Maisie Dobbs

Maisie Dobbs

Maisie Dobbs

A Novel

JACQUELINE WINSPEAR

The excerpt from "Disabled" by Wilfred Owen, from The Collected Poems of

Wilfred Owen, copyright (c) 1963 by Chatto & Windus, Ltd. is reprinted

by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.

Copyright (c) 2003 by Jacqueline Winspear

Published by

Soho Press, Inc.

853 Broadway

New York, NY 10003

All rights reserved.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

is available in the office of the publisher.

ISBN 1-56947-330-7

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This book is dedicated to the memory of

my paternal grandfather and my maternal grandmother

JOHN "JACK" WINSPEAR sustained serious leg wounds during the Battle of the Somme in July 1916. Following convalescence, he returned to his work as a costermonger in southeast London.

CLARA FRANCES CLARK, nee Atterbury, was a munitions worker at the Woolwich Arsenal during the First World War. She was partially blinded in an explosion that killed several girls working in the same section alongside her. Clara later married and became the mother of ten children.

Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,

And do what things the rules consider wise,

And take whatever pity they may dole.

Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes

Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.

How cold and late it is! Why don't they come

And put him to bed? Why don't they come?

Final verse "Disabled," by Wilfred Owen. It was drafted at Craiglockhart, a hospital for shell-shocked officers, in October 1917.Owen was killed on November 4, 1918, just one week before the armistice.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY - ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY - TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY - THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY - FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY - FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY - SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY - SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY - EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

SPRING 1929

CHAPTER ONE

Even if she hadn't been the last person to walk through the turnstile at Warren Street tube station, Jack Barker would have noticed the tall, slender woman in the navy blue, thigh-length jacket with a matching pleated skirt short enough to reveal a well-turned ankle. She had what his old mother would have called "bearing."A way of walking, with her shoulders back and head held high, as she pulled on her black gloves while managing to hold on to a somewhat battered black document case.

"Old money,"muttered Jack to himself."Stuck-up piece of nonsense." Jack expected the woman to pass him by, so he stamped his feet in a vain attempt to banish the sharp needles of cold creeping up through his hobnailed boots. He fanned a half dozen copies of the Daily Express over one arm, anticipating a taxi-cab screeching to a halt and a hand reaching out with the requisite coins.

"Oh, stop--may I have an Express please, love?" appealed a voice as smooth as spooned treacle.

The newspaper vendor looked up slowly, straight into eyes the color of midnight in summer, an intense shade that seemed to him to be darker than blue. She held out her money.

"O' course, Miss, 'ere you are. Bit nippy this morning, innit?"

She smiled, and as she took the paper from him before turning to walk away, she replied,"Not half. It's brass monkey weather; better get yourself a nice cuppa before too long."

Jack couldn't have told you why he watched the woman walk all the way down Warren Street toward Fitzroy Square. But he did know one thing: She might have bearing, but from the familiar way she spoke to him, she certainly wasn't from old money.

At the end of Warren Street, Maisie Dobbs stopped in front of the black front door of a somewhat rundown Georgian terraced house, tucked the Daily Express under her left arm, carefully opened her document case, and took out an envelope containing a letter from her landlord and two keys. The letter instructed her to give the outside door a good shove after turning the key in the lock, to light the gas lamp at the base of the stairs carefully, to mind the top step of the first flight of stairs--which needed to be looked at--and to remember to lock her own door before leaving in the evening. The letter also told her that Billy Beale, the caretaker, would put up her nameplate on the outside door if she liked or, it suggested, perhaps she would prefer to remain anonymous.

Maisie grinned. I need the business, she said to herself. I'm not here to remain anonymous.

Maisie suspected that Mr. Sharp, the landlord, was unlikely to live up to his name, and that he would pose questions with obvious answers each time they met. However, his directions were apt: The door did indeed need a shove, but the gas lamp, once lit, hardly dented the musky darkness of the stairwell. Clearly there were some things that needed to be changed, but all in good time. For the moment Maisie had work to do, even if she had no actual cases to work on.

Minding the top step, Maisie turned right on the landing and headed straight for the brown painted door on the left, the one with a frosted glass window and a To Let sign hanging from the doorknob. She removed the sign, put the key into the lock, opened the door, and took a deep breath before stepping into her new office. It was a single room with a gas fire, a gas lamp on each wall, and one sash window with a view of the building across the street and the rooftops beyond. There was an oak desk with a matching chair of dubious stability, and an old filing cabinet to the right of the window.

Lady Rowan Compton, her patron and former employer, had been correct;Warren Street wasn't a particularly salubrious area. But if she played her cards right, Maisie could afford the rent and have some money left over from the sum she had allowed herself to take from her savings. She didn't want a fancy office, but she didn't want an out-and-out dump either. No, she wanted something in the middle, something for everyone, something central, but then again not in the thick of things. Maisie felt a certain comfort in this small corner of Bloomsbury. They said that you could sit down to tea with just about anyone around Fitzroy Square, and dine with a countess and a carpenter at the same table, with both of them at ease in the company. Yes, Warren Street would be good for now. The tricky thing was going to be the nameplate. She still hadn't solved the problem of the nameplate.

As Lady Rowan had asked,"So, my dear, what will you call yourself? I mean, we all know what you do, but what will be your trade name? You can hardly state the obvious. 'Finds missing people, dead or alive, even when it's themselves they are looking for' really doesn't cut the mustard. We have to think of something succinct, something that draws upon your unique talents."

"I was thinking of 'Discreet Investigations,' Lady Rowan. What do you think?"

"But that doesn't tell anyone about how you use your mind, my dear--what you actually do."

"It's not really my mind I'm using, it's other people's. I just ask the questions."

"Poppycock! What about 'Discreet Cerebral Investigations'?"

Maisie smiled at Lady Rowan, raising an eyebrow in mock dismay at the older woman's suggestion. She was at ease, seated in front of the fireplace in her former employer's library, a fireplace she had once cleaned with the raw, housework-roughened hands of a maid in service.

"No, I'm not a brain surgeon. I'm going to think about it for a bit, Lady Rowan. I want to get it right."

The gray-haired aristocrat leaned over and patted Maisie on the knee. "I'm sure that whatever you choose, you will do very well, my dear. Very well indeed."

So it was that when Billy Beale, the caretaker, knocked on the door one week after Maisie moved into the Warren Street office, asking if there was a nameplate to put up at the front door, Maisie handed him a brass plate bearing the words "M. Dobbs. Trade and Personal Investigations."

"Where do you want it, Miss? Left of the door or right of the door?"

He turned his head very slightly to one side as he addressed her. Billy was about thirty years old, just under six feet tall, muscular and strong, with hair the color of sun-burnished wheat. He seemed agile, but worked hard to disguise a limp that Maisie had noticed immediately.

"Where are the other names situated?"

"On the left, Miss, but I wouldn't put it there if I were you."

"Oh, and why not, Mr. Beale?"

"Billy. You can call me Billy. Well, people don't really look to the left, do they? Not when they're using the doorknob, which is on the right. That's where the eyes immediately go when they walk up them steps, first to that lion's 'ead door knocker, then to the knob, which is on the right. Best 'ave the plate on the right. That's if you want their business."

"Well, Mr. Beale, let's have the plate on the right. Thank you."

"Billy, Miss. You can call me Billy."

Billy Beale went to fit the brass nameplate. Maisie sighed deeply and rubbed her neck at the place where worry always sat when it was making itself at home.

"Miss . . . ."

Billy poked his head around the door, tentatively knocking at the glass as he removed his flat cap.

"What is it, Mr. Beale?"

"Billy, Miss. Miss, can I have a quick word?"

"Yes, come in. What is it?"

"Miss, I wonder if I might ask a question? Personal, like." Billy continued without waiting for an answer."Was you a nurse? At a casualty clearing station? Outside of Bailleul?"

Maisie felt a strong stab of emotion, and instinctively put her right hand to her chest, but her demeanor and words were calm.

"Yes. Yes, I was."

"I knew it!" said Billy, slapping his cap across his knee."I just knew it the minute I saw those eyes. That's all I remember, after they brought me in. Them eyes of yours, Miss. Doctor said to concentrate on looking at something while 'e worked on me leg. So I looked at your eyes, Miss. You and 'im saved my leg. Full of shrapnel, but you did it, didn't you? What was 'is name?"

For a moment, Maisie's throat was paralyzed. Then she swallowed hard. "Simon Lynch. Captain Simon Lynch. That must be who you mean."

"I never forgot you, Miss. Never. Saved my life, you did."

Maisie nodded, endeavoring to keep her memories relegated to the place she had assigned them in her heart, to be taken out only when she allowed.

"Well, Miss. Anything you ever want doing, you just 'oller. I'm your man. Stroke of luck, meeting up with you again, innit? Wait till I tell the missus. You want anything done, you call me. Anything."

"Thank you. Thank you very much. I'll holler if I need anything.

Oh, and Mr. . . . Billy, thank you for taking care of the sign."

Billy Beale blushed and nodded, covered his burnished hair with his cap, and left the office.

Lucky, thought Maisie. Except for the war, I've had a lucky life so far. She sat down on the dubious oak chair, slipped off her shoes and rubbed at her feet. Feet that still felt the cold and wet and filth and blood of France. Feet that hadn't felt warm in twelve years, since 1917.

She remembered Simon, in another life, it seemed now, sitting under a tree on the South Downs in Sussex. They had been on leave at the same time, not a miracle of course, but difficult to arrange, unless you had connections where connections counted. It was a warm day, but not one that took them entirely away from the fighting, for they could still hear the deep echo of battlefield cannonade from the other side of the English Channel, a menacing sound not diminished by the intervening expanse of land and sea. Maisie had complained then that the damp of France would never leave her, and Simon, smiling, had pulled off her walking shoes to rub warmth into her feet.

"Goodness, woman, how can anyone be that cold and not be dead?"

They both laughed, and then fell silent. Death, in such times, was not a laughing matter.

CHAPTER TWO

The small office had changed in the thirty days since Maisie had taken up occupancy. The desk had been moved and was now positioned at an angle to the broad sash window, so that from her chair Maisie could look up and out over the rooftops as she worked. A very sophisticated black telephone sat on top of the desk, at the insistence of Lady Rowan, who maintained that "No one, simply no one, can expect to do business without a telephone. It is essential, positively essential."As far as Maisie was concerned, what was essential was that the trilling of its authoritative ring be heard a bit more often. Billy Beale had also taken to suggesting improvements lately.

"Can't have folk up 'ere for business without offering 'em a cuppa the ol' char, can you, Miss? Let me open up that cupboard, put in a burner, and away you go. Bob's yer uncle, all the facilities for tea. What d'you think, Miss? I can nip down the road to my mate's carpentry shop for the extra wood, and run the gas along 'ere for you. No trouble."

"Lovely, Billy. That would be lovely."

Maisie sighed. It seemed that everyone else knew what would be best for her. Of course their hearts were in the right place, but what she needed most now was some clients.

"Shall I advance you the money for supplies, Billy?"

"No money needed," said Billy, winking and tapping the side of his nose with his forefinger."Nod's as good as a wink to a blind 'orse, if you know what I mean, Miss."

Maisie raised an eyebrow and allowed herself a grin. "I know exactly what that saying means, Billy: What I don't see, I shouldn't worry about."

"You got it, Miss. Leave it to me. Two shakes of a lamb's tail, and you'll be ready to receive your visitors in style."

Billy replaced his cap, put a forefinger to the peak to gesture his departure, and closed the door behind him. Leaning back in her chair, Maisie rubbed at tired eyes and looked over the late afternoon rooftops. She watched as the sun drifted away to warm the shores of another continent, leaving behind a rose tint to bathe London at the end of a long day.

Looking again at her handwritten notes, Maisie continued rereading a draft of the report she was in the midst of preparing. The case in question was minor, but Maisie had learned the value of detailed note taking from Maurice Blanche. During her apprenticeship with him, he had been insistent that nothing was to be left to memory, no stone to remain unturned, and no small observation uncataloged. Everything, absolutely everything, right down to the color of the shoes the subject wore on the day in question, must be noted. The weather must be described, the direction of the wind, the flowers in bloom, the food eaten. Everything must be described and preserved. "You must write it down, absolutely and in its entirety, write it down," instructed her mentor. In fact, Maisie thought that if she had a shilling for every time she heard the words,"absolutely, and in its entirety," she would never have to work again.

Maisie rubbed her neck once more, closed the folder on her desk, and stretched her arms above her head. The doorbell's deep clattering ring broke the silence. At first Maisie thought that someone had pulled the bell handle in error. There had been few rings since Billy installed the new device, which sounded in Maisie's office. Despite the fact that Maisie had worked with Maurice Blanche and had taken over his practice when he retired at the age of seventy-six, establishing her name independent of Maurice was proving to be a challenge indeed. The bell rang again.

Maisie pressed her skirt with her hands, patted her head to tame any stray tendrils of hair, and hurried downstairs to the door.

"Good. . . ." The man hesitated, then consulted a watch that he drew from his waistcoat pocket, as if to ascertain the accurate greeting for the time of day. "Good evening. My name is Davenham, Christopher Davenham. I'm here to see Mr. Dobbs. I have no appointment, but was assured that he would see me."

He was tall, about six feet two inches by Maisie's estimate. Fine tweed suit, hat taken off to greet her at just the right moment, but repositioned quickly. Good leather shoes, probably buffed to a shine by his manservant. The Times was rolled up under one arm, but with a sheet or two of writing paper coiled inside and just visible. His own notes, thought Maisie. His jet black hair was swept back and oiled, and his moustache neatly trimmed. Christopher Davenham was about forty-two or forty-three. Only seconds had passed since his introduction, but Maisie had him down. This one had not been a soldier. In a protected profession, she suspected.

"Come this way, Mr. Davenham. There are no appointments set for this evening, so you are in luck."

Maisie led the way up to her office, and invited Christopher Davenham to sit in the new guest chair opposite her own, the chair that had been delivered just last week by Lady Rowan's chauffeur. Another gift to help her business along.

