Maisie Dobbs (22 page)

Simon held her hand and escorted her to the platform. The arrival of her train had just been announced.

“Tomorrow will be our last day together.” said Simon. “I wish I understood time, Maisie. It vanishes through one’s fingers.”

He held her hands together in front of his chest, and touched each of her fingertips in turn.

“Maurice says that only when we have a respect for time will we have learned something of the art of living.”

“Ah, yes, the wise man Maurice. Perhaps I’ll meet him one day.”

Maisie looked into Simon’s eyes and shivered. “Yes, perhaps. One day.”

S
imon arrived at Chelstone at half past nine the next morning. Maisie had been up since half past five, first helping Frankie with the horses, then going for a walk, mentally preparing for Simon’s arrival. She strolled through the apple orchards, heavy with blossom, then to the paddock beyond.

Half of what was, before the war, grazing for horses, was now a large vegetable garden providing fresh produce not only for Chelstone Manor but also for a wider community. In a time of war, flowers and shrubs were seen to be an extravagance, so every cottage garden in the village was almost bereft of blooms. Even the smallest postage stamp of land was needed for growing vegetables.

Maisie made her way back to the cottage and waited for Simon. Eventually the crackle of tires on gravel heralded his arrival. Frankie drew the curtains aside to look out the window in the small parlor.

“Looks like your young man is here.”

Maisie rushed from the room, while Frankie stood in front of the mirror, adjusted his neckerchief and pulled down the hem of his best waistcoat. He rubbed his chin, just to make sure, and took off the flat cap that almost never left his head. Before going to the door to meet Captain Simon Lynch, Frankie took up the cherished sepia photograph of a woman who looked so much like the girl who had run joyously to the door. She was tall and slender, dressed in a dark skirt and a cotton blouse with wide leg-o’-mutton sleeves. Though she had fussed with her hair in anticipation of having the photograph taken with her two-year-old daughter, there were still stray curls creeping onto her forehead.

Frankie ran his finger across the glass, tracing the line of the woman’s face. He spoke to the image tenderly, as if she were in the room with him, for Frankie Dobbs had prayed for her spirit to be at his side today.

“I know, I know . . . go easy on ’im. I wish you was ’ere now, Love. I could do with a bit of ’elp with this.”

Frankie replaced the photograph, and with one last look in the mirror, just to make sure that he wouldn’t let Maisie down, he walked from the cottage to greet the man to whom his daughter had run so eagerly.

F
or hours Simon and Maisie talked, first on the journey by motor car across to Sussex, then throughout lunch at a small inn. It was only after they had parked the car by a clump of trees and walked high up on the South Downs, seagulls whooping overhead, that they spent time in silence. Their pace aligned as they walked along the rough path on the crest of the hills overlooking the Channel. They moved closer together, hands brushing but not quite touching.

The day was warm, but Maisie still felt cold. It was a cold that had seeped into her bones in France and now seemed never to leave her. Simon sat down on the grass under a tree, and beckoned her to sit next to him. As she sat down he took her hand and grimaced, then playfully reached for one of her walking shoes, untied the laces, and held her foot in his hand.

“Goodness, woman, how can anyone be that cold and not be dead!”

Maisie laughed along with Simon.

“It’s that French mud that does it, gets right into your bones.”

The laughter subsided, and seconds later they were both silent.

“Will you definitely return to Cambridge after the war?”

“Yes. And you, Simon?”

“Oh, I think I’ll be for the quiet life, you know. Country doctor. Delivering babies, dealing with measles, mumps, hunters’ accidents, farmworkers’ ailments, that sort of thing. I’ll grow old in corduroy and tweed, smoke a pipe, and swat my grandchildren on their little behinds when they wake me from my afternoon snooze.”

Simon leaned forward, plucked a blade of grass, and twisted it between his long fingers.“What about after Cambridge, Maisie?”

“I’m not sure.”

