Birds of a Feather (31 page)

“Ah, now you’re playing devil’s advocate, aren’t you? In my opinion acceptance has to come first. Some people don’t accept what has happened. They think, ‘Oh, if only I hadn’t walked up that street when I did,’ or in a case like your father’s: ‘If only I’d known the ground was that wet and that Fred, or whatever his name was, had left his tools in the way.’ They are stuck at the point of the event that caused the injury.”

“Yes, I think I know what you mean.”

“So, in the case of the soldiers who find it difficult to move on— and of course, some have had terrible injuries that all the therapeutic assistance in the world can’t help—but those who find it difficult to accept are stuck in time, they keep thinking back to when it happened. And it’s not so much, ‘Oh, I wish I’d never enlisted.’ In fact most say, ‘At least I went,’ but instead it’s a case of ‘If only I’d ducked, jumped when I could have, run a bit faster, gone back for my friend.’ And of course, it all gets mixed up with the guilt of actually surviving when their pals didn’t.”

“So what’s the answer?”

Dene stopped as they came alongside the MG, and Maisie leaned on her car, facing the Channel, her face warmed by the sun.

“I wish I had
one
, but, I would say that it’s threefold: One is accepting what has happened. Three is having a picture, an idea of what they will do when they are better, or improved. Then in the middle, number two is a path to follow. For example, from what I’ve heard about your father, he’ll make a good recovery: He’s accepted that the accident happened, he has a picture of what the future holds for him when he’s better—ensuring that the colt is in tip-top condition ready for training at Newmarket—and in the middle he’s already aware of the steps that he’ll take. At first he’ll only be able to stand for a minute or two, then he’ll use crutches, move on to walking sticks, and then the casts will come off. Dr. Simms will give him instructions as to what not to do, and the sort of activities that will set him back.”

“I see.”

“There are gray areas,” Maisie resisted the urge to look at her watch again as Andrew Dene went on. “For example, if we take Mr. Beale— oops, you had better get going, hadn’t you, Miss Dobbs?” Andrew Dene opened the door of the MG for Maisie.

“Thank you, Dr. Dene. I enjoyed our lunch.”

“Yes, I did too. I look forward to seeing your father at All Saints’ soon.”

“ I’ll be in touch with the administrator as soon as I can confirm the arrangements.”

“Right you are, Miss Dobbs.”

Phew! What a character he is!
Still, Maisie found Dene to be interesting, engaging, challenging—and fun. He was able to laugh at himself. But there was something else about him, something that nagged at her, that she both liked and found confusing at the same time: He seemed to know who
she
was. Not by name. Not by accomplishment or by profession. No. There was more than that to her identity. Andrew Dene understood her roots. Even if he had never been privy to her story, Maisie knew that he understood her.

Following her father’s accident, and the talks at the hospital with Maurice and later her father, Maisie had been able to recollect more of the times spent with her mother. She remembered being in the kitchen, a girl of about nine. Her mother had been telling her the story of how she’d met Maisie’s father and known straight away that Frankie Dobbs was the one for her. “I set my hat for him there and then, Maisie, there and then.” And she’d laughed, wiping the back of her sudsy hand across her forehead to brush back ringlets of black hair that had fallen into her eyes.

Maisie wondered about the business of setting one’s hat for a man, and how a woman of her age might go about doing such a thing.

As she drove along, up over the ridge toward Sedlescombe, her thoughts shifted to Joseph Waite and the many tragic events that had befallen him. A father and brother killed in mining accidents, a wife dead in childbirth, a son lost to war, and an estranged daughter whom he tried to control without success. Hadn’t Lydia Fisher indicated to Billy that Charlotte had been something of a social butterfly? But as she passed into Kent at the boundary near Hawkhurst, Maisie checked herself, and the certain pity she had begun to feel for Joseph Waite. Yes, she felt pity. But was it pity for a man who had stabbed three women, quite literally, in cold blood?

Perhaps Charlotte Waite had the answer. Tomorrow she would be able to judge Charlotte for herself. Was she, as her father believed, a ‘wilting lily’? Or, was she, as Lydia Fisher had intimated to Billy, a habitual bolter? Magnus Fisher’s account did not help. But each narrator’s story revealed only one perspective, one representation of the person that Charlotte revealed herself to be in their company. Where did the truth lie? Who was Charlotte, really?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T
hursday greeted Kent with driving rain and howling winds. Maisie looked out at the weather from the cozy comfort of the Groom’s Cottage, shivering but not at all surprised.

“Typical! Bring in the clouds for a drive to the marshes!”

Today she would make her way across Kent again and on through the relentless gray of the marshlands, where people—if she saw any— would be rushing along with heads bent, anxious to get to and fro from work or errands. It was a day when locals tried not to venture outside and even farmworkers found jobs to do in the barn rather than out in the fields. Today she would finally meet Charlotte Waite.

“Ugh,” uttered Maisie as she ran to the MG.

George joined her, wearing the sort of foul-weather clothing one usually associated with fishermen.

“Going to catch a trout for tea, George?”

“No, Miss. I’d’ve thought catching things was more in your line of work.”

“I deserved that, George.” Maisie laughed as George lifted the bonnet to turn on the petrol pump, the first of five steps to start the MG. “Thank you for coming out.”

“Saw you running across in this rain, Miss, and wanted to make sure you got off safely. Pity you’ve got to go somewhere today, so you mind how you go, Miss. Take them corners nice and easy.”

“Don’t worry, George.”

“Know what time you’ll be back? Just so’s I know?”

“I won’t be back to Chelstone today. After Romney Marsh, I’m off to Pembury to visit Mr. Dobbs, and afterwards straight on to London. I expect to return to Kent as soon as I can to see my father.” Maisie waved good-bye to George, who patted the back of the MG with his hand before running into the garage and out of the rain.