Davenham looked around for a moment, expecting someone else to step out to meet him, but instead the young woman introduced herself.

"Maisie Dobbs. At your service, Mr. Davenham." She waved her hand toward the chair again. "Do please take a seat, Mr. Davenham. Now then, first tell me how you came to have my name."

Christopher Davenham hid his surprise well, taking a linen handkerchief from his inside pocket and coughing lightly into it. The handkerchief was so freshly laundered and ironed that the folds were still knife sharp. Davenham refolded the handkerchief along the exact lines pressed by the iron, and replaced it in his pocket.

"Miss, er, Dobbs. Well, um, well . . . you have been highly recommended by my solicitor."

"Who is?"

Maisie leaned her head to one side to accentuate the question, and to move the conversation onto more fertile ground.

"Oh, um, Blackstone and Robinson. Joseph Robinson."

Maisie nodded. Lady Rowan again. Joseph Robinson had been her personal legal adviser for forty-odd years. And he didn't suffer fools gladly unless they were paying him--and paying him well.

"Been the family solicitor for years. I'll be frank with you, Miss Dobbs. I'm surprised to see you. Thought you were a chap. But Robinson knows his stuff, so let's continue."

"Yes, let's, Mr. Davenham. Perhaps you would tell me why you are here."

"My wife."

Maisie's stomach churned. Oh, Lord, after all her training, her education, her successes with Maurice Blanche, had it come to this? A love triangle? But she sat up to listen carefully, remembering Blanche's advice: "The extraordinary hides behind the camouflage of the ordinary. Assume nothing, Maisie."

"And what about your wife, Mr. Davenham?"

"I believe . . . I believe her affections are engaged elsewhere. I have suspected it for some time and now, Miss Dobbs, I must know if what I suspect is true."

Maisie leaned back in her chair and regarded Christopher Davenham squarely."Mr. Davenham, first of all, I must tell you that I will have to ask you some questions. They may not be questions that are easy or comfortable for you to answer. I will have questions about your responses, and even questions about your questions. That is my job. I am unique in what I do. I am also unique in what I charge for my service."

"Money is not a problem, Miss Dobbs."

"Good. The questions may be, though."

"Do continue."

"Mr. Davenham, please tell me what personal evidence you have to suspect that your wife is betraying your marriage in any way?"

"Tuesdays and Thursdays, every week, without fail, she leaves the house immediately after I have departed for my office, and returns just in time to welcome me home."

"Mr. Davenham, time away from the house is no reason for you to suspect that you are being deceived."

"The lies are, though."

"Go on." Maisie wrote in her notebook without taking her eyes off Davenham, a skill that unnerved him.

"She has told me that she has been shopping, visiting friends or her mother--and upon investigation I find that if such visits have occurred, they have taken only an hour or so. Clearly they are a smokescreen."

"There are other possibilities, Mr. Davenham. Could your wife, perhaps, be visiting her physician? Is she undertaking a course of study? What other reasons for her absences have you explored in your investigations, Mr. Davenham? Such absences may have a completely innocent explanation."

"Miss Dobbs. Surely that is for you to find out? Follow her, and you will see that I am right."

"Mr. Davenham. To follow a person is an invasion of the right of that individual to privacy. If I take on this case--and I do have a choice in the matter--I am taking on more than the question of who did what and when. I am taking on a responsibility for both you and your wife in a way that you may not have considered. Tell me, what will you do with the information I provide?"

"Well, I . . . I'll use it. It will be a matter for my solicitor."

Maisie placed her hands together in front of her face, just touching her nose, as if in prayer."Let me ask you another question. What value do you place on your marriage?"

"What sort of question is that?"

"A question to be answered, if I am to take on this investigation."

"A high value. Vows are meant to be honored."

"And what value do you place on understanding, compassion, forgiveness?"

Davenham was silent. He crossed his legs, smoothed the tweed trousers, and leaned down to rub away a nonexistent scuff on his polished leather shoes, before responding."Damn and blast!"

"Mr. Davenham--"

"Miss Dobbs, I am not without compassion, but I have my pride. My wife will not divulge the nature of her business on those days when she is absent. I have come here in order to learn the truth."

"Oh yes. The truth. Mr. Davenham, I will ascertain the truth for you, but I must have an agreement from you--that when you have my report, and you know the truth, then we will discuss the future together."

"What do you mean?"

"The information I gather will be presented in a context. It is in light of that context that we must continue our discussion, in order for you and your wife to build a future."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Maisie stood up, walked to the window, then turned to face her potential client. The bluff of the stiff upper lip, thought Maisie, who keenly felt the man's discomfort, and was immediately attuned to his emotions. Intuition spoke to her. He talks about pride when it's his heart that's aching.

"My job is rather more complex than you might have imagined, Mr. Davenham. I am responsible for the safety of all parties. And this is so even when I am dealing with society's more criminal elements."

Davenham did not respond immediately. Maisie, too, was silent, allowing him time to gather his resolve. After some minutes the stillness of the room was broken.

"I trust Robinson, so I will go ahead," said Davenham.

Maisie moved back to the desk, and looked down at her notes, then to the rooftops where pigeons were busy returning to newly built nests, before she brought her attention back to the man in the leather chair before her.

"Yes, Mr. Davenham. I will, too." Maisie allowed her acceptance of the case to be underlined by another moment of silence.

"Now then, let's start with your address, shall we?"

CHAPTER THREE

Maisie rose early on Tuesday, April 9. She dressed carefully in the blue skirt and jacket, pulled a navy blue wool overcoat across her shoulders, placed a cloche on her head, and left her rented room in a large three-story Victorian terraced house in Lambeth, just south of the Thames. It was cold again. Blimey, would spring ever spring up? she wondered, pulling gloves onto already chilled fingers.

As usual Maisie began her morning with a brisk walk, which allowed her time to consider the day ahead and enjoy what her father always called "the best of the morning." She entered Palace Road from Royal Street, and turned right to walk toward Westminster Bridge. She loved to watch the Thames first thing in the morning. Those Londoners who lived just south of the river always said they were "going over the water" when they crossed the Thames, never referring to the river by name unless they were speaking to a stranger. It had been the lifeblood of the city since the Middle Ages, and no people felt the legacy more keenly than those who lived with it and by it. Her maternal grandfather had been a lighterman on the water, and like all of his kind, knew her tides, her every twist and turn.

Londoners knew she was a moody creature. Human beings possessed no dominion over the Thames, but care, attention, and respect would see any vessel safely along her meandering way. Maisie's grandfather had all but disowned her mother when she had taken up with Maisie's father, for he was of the land, not that Frankie Dobbs would have called the streets of London "the land." Frankie was a costermonger, a man who sold vegetables from a horse-drawn cart that he drove from Lambeth to Covent Garden market every weekday morning. To Frankie Dobbs the water was a means to an end, bringing fruit and vegetables to market, for him to buy in the early hours of the morning, then sell on his rounds and be home by teatime, if he was lucky.

Maisie stopped at the center of the bridge, waved at the crew of a pilot boat, and went on her way. She was off to see Celia Davenham, but Celia Davenham would not see her.

Once across the bridge, Maisie descended into the depths of Westminster underground railway station and took the District Line to Charing Cross station. The station had changed names back and forth so many times, she wondered what it would be called next. First it was Embankment, then Charing Cross Embankment, and now just Charing Cross, depending upon which line you were traveling. At Charing Cross she changed trains, and took the Northern Line to Goodge Street station, where she left the underground, coming back up into the sharp morning air at Tottenham Court Road. She crossed the road, then set off along Chenies Street toward Russell Square. Once across the square, she entered Guilford Street, where she stopped to look at the mess the powers that be had made of Coram's Fields. The old foundling hospital, built by Sir Thomas Coram almost two hundred years before, had been demolished in 1926, and now it was just an empty space with nothing to speak of happening to it. "Shame," whispered Maisie, as she walked another few yards and entered Mecklenburg Square.

Named in honor of Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, who became queen consort upon her marriage to George III of England, the gracious Georgian houses of the square were set around a garden protected by a wrought-iron fence secured with a locked gate. Doubtless a key to the lock was on a designated hook downstairs at the Davenham residence, in the butler's safekeeping. In common with many London squares, only residents had access to the garden.

Maisie jotted a few more lines in her notebook, taking care to reflect that she had been to the square once before, accompanying Maurice Blanche during a visit to his colleague, Richard Tawney, the political writer who spoke of social equality in a way that both excited and embarrassed Maisie. At the time it seemed just as well that he and Maurice were deep in lively conversation, so that Maisie's lack of ease could go unnoticed.

While waiting at the corner and surveying the square, Maisie wondered if Davenham had inherited his property. He seemed quite out of place in Mecklenburg Square, where social reformers lived alongside university professors, poets, and scholars from overseas. She considered his possible discomfort, not only in his marriage but in his home environment. As Maisie set her gaze on one house in particular, a man emerged from a neighboring house and walked in her direction. She quickly feigned interest in a window box filled with crocus buds peeking through moist soil. Their purple shoots seemed to test the air to see if it was conducive to a full-fledged flowering. The man passed. Maisie still had her head inclined toward the flowers when she heard another door close with a thud, and looked up.

A woman had emerged from the residence she had been observing, and was now depositing a set of keys in her handbag. She adjusted her hat and made her way down the steps and onto the pavement. Christopher Davenham had provided Maisie with an excellent description of his wife, Celia, a petite, fair-complected woman with fine features, no taller than five feet two. Celia Davenham had silky blond hair that tended to unsettle a hat that already required more than one hatpin to render it secure, and hands that seemed constantly to fiddle with bag, gloves, hat, and hair as she walked to the main road.

Even from a distance of several paces, Maisie noted the quality of the woman's deep burgundy gabardine suit, and the soft leather gloves and felt hat chosen to complement the expensive ensemble precisely. Her shoes had clearly been chosen with care as well, for they were of fine burgundy leather with half straps at each side that met in the center and were secured with a grosgrain ribbon tied in a small bow. Maisie was intrigued by the bow, for it suggested a certain girlishness, as if the woman could not quite accommodate the maturity her age suggested.

Celia Davenham made her way toward Heathcote Street and turned into Grays Inn Road, where she hailed a taxi-cab outside the Royal Free Hospital. Fortunately Maisie managed to secure a taxi-cab at once, so that she could travel immediately behind Mrs. Davenham. As she sat in the rear seat of the heavy black motorcar, she hoped that the journey would be a short one. For Maisie travel by any means other than her own two feet was nothing but an indulgence. The journey by underground to Warren Street was a treat she allowed herself in the morning only if she considered that she had worked hard enough to warrant the additional expenditure.

At Charing Cross railway station, Celia Davenham climbed out of the cab, paid the driver, and proceeded to the ticket counter. Maisie followed closely. She stood behind Mrs. Davenham at the ticket counter, and pretended to fumble in her bag for her purse, listening keenly as the childlike woman with the soft blond hair stated her destination.

"Nether Green, please. First-class return, thank you."

What on earth could this woman want at Nether Green, a small town on the outskirts of London, where it met with the county of Kent? Apple orchards giving way to terraced houses, an old station, a few good homes. Now if she had asked for Chislehurst, with its new-money grandeur, Maisie thought she might have understood. But Nether Green? Maisie requested a second-class ticket for the same destination, then proceeded to the correct platform to await the train. She stopped only to buy a newspaper, which she carried under her arm.

The train pulled in with a loud hiss, pumping clouds of smoky steam as the engine reached the buffers and the screeching brakes were applied. The olive green livery of the Southern Railways, painted on each carriage, was tarnished by coal dust and wear. Celia Davenham immediately walked toward the first-class compartments, whereupon a guard hurriedly stepped forward to open the sturdy, iron-framed door, and to extend a steadying hand as she stepped up into the carriage. Maisie passed on the way to the second-class carriages, and just before the door closed, noticed that the collar and cuffs of Mrs. Davenham's burgundy suit were edged with the same ribbon used to form a bow on her shoes. She quickly reestimated the cost of the clothes the woman was wearing that day.

Having ensured that the object of her investigation was aboard the train, Maisie claimed a seat in a second-class carriage, pulled down the window to observe the platform, and waited for the whistle to blow and the train to chug out of one of London's busiest stations. Eventually the guard walked down the platform, instructing Maisie as he passed that it would be better for "yer 'ead, Miss," if she sat down. He checked that the train was clear of all platform onlookers, blew his whistle, and waved the green flag, signaling the engine driver to move out of the station.

As the train chugged and puffed its way through south London and out into the city's border with Kent, Maisie pondered the changes she had seen in the city in her lifetime. London was creeping outward. Where there had been fields, houses now stood. Rows of shops were doing brisk business, and a new commuter class was working to improve itself. By the time the train reached Grove Park, Maisie had brought her notes up to date again, ensuring that each small detail of her journey, from the time she left her rented flat in south London that morning until the present moment, was recorded--along with every penny she had spent along the way.

The next stop was Nether Green. Maisie stood, inspected her reflection in a mirror strategically placed between two dim lights on the carriage bulkhead, adjusted her hat, and took her seat again to wait for the train to slow down, for the hissing of brakes. As the carriages rolled into the station, Maisie stood once more, pulled down the window, and poked her head out to keep an eye on the first-class compartments. When the train came to a halt Maisie put her arm out of the window so she could open the heavy carriage door from the outside and, keeping the first-class compartments in view, she jumped smartly from the train and walked at a brisk pace toward the ticket collector. Celia Davenham was ahead by only a few yards, obscured slightly by other passengers, including a very slow old lady who would not be rushed.

"Now just you wait, young man," said the old woman to the ticket collector. "It's a sorry state of affairs if you can't give your elders and betters a minute or two to find the ticket."

The ticket collector stepped back a pace, as if anticipating a blow to the head from the doughty woman's black umbrella. Maisie waited impatiently, for Celia Davenham had passed through the barrier and was leaving the station. Finally she reached the ticket collector, handed over her ticket, and walked as quickly as she could to the station gate. Glancing both ways, Maisie saw that Celia had paused by a flower stall. Luck indeed. She walked toward the stall, rearranging the newspaper under her arm and consulting her watch, even though she knew the time to the second. She approached it just as Celia Davenham was walking away.

