s a moment before I realize she’s the same woman who drove the Morris last night. For one thing, she’s speaking. Scolding Margaret about not giving more warning.

“Annie, there’s a war on,” she says. “I can’t just— Oh, there you are, Lulu. I was beginning to think you’d sleep all morning.”

Annie whirls from the stovetop to face me, wiping her hands on her apron. Her round eyes convey awe, in much the same way the Red Cross ladies regard the Duchess of Windsor, I guess.

“Mrs. Thorpe. Would you—may I offer you breakfast?”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any coffee?”

A panicked expression overtakes Annie’s face. I step forward and pull back a chair from the table, where a place is already set for me, plate and cup and saucer (somewhat the worse for chips) and cutlery. “Never mind. Tea’s just fine, thank you.”

“We’ve got eggs,” she says proudly. “Toast.”

I’m about to say Just toast, but then I recall I ought to be eating better, ought to be filling myself with good, wholesome food. I lay my napkin on my lap and smile at her. “Thank you, Annie. Sunny-side up, if you don’t mind.”

Across the table, Margaret lifts the cigarettes and her eyebrows. I shake my head. She shrugs and continues to smoke, continues to nudge her eggs around the plate. “We used to have our breakfast right here, Benedict and I, when we were little,” she says. “Didn’t we, Annie? You made us boiled eggs and toast soldiers. There was so much butter, then. He used to sit right there, where you’re sitting. I remember the sun coming through the window to shine on that hair of his.”

“Lit up the whole kitchen, it did. When it was sunny, of course.”