The Mapping of Love and Death (14 page)

Maisie remembered Maurice’s counsel that when a person has made a confession, it is important to accord that person the gift of silence, if only for a moment. After a suitable hiatus, Maisie leaned forward. “You loved your sister, James, and you did your utmost to help her. You did all that you could. And you were a child.”

Douglas laid a hand on James’ shoulder, allowing him to feel the weight of support, then reached for his cane and pushed back from the table. “We need something a little stronger than that bottle of Montrachet, I think.”

“I say, I must apologize, going on like that.”

“James, we’re friends here,” said Priscilla. “I’ve known Maisie since Girton, and we have seen each other through thick and thin—with rather more of the thin, I must say. The circumstance of your sister’s death is the stuff of nightmares in every family, and clearly it is something that will never be banished from your memory. So, even if we weren’t before, we are now friends, James, because you have trusted us.” She looked at Maisie as if for approval, and Maisie, her eyes red-rimmed with unshed tears, nodded at Priscilla.

It seemed that as soon as Douglas had set a snifter of brandy in front
of James, Elinor came to inform the company that the boys wanted to show James their drawings and model aeroplanes. Priscilla waited until he left the room before turning to Maisie.

“Did you know any of that?”

She shook her head. “It must be the best-kept secret at Chelstone—no one has ever mentioned it to me, and certainly Lady Rowan has never spoken of it. It explains a lot, though.”

“Such as?”

Maisie tapped the side of her coffee cup with a silver spoon. “Maurice always said that carrying a heavy burden will cause a person to stoop and stagger, even though their bearing might suggest otherwise.”

“I think I see what you mean.” Priscilla paused, taking a breath as if to ask a question. “Mais—oh, nothing, really.”

“What were you going to say?”

“She wants to know whether you and James Compton are courting,” interjected Douglas, who reached across to ruffle his wife’s hair in an affectionate manner. “But she thought she might have gone too far with her inquisitiveness.”

“Fine ally you are in a time of need!” joked Priscilla, taking Douglas’ hand.

“And the answer is no—he’s just a friend, and anyway, I don’t think the likes of James Compton would be seriously considering me for courtship.”

“Could you be languishing in your sackcloth and ashes, Maisie?”

“No, Pris. It’s just how I view the situation.”

“The view from your mountain might be wrong.”

At that moment James Compton returned to the room, and smiled at Maisie before turning to Priscilla. “I’m not sure how much your toads will sleep tonight. I left them planning acts of airborne derring-do.”

“As long as it doesn’t involve a chandelier,” said Priscilla, rolling her eyes.

“I think I’m ready, James,” said Maisie.

The four bid their farewells, with gratitude expressed for a welcome supper and good company, and as Maisie and James walked down the steps towards his motor car, Priscilla called out, “Do try to avoid the ground, Maisie. That thing on your cheek is hardly something you can cover up with a puff of powder.”

As they walked to the motor car, Maisie thought that Priscilla was wrong. The wounds of the past could always be camouflaged. Erasing them to extinguish all trace was the greater challenge.

W
hen they arrived in Pimlico, James parked the motor car and escorted her to the door.

“So, this is where you live. Quite modern, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I was lucky. The builder went out of business, so the bank decided to sell the flats individually. And property seemed as good a place as any for my nest egg.”

“Very wise. And a good time to buy.” James smiled at Maisie. An onlooker might have thought that neither of them knew quite what to say next, but after a lapse of a few seconds, James continued. “I’ll see you on Saturday, then. At least I know where to come to pick you up now.”

Maisie nodded. “I’m looking forward to the day, though I know I’ll be worrying about Maurice.”

“Yes, I think we all will. Anyway, I’d better be getting back to the club. And do let me know if you change your mind.”

“Of course. And thank you so much for taking me to see him. I just hope he gets over this spell of ill health.” She looked down at her door keys and turned them in her hand. “I—I just can’t imagine what I’d do if—”

James reached towards her and pulled her to him. He said nothing at first, allowing her to weep into his shoulder. As her tears abated, he
reached into his pocket for a clean white handkerchief, then lifted her face and dried her tears.

“Everything will be all right, Maisie. I’m aware you’ve been through a lot in the past few years, but Maurice is a resilient chap, he bounces back. You know that.”

“I think this is different.”

“Wait and see. There.” He pressed the handkerchief into her hand. “Will you be all right?”