Conversation ebbed as Simon and Maisie looked out over the sea, both daring their imagination to wander tentatively into the future. Maisie sighed deeply, and Simon held her to him. As if reading her thoughts, he spoke.

“It’s hard to think about the future when you’ve seen so many passing through who don’t have tomorrow, let alone next year. No future at all.”

“Yes.”

It was all she could say.

“Maisie. Maisie, I know this is rather soon, possibly even presumptuous, but, Maisie, when this is all over, this war, when we are back here in England . . . would you marry me?”

Maisie inhaled sharply, her skin prickly with emotion. What was that emotion? She wanted to say “Yes” but something stopped her.

“I know, I know, you don’t have to say anything. It’s the thought of corduroy trousers and tweeds isn’t it?”

“No, Simon. No. It was just a surprise.”

“Maisie, I love you.”

He took her hand and looked deeply into her eyes.

“Yes. And I love you too, Simon. I love you too.”

Simon drove Maisie back to Chelstone, and brought the car to a halt on the road at the end of the driveway that led to the manor. He leaned over and took Maisie’s left hand.

“You never gave me an answer, Maisie.”

“I know. It’s just me, Simon. And doing what we have to do. In France. I want to wait until it’s over. Until there’s no more . . . no more . . . death. I can’t say yes to something so important until we’re home again. Until we’re safe.”

Simon nodded, his compassion for her feelings at war with his disappointment.

“But Simon. I do love you. Very much.”

Simon did not speak, but cupped Maisie’s face in his hands, and kissed her deeply. At first, Maisie began to pull away, afraid that someone from the manor might see, but as Simon’s arms enfolded her, she returned his kiss, reaching for his neck to pull him closer. Suddenly Maisie was aware of moisture on her face and, pulling away, she looked into Simon’s eyes and touched her cheek where their tears had met.

“God, I wish this war would end,” Simon wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, before facing her once again. He kissed her gently on the lips. “I love you, Maisie, and I want you to be my wife. I promise that as soon as this war is over, I will walk across miles of trenches to find you, and I will stand there in my muddy clothes until you say ‘Yes!’”

They kissed once more. Then, taking up her bag, Maisie asked Simon to let her walk back to the house alone. She did not want to suffer a difficult farewell, possibly in front of her father and whoever else might be in the gardens to witness their parting. Simon objected, on the grounds that no gentleman would allow a lady to walk unaccompanied to her home, but Maisie was adamant, reminding Simon that she had walked along that lane many a time, and often with a heavy basket.

Simon did not argue her decision. Instead of more words, they held each other close and kissed. She went swiftly from the motorcar and along the driveway, eventually hearing Simon start the engine in the distance and pull away onto the road.

M
aisie insisted that she travel alone back to Folkestone, and Frankie, seeing a new maturity and independence in his daughter, agreed to allow Lady Rowan’s new chauffeur, an older man passed over for military service, to take her to the station. Maisie said goodbye to her father at home. She had no stomach for more platform farewells.

It was on her journey to Folkestone, and then to France, that she thought back over the events of the days she had spent on leave. She remembered Simon’s easy camaraderie with her father, his smile upon introduction, and how he immediately began asking about the horses and allowed himself to be led to the stables so that Frankie Dobbs was relaxed in the domain over which he was the obvious master.

Time and again Maisie replayed Simon’s proposal in her head, and, though she would no doubt receive a letter from him soon, considered how she avoided making a commitment. She knew only too well the source of such reticence.

As the train moved through the early morning mist of a Kentish springtime, Maisie breathed deeply, as if to remember the aroma of freedom. Though there had yet to be a victor in this great war that had begun almost three years ago, Maurice had written to her that they had, all of them, on all sides, lost their freedom. The freedom to think hopefully of the future.

It was later, much later, more than ten years after the war, that Maisie remembered every thought that had entered her mind on the journey back to the battlefield hospital.

She remembered praying to see Simon just one more time.