Maisie looked over the bunches of fragrant blooms while addressing the stallholder. "Lovely flowers, the ones you wrapped for that lady."

"Yes, Ma'am, very nice indeed. Always has the irises."

"Always?"

"Yes, twice a week. Never fails."

"Oh well, she must like them," said Maisie, picking up a small bunch of Jersey daffodils. "I think I'll have something a bit different, though."

"Color of mourning, those irises," observed the man. "These daffs are a lot more cheerful by half!"

Maisie looked at her watch and made sure that Celia Davenham was still in sight. She walked slowly, but was not distracted by goods displayed in shopwindows. Keeping her eyes focused on the ground, she seemed to be avoiding any contact with people passing by.

"Well, I think so, too. I'll take the daffs, thank you very much."

"We sell a lot of irises, what with the cemetery up the road. That and chrysanths, always popular."

Maisie took the bunch of daffodils and handed over the exact change in pennies.

"Thank you.Very nice indeed."

She set forth at a steady pace, and was soon just a few steps behind Celia Davenham. They had passed the shops now, and although there were still passersby, the number of pedestrians heading in the same direction was thinning out. Celia Davenham turned right, then left onto the main road. She waited for some motorcars and a horse-drawn cart to pass, looking ahead to the green-painted iron gates of Nether Green Cemetery. Maisie followed, careful to maintain her distance yet still keep the other woman in view.

Celia Davenham walked with purpose, her head lowered but her step firm. Maisie watched her, mentally noting every detail of the other woman's demeanor. Her shoulders were held too square, hunched upward as if on a coat hanger. Maisie copied the woman's posture as she walked, and immediately felt her stomach clutch and a shiver go though her. Then sadness descended, like a dark veil across her eyes. Maisie knew that Celia Davenham was weeping as she walked, and that in her sadness she was searching for strength. With a sense of relief, as she walked along Maisie shook off the other woman's way of holding herself.

She followed Celia Davenham through the open gates, and along a path for about fifty yards. Then, without changing her pace, the object of Maisie's investigation turned in from the path and walked across the grass, pausing by a relatively fresh grave. The large marble angel towering above a neighboring grave caught Maisie's eye, and she made a mental note of this landmark. She knew she'd have to be careful. One grave can seem much like the next one when you are in a cemetery.

The cold seemed to close in around Maisie as she walked past Celia Davenham. A train chugged along the tracks nearby, its sooty vapor lingering for a moment over the headstones before being carried away by a chill breeze.

Maisie stopped by a grave that had clearly received no attention for years. She bowed her head and, carefully, looked sideways between the marble memorials, toward Celia Davenham. The woman was on her knees now, replacing dead flowers with the fresh irises, and talking. Talking to the dead.

Maisie, in turn, looked at the headstone she had unwittingly chosen as her cover. It bore the words:"Donald Holden. Born 1900. Died 1919. Beloved only son of Ernest and Hilda Holden. 'Memory Is A Golden Chain That Binds Us 'Til We Meet Again.'" Maisie looked at the weeds underfoot. They may have met already, she thought, while keeping a keen but inconspicuous watch on Celia Davenham, who remained at the immaculate neighboring grave, her head bowed, still speaking quietly. Maisie began to clear the weeds on Donald Holden's grave.

"Might as well look after you while I'm here," she said quietly, placing daffodils in the vase, which was mercifully full of rainwater. She couldn't afford to trudge all the way across the cemetery to the water tap: Celia might depart while she was gone.

As Maisie stepped to the side of the path to deposit a pile of weeds, she saw Celia Davenham move toward the headstone where she had held her vigil. She kissed the cold, gray marble, brushed away a tear, then turned quickly and walked away. Maisie was in no hurry to follow. Instead she nodded at Donald Holden's headstone, then walked over to the grave that the Davenham woman had just left. It said "Vincent." Just "Vincent." No other name, no date of birth. Then the words,"Taken from all who love you dearly."

The day had warmed by the time Maisie reached the station for the return journey to London. Celia Davenham, already on the platform, glanced at her watch repeatedly. Maisie went into the ladies' toilets, walked across chilly floor tiles that radiated more moisture into the damp air, and ran icy water into the porcelain sink to rinse the dirt from her hands. She looked up into the mirror and regarded the face that looked directly back at her. Yes, the dark blue eyes still held a sparkle, but the small lines around her lips and across her brow betrayed her, told something about her past.

She knew that she would follow Celia Davenham this afternoon until the woman returned to her home in Mecklenburg Square, and believed that nothing else of note would occur that day. Maisie knew that she had found the lover, the man who had caused Christopher Davenham to pay a princely sum for her services. The problem was that the man Christopher Davenham thought was cuckolding him was dead.

CHAPTER FOUR

Maisie sat in the early morning half-light of her office considering her subject. Only one small lamp illuminated the room, but it was angled downward toward Maisie's notes and a clutch of small index cards. Maurice maintained that the mind was at its sharpest before dawn.

In the early days of her pupilage with Maurice, he had told Maisie of his teachers, the wise men who spoke of the veil that was lifted in the early hours, of the all-seeing eye that was open before the day was awake. The hours before dawn were the sacred time, before the intellect rose from slumber. At this time one's inner voice could be heard. Maisie had strained to hear that inner voice for days, since the single word "Vincent" had piqued her curiosity, since the apparent ordinariness of Celia Davenham's grief had given rise to more questions than answers.

Slipping off her shoes and pulling her wool cardigan around her shoulders, Maisie took a cushion from her chair and placed it on the floor. Lifting her skirt above her knees to allow freedom of movement, she sat on the cushion, crossed her legs and placed her hands together on her lap. Maurice had taught her that silencing the mind was a greater task than stilling the body, but it was in those still waters that truth could be mirrored. Now, in the darkness, Maisie sought the guidance of intuition and formed the questions that, in time, would give her answers.

Why only one name? Why no dates etched into the headstone? What was keeping the relationship between Celia and Vincent alive? Was it simply grief, perpetuated by disbelief that a dear one has parted? Or another emotion? Maisie saw the grave in her mind's eye, allowed her eyes to regard all aspects of the place where Vincent was laid to rest. But if he was at rest, why did she feel compelled to seek a path that was not as yet marked?

What is this question I cannot voice? Maisie asked herself. Donald Holden died just a year after the war. His grave bore signs of age. Vincent's seemed fresher, as if the ground had been disturbed only in recent months.

Maisie sat for a while longer, allowing the stillness to calm her natural busyness, until the brighter, grainy light of the waking hours signaled her to move. She stood, stretching her arms high while standing on tiptoe. Today she would follow Celia Davenham to the cemetery again.

Celia was a creature of habit. This day she left the house promptly at nine o'clock in the morning, immaculately dressed in a suit of shamrock green wool, the broad collar of a cream silk blouse flat against her jacket, and pinned with a jade brooch, clearly part of a set that included her jade earrings. Matching shoes and bag with a carefully coordinated hat and umbrella completed the ensemble. This time the shoes were plain in design, but each shoe bore a fashionable clip in the shape of a leaf pressed onto the front. Maisie wore her navy skirt and jacket. Her serious business clothes. The journey to Nether Green was uneventful. Once again Celia Davenham traveled in first class, while Maisie sat in the prickly discomfort of a second-class carriage. Celia bought her customary bouquet of irises, while Maisie decided upon something different for Donald--and for her purse--this morning.

"I'll have a nice bunch of daisies, please," said Maisie to the flower seller.

"Right you are, Miss. Always look cheerful, daisies, don't they, Miss? Last a while too. Newspaper all right, or do you need them wrapped special?"

"Yes, they are cheerful, aren't they? Newspaper will be fine, thank you," she said, holding out the correct change for a bunch of daisies.

Then Maisie quickly walked on, trailing Celia Davenham toward the cemetery. She entered through the green gates, and by the time she walked past Vincent's grave toward Donald Holden's resting place, Celia was standing in front of the marble headstone, tracing Vincent's name with the shamrock-green-gloved fingers of her right hand. Maisie walked past, her head lowered, and stopped in front of Donald's grave. After a respectful silent prayer, she busied herself, emptying water from the vase and pulling a few weeds. Picking up the now-dead daffodils from her previous visit, she walked over to the tap, threw the dead flowers onto the compost pile, and filled the vase with fresh water. Maisie returned to Donald's grave, replaced the vase, and arranged the daisies. As she worked, she looked sideways at Celia, who had removed her gloves and was arranging her bouquet of irises at the base of Vincent's headstone. Having placed them to her satisfaction, she continued to kneel by the stone, staring at the name.

Maisie observed Celia Davenham, and once again moved her body to mirror the woman's position. Her head seemed to sink lower on her long neck, her shoulders rounded, her hands tightened with pain. Such melancholy. Such an unending yearning. Maisie instinctively knew that Celia was dying inside, that each yesterday was being lived anew and that there could be no place for her husband until Vincent was allowed to rest in peace.

Suddenly the woman shuddered and looked straight at Maisie. She did not smile; it was as if she were looking beyond Maisie to another place. Regaining her own natural posture, Maisie nodded acknowledgment, a small movement that brought Celia Davenham back to the present. She nodded in return, brushed at her skirt, stood up, replaced her gloves, and quickly left Vincent's grave.

Maisie was in no hurry. She knew that Celia Davenham would go home now. Home to play the loving wife, the role she would assume as soon as she walked through the door. It was a role that her husband had seen through easily, although his conclusions had been erroneous. Maisie also knew that the second's glance and the deliberate acknowledgment she had initiated between herself and Celia ensured that the other woman would recognize her when they met again.

Maisie lingered for a while at Donald's grave. There was something healing in this ritual of making a comfortable place for the dead. Her thoughts took her back to France, to the dead and dying, to the devastating wounds that were so often beyond her skill, beyond everyone's. But it was the wounds of the mind that touched her, those who still fought their battles again and again each day, though the country was at peace. If only she could make the living as comfortable, thought Maisie, as she tidied a few more stubborn weeds in the shadow of Don's headstone.

"Making a nice job of that one."

Maisie swung around, to see one of the cemetery workers standing behind her, an older man with red, bony hands firmly grasping the handles of a wooden wheelbarrow. His ruddy complexion told of years working outdoors, but his kind eyes spoke of compassion, of respect.

"Why yes. It's sad to see them so uncared for, isn't it?" replied Maisie.

"I'll say, after what those boys gave for us. Poor bastards. Oh, Miss, I am sorry, I forgot--"

"Don't worry. It's as well to voice one's feelings," replied Maisie.

"That's the truth. Too much not said by 'alf."

The man pointed to Donald's grave.

"Haven't seen this one being tended for a few years. His old Mum and Dad used to come over. Only son. Killed them, too, it did, I reckon."

"Did you know them? I would have thought it would be difficult to know all the relatives, with so many graves," said Maisie.

"I'm 'ere every day 'cept Sundays, that is. Been 'ere since just after the war. I get to know people. 'Course, you don't 'ave long talks, no time for that, and folk don't always want to talk, but, there again, there's those that want to 'ave a bit of conversation."

"Yes, yes, I'm sure."

"Not seen you before, not 'ere."The man looked at Maisie.

"No, that's true. I'm a cousin. Just moved to the city," said Maisie, looking at the man directly.

"Nice to see it being taken care of."The man firmed his grip on the wheelbarrow handles, as if to move on.

"Wait a minute. I wonder, could you tell me, are all the graves here, in this part, war graves?" asked Maisie.

"Yes and no. Most of these are our boys, but some lived a long time after their injuries. Your Don, well, you'd know this, but 'e 'ad septicemia. Horrible way to go, 'specially as 'e was brought home. Lot of folk like to bury 'em 'ere because of the railway."

The man set the wheelbarrow down, and pointed to the railway lines running alongside the cemetery.

"You can see the trains from 'ere. Not that these boys can see the trains, but the relatives like it. They're on a journey, you see, it's a-- you know, what do they call it, you know--when it means something to them."

"Metaphor?"

"Yeah, well, like I said, it's a journey, innit? And the relatives, if they've come by train, which most of them do, can see the graves as the train pulls out of the station. They can say another good-bye that way."

"So, what about that one there? Strange, isn't it? Just one word, the Christian name?" asked Maisie.

"I'll say. The whole bleedin' thing was strange. Two years ago 'e came, this one. Small family burial. 'e was a captain. Injured at Passchendaele. Terrible show was that one, terrible. Wonder 'e came 'ome at all. 'e'd lived away from the family, apparently, after bein' 'ome for a bit. Wanted to be known only by 'is Christian name. Said it wasn't important anymore, seein' as they were all nobodies who could just be written off like leftovers. Shame to 'is family, accordin' to a couple of 'is mates that came up 'ere for a while after. Now only that woman comes. Think she was 'is mate's sister, known 'er for years, 'e 'ad. Keeps the grave nice, you'd think 'e only went down yesterday."

"Hmm. Very sad indeed. What was his surname, do you know?"

By now the man was well into the telling of stories, and seemed glad of the opportunity, and importance, that a question brought him.

"Weathershaw. Vincent Weathershaw. Came from Chislehurst. Good family, by the looks of them. Mind you, 'e passed away where 'e was living. A farm, I think it was. Yes, 'e lived on a farm, not that far from 'ere--though more in the country, like. Far as I know, quite a few of 'em lived there."

Maisie felt a chill as the stillness of the cemetery seeped through her clothing and touched her skin. Yet the shiver was familiar to Maisie, who had felt that sensation even in warm weather when there was no cooling breeze. She had come to recognize this spark of energy passing across her skin as a warning.

"Quite a few of them?"

"Well, you know."The man rubbed his stubbled jawbone with the flat of his thick, earth-stained hand. "Them who got it in the face. Remember, we're not far from Sidcup 'ere--you know. Queen Mary's, the 'ospital where they did all that special work on faces, trying to 'elp the poor sods. Amazin' when you think of it, what they tried to do there--and what they did do. Miracle workers, they were. Mind you, I wouldn't mind bettin' a few of them boys still weren't fancy-looking enough for their sweethearts, and ended up at that farm."