She nodded and smiled as she looked up at him. James kissed her on each cheek; then, just at the point when she thought he would turn to leave, he took her in his arms once again and kissed her on the lips. She did not draw back.

S
o, like I said, the American bloke, from the embassy, name of John Langley, said he’d be in touch with you before the end of the week, which I suppose means by Friday for the likes of these diplomatic types.”

“What? Sorry, Billy, what did you say?”

“Is everything all right, Miss?”

“Yes. Yes, of course. Why?”

Billy shrugged. “Nothing, really. You just seemed miles away, that’s all, and I wondered if you were all right. You had that nasty fall, and a rotten time of it yesterday, what with having to rush down to Tunbridge Wells with that James Compton—and I bet he drives like a madman as well.”

Maisie shook her head. “No, not at all. He was quite, well, careful.”

“Hmmm. Always thought of him as a bit of a fast one. A bit of a jack-the-lad.”

Maisie said nothing, but remained deep in thought. Had Billy known of the romantic encounter with James Compton, he might have attributed her distraction to the fledgling courtship. He would not have
known that, after James had left her flat, Maisie had once again turned to the letters from the English nurse to Michael Clifton. It was when she read the penultimate letter that she drew back to absorb its meaning.

H
aving left her motor car parked outside her flat in Pimlico that morning, Maisie traveled by trolley bus and the underground for most of the journey to the Mayfair mansion where Lady Petronella Casterman lived with her son, Christopher. Priscilla had informed her—with information from her friend Julia Maynard—that the son was about sixteen years of age, and was known as “Tuffie” to members of the family. The two daughters were now married, with the eldest due to give birth to Lady Petronella’s first grandchild in the not-too-distant future, to the delight of the grandmother-to-be.

Though on the outside the mansion seemed much like any other in the area—an imposing white stucco exterior; large windows on each of three floors, with smaller top-floor windows for the servants’ accommodation; and a grand entrance with Grecian-inspired columns on either side of the front door—as soon as she stepped into the light-filled entrance hall, it was clear that Lady Petronella had indulged in extensive alterations to the interior of the house. Upon entry the home inspired good cheer and optimism, its walls painted the shade of a bride’s
satin wedding gown, and the doors a lighter but complementary hue. It seemed that even on a bleak day, light would filter past the swags of golden fabric that adorned the windows, to be transmuted so that one might believe the sun to be shining. There was no grand collection of paintings of now-dead ancestors, though in the drawing room Maisie’s attention was drawn to a family portrait of Lady Petronella and her daughters, with Tuffie sitting on his mother’s knee, a toy train in one hand and the thumb of his other hand in his mouth. Another large yet simple charcoal sketch revealed Giles Casterman to have been a man of fine features, with slightly hooded eyes and a wry smile that suggested he and the artist had just shared a joke.

As Maisie was looking at a series of silver-framed family photographs set on the grand piano by the window, the door opened and Lady Petronella entered the room.

“Miss Dobbs. How lovely to meet you.”

Maisie turned at the woman’s entrance and stepped in her direction. Not all women, especially those of a certain age, expected to shake hands in greeting with another female, especially one they presumed to be of a lower station—and a working woman was often thought of as such—but the aristocratic widow showed no such sensibility and held out her hand to take Maisie’s in a firm grasp.

“Thank you so much for agreeing to see me, Lady Petronella, and for taking the time to place a telephone call to my office.”

“Not at all. If someone wants to see you, you might as well get it over and done with and help them if you can.” She held out her hand towards a chintz-covered sofa, and as they were seated, Maisie took stock of her hostess.

Lady Petronella was of average height, perhaps a couple of inches shorter than Maisie, but in the way she held herself, she seemed taller. She had retained the leanness of girlhood, her clothes were fashionable without revealing a woman loath to give up her youth, and her
rich black hair—the color possibly enhanced with a tint—was cut in a soft, wavy bob. She wore little makeup, which drew attention to still-flawless skin, and had a ready smile and eyes that seemed to sparkle upon meeting her guest for the first time. Maisie thought she was the kind of woman that one could not help but like upon meeting.

“Would you care for some tea, Miss Dobbs? Our cook has just made delicious macaroons—they’re my son’s favorite, and she spoils him terribly.”

Maisie smiled. She remembered Mrs. Crawford making ginger biscuits for James when he returned to Ebury Place, and the playful teasing between the two when he sneaked into her domain to steal the hot-from-the-oven treat.