M
aisie took the underground from Warren Street to Charing Cross, then changed to the District Line for Victoria. As the train rocked from side to side, Maisie wondered what the evening’s conversation with Lady Rowan might reveal. She suspected that the farm where James intended to take up residence was the same place that Celia had described over tea.

Leaving the train at Victoria, Maisie made her way out of the underground station, and walked along Lower Belgrave Street toward Ebury Place. And as she walked, she thought of Maurice, who had told her so many times that coincidence could simply be what it appeared to be: two events connected to each other by the thoughts and experience of a person. But he also told Maisie to pay attention to coincidence.

Coincidence was a messenger sent by truth.

Carter took Maisie’s cloche and jacket, and welcomed her into the entrance hall. “So lovely to see you, Maisie. How are you? Her ladyship is waiting for you in the drawing room—and very anxious to see you she is, too.”

“I’m well, thank you, Mr. Carter. I’ll just nip down to see Mrs. Crawford first. I don’t want her giving me an earful for not coming straight down to see her.”

“A very wise decision, Maisie. You know the way.”

Carter left to hang Maisie’s outer garments in the cloakroom as Maisie made her way through the door to the right of the entrance hall and downstairs into the kitchen. The stone stairwell was as chilly as she remembered, but as soon as she walked through the door to the kitchen, she was enveloped in the welcoming warmth and mingling aromas that sent her back to her girlhood.

Mrs. Crawford had become hard of hearing, and continued to work as Maisie stood at the threshold of her domain. Maisie wondered if she had ever seen the old cook’s hands clear of either flour or water. They were rough and work-worn hands, but Maisie knew that before touching any food, Mrs. Crawford would have stood at the big square earthenware sink and scrubbed her hands with a coarse bristle brush and a bar of coal tar soap. And by the time she plunged her hands into pastry dough, her red, sausage-like fingers would be in stark relief to the white flour. Maisie loved Mrs. Crawford’s apple pie, and if she was visiting, there would be a pie for the sweet course
and
a pie for her to take home.

“Mrs. Crawford,” said Maisie in a raised voice,“I’m here!”

Mrs. Crawford turned quickly, her purposeful frown transformed into a beaming smile.

“Well, look at you now! Don’t you go getting those nice clothes all covered with flour.”

Mrs. Crawford rubbed her hands on her pinafore and came toward Maisie with her arms open wide. Maisie was only too pleased to relinquish her body to a hug that was warm and close, even though the old woman was careful to keep her hands away from Maisie’s clothes, instead embracing Maisie with pressure from her elbows.

“Are you eating, Maisie? There’s nothing of you! I always said that a puff of wind would blow you away clear to Clacton!”

“I promise I’m eating, Mrs. Crawford. In fact, what’s for dinner?”

“A nice vegetable soup, followed by roast beef with all the trimmings—and it’s not even Sunday. Then there’s apple pie and the cheese board.”

“Oh my goodness. I’ll pop!”

“Not all for you, but mind you eat a good bit of it. His Lordship will be home late again this evening and will have dinner in his study. And if that James comes in with his face as long as a week, they’ll probably eat together. Otherwise Master James will eat in his rooms, with his misery for company.”

“I thought he had his own flat—I didn’t know he was back at home.”

“When he likes. I know, I know, you feel sorry for the boy and all that, and you know we all love him—have done since he was but a streak of lightning running around. But the fact is, he’s not a boy anymore, is he? And there’s plenty of men out there what saw everything over there in France that he did, and they did what we all have to do—they just got on with it instead of moping around like a lost, wet gun dog, all soppy eyes and sodden coat.”

Maisie knew that it was no good reasoning with Mrs. Crawford, who had firm ideas when it came to coping with life’s ups and downs.

“That’s the trouble with these boys of privilege. Not that I’m criticizing, far from it, I’ve been treated very well by them upstairs, very well. But that James has had too much time to think about it all. Too much going on up there.”Mrs. Crawford had gone back to her pastry but tapped the side of her head to emphasize the point. Realizing that she had touched her hair, she went over to the sink to scrub her hands again but lost no time in continuing to make her point.