The old gardener picked up the handles of the wheelbarrow. Maisie saw that he was ready to move on, away from recollections of war.

"Well, I had better be getting on, Mr. . . ."

"Smith. Tom Smith."

"Yes, I have to catch the two o'clock, Tom. And thank you."

Tom Smith watched as Maisie picked her way past the graves to the path, and as he turned to leave he called to her. "I 'spect I won't see you 'ere again . . . but you know, Miss, the funny thing about this 'ere Vincent is that 'e wasn't the only one."

"The only one what?"

"The only one buried with just a Christian name."

Maisie held her head to one side, encouraging Tom to continue.

"There was a few of them, and you know what?

"What?" said Maisie.

"All lost touch with their families. Tragic it was, just tragic. Seeing their parents. You should never 'ave to go through that, never. Bad enough seeing 'em go off to war, let alone losing them when they come back."

"Yes, that is tragic."

Maisie looked at Tom, then asked the question that had been with her since the man had first spoken to her."Tom . . . where is your boy resting?"

Tom Smith looked at Maisie, and tears rimmed his eyes. The lines etched in his face grew deeper, and his shoulders dropped. "Down there." He pointed to the row of headstones nearest the railway line.

"Loved trains as a boy. Loved 'em. Came back from France not quite right up 'ere." He tapped the side of his head."Would scream in the middle of the night, but it was all you could do to get a sound out of the boy in the daytime. One mornin' the missus goes up to take 'im up a cup of tea and there 'e was. Done 'imself in. She was never the same. Never. Broke 'er spirit, it did. Passed away three years ago come December."

Maisie nodded, held out her hand, and laid it upon his arm. They stood in silence.

"Well, this will never do," said Tom Smith."Must be getting along. Got to look after them, 'aven't I? Good day to you, Miss."

Maisie Dobbs bade the man good-bye but didn't leave the cemetery immediately. Later, while waiting on the platform for the train back to London, she took a small notebook from her handbag and recorded the events of the day. Each detail was noted, including the color of Celia Davenham's shamrock-green gloves.

She had found two more graves whose headstones bore Christian names only, not very far from the final resting place of Vincent Weathershaw. Three young "old soldiers" who had withdrawn from their families. Maisie sat back on the bench and started to compose her questions, the questions to herself that would come as a result of her observations. She would not struggle to answer the questions but would let them do their work.

"Truth walks toward us on the paths of our questions." Maurice's voice once again echoed in her mind."As soon as you think you have the answer, you have closed the path and may miss vital new information. Wait awhile in the stillness, and do not rush to conclusions, no matter how uncomfortable the unknowing."

And as she allowed her curiosity full rein, Maisie knew what her next move should be.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Celia Davenham file comprised several pages by now, and included details beyond excursions to Nether Green Cemetery. Celia's birthdate (September 16, 1897), parentage (Algernon and Anne Whipton), place of birth (Sevenoaks, Kent), school (St. Mary's), and miscellaneous other details were recorded. Her husband was ten years older, not such a division in years at thirty-two, but it would have been something of a chasm at the age of nineteen or twenty, especially when the past offered more in the way of excitement than the day-to-day round of life in a maturing marriage.

Maisie knew where Celia shopped for clothes, where she took afternoon tea, even of her interest in needlework. Maisie also observed her comfort in solitude, and wondered how such a solitary soul could build a bridge to another. Did the Davenham marriage endure behind a veil of courtesy? The mundane communication that one would accord an acquaintance met on the street, but the formality of which could stifle the bond of affection between man and wife? It was evident that only one person could answer certain questions, and that was Celia Davenham herself. Maisie carefully replaced the pages in the file, placed it in her desk drawer, pushed back her chair, and made ready to leave her office.

A sharp knock at the door was followed by Billy Beale's freckled face and shock of wheaten hair, topped by a flat cap, poked around the dark wood doorjamb.

"Good afternoon to you, Miss Dobbs. 'Ow's business? Don't seem to 'ave seen much of you lately, though I 'eard that you'd 'elped old Mrs. Scott get something out of that thieving son of 'ers. Thought I'd pop me 'ead in to see if you need anything done in the way of 'andi-work in the office 'ere."

"Billy, yes, Mrs. Scott is a client. But you know better than to expect a comment from me, don't you?"

"Miss Dobbs, you're spot-on right there. But you can't stop folk talking about your business, 'specially when you've 'elped them. People round 'ere don't miss a trick, and we've got memories like elephants into the bargain!"

"Have you now, Billy? In that case, perhaps you can tell me if you know someone I think you might have heard of."

"Fire away!"

"Confidential, Billy."

"Nod's as good as a wink . . ." Billy tapped the side of his nose to emphasize the integrity of any information he might receive--he could keep a secret.

"Vincent Weathershaw. Captain. Know him?" asked Maisie.

"Weathershaw. Weathershaw. Now that name rings a bell. Let me think."

Billy took off his cap and scratched at his golden hair.

"You know, 'ere's what it is--I've 'eard about 'im. Never actually took an order from the man, but 'eard about 'im. By reputation, like."

"What sort of reputation?" quizzed Maisie.

"If I remember rightly, a bit devil-may-care. Mind you, you saw it a lot. Some of them got so as they couldn't care less about their own lives. Like they were in it so long that the shelling didn't scare them anymore. Poor sods. Some of them, the officers, that is, came out of their fancy schools and straight into the trenches."

"Was he reckless?"

"If it's the fella I'm thinking of, not reckless with 'is men. No, 'e was reckless with 'imself. Got so as 'e would just climb out of the bunker, no 'elmet, to go up and look around for the Kaiser's boys. Reckon they were more surprised than us when they copped sight of 'im walking around without a care in the world."

"Ever hear about him again, Billy?"

"Miss Dobbs, it's not like I talk about it much. Best left behind. But you know that, don't you? You saw enough, must've done."

"Yes, I saw enough for this lifetime, Billy."

Maisie buttoned her coat, secured her hat in place, and pulled on her gloves.

"But tell you what, Miss. I'll ask around down the Prince of Wales, some of the lads might know something. This Weathershaw, he a client, like?"

"No, Billy. No, he's not. He's dead. Two years ago. See what you can find out, Billy."

"Right you are, Miss," replied Billy. Maisie ushered Billy out of the office and locked the door behind her as she left with him.

"It's confidential, Billy. Just bring it into the conversation," instructed Maisie.

"Yes, Miss. Don't worry. Like I said when you moved in. Anything you want, you just ask Billy Beale."

Maisie decided that a brisk walk to Piccadilly Circus would be just what she needed to clear her head for the next part of her task: information gathering, as Maurice would say.

Fortunately there had been several new clients since she had moved into the office in Warren Street. Christopher Davenham's appearance had represented the beginning of a respectable stream of visitors. There were a couple of referrals from Lady Rowan's solicitors, along with three of Maurice's former clients who finally overcame any reticence they might have had about completely confiding in his former assistant, who happened to be a woman.

The work ranged from simple analysis of correspondence to reveal anomalies in funds paid to a company to a report on a "missing" daughter. As Maisie expected, there had not yet been the requests for assistance from government or from the legal or judicial services that Maurice had enjoyed, but she knew that such business would come in due course. She was qualified to consult on matters far beyond those that had come to her. Maurice had seen to that.

Maisie was now busy, and more to the point, had the money to research matters that presented themselves for investigation without initiation by an actual client. Unless you could call Vincent Weathershaw a client.

The restaurant at Fortnum & Mason's was busy, but as she walked in and feigned interest in the menu, Maisie quickly scanned the room and immediately saw Celia Davenham sitting by a window. She was looking out at the rooftops as if in a dream, with her hands clasped around a cup of tea.

"May I have a seat by the window?" requested Maisie of the tall waiter with slicked-back, brilliantined hair who greeted her.

Taking the table next to Celia, Maisie deliberately sat facing the woman, although she did not look at her as she removed her gloves, placed them on top of her bag, and set the bag on the chair next to her. Maisie opened the menu and read down the list of dishes until she felt the woman's eyes upon her, then she looked up, meeting Celia's gaze. Maisie smiled. Her "planetary" smile, as Simon had once said. She quickly banished all thought of Simon; her concentration had to be on the job in hand.

"Hello," said Maisie in greeting."Such a lovely day today, isn't it?"

"Yes. Yes it is," responded Celia. She smiled at Maisie."Forgive me . . . but, have we met?"

"You know, I must say, you look very familiar, but I . . . I can't think where." Maisie smiled again.

"Nether Green. I've seen you at Nether Green." Color flushed Celia Davenham's cheeks as she recognized Maisie.

"Why, yes, yes. Look, would you like to join me?" Maisie moved her bag and gloves from the seat next to her, an invitation to Celia Davenham.

A waiter quickly came to assist Celia, and placed her teacup, saucer, and place mat on Maisie's table. The perfectly dressed woman sat down opposite Maisie, who held out her hand.

"Blanche. Maisie Blanche. How do you do."

"Celia Davenham. I'm very well, thank you."

For a while the two women talked of small matters. The price of flowers at the stall, the late arrival of trains this past winter. Before Celia could ask, Maisie offered the story of her visits to the cemetery.

"Donald was a cousin. Not close, but family all the same. I thought that now I'm here in town, it would be easy to go out to Nether Green. One doesn't like to forget, does one?"

"No. Absolutely. No. Not that I could," replied Celia.

"Did you lose your brother?" asked Maisie.

"Yes, one of them. In the Dardanelles. The other was wounded. Seriously wounded."

"I'm sorry. You were lucky to have your brother come home from the Dardanelles," said Maisie, knowing that often brother fought alongside brother, which led to many a mother grieving the loss of not one child but two or three.

"Oh, no. No. My brother's body was never found. He was listed missing. I visit the grave of my other brother's friend. Vincent." Celia fussed with her handkerchief.

"I see. Is your brother, your other brother, recovered?"

"Um. Yes, yes, in a way."

Maisie held her head to one side in question but added,"Oh, this is such a difficult subject--"

"No, I mean, yes. Yes. But . . . well, he has scars. Vincent had scars too."

"Oh. I see."

"Yes. George, my brother who survived, is like Vincent. His face--"

Celia slowly moved her finely manicured hands and touched her cheek with delicate fingers. She flinched and tears filled her eyes. At that moment Maisie saw her chance for connection. A connection that was deeper than she would admit. She reached out and touched Celia lightly on the arm until the other woman's eyes met hers. Maisie nodded her understanding.

"I was a nurse," said Maisie, her voice lowered, not to avoid being heard but to draw Celia toward her."In France. When I returned from France I nursed again in a secure mental hospital. I understand the wounds, Mrs. Davenham. Those of the body--and of the soul."

Celia Davenham took Maisie's hand. And at that moment Maisie knew she was in the woman's confidence, that she was trusted. Maisie had anticipated that it would take no longer than the twenty minutes that the women had sat together at the same table. Such was Celia's hunger for connection to someone who understood. And the depth of Maisie Dobbs's understanding of her situation was greater than Celia Davenham could possibly imagine.

Celia Davenham sat for a moment before speaking again. Wave upon wave of grief seemed to break across her heart with such force that she made a fist with one hand, and gripped Maisie's offered hand of understanding with the other. A waiter coming toward the table to inquire if more tea was required stopped suddenly and moved away, as if repelled by the force of her emotion.

Maisie closed her eyes, concentrating her calming energy on the woman who sat opposite her. The moment passed, and Maisie opened her eyes to observe Celia relax her shoulders, arms, and the tight grasp on her hand. But she did not let go.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, Mrs. Davenham. Don't be. Take some tea."

Keeping Maisie's hand in hers, the woman took the cup in her other hand and, shaking, lifted it to her lips to sip the still-hot tea. The two women sat in silence for several more minutes until Maisie spoke again.

"Tell me about Vincent, Mrs. Davenham."

Celia Davenham placed the fine bone china cup in its saucer, took a deep breath, and began to tell her story.

"I fell in love with Vincent--oh, dear me--it must have been when I was about twelve. I was just a girl. He came to the house with my brother George. It was my brother Malcolm who died. George was the oldest. Vincent was one of those people who could make anyone laugh--even my parents, who were very stiff indeed. It was as if the sun shone upon Vincent and everyone felt compelled to look at him, just to warm themselves."

"Yes, I have known such people. I expect he was quite the charmer," said Maisie.

"Oh yes, quite the charmer. But he didn't realize it. He just went through his life bringing out the best in people. So, he was definitely officer caliber. His men would have followed him to death's door."

"And no doubt beyond."

"Yes. And beyond. Apparently when he wrote to the parents or wives of men who had fallen, he always mentioned some small detail about them--a joke they had told, an act of courage, a special effort made. He didn't just say,'I'm sorry to tell you this, but . . . .'He cared."

Celia took up her cup again, keeping one hand on Maisie's. Maisie, for her part, made no move to withdraw, realizing the strength her touch gave the other woman. She moved only to pour more tea and to bring her own cup to her lips.

Occasionally she would look out of the window, and as dusk drew in saw the reflection of Celia Davenham in the windowpane as she told her story. In this way Maisie observed her as an onlooker might, rather than as a confidante. As Celia spoke, releasing the weight of hoarded memory, she seemed to gain strength. She sat straighter. Celia was an attractive woman, and in the reflected scene, Maisie saw the faces of other people in the tearoom occasionally looking toward them, drawn to a conversation they could not overhear but could not help observe.

Maisie knew well, more than the onlookers, that they were drawn by the power of revelation. They were witnesses to the unfolding of Celia Davenham's story, to the unburdening of her soul, though they might not be aware of it. And she knew that once outside, wrapping a scarf around a neck to shield it from the biting wind, or holding on to a hat, a woman might say to her companion, "Did you see that woman, by the window, the well-dressed one?" and her companion would nod and they would speak for a while of what might have been said by the woman near the window to the woman who allowed her hand to be held so tightly. And the picture of Celia Davenham squaring her shoulders to tell her story would come back to them on occasion, especially when they were sad and looking for the answer to a question of the heart.