“Yes, a cup of tea and a macaroon would be lovely—thank you.”

Lady Petronella summoned the butler and asked for tea and macaroons to be brought to the drawing room, and then turned to Maisie. “Now then, Miss Dobbs, perhaps you could tell me why you’ve been anxious to see me. I understand you’re interested in my work during the war.”

Maisie nodded. “Yes, that’s right. I’m trying to locate an English nurse who became…let us say, she became romantically involved with an American man. I should add that he enlisted in 1914, and was a military cartographer with the Royal Engineers. He was able to enlist in our army because his father was born a British subject, and of course his expertise in his field made him a valuable recruit.”

“Yes, yes, I can imagine.” Lady Petronella looked up as the butler returned with tea, and did not continue speaking until the table in front of their chairs was set for the repast. “Milk and sugar?” asked Maisie’s hostess, before she poured tea.

“Just a dash of milk,” said Maisie.

When they were both equipped with tea and a small plate bearing a single macaroon, Maisie offered more information. “The young man,
Michael Clifton, was killed, though his remains have only been discovered quite recently. His parents are in possession of a collection of letters from the young woman in question, and would like to trace her.”

“Don’t they have her name and address?”

“She used a pseudonym throughout the letters—it seemed to be an affectionate nickname used by her lover. He called her ‘The English Nurse,’ which then became ‘Tennie.’ It appears they used methods other than the available postal services to exchange letters. The censor was avoided, so that was another reason for her to keep her name private.”

“Ah, I see,” said Lady Petronella. “And because my unit was known as The English Nursing Unit, with the initials T-E-N, which might then become ‘Tennie,’ you thought I might know the girl in question.”

“That’s the measure of it.” Maisie paused. “I realize it’s a long time ago now, and rather a leap, but I was hoping you might recall if one of your nurses was involved in such a liaison. I was informed that you took a personal interest in all of those who worked for you.”

Lady Petronella sighed. “I wish the whole thing didn’t seem so immediate sometimes—do you know what I mean?” She looked at Maisie directly. It was not a rhetorical question.

Maisie nodded. “Yes, I do. I know exactly what you mean. You’ll be going about your daily round, and then, for one reason or another—” She shrugged. “I don’t know—possibly an aroma in the air, or the way the wind is blowing, or even something someone said—you feel as if you’re back there, in the midst of it all, and that it will never end.” Her cheeks became flushed as she recognized her own candor.

“It’s so refreshing to speak to someone who knows. Sometimes one really needs to have a good chat with someone else who has gone through a similar experience and is willing to talk about it.” She stared out towards the piano, as if she could see into the gardens beyond, then turned back to Maisie. “I sometimes think that we—the whole country—would have benefited from just talking, all of us having a good
old chat about it all and what we all lost instead of simply wading on through. I’m rather fed up with this ‘buck up and put your best foot forward’ approach to the terrors that face one in life.” She reached forward to pour more tea. “Mind you, I am probably not a good example. People always say I am rather accomplished at just getting on with things.”

Maisie smiled, for the woman’s honest account of her feelings had given substance to her first impressions.

“Lady Petronella, I—”

“Do call me ‘Ella.’ Petronella is such a mouthful. I rue the day my mother picked up that book she was reading prior to going into labor on the day I was born. The heroine was a Petronella, and I have always wished someone had given her a copy of
Jane Eyre
. It would have made life so much simpler.”

Maisie edged forward. “Lady Ella—”

“Ella. I insist.”

“Ella, then—and thank you for according me the privilege, Ella. Your attitude to memories of the war would be a source of some optimism among a few doctors I know who work with the damaged psyche. Not all, mind, but those who are at the forefront of new research.” She took a sip from the just-poured second cup of tea. “As I said, I understand you had something of a matriarchal approach to the care of the doctors and nurses who were retained to work in your unit, so I thought you might recall hearing about a courtship between one of the nurses and an American. After all, the fact that he was an American was one thing, but he came from a very good family.”

“Did he?” Ella frowned. “How extraordinary.”

“What’s so extraordinary?”

“No, nothing.” She shrugged. “There were chaperones, you know, so that when the nurses went away for some well-earned rest, they didn’t get into any troubling situations, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I think I do,” said Maisie.