“Look at the boys who came back and had to get straight out in the farms and the factories—they had wives and families to look out for. You don’t see them dragging their heels along, do you? No, that James should be at his lordship’s side, taking some of the weight so that His Lordship isn’t in the City at all hours. Not right for a man of his age. After all, look at James, he’s thirty-eight this year.”

Mrs. Crawford came back to her pastry, rolling out the dough with more than a little thumping of the rolling pin on the table.“Have you heard from your father lately?” Mrs. Crawford looked up at Maisie, yet continued flouring the pastry and sizing it to the pie dish.

“Yes. Mind you it’s difficult, Mrs. Crawford. It’s not as if he ever liked to put pen to paper. But he’s still busy at the house. Master James goes down quite a lot to ride, so there’s always work with the horses. And Her Ladyship likes to know that her own horses are cared for, even though she can’t ride anymore.”

“And that’s another thing. All that time to go down there to ‘think,’ if you please. It’s like I said, too much money and too much time on his hands.”

Suddenly one of the bells over the door rang.

“That’ll be Her Ladyship now. She probably reckons I’ve had long enough with you. Now then, don’t forget to come down for your pie to take home when you leave in the morning.”

Maisie kissed Mrs. Crawford on the cheek and went upstairs to the drawing room.

“Maisie, how lovely to see you. I had to ring or Mrs. Crawford would have hogged you for the whole evening! Come here to sit by the fire. I expect you know what’s for dinner already. I told Julian that you would be dining with me, and he said ‘Oh, good, we’ll get some apple pie.’ Come on, over here.”

Lady Rowan tapped the place next to her on the sofa. The two women spoke of Maisie’s business and her new clients. For Rowan Compton, Maisie was a breath of fresh air, and she lived vicariously through Maisie’s stories.

“And Maurice is keen to see you again soon, you know.”

“I thought he would be glad to have a break from me, to tell you the truth.”

“Now, then, Maisie. You are like a daughter to him. You are his pro-tégée. You are carrying his torch and shining your own light too. But I know he made a promise to himself to give you a little room for you to make your own way. He said to me,‘Rowan, it is past time to let our Maisie Dobbs fly free.’”

“I’ll bet he said a bit more than that. I know Maurice too, Lady Rowan.”

“Well, yes. He said that you would always look down as you were flying overhead, and if the ground was good for a landing, in you would come—or something like that. You know, that man talks in parables. I swear that sometimes I think he is the most profound person I know, and at others he infuriates me with his obscurity.” Lady Rowan shook her head.“Will you visit him soon, Maisie?”

“Yes, I mean to. In fact, I need to consult with him.”

“Anything interesting?”

Maisie smiled at Lady Rowan, without speaking.

“I know, you can’t divulge a secret.”

“Tell me about James,” asked Maisie.

Lady Rowan rolled her eyes, took up her glass from the side table, and sipped her sherry.“James. Oh, that James. I am at a loss, Maisie. I knew it when that boy was a child, too sensitive by half. Have you noticed how we always call him a boy? Even now. It wouldn’t be so bad if he were gadding about town wining and dining and getting into mischief. But this malaise . . . I wish he would speak to Maurice. But he won’t go to see Maurice, and you know that Maurice won’t go to him. One of his riddles, that James must open the door and walk along the path to him.”

“Maurice is right, Lady Rowan.”

“Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you? You’re a chip off the old block. By the way, he and your father are like two old peas in a pod down there, ever since Maurice bought the dower house.”

“Tell me about James,”Maisie prodded her.

Lady Rowan took another sip of her sherry.“Frankly, I’m worried. Julian is also worried, but he expresses it in a different way. He seems to think that if we are all patient, then James will come round, and that he won’t be so incredibly depressed anymore.”