Celia Davenham paused, as if to summon the fortitude to continue. Maisie waited, then asked,"Tell me what happened to Vincent."

"It was at Passchendaele."

"Ah yes. I know. . . ."

"Yes, I think we all know now. So many--"

"--and Vincent?"

"Yes, although some might believe him to be lucky. He came home."

Celia stopped again, closed her eyes, then continued. "I try, sometimes, to remember his face before. When it was complete. But I can't. I feel awful, that I can only remember the scars. I try at night to close my eyes and see him, but I can't. I can see George, of course; his injuries weren't so bad. But I can't think of exactly how he was before the war either."

"Yes, it must be very hard."

"There was something about Vincent, his enthusiasm for life, that turned into something else, as if it had another side. His company came under intense enemy fire. Vincent was hit in the face by shrapnel. It is a miracle he lived. George lost an ear and has scars on the side of his face, which you would think were unbearable but seem light compared to Vincent's."

Maisie looked at the woman, whose grip had relaxed as she told Vincent's story. Celia was exhausted. Maurice had counseled her, in the early days of her apprenticeship, when she was the silent observer as he listened to a story, gently prodding with a question, a comment, a sigh, or a smile, "The story takes up space as a knot in a piece of wood. If the knot is removed, a hole remains. We must ask ourselves, how will this hole that we have opened be filled? The hole, Maisie, is our responsibility."

"Mrs. Davenham, you must be tired. Shall we meet again another day?" she asked.

"Yes, Miss Blanche, do let's meet."

"Perhaps we might walk in Hyde Park, or St. James's; the lake is so lovely at this time of year."

The women made arrangements to meet the following week, for tea at the Ritz, then a stroll through Green Park to St. James's. But before they parted, Maisie suggested,"Mrs. Davenham, you probably have to rush home soon, but I wonder. Liberty has some lovely new fabrics, just arrived from India. Would you come with me to look at them?"

"Why, I'd love to."

Later, when Celia Davenham reflected upon her day, she was surprised. For though she still felt sadness, the memory she reflected upon most was that of huge bolts of fabric being moved around at her behest by willing assistants who could sense in her the interest that led to a purchase. With an enthusiastic flourish, yards of vibrant purples, yellows, pinks, and reds of Indian silk were pulled out, to be rubbed between finger and thumb, and held against her face in front of the mirror. And she thought of the person she knew as Maisie Blanche, who suddenly but quietly had to take her leave, allowing her to indulge her love of texture and color for far longer than she had intended. Thus a day that had seen so many tears ended in the midst of a rainbow.

CHAPTER SIX

Maisie made her way back to her office. It was dark by now, and although she was gasping for a cup of tea much stronger than the light Darjeeling served at Fortnum & Mason's, she needed to work. She reflected upon the Davenham story, knowing only too well that there was a lot more to elicit. But by leaving much of the story untold, Maisie allowed the door to remain open. Instead of being exhausted by her own revelations and memories, Celia Davenham was being helped to shed her burden gradually, and Maisie was her guide.

Jack Barker greeted Maisie outside Warren Street station, doffed his cap and bid her good evening.

"Miss Dobbs, and a good evenin' to you. My, you are a sight for sore eyes at the end of the day."

"Mr. Barker, thank you, although I am sure I'll be better when I get a cup of tea inside me."

"You should get that Billy to make you a cuppa. Does too much jawing of a working day, that one. Do you know, I 'ave to tell him sometimes that I'm busy and can't keep puttin' the world to rights with 'im."

Maisie grinned, knowing by now that Jack Barker could talk the hind leg off a donkey, and that the same complaint about Jack was likely to come from Billy Beale.

"Well, Billy's a good 'un, isn't he, Mr. Barker?"

"'E is that. Amazing how fast 'e can move with that leg. You should see 'im sometimes, running 'ere and there, 'dot and carry one' with that leg. Poor sod. But at least we got 'im back 'ere, didn't we?"

Maisie agreed."Indeed, Mr. Barker, at least he came home. I'd best be on my way, so I'll bid you good evening. Any reason to buy the latest edition before I rush off?"

"All bloomin' bad if you ask me. Threadneedle Street and the City in a rare two-an'-eight. They're talking about a slump."

"I'll leave it then, Mr. Barker. Goodnight."

Maisie turned into Warren Street, walking behind two women students from the Slade School of Art, who were making their way back to lodgings nearby. Each carried an artist's portfolio under one arm, and giggled as the other recounted her part of a story about another woman. They stopped to speak to a group of young men who were just about to enter the Prince of Wales pub, then decided to join them. They pushed past a woman dressed in black, who had been standing outside the pub smoking a cigarette. She shouted at them to look out, but her warning was met with more giggles from the students. She was soon joined by a man, who Maisie suspected already had a wife at home, for he betrayed himself by quickly looking up and down the street before taking the woman by the arm and hurrying her inside the pub.

"It takes all sorts," said Maisie in a low voice as she passed, and continued on down Warren Street to her office.

Maisie opened the door that led to the dark stairwell, and as she went to turn on the dim light to see her way up the stairs, the light over the upper stairwell went on and Billy Beale called out.

"'S only me, Miss. See your way up?"

"Billy, you should be knocking off work by now, surely."

"Yeah, but I've got some more news for you. 'Bout that fella you was askin' about. Weathershaw. Thought I'd 'ang about in case I don't see you tomorrow."

"That's kind, Billy. Let's put the kettle on."

Maisie led the way into her office, turned on the light, and went to put the kettle on the small stove.

"And that telephone has been ringing its 'ead off today. What you need is someone to help you out, Miss, to write down messages, like."

"My telephone was ringing?"

"Well, that's what it's there for, innit?"

"Yes, of course. But it doesn't ring very often. I tend to receive messages via the postman or personal messenger. I wonder who it was?"

"Someone with an 'ead of steam, the way it was ringing. I was working on the boiler, making a fair bit of noise meself, and every now and again, there it went again. I came up a couple of times, t'see if I could answer it for you, but it stopped its nagging just as I got outside the door--I c'n use me master key in an emergency, like. I tell ya, I nearly got me kit and put in a line so that I could answer it downstairs meself."

"Pardon?"

"Remember, Miss, I was a sapper. Let me tell you, if I could run a line in the pourin' rain and on me 'ands and knees in the mud--and get the brass talkin' to each other while the 'un's trying to knock me block off as I was about it--I can bloomin' well do a thing or two with your line."

"Is that so, Billy? I'll have to remember that. In the meantime, whoever wants to speak to me will find a way. Now then, what do you have to tell me?"

"Well, I was askin' round some of me old mates, about that Vincent Weathershaw bloke. Turns out one of the fellas knew someone, who knew someone else, you know, who told them that 'e wasn't quite all there after one of the big shows."

Billy Beale tapped the side of his forehead, and Maisie inclined her head for him to continue.

"Lost a lot of men, 'e did. Apparently never forgave 'imself. Took it all upon 'is shoulders, as if 'e was the one that killed them. But what I also 'eard was that some funny stuff went on between 'im and the big brass. Now, this is all very shaky, but . . . ."

"Go on, Billy," Maisie urged.

"Well, Miss, you know, if truth be told, we were all plain scared 'alf the bloomin' time."

"Yes, I know, Billy."

"O' course you do, Miss. You know, don't you? Blimey, when I think of what you nurses must've seen . . . anyway, if the truth be told, we was all scared. You didn't know when you were going to get it.

But some of 'em. . . ."

Billy stopped, turned away from Maisie, and took the red kerchief from his neck and wiped his eyes.

"Gawd--sorry, Miss. Don't know what came over me."

"Billy. It can wait. Whatever you have to tell me. It can wait. Let me pour that tea."

Maisie went to the stove, poured boiling water from the kettle onto the tea leaves in the brown earthenware teapot, and allowed it to steep. She took two large tin mugs from the shelf above the stove, stirred the tea in the pot, then poured tea for them both, with plenty of sugar and a splash of milk. Since her time in France, Maisie had preferred an army-issue tin mug for her private teatimes, for the warmth that radiated from the mug to her hands and to the rest of her body.

"There you are, Billy. Now then . . ."

"Well, as you know, Miss, there were a lot of lads 'o enlisted that were too young. Boys tryin' to be men, and blimey, the rest of us weren't much more than boys ourselves. And you'd see 'em, white as sheets when that whistle blew to go over the top. Mind you, we was all as white as sheets. I was barely eighteen meself."

Billy sipped his tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"We'd 'ave to get 'em under the arms, shove 'em over, and 'ope that the push would get 'em through. And sometimes one of 'em didn't make it over."

Billy's eyes misted over again, and he wiped them with the red kerchief.

"And when that 'appened, when a boy was paralyzed with fear, like, 'e could be reported for cowardice. If 'e'd been seen afterwards, not 'avin' gone over with the rest of his mates, the brass didn't ask too many questions, did they? No, the poor sod's on a charge and that's it! So we 'ad to look out for each other, didn't we?"

Drawing the red cloth across his brow, the young man continued his story for Maisie.

"Court-martialed, they were. And you know what 'appened to a lot of 'em, don't you? Shot. Even if some of 'em weren't quite so innocent, villains getting up to no good when they should've been on the line, it ain't the way to go, is it? Not shot by their own. Bloody marvelous, ain't it? You pray your 'ead off that the Kaiser's boys don't get you, then it's your own that do!"

Maisie allowed silence to envelop them and held the steaming mug to her lips. This was no new story. Only the storyteller was new to her. Happy-go-lucky Billy Beale.

"Well, this Vincent Weathershaw, as far as the brass were concerned, was a soft one with 'is men. Said it was enough with the trenches and shells killing 'em without their own 'avin' it in for 'em. Apparently they wanted to 'arden this Weathershaw up a bit. I don't know the 'ole story, nowhere near, but from what I've been told, 'e was commanded to do a few things 'e didn't want to. Refused. There was talk of strip-pin' 'im of 'is commission. The word is that no one quite knows what 'appened, but apparently, it was after these rumors went about, that 'e sort of lost 'is 'ead and started to do all that daft business, walkin' around without the 'elmet on in front of the other lot. Then, o' course, they got 'im--at Wipers--Passchendaele. Not far from where I copped it, really, but it seemed like 'undreds of miles at the time."

Maisie smiled, but it was a sad, reflective smile as she remembered how men made easy work of pronouncing "Ypres," referring to it as "Wipers."

"Mind you, they didn't get me coming out of a trench and over the top. No, it was all that business at Messines, not knowing whether the other lot were in the trench next door, or below us, and not knowin' whether the buggers--pardon me language, Miss--but not knowin' where they'd laid mines. Us sappers 'ad our work cut out for us there."

Billy lowered his head, swirled dregs of tea to soak up sugar at the bottom of his mug, and closed his eyes as memories pushed through into the present.

Maisie and Billy Beale sat in silence. Maisie, as she so often did nowadays, remembered Maurice and his teaching:

"Never follow a story with a question, Maisie, not immediately. And remember to acknowledge the storyteller, for in some way even the messenger is affected by the story he brings."

She waited a few more minutes, watching Billy sip his tea, lost in his memories as he looked out over the rooftops.

"Billy, thank you for finding this out for me. You must have worked hard to track the details down."

Billy lifted the mug of tea to his lips.

"Like I said, Miss--you need anything doing, Billy Beale's your man."

Maisie allowed more time to pass, and even wrote some notes in her file, in front of Billy, to underline the importance of his report.

"Well, Billy," said Maisie, closing the file and placing it back on the desk, "I hope you don't mind me changing the subject, but there is one thing. No rush, in your own time."

"You name it, Miss."

"Billy, I really need to have this room painted or wallpapered. It's as drab as yesterday's black pudding and needs a bit of cheering up. I noticed that on the ground floor you did such a nice job with Miss Finch's room--the door was open as I came through one day and I looked in--it was so bright and cheerful. What do you think?"

"I'll jump right to it, Miss. I'll put my mind to the colors on the way 'ome, and tomorrow I'll go by me mate's place--painter and decorator, 'e is--and see what 'e's got in the way of paints."

"That'll be lovely, Billy. And, Billy--thank you very much."

And so another storyteller fell asleep that night thinking not of the telling of the story but of the possibilities inherent in color and texture. But for Maisie, there was a different end to the day. She made notes in her file, simply named "Vincent," and started to sketch a diagram, with names and places linked.

Maisie Dobbs was even more convinced that her instinct had not betrayed her, that Vincent's death was simply one thread in an intricate web that led to no good. She knew that it would not be long before she discovered what connected the bright thread that was Vincent to the other boys who were buried with only one name at Nether Green Cemetery. And it was her intention that the next meeting with Celia Davenham would reveal how Vincent had spent the time since the war, and his exact location at his death.

More important, Maisie wanted an explanation as to why he was simply "Vincent."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Maisie sat back in the wooden office chair and brought her knees up to her chest so that her heels rested on the edge of the seat. She had slipped off her shoes an hour or so ago, to put on the thick bed socks that she kept in her desk drawer. Maisie leafed through her report to Christopher Davenham and wondered how she might best advise him. It was at times like this that she missed the counsel of Maurice Blanche. The relationship between teacher and pupil was an easy one. She had opened her mind to learning his craft, and he had passed on to her the knowledge gleaned in a lifetime of work in what he referred to as "the forensic science of the whole person." Although he could still be consulted, Maisie knew that now that he had retired, it was his intention for her to make her way in the world alone.

She could hear his voice now: "Remember basics, Maisie, dear. Whenever you are stuck, go back to our earliest conversations. And remember connections, that there are always connections."

Now Maisie had to decide how far she should go in her report to Christopher Davenham. The man simply wanted to know where his wife was going and if another man was involved. Any information over and above what he had requested would not be necessary. Maisie thought for one more moment, put her feet back on the floor, placed the file on the table in front of her, and stood up.

"No, that's enough." She said to the empty room.

"Do sit down, Mr. Davenham." Maisie's chilled feet were now smartly clad in leather shoes.

"You have a report for me, Miss Dobbs?"