Apple orchards that were filled with blossom only yesterday were now sodden and sorry. Tall cherry trees bent over and the branches of roadside elder laden with bloom seemed almost to ache with the task of standing tall. Maisie hoped that the storm would pass, that the trees and land would dry quickly, and that spring, her favorite season in Kent, would be restored to its resplendent richness soon.

As she maneuvered the MG, Maisie reflected upon her visit to see her father the day before. She had entered the ward to see Frankie at the far end of the column of beds, straining forward in his sitting-up position to greet her as she approached.

“How are you, Dad?”

“Better every day, expect to be up and about soon.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I’ve just spoken to Dr. Simms, and he says that you should have two weeks convalescence by the sea before returning home, and even then, you shouldn’t be putting any weight on your right leg at all.”

Frankie was about to protest, then looked at his daughter. “You’ve got a bit more color in your cheeks, my girl, and you’re looking more rested.”

It was true, even Maisie had noticed that the gray rings usually etched under her eyes had diminished, her hair seemed more lustrous, and she felt much better, though she’d had so much on her mind that she hadn’t even noticed feeling below par in the first place. It was Maurice who pinpointed a possible reason for Maisie’s fatigue: “You’ve taken something on, Maisie. You’ve absorbed something of whatever was held inside the three women. And though being a sponge can aid in your work, it can also hinder, for becoming one with the subjects of your investigation does not necessarily help you.”

During her visit more was revealed to Maisie, more wounds were healed, more firm footing added to the ground as father and daughter tentatively made their way forward. As her reflections became illuminated by the light of understanding, so she felt a certain resentment lift, enabling her to look back on the past more kindly, with a little more compassion. And as she made her way toward Camden Abbey, she thought of Lydia, Philippa, and Rosamund, her thoughts coming back time and time again to who might not have been able to forgive them, and what it was they might have done to warrant such deep, unrelenting anger. An anger laced with a passion that led to murder.

She was close to Camden Abbey when the rain seemed to become lighter and for a moment it seemed as if the sun might manage to push its way through leaden clouds scudding across an already purplish gray sky. But that was the way of the marshes. The promise of light made it seem as if the elements were holding their collective breath. Then the observer realized that such a breath was only a minute’s respite before it started blowing again even harder, a biting wind with a volley of more stinging rain.

Parking in front of the abbey, Maisie secured the car and ran inside, where she was immersed in silence, broken only by the drip-dripping of water that came from her mackintosh.

“Dame Constance has instructed me to escort you directly to the sitting room, where you can dry off.” The young postulant avoided eye contact as she reached out to take Maisie’s outer clothing. “Your coat, hat, and gloves will be ready for you by the time you leave.”

“Thank you.” Maisie inclined her head, and followed her guide, who walked close to the wall as she made her way to the room where Maisie had met with Dame Constance previously.

Once again, a fire crackled in the grate, though this time two wing chairs had been positioned alongside the grille. Maisie sat down, and leaned back with an audible sigh. The door behind the grille slid open to reveal Dame Constance. Her eyes sparkled as she spoke.

“Good morning, Maisie.”

“Good Morning, Dame Constance. You have been most kind to encourage Miss Waite to agree to this meeting.”

“I know it’s important for you, Maisie, and the work you must do. However, my concern is primarily for Miss Waite. We have to consider how we can best be of service in her healing and recovery.”

Maisie understood that this preamble to the meeting with Charlotte was important.

“You see, when a young woman makes a petition to join the community . . .” Dame Constance looked at Maisie intently. “You are surprised? Ah, Maisie, I would have thought that you had intuited by now that Miss Waite wishes to remain here, to join us. It is an attractive option for a woman who has found a measure of solace within these walls. However, I should add that there is no instant acceptance. Ever.”

Dame Constance waited for a comment from Maisie. Then she went on. “There is a misconception that a religious community is a place of escape, that the refuge offered on a temporary basis can easily become more permanent. But that is not so. Our novices are women who are at peace with the world outside. They have enjoyed society in its broadest sense; they have had the support of loving families and in some cases no shortage of suitors. I have advised Miss Waite that her foundations must be solid before she can commit to a relationship with God. She cannot come out of fear, to hide.”

“What do you mean, Dame Constance?”

“Joining a religious order is not a means of escape. It is a positive undertaking. One’s foundation is the relationship one has with family, with one’s first love, so to speak. Charlotte Waite has had difficulties with familial interactions, especially with her father. Such difficulty represents a crack in the foundation. The house of her future cannot be built if her very foundations are compromised.”

Maisie frowned, thinking of her own situation rather than Charlotte’s. Was that why she had felt such loneliness? Had it been the rupture in her relationship with Frankie that had prevented her from making other associations, so that she felt that she was always missing the mark in some way? Never quite able to join in, and surprised when she did? Never able to open her heart to another? Perhaps. After all, hadn’t she noticed, now she came to think of it, a greater ease in her more personal interactions of late? She thought of Andrew Dene.

“Ah, I see you understand, Maisie.”

“Yes, I think I do, Dame Constance.”

The nun smiled, then continued. “I believe that Charlotte Waite might reveal to you what is at the heart of discord between her father and herself. I will summon Miss Waite to meet you, but I will remain during your interview, at her request, though she will join you here in the sitting room.”

“Thank you, Dame Constance.”

The small door closed and Maisie was left alone with her thoughts. She would rather have seen Charlotte alone, but was grateful for any meeting. She had undertaken to urge Charlotte to return to Dulwich, to her father’s home. But in so doing, would she be persuading Charlotte to risk her life? Might she be putting the lives of others in harm’s way? Was it even possible that Charlotte was now seeking a religious life to expiate the crime of murder?