“You see, that’s one of the things people never talk about afterward—or even when it’s all happening—that these events lead people to do things, take chances that they might never take if they didn’t think they were going to die, or were afraid that they might lose someone they loved. There’s always that last good-bye, that final kiss, that promise of a future spoken in the heat of the moment and in the fear of dying, that leads to all manner of problems later. The girl who is left with a broken heart when her sweetheart returns to his fiancée in Australia, the young man who discovers that the woman who pledged to wait for him cannot face him when he returns with terrible wounds—and after those earlier fervent protestations of never-ending love. Then there are the children, the innocent fatherless children.”

“I understand.” Maisie spoke quietly, aware that her voice was barely more than a whisper. Too many of her own memories converged into the present, along with a more recent encounter that gave weight to the opinions of the woman before her. “Eighteen months ago, my best friend met her niece for the first time. The child was born in the war, in France. My friend’s brother had been killed, and the child’s mother was shot by the occupying German army. The girl is the image of her aunt, my friend. Fortunately, they now enjoy summers together, and are close.”

“Ah, a story with a happy ending. Not all are so fortunate.”

“Is that why you came back and set up the homes for unwed mothers?”

“More or less. I saw no reason why such women had to be branded as wanton. There had to be a means by which they could be with child without disapproving eyes upon them, and we also provided additional care when the children were adopted. There is so much to account for here.” She laid a hand on her chest. “One cannot abandon a girl in that situation, one can only look after her and then set her on the path of life again—a good path, a path that might lead her forward to a reasonable future, and not the gutter.”

“Did you start the first home during the war?”

She shook her head. “Before the war, actually. But with all those soldiers flooding into the country from all over the world, I asked my husband if he would help me support another two homes for girls in trouble.” She looked up at the charcoal drawing. “He was a wonderful, most generous man. One in a million.”

Maisie cleared her throat. “So, going back to the issue of our English nurse, you don’t think she was one of your employees?”

Lady Ella shook her head again. “They were a fine group of young women, all of them, and I am sure they were pursued by many a soldier, but I am equally sure I would have heard through the grapevine if an American was involved. I worked in the unit too, you know. Of course, I wasn’t there all the time—otherwise my husband and I would not have had our darling Tuffie! But I did my bit. I don’t believe in asking someone to do something you couldn’t or wouldn’t be willing to do yourself.” She smiled. “The staff here know I would be quite capable of turning my hand to any job in this household, if it came to it. And there’s a certain strength in that, my dear.”

“Lady—Ella, I understand you kept very precise records of your staff. Would it be an imposition for me to peruse them? I don’t doubt your conclusion that ‘Tennie’ was not one of your nurses, but I would like to see the files, if possible. Just in case anything resonates with other evidence I’ve gathered.”

Lady Ella smiled, put her hands on her knees, and stood up. “Let me take you to the library, where I have a cabinet containing a dossier on each of the women—both doctors and nurses. We can go through them together.”

“Thank you, I appreciate your help.”

“Not at all.” She waved a hand as if to brush away any concern regarding the intrusion. “As I said, it’s good to be in the company of someone who was there—and you were there, weren’t you, my dear? I have
spent a considerable amount of time with nurses. I can tell one a mile off, even if she is doing something quite different now.” She beckoned Maisie to follow her. “Let’s go to the library.”

The women spent another hour together, with Maisie seated alongside as Ella passed the records to her one by one, supplementing the notes with her own recollections: “She was a lovely girl, Cornish farming stock, and this one—so committed to her work, she’s a matron now, you know…. Ah, this girl married her sweetheart. He’s in a wheel-chair, but that hasn’t stopped them having three children, and this one has really done well for herself, she’s a secretary to someone terribly important….”

Maisie made notes on index cards, and tried to commit to memory the images set in front of her. A photograph of each employee was attached to the top right-hand corner of a dossier containing her personal information and employment history, and it seemed that Ella Casterman remembered every single one of her nurses.

When they had gone through the files, the two women remained seated at the table exchanging stories of the war, and their thoughts about life since the Armistice. Maisie had just pushed her chair back to stand up when the door to the library opened with a thump that caused it to bounce back against the wall.

“Mama, you will never guess—oh, I am terribly sorry, I didn’t know you had a visitor.” The boy-man who had just entered was still dressed as if for an afternoon’s rowing. His brownish blond hair looked as if it would benefit from an appointment with a barber, and his ungainly long arms and legs were an indication of his age. Maisie knew without being informed that this was Christopher.