"Yes, of course. But first, Mr. Davenham, I must ask you some questions."

"Haven't you already asked enough? I would have thought my purpose for coming here was clear. I seek information, Miss Dobbs, and if you are half as good as your reputation, you will have that information."

"Yes, I do. But I would like us to discuss openly how you might use this information once you have it."

"I'm not sure I understand, Miss Dobbs."

Maisie opened the file, took out a blank sheet of paper that had previously covered her extensive notes, closed the file, and placed the paper on top. It was a technique learned from Maurice, which had proved to be most useful: The blank sheet of paper represented the future, an empty page that could be filled as the observer chose. Pages of notes brought out during conversation were a distraction, so a written report was given only at the end of meeting."Mr. Davenham, if there were no other man, no reason for you to suspect that your wife's affections lay elsewhere, what would you do?"

"Well, nothing. If there's no reason for my suspicions, then she's in the clear. There would be no problem to do anything about."

"I see. Mr. Davenham, this is a delicate situation. Before I proceed, I must ask for you to make a commitment to me--"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"A commitment to your marriage, actually. A commitment, perhaps, to your wife's well-being and to your future."

Christopher Davenham stirred uneasily in his chair and folded his arms.

"Mr. Davenham," said Maisie, looking out of the window, "it's a very fine day now, don't you think? Let's walk around Fitzroy Square. We will be at liberty to speak freely and also enjoy something of the day."

Without waiting for an answer, Maisie rose from her chair, took her coat from the stand, and passed it to Christopher Davenham who, being a gentleman, stifled his annoyance, took the coat, and held it out for Maisie. Placing her hat upon her head and securing it with a pearl hatpin, Maisie smiled up at him."A walk will be lovely."

She strolled with Davenham along Warren Street, then turned left at Conway Street into Fitzroy Square. The sun had broken through the morning's gray clouds, and there was a promise of warmer weather to come. The walk was by no means an idle suggestion. Maisie had learned from Maurice Blanche the importance of keeping the client open to whatever was being reported or suggested. "Sitting in a chair gives too much opportunity to retreat into the self," Blanche had said. "Keep the person moving, in the way that an artist keeps the oil moving when he is painting. Don't give them a chance to dry up; don't allow the client to shut you out."

"Mr. Davenham, I have decided to give you my report and my recommendations. I say 'recommendations' because I believe you are a man of compassion."

Davenham maintained an even pace. Good, thought Maisie. She matched his stride, keenly observing the position of his arms, the way he held his head forward and tilted back slightly, as if sniffing the air for a predator. He's terrified, thought Maisie, feeling fear rise up as she began to imitate his manner of walking and carriage. She closed her eyes for just a few seconds to be clear about the feelings now seeping through her body, and thought: He's afraid to give, for fear of losing.

She had to be quick to banish the fear.

"Mr. Davenham, you are not being deceived. Your wife is faithful."

The tall man breathed an audible sigh of relief.

"But she does need your help."

"In what way, Miss Dobbs?"The tension that ebbed with her revelation had no chance to reclaim him before Maisie spoke again.

"Like many young women, your wife lost someone she loved. In the war. The man was her first love, a puppy love. Had he lived, no doubt such an affection would have died with the onset of maturity. However--"

"Who?"

"A friend of her brother. His name was Vincent. It's in my report. Mr. Davenham, may we slow down just a little, you see, my feet . . . ."

"Of course, yes, I'm sorry."

Christopher Davenham settled into a more relaxed gait, to match Maisie, who had reduced her stride to allow him to consider her words.

"Mr. Davenham, have you ever spoken with your wife about the war, about her brother, about her losses?"

"No, never. I mean, I know the facts. But one just has to get on with it. After all, you can't just give in, can you?"

"And what about you, Mr. Davenham?

"I didn't serve. I have a printing company, Miss Dobbs. I was required by the government to keep the people informed."

"Did you want to serve?'

"Does that matter?"

"Perhaps it does, to your wife. Perhaps it matters to your wife to be able to discuss her past with you, for you to know--"

"Your report will give me the facts, Miss Dobbs."

"Mr. Davenham, you may know the facts, but it isn't a catalog of facts that is causing your wife's melancholy. It is the storage of memories and of feelings. Do you understand?"

The man was silent, as was Maisie. She knew she was out of bounds. But this was not new for her. She had spent much of her life out of bounds, living and speaking where, according to some, she had no business.

"Allow the past to have a voice," Maisie continued. "Then it will be stilled. It's only then that your marriage will have a future, Mr. Davenham. And Mr. Davenham . . ."

"Yes."

"Just in case you were considering such a move, your wife does not need medication, and she does not need a doctor. Your wife needs you. When she has you, Vincent will be allowed to rest in peace."

The man took a few more steps in silence, then nodded.

"Shall we go back to the office?" Maisie asked, her head to one side.

Davenham nodded again. Maisie allowed him his thoughts, allowed him the room that he needed in which to take her words to heart. If she persisted, he might become defensive. And this was a door that needed to remain open. For there was something about the experience with Celia Davenham that nagged at Maisie. She didn't yet know what it was, but she was confident that it would speak to her. Maurice Blanche maintained that amid the tales, the smokescreens, and the deceptive mirrors of life's unsolved mysteries, truth resides, waiting for someone to enter its sanctum, then leave, without quite closing the door behind them. That is when truth may make its escape. And Maisie had ensured that the door was left open when she last saw Celia.

It was Maisie's intention that Thursday's meeting would reveal what she needed to know about Vincent's passing, about the mystery of the single name on his headstone, and what had occupied his time between the end of the war and his death. She wanted her next meeting with Celia to reveal Vincent's whereabouts just prior to, and at the time of, his death.

Maisie felt that she understood much about the relationship between Celia and Vincent. Their love had been more of a youthful infatuation--Celia had admitted as much herself--and in going forward with marriage to Christopher Davenham, she had tried to bury her feelings for Vincent at a time when emotions were running high throughout the country. But the ordinary rituals of marriage to the seemingly bland Christopher Davenham could not erase the memory of Vincent, the hero of her imagination, the handsome, fearless knight she might have married. Maisie believed that, to Vincent, Celia had remained simply the younger sister of a dear friend. Yet it was among the friends of one's brothers that so many young women found suitable partners.

Maisie met Celia Davenham at the Ritz for afternoon tea on Thursday, as arranged. As she made her way from the main doors of the Piccadilly entrance to join Celia, Maisie caught her breath when she saw the heavy marble columns at either side of the Winter Garden ahead. She walked toward the steps leading up into the venue for tea, and felt soothed by the warm shafts of light that entered through the windows at either end of the room. For a minute she allowed herself not to consider the expense of the expedition. The opulent grandeur of the Winter Garden, designed to resemble a French pavilion, with decorated cornices and a skylight that allowed soft natural light to bathe the room, almost took Maisie's breath away. With perfect white damask tablecloths, shining silver cutlery, and voluminous swags of fabric hung around the windows, the Winter Garden might not have encouraged intimate conversation between the two women, but the surrounding mirrored panels, and calming presence of water in the golden mermaid sculpture, brought a certan serenity to the room. Instead, with the delicate sound of Royal Doulton china clinking in the background, as cups were replaced on saucers, talk between the two women was light, skimming over the surface of confidence like a fly buzzing over a tranquil millpond.

Maisie touched each side of her lips with her table napkin, and placed it at the side of her plate. "I think it's time for that walk, Mrs. Davenham. Such a lovely day, one feels as if summer is almost here." She reached for her handbag and gloves.

"Oh yes, indeed. Let's walk . . . and please, do call me 'Celia.' I feel as if we know each other so very well now." Celia Cavendish inclined her head in invitation.

"Thank you, Celia. It does seem as if the time for such formality has passed, so I expect you, in turn, to use my Christian name."

With the bill settled, waiters hurried to pull back chairs for the women, their deep bows signaling the exit of a well-satisfied customer, and that the table must be cleared and prepared for the next duo of well-heeled ladies. Maisie and Celia left the Ritz and entered Green Park.

"It's so lovely here--the daffodils are pretty, but they're late this year, aren't they?"

"Indeed they are."

"Maisie, the fabrics at Liberty were simply gorgeous, almost overwhelming, as always. I have to confess, I bought three yards of the most exquisite sheer lilac silk."

"Good for you. How very clever of you to be able to sew."

"I learned from one of our maids who was an absolute whiz with the needle. Mummy insisted upon such drab colors and styles--it was the only way for me to avoid looking like a dowdy schoolmistress. Of course, during the war it wasn't as easy to get fabric, but remember there was the passion for all things Indian, wasn't there?"

Maisie nodded, remembering the demand for goods from the Indian subcontinent after the Gurkha regiments joined British forces in France. She remembered Khan, laughing as he told her about the invitations he was suddenly receiving from the very best houses, simply to have the presence of one who seemed, in the eyes of hostesses of the day who were not always clear about the geography of the Indian subcontinent, to be an ambassador for the legion of small, hearty, fearless Nepalese men fighting alongside the regular British soldiers.

There was a comfortable silence as Maisie and Celia made their way along Queen's Walk toward St. James's Park. Strolling alongside St. James's Park lake, they commented that it would have been a good idea to save some pieces of bread to feed the swans, and laughed together at an anxious nanny running in pursuit of a pair of mischievous children toddling on chubby legs toward a pair of mallards. Yet as she brought her step into line with that of her companion, and held her shoulders, arms, and hands as if she were her shadow, Maisie felt once again the melancholy that gripped Celia. But Maisie also knew that Celia would soon confide in her as she had when they last met, for her feelings for Vincent had been dammed inside her, and having been once unleashed, demanded to be heard.

"It was 1917 when Vincent came back to England. He was admitted immediately to hospital, for his wounds were so, so . . . ."

Celia put her hand to her face again, searching for a word to describe Vincent's wounds that would reflect her newfound bravery in telling the tale.

"Utterly devastating, Maisie. I could hardly recognize him when I visited. I had to beg my brother to take me with him--George had arrived home some time before Vincent, as his injuries were not as severe. Vincent wore a linen mask and only removed it when I assured him that I would not flinch."

"Go on," encouraged Maisie.

"But I couldn't contain myself. I burst into tears and rushed from the room. My brother was furious. Yet Vincent wasn't angry with me. But he was angry at everything else."

"Many men were angry when they returned, Celia. Vincent had a right to his anger."

Celia stopped in her walk, shielded her eyes from the sun, which was now late-afternoon low in the sky, then looked again at Maisie.

"That was when he said that he wanted to be just 'Vincent.' He said that as far as Britain was concerned, he was just a piece of meat anyway, he might as well buck the whole system. He said he'd lost his face, so he could be whomever he wanted to be. Except he wasn't quite as polite as that."

"Indeed. Do you know what happened in France? To Vincent?"

"I know, mainly from my brother, that something happened-- more than being wounded. I believe there was some . . . discord. With his commanding officers."

"What happened when Vincent was discharged from hospital?"

"Convalescence. By the sea, in Whitstable. The army took over one of the large hotels. Vincent wanted to write about his experiences in France. He was very upset. But each time we sent him a quantity of paper, it was taken away from him. The doctors said that writing distressed him. My brother was furious. He gave Vincent a typewriter, which was confiscated and returned. Vincent maintained he was being silenced, but said he was determined to speak before the war was long gone and no one wanted to know anymore."

"The poor man."

"Then I met Christopher. A very solid man. Of course, he hadn't gone to France. I have to admit I never really found out why. I believe his business protected him from conscription. I seemed to go forward into marriage with a numbness in my mind. But I'd lost one brother, and of course Vincent was deeply, deeply injured. Christopher was a port in the storm. And he is, of course, so very good to me."

"What happened to your friend Vincent after the war, Celia? It seemed that he died some time later."

"Yes, he died only a few years ago. He returned to his parents' home, but as he was terribly disfigured, he became a recluse. Oh, people tried to get him out of the house socially, but he would sit in the drawing room, looking out the window, or reading, or writing in his diary. He worked from home after a while--for a small publishing house, somewhere not far from here, I think."

Celia rubbed her forehead as if pressure would squeeze memories into the present moment.

"He read manuscripts, wrote reports. He had obtained the connection through his uncle's business contacts. Very occasionally he would have someone drive him to the office, to discuss something. He'd had a mask made, of sorts, out of that very fine tin. It was painted in a glaze that matched the color of his skin. And he wore a scarf which he bundled around his neck and lower jaw--well, where his lower jaw used to be. Oh, poor, poor Vincent!"

Celia began to cry. Maisie stopped walking and simply stood next to her, but made no move to console by placing a hand on Celia's shoulder or a comforting arm around her.

"Allow grief room to air itself," Maurice had taught her."Be judicious in using the body to comfort another, for you may extinguish the freedom that the person feels to be able to share a sadness."

She had learned, with Maurice Blanche as a teacher, respect for the telling of a person's history.

Maisie allowed some time to pass, then took Celia's elbow and gently led her to a park bench, set among a golden display of daffodils nodding sunny heads in the late-afternoon breeze.

"Thank you. Thank you for listening."

"I understand, Celia," replied Maisie.

As Maisie imagined Vincent's brutal disfigurement, she shuddered, recollecting the time she had spent in France, and the images that would remain with her forever, of men who had fought so bravely. She thought, too, of those men who had cheated death, only to struggle with the legacy of their injuries. And, in that moment, she remembered Simon, the gifted doctor who was himself a soldier in the struggle to tear lives free from the bloody clutches of war.

Maisie was brought back from the depths of her own memories by Celia, who was ready to continue her story.

"It was a bit of luck, really, that one of the patients he had been in hospital with remembered him. I wish I could recall his name. He had returned to France for a time after the war and saw that men with facial disfigurement were looked after in a different way. They were brought together for holidays, taken to the country to camps where they could live together for a while without having to worry about people drawing away--after all, they all had wounds. And, I suppose, more importantly, the public didn't have to look at them. Terrible, isn't it? Anyway, this man came back to England and wanted to get the same sort of thing going here."