Maisie did not speak, allowing Lady Rowan to gather her thoughts. Sitting still and allowing the silence to grow, Maisie felt the frustration, misunderstanding, and anger that had built up in the house, permeating every room—along with an expectation that James would one day bound in as the happy-go-lucky young man he had once been.

Carter came in to announce that dinner would be served in the dining room, and led the way. Maisie held out her arm to steady Lady Rowan, who now walked with the aid of a silver-capped cane, as they moved into the dining room.

“Wonderful, Carter, wonderful. Compliments to Mrs. Crawford, as always.”

The conversation continued lightly as each dish was served, moving once again to the subject of James only after Carter had left the room.

“Some weeks ago, James met with a wartime colleague who had heard of a farm, coincidentally in Kent, where old soldiers could go to live with others who ‘understood.’ That was the term they used, ‘understood.’ As if no one else is able to understand. It seems that this farm is quite a revolutionary idea. It was originally set up for those suffering facial wounds, but now it is open—obviously when a room becomes available—to those with other wounds.”

Lady Rowan set her knife and fork down on the plate, reached for her wine, and took a sip before continuing.“Of course, James still suffers pain in his leg and arm from the shrapnel, but Maurice has said that his discomfort is a result of melancholy. Yet James has become most interested in this community of wounded. He has visited, met with the founder, and has decided to go to live at this . . . this farm for the foreseeable future!”

“You seem distressed by his decision, Lady Rowan. Is there anything else?”

“Yes. A lot more. The founder, a man called Adam Jenkins, maintains that because everyone on the battlefield should have been equal, officers and enlisted men, because they all faced the same enemy, then there should be no advantage while in residence at this farm. Which is fair enough, but James said something about giving up his surname and title. Whatever next?” Lady Rowan shook her head.

At once Maisie thought of Vincent Weathershaw. Vincent.

Lady Rowan went on, “I wish to heaven James would go back to Canada. He seemed happy there, before the war, and at least he would be working and useful. Certainly his father would be delighted; it would be a weight off his mind. I know Julian wants to slow up a bit and wishes James would begin to take up the reins. And now he’s signing over his money. . . .”

Lady Rowan had hardly touched her food. Instead she ran the fingers of her right hand up and down the stem of her wine glass.

“What do you mean?” Maisie asked.

“Apparently it’s one of the stipulations for entering this Retreat or whatever it’s called. You come with nothing, to be part of the group. So James has transferred his personal funds to this Jenkins fellow—and it’s not just him, others have done the same thing. Thank God his father is still alive and there are limits to what James can actually relinquish financially. Julian is taking steps to protect the estate—and James’s future—until he gets over this horrible idea. Of course Julian had already done a lot to shore up the estate when he saw the General Strike coming a few years ago. I married a sensible man, Maisie.”

“What does Jenkins do with the money?”

“Well, it’s a sizable property to run, and I’m sure the upkeep isn’t insignificant. Of course, when one leaves one is refunded any monies remaining and given a statement of account. James said that he saw samples of the statements and refund documents, and he was happy with the arrangements. Mind you, he seemed eager to isolate himself on this farm. He said that people would understand him there. Oh, mind you, he seemed eager to isolate himself on this farm. He said that people would understand him there. As if I don’t!”

Lady Rowan reached over and clasped Maisie’s hand. Maisie had never seen the usually stoic Lady Rowan so vulnerable.

“Where is James now?”

“Out. Possibly at his club, but he doesn’t go there much now. Quite honestly, I don’t know where he is. He could be wandering the streets for all I know. Most probably he’s spending time with some old comrades. He visits them you know, those that are still institutionalized. He’ll probably be back later. Much later. I told him he could remain at Chelstone; after all, it’s in the country, there’s peace and quiet, and he could do what he likes and come back when he’s ready for the City. Lord knows Julian needs his help. But he’s determined to go to this farm. I have never felt so . . . so . . . cut off from my son.”