Celia Davenham looked around her and briefly closed her eyes in the warmth of the waning spring sunshine.

"He bought a farm that was on the market, then got in touch with the men he had met while recovering from his own wounds. According to Vincent, he--heavens, what was his name? Anyway, this man had been deeply affected by the war in a way that made him want to do something for those with disfiguring wounds. Vincent was a strong supporter of the idea. It gave him an energy I certainly hadn't seen since before the war. In fact, the man was rather taken with Vincent's stubborn refusal to be known by anything but his first name. So Vincent went to live at The Retreat."

"Was that what it was called? The Retreat?"

"Yes. I think it was Vincent's idea. The name. There was a connection to 'Beating The Retreat,' I think, in that they were withdrawing from society, which for many of them had become the enemy. Vincent said that it commemorated each man who died in France, and every man brought home to live with injuries. He said that it was for all those who suffered and should have had a place to go back to, when there never was one."

"Did he remain there, at The Retreat?"

"Yes, he did. He became very reclusive. My brother would visit occasionally. Of course, by then I was married to Christopher, so I did not visit. I wanted to, though. In fact, I have considered making the journey, since Vincent died. Just to see where--"

"He died at The Retreat?"

"Yes. I'm not really sure what happened. My brother was told by Vincent's people that he slipped and fell by the stream. Breathing was difficult for him anyway, due to his injuries, but perhaps he hit his head. His parents have passed on now. I think they didn't really ask questions. Everyone agreed that it was a terrible accident, but it might have been a release for him."

"Did The Retreat close?"

"Oh no. It's still very much open. The farmhouse has been converted so that the residents each have a room, and specialist craftsmen were employed to work on the outbuildings, so that they could also be used for accommodation. I understand that new residents are welcomed. They are all men who have suffered injury of some kind during the war, and need a place to go."

"How does this man who set up The Retreat pay for everyone?"

"Oh, they pay. Resources are pooled. Christopher thought it was all very odd in that respect. But, you understand, Christopher would think that. He's very careful with money. Vincent gave Adam--that's it, Adam Jenkins, his name is Adam Jenkins--Vincent gave Adam Jenkins control of his finances when he decided to become a resident rather than a short-term visitor. The residents work on the farm as well, so it's still a going concern."

"Well, well, well. Vincent must have had tremendous respect for this man, Adam Jenkins."

The two women had started walking back towards the north entrance of St. James's Park. Celia looked at her watch.

"Oh my goodness! I must hurry. Christopher is taking me to the theater this evening. It's quite amazing, you know. He's always been such a stick-in-the-mud, but now he's planning all sorts of outings. I love the theater. I thought I would never go again when I married Christopher, but he's suddenly become quite agreeable to an evening out."

"How lovely! I must dash too, Celia. But before you go, could you tell me where The Retreat is? I have a friend who may be interested to know about it."

"It's in Kent. Near Sevenoaks, that area. In fact, it's not too far from Nether Green. Good-bye, Maisie--and here's my card. Do call me again for tea. It was so lovely. I feel so very light after spending time with you, you know. Perhaps it's being out here in the fresh air of the park today."

"Yes, perhaps it is. Have a lovely time at the theater, Celia."

The two women parted, but before making her way to the St. James's Park underground station, Maisie walked back into the park to reconsider their conversation. She would probably not see Celia again.

Vincent had died while living in a community of ex-soldiers, all of whom, initially, were facially disfigured in some way, although it seemed that the doors were now open to those who had other injuries. There was nothing untoward about the motives of Adam Jenkins, who seemed to want to help these men. It must cost a pretty penny to arrange care for the residents, but then again, resources were pooled, and they were self-sufficient and working on the farm. A farm called, ambiguously, The Retreat. Maisie considered the meanings of "retreat," and wondered if the soldiers were, in fact, relinquishing their position, seeking a place of shelter from the enemy. For such men perhaps life itself was now the enemy.

Maisie picked up the heavy black telephone and began to dial BEL 4746, the Belgravia home of Lord Julian Compton and his wife, Lady Rowan. There was a short delay, then Maisie heard the telephone ring three times before being answered by Carter, the Compton's long-serving butler. She checked her watch immediately the call was answered.

"Compton residence."

"Hello, Mr. Carter. How are you?"

"Maisie, what a pleasure. We are all well here, thank you, but not looking forward to Cook's retirement, though it's long overdue."

"And what about you, Mr. Carter?"

"Now then, Maisie, as long as I can manage these stairs, I will be at the house. Her ladyship has been very anxious to speak with you, Maisie."

"Yes, I know. That's why I've telephoned."

"Oh, well. . . . I should know better than to ask how you know, Maisie."

"Mr. Carter, that really doesn't take a lot, does it? Lady Rowan is a terrier in disguise."

Carter laughed and connected the call to Lady Rowan, who was in the library reading the late-edition newspapers.

"Maisie, dear girl. Where have you been? I thought you'd gone off somewhere."

"No, Lady Rowan. I've been busy."

"Excellent news. But you really must not be a stranger to us. Are you sure that you wouldn't like to move into the upstairs apartments? I know I keep asking, but this is such a big house now. It never used to seem this big. Perhaps I'm getting smaller. They say that about age."

"No, Lady Rowan. Not you. Shall I come to see you this week?"

"Yes. Definitely. Come tomorrow. And I insist that you have dinner with me, and that you stay. I simply cannot have you traveling on your own after dark, and I know that you will refuse any offer to drive you home."

"Yes, Lady Rowan. I'll stay--but just for one night. Is everything all right?"

There was a silence on the line.

"Lady Rowan, is everything all right?"

"I want to talk to you about James. I thought you might have some advice for a poor misunderstood mother."

"Lady Rowan--"

"Yes, I'm laying it on a bit thick. But I'm worried about him. He's talking about going off to live on a farm in Kent. Sounds very strange to me. In fact, it sounds more than strange. Maisie, I confess, I'm frightened for James. He has been in the depths of melancholy since the war, it seems, and now this!"

"Of course. I'll do anything I can to help," replied Maisie.

"Thank you so much, my dear. What time will you be here?"

"Will six o'clock be all right?"

"Perfect. I'll tell Carter. Mrs. Crawford will be delighted to see you."

"Until then, Lady Rowan."

"Take care, Maisie. And remember, I want to know everything about what you are doing."

"I will leave no story untold, Lady Rowan."

The two women laughed, bade each other good-bye, and replaced their respective telephone receivers. Without a second's delay Maisie checked her watch. She reached into the top drawer of her desk and took out a small ledger with "Telephone" marked on the cover. Inside she made a note that the call to Lady Rowan Compton had taken four minutes. Maisie replaced the ledger and closed the drawer before walking to the window.

Of course she would offer Lady Rowan any assistance in her power, for she was indebted to her for so much. And Maisie knew, too, how difficult the aftermath of the war had been for James--but not, perhaps, as hard as it had been for the likes of Vincent. Yet Maisie was sympathetic to his melancholy, which was as much due to a loss still mourned as to his injuries. Maisie wondered whether Lord Julian had concerns regarding the ability of his only son to take on the family's business interests, and she was aware that Lady Rowan had often been the peacekeeper between the two. Tall, blond, blue-eyed James had always been the apple of his mother's eye. Years ago, when his son was no longer a child, Lord Julian had been heard to say on many an occasion,"You're spoiling that boy, Rowan." And now the once mischievously energetic James seemed hollow and drawn. Lady Rowan had been secretly relieved when James, a flying ace, was injured--not in the air but during an explosion on the ground. She knew his wounds would heal, and that she would have him safe at home at a time when so many of her contemporaries were receiving word that their sons had been lost to war.

Maisie turned from the window, and walked toward the door. Taking her coat and hat from the stand, she looked around the room, extinguished the light, and left her office. As she locked the door behind her, she reflected upon how strange it was that a man who had significant financial resources, time, and a beautiful house in the country would seek the peace and quiet that might dispel his dark mood by going to live on a stranger's farm. Making her way downstairs in the half-light shed by the flickering gas lamp, Maisie felt a chill move through her body. And she knew that the sensation was not caused by the cold or the damp, but by a threat--a threat to the family of the woman she held most dear, the woman who had helped her achieve accomplishments that might otherwise have remained an unrealized dream.

SPRING 1910 - SPRING 1917

CHAPTER EIGHT

Born in 1863, and growing up in the middle years of Queen Victoria's reign, Lady Rowan had delighted her father, the fourth Earl of Westavon, but had been the source of much frustration for her mother, Lady Westavon, who was known to comment that her daughter was "a lady in name only!" It was clear that, far from being content with pursuits more becoming her position and upbringing, she was happiest with her horses and with her brother, Edwin, when he came home from school in the holidays. From an early age she had questioned her father, disagreed with her mother, and by the time she was on the cusp of womanhood, caused her parents to wonder if a suitable match would ever be found.

Maurice Blanche was ten years Lady Rowan's senior, a school friend of her brother. At first Rowan was fascinated by Maurice during those weekends when Edwin brought Maurice home from Marlborough School.

"His people are in France, so I thought he might like to get out for a bit of a break," said Edwin, introducing the short, stocky boy who seemed to have little to say.

But when Maurice spoke, the young Rowan hung on his every word. His accent, a hybrid that came as a result of his French father and Scottish mother, intrigued her. As she grew older, Lady Rowan realized that Maurice moved with ease among people of any background, often changing his accent slightly to echo the nuances and rhythm of the other person's speech. The listener only vaguely appreciated the distinction, but nevertheless leaned in closer, smiled more easily, and probably shared a confidence to which no other person had been privy. Gradually his influence on the life of Lady Rowan challenged and inspired her, and in turn, his trust in her honest opinion was unfailing.

In the course of his life's work, Maurice Blanche could count among his friends and colleagues: philosophers, scientists, doctors, psychologists, and members of the judiciary. It was a self-designed career that had rendered him invaluable to an extraordinary range of people, whether government ministers, those investigating crime, or simply people who needed information.

In 1898, the year in which Lady Rowan celebrated the tenth anniversary of her marriage to Lord Julian Compton, it was clear to Maurice that Rowan needed to be engaged in more than simply London's social calendar. Her only son, James, had just been sent away to a preparatory school, an inevitable event Lady Rowan had dreaded. During a heated political discussion Maurice dared the very vocal and opinionated Lady Rowan to follow her own challenging words with actions.

"It's not enough to say that you want equality, Ro. What do you intend to do about it?

Lady Rowan swallowed hard. Soon after, she became a fully fledged and active suffragette.

Eleven years later Lady Rowan Compton shocked Belgravia by marching on Westminster, demanding the vote and equality for women, rich and poor. Lord Julian was long suffering, but the truth of the matter was that he adored Rowan and would walk on hot coals rather than cross her. Questioned about his wife's involvement, Lord Julian would simply reply, "Oh, you know Ro, once she's got the bit between her teeth . . . ." and people would nod sympathetically and leave the subject alone, which was exactly what Lord Julian wanted them to do. However, it was Maurice Blanche who challenged Rowan once again on the depth of her commitment.

"So you march on Westminster, and you have these meetings with your sister suffragettes, but what are you actually doing?"

"Maurice, what do you mean, what am I doing? This house is full of women meeting together three times a week--and we're forging ahead, make no mistake!"

Lady Rowan had barely taken a sip from her glass of sherry when Maurice issued an instruction. "We're off. Got something to show you. Go and change. Plain walking skirt and a jacket will do. And good sturdy shoes, Rowan."

Blanche stood up and walked toward the window, a move that suggested she should be quick.

"Maurice, you had better have good reason--"

"Hurry up, Rowan, or I shall leave without you."

Lady Rowan went immediately to her room, and when Nora, her personal maid, came to ask if she was needed, she was turned away.

"No. That's quite all right, Nora. I can help myself, you know."

Lady Rowan dressed quickly, with only a cursory glance in the mirror. She cut a handsome figure, and she knew it. Not that she was quintessentially pretty, but with her height and aquiline profile, she was striking. She was an athletic woman, a keen and competitive tennis player, an accomplished equestrienne, and a notoriously reckless skier on the slopes of Wengen until she was well into her forties. Her once rich chestnut hair had dulled slightly and was peppered with gray, but mercifully her weight had changed little since the day of her marriage. On the day Maurice Blanche demanded she accompany him, Lady Rowan Compton was forty-seven.

Rowan was excited. Maurice was prodding her at a time when life had lost some of the edge it had had in her youth. Yes, she was involved in the suffragette movement, she had her horses at the country estate, and of course there was the London social calendar, engagements and reciprocal entertainment making up an important part of her life in town during the season. James had just finished his schooling. She had looked forward to his company at home when his school years were over, but she rarely had it, for no sooner had he returned from the city than he seemed to vanish again. James was a man now, if still a very young one.

As she dressed, Lady Rowan tingled with anticipation, Maurice might provide her with a diversion to fill a gap that seemed to be widening with the passing years. She returned to the drawing room, and they left the house quickly. The two old friends walked along the tree-lined street, conversation unnecessary, although Lady Rowan was aching to know where they were going.

"I'm not saying that you are not busy, Rowan," Maurice broke their silence. "Not at all. And the cause is a worthy one. For women to have a place of account in this society, they must have a political voice. And having had one queen on the throne in the modern age does not constitute such a voice. But Rowan, with you the voice always comes from a safe place, does it not?"

"You should have been on the march, Maurice. That wasn't safe at all."

"I'm sure. But we both know that I'm not talking about marches. I'm talking about the safe place that we remain in, within the world we were born to. Swimming forever in the confines of our own pond. Socially, intellectually--"

"Maurice--"

"Rowan, we will speak again of equality later, for it is equality that you claim to want. Now then, we must wait here for an omnibus."

"A what? Now, I told you, Maurice--we should have called for the motor."

"No, Rowan. We are stepping out of your pond today. I have the fare for us both."

It was dark when they returned to Belgravia in silence. Rowan was deep in thought. She had seen much that troubled her. But nothing troubled her more than her own emotions.

"You'll come in . . ."

"No, Rowan. You are tired from swimming in another pond today. A pond that, though discussed in your meetings and debates, you could not truly imagine. Poverty is something we think we understand from description. It is only when it is close to hand that we have a grasp of what it means to be unequal."

"But what can I do?"

"No need to wear a hair shirt, Rowan. But perhaps opportunities will present themselves. One only has to ask, 'How might I serve?' Goodnight, my dear."

Maurice bowed slightly, then left Rowan in the entrance hall of her grand home.

He had taken her to the East End of London. First to the noisy markets, which thrilled her, although she could not look directly at some of the street urchins. Then into the depths of London's poorest areas. And it seemed that always someone knew him.

"Evenin', Doc, awright then?"

"Well, very well. And how is the youngest?"

"Comin' on a treat, Doc. Thanks to you."

Rowan didn't ask about his relationship to the people who greeted him so readily. Maurice was certainly a doctor, but after attending King's College Medical School in London, he had studied at the University of Edinburgh's Department of Legal Medicine. Rowan was under the impression that he no longer practiced. At least not upon people who were still alive.

"To answer the question that is written all over your face, Rowan--once or twice a week, I attend women and children at a small clinic. There is precious little set aside for the poor, there is a constant need for help, for . . . everything. And, of course, bringing children safely into the world and providing care when they are sick is a refreshing change for me."

Rowan rung the bell in the drawing room. She had dismissed Carter, the butler, as soon as she arrived home, but now she craved inner warmth.

How may I serve? What can I do? What would be sensible? What would Julian say? Well, that was something she would not have to think about. If Maurice was her challenger, Julian was her rock.

"Yes, Your Ladyship?"

"Carter, I'd like some hot soup, please--something simple, nothing too clever, you understand. And a sherry please, Carter."

"Very good, Ma'am. Cook prepared a tasty vegetable soup this afternoon, as soon as the delivery arrived."

"Perfect. Perfect, Carter."

Carter poured sherry into a crystal glass and held it out on a silver salver.

"Oh--and Carter. Before I forget. I would like to speak to you about the dinner next week and our guests. Lord Julian's business associates. Tomorrow morning after breakfast, tell Cook to come to my study as well. Ten o'clock."

"Very good, Your Ladyship. Will that be all?"

Later, as Lady Rowan finished the hot soup that had been brought on a tray to the drawing room, she leaned back in her chair and contemplated what she had seen that day, and about the conversation with Maurice. It is so easy, she thought. All I have to do is snap my fingers and someone runs. Equality. Maurice is right, I can do more.

While Lady Rowan readied herself for bed in her grand house in Belgravia on that night in the spring of 1910, a thirteen-year-old girl cried herself to sleep in the small back room of a soot-blackened terraced house in southeast London. Her jet black hair, released from a neat braid and purple ribbon, cascaded over the pillow, and the deep blue eyes that so easily reflected joy were rimmed with dark circles and red with tears. She cried for her loss and cried, too, for her father, whose dreadful, deep breathless sobs echoed from kitchen below.

Maisie had held her tears back for days, believing that if her father did not see or hear her crying, he would not worry about her, and his burden would be lighter. And each day, his heart breaking, he rose in the early hours of the morning, harnessed his horse to the cart, and made his way to Covent Garden Market.

At first, after her mother died, Maisie would pinch herself three times on the right arm before sleeping, assured that this one action would make her rise at three o'clock in the morning, in time to make his tea and spread a thick slice of bread with beef dripping for him eat in front of the coal stove before he set off for the market.

"You don't 'ave to do that, love. I can watch out for meself, Maisie. You go on back to bed. And mind you lock that door after I leave."

"I'm all right, Dad. You'll see. We'll be all right."

But Frankie Dobbs was at a loss. A widower with a thirteen-year-old daughter. She needed more, and Lord knows that the girl and her mother had been close, thought Frankie. No, he had to find something better for the girl than for her to be little woman of the house.

Oh, there was so much that they had wanted for Maisie, the child that had come to them in later life, and who was, they said, the answer to many prayers. She was a bright one, they knew that almost from the beginning. In fact, people would remark on it, that even as a newborn it seemed that Maisie could focus on a person and follow them with her eyes. "That girl can look right through you," people would say, when she was still a babe in arms.

The Dobbses had been putting money away for Maisie's education, so that she could stay on at school, perhaps even go on to be a teacher. They were so proud of their girl. But the money was gone, long gone to pay for doctors, medicine, and a holiday at the seaside, just in case the fresh salty air worked a miracle. But nothing had worked. Frankie was alone with his girl now, and he was afraid. Afraid that he couldn't do well by her, that he had nothing left to give her. No, it was settled. He had to find a place for Maisie.

It seemed to Frankie that even Persephone, his old mare, had lost pride in her step. Frankie always made sure his horse and cart were well turned out; it made a difference to business. He might be a costermonger, but there was no excuse for looking shabby. With trousers pressed under the mattress each night, a clean white collarless shirt, fresh brightly colored neckerchief, his best woolen waistcoat, and a cloth cap set jauntily on the side of his head, Frankie himself was always well turned out. "Just because I use me 'ands to make a livin' doesn't mean to say I can't do with a bit of spit and polish," Frankie had been heard to say.

And as he climbed up onto the driver's seat of his cart, Frankie was more than proud of his shining horse and the gleaming leather and brass traces. Persephone, a Welsh cob, trotted proudly down the street, lifting her hooves high as if she knew how good she looked. But since the death of Maisie's mother, Frankie's inner malaise was felt keenly by Persephone, who now trotted in a desultory manner, as if the family's grief had added several hundredweight to her load.

In the kitchen of the house in Belgravia, Carter and Lady Rowan's cook, Mrs. Crawford, were deep in conversation about the morning's meeting to discuss the week's dinner plans.

"What time will Mr. Dobbs be here, Cook? You'll need to have a complete list of fresh vegetables for Lady Rowan, and your menu planned for the week."

Cook rolled her eyes. Just what she loved, being told how to do her job.

"Mr. Carter, menu suggestions are in hand. I asked Mr. Dobbs to stop by again today to give me a list of what is best at market this week. He is going out of the way to be at our service, poor man."

"Yes indeed, Cook. Mr. Dobbs certainly has his hands full. I quite agree."

Outside the rear entrance of the house, a horse and cart came to a halt. They could hear Frankie Dobbs talking to Persephone, putting on her nosebag of oats, telling her he wouldn't be long, then setting off down the stairs that led to the back door of the kitchen.

"That'll be him now." Cook wiped her hands on a cloth, and went to answer the door.

"Mr. Dobbs," she said, standing aside so that Frankie Dobbs could enter the large warm room. As he removed his cloth cap, Mrs. Crawford cast a glance at Carter, frowned, and shook her head. Frankie Dobbs looked pale and drawn.

"Good morning, Mr. Dobbs. How are you?"

"Very well, all things considered, Mr. Carter. And you?" It was a thin response, and both cook and Carter glanced at each other again. This was not the jovial, robust Frankie Dobbs they were used to doing business with. "I've brought a list of the best vegetables and fruit this week. If I take the order today, I can deliver tomorrow morning. The broccoli and sprouts are looking very nice indeed, and of course there's some hearty cabbage at the market. I know Her Ladyship is partial to a nice bit of cabbage."

"She certainly is, Mr. Dobbs." Cook took the rough piece of paper from Frankie, and ran a finger down the list of vegetables. "I think we'll need something of everything this week. Full house, you know."

"Right you are." Standing uneasily in the kitchen, Frankie fingered his cap."I was wondering, Mr. Carter, if there was something I might discuss. With both yourself and Mrs. Crawford here."

"Of course, Mr. Dobbs, sit down at the table. Cook, a cup of tea for Mr. Dobbs. What can we do for you?"

Carter faced Frankie across the heavy pine table.

"Well, it's about my girl. She's a bright lass, very bright . . ." Frankie faltered, looked at his shining boots and twisted his cap. "Since 'er mother died, well, we was going to send 'er on to the big school . . . and she got a scholarship and all . . . but there's the money for the special clothes and books, and what with the doctor's bills . . ."

Cook placed a cup of tea in front of Frankie, leaned toward him, and covered his hand with hers. "You're a good man, Mr. Dobbs. You'll do right by young Maisie."

Frankie shrank at his daughter's name, afraid of what he was about to ask."I was wonderin' if you had a place for my Maisie 'ere, like. In service. She's a good girl. 'ard worker. Very bright. You won't need to tell 'er anythin' twice. She's well mannered and speaks nicely--'er mother, God rest her soul, saw to that. I thought that after a while, she could go back to night school, you see. Take up where she left off. Loves learnin', does Maisie."

Carter and Cook glanced at each other once again, and Carter spoke quickly."Mr. Dobbs, it seems you have come at the right time, and in answer to a prayer, hasn't he, Mrs. Crawford?"

Cook looked at Carter and nodded her head in agreement. She had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

"One of our more junior maids recently left service. Help is needed. Have your girl come to the house at five o'clock today--she can pick up the order for tomorrow's delivery. I think you have to check quantities, don't you, Mrs. Crawford?"

Cook nodded agreement, and looked at the list of vegetables again. They both knew that Frankie Dobbs never had to be told quantities, and always delivered exactly what was needed. Carter continued,"I'll interview her, just to make sure that she is right for the position."

Frankie breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank you, Mr. Carter, Mrs. Crawford. I'll be getting on now. Maisie will be here at five sharp."

The grieving man left quickly, and before leading his horse away, put his head against the Persephone's soft nose and wept. "It's for the best," he whispered. "It's for the best."

It was the nearest he had come to having "words" with his daughter. As Frankie broke the news to Maisie--that times were difficult, that he was only thinking of her, that he wanted her to be safe, and that the Compton household was a fine place to work--he watched the tears well up in her eyes, her jaw tighten with the effort of not giving in to the pressure to cry, and her fine, long-fingered hands clench into fists held firmly by her sides.

"But Dad, you know you need me here. I can help. I helped when Mum was ill. I can get another job, I can even do this job and come home at night, Dad."

"Maisie, love, we'll still see each other, you know that. Sunday afternoons we can go to the park, take a turn, have a cup of tea. We can go to see yer Nan and Granddad. But at least you'll have a place, a good job. And later on, we can get you into night school, to catch up. I'm all out, love. There's no money, and there's bills to pay. I don't even know if I can keep renting this house. Your mother going . . . ."

Maisie drew away as he reached out to her, turned her back to him, and looked out the window. They hadn't been well off, not by any means, but there used to be enough for a few extras. Now there was nothing, and there was ground to be made up. Then they would be all right. She sighed deeply in resignation.

"Dad, if I work at Lady Rowan's, and if I send you my money, and we make up the bills, then can I come back?"

"Oh, love. Then what would you do? I was thinking you might go on from there. Maybe get out of the Smoke. She's got a place in the country, you know. Down in Kent. She's got contacts, woman like that. You do yer classes at night, you might get yerself a private teaching job at one of them big 'ouses. You don't want to be back 'ere. Yer mother and me wanted so much for you, love."

Her father was tired beyond reckoning. They were both tired beyond reckoning. Too tired for this talk. But she would go to Lady Rowan's to see this Mr. Carter. And so help me, I'll work my way out of that place, thought Maisie. And on my own. I'll work so hard I'll take care of Dad. He won't have to get up at three in the morning by the time I've finished. Maisie bit her lip and looked up at nothing in particular on the wall. You'll see, I'll show him who can take care of herself. Maisie sighed, then reached out and put her arms around her father's waist.

"Dad, I'll go. You're right. Annie Clark down the road is in service now. So's Doreen Watts. Lot of girls are. It'll be all right. I'll see Mr. Carter. I won't let you down, Dad."

"Oh, love. You could never let me down."

Frankie Dobbs hugged his daughter close for a moment longer, then pushed her back."Now then, this is where you go."

Maisie Dobbs watched her father as he took a short pencil from his waistcoat pocket, licked the lead, and began to scribble directions on the back of a scrap of paper.

CHAPTER NINE

Days after securing the position of in-between maid, Maisie returned to the white four-story mansion in London's Belgravia, at the southern end of Ebury Place. Before reporting for work, Maisie stood in front of the building and looked up, wondering what it might be like to enter such a house through the front door. Transferring the canvas bag containing her clothes, hairbrushes, and several books from her right hand to her left, Maisie took a handkerchief from her coat pocket and wiped her eyes, hoping that no tell-tale marks were left from the tears shed on the bus from Lambeth. She sighed and, making her way to the left of the house, braced her shoulders and held on to the wrought iron banister to steady herself as she walked down the stone steps that led to the kitchen.

Once welcomed by Carter and Mrs. Crawford, Maisie took her belongings to the top floor of the house. The very top floor, the attic reached by "back stairs" from the kitchen. She shared the room with Enid.

Enid was a worldly sixteen-year-old, with pressed rouge on her cheeks and a hint of color on her lips, who had now reached such a high position of authority that she would be called upon to serve in the breakfast room come tomorrow morning. A thin, gangly girl, Enid was friendly enough to Maisie, who felt that circumstances would never give her cause to laugh again.

"That's your bed over there," was Enid's welcome to the shared bedroom. "Make yourself at home. We're up early in the morning. Half past four, five at the latest, so I hope you don't snore and keep me awake."

She grinned at Maisie, her freckled nose crinkling over the teasing remark. Enid was concentrating on her pronunciation, convinced that if she was to get anywhere in the world, she had to work quickly to introduce aitches into her spoken language. Thus every word beginning with the letter h was overpronounced, with a breathy start and a rapid completion. Huh-ome, huh-ouse, huh-ope. In fact, Enid's rather zealous pursuit of something better resulted in the occasional h where h had no place.

"H-ave you bin in s-h-ervice before, or is this your first poshishun?" asked Enid.

"No, this is my first. My mother passed on and my father thought it better . . . ."

Enid nodded. She never did know what to say when confronted by loss.

"Well, I reckon you'll do all right. You're tall, not as tall as me, mind, but taller than some of them short girls. They reckon the tall ones always do all right, get promoted quickly to serving, being as we look better in the uniform, more, you know, suited to the h-occasion. And you won't find them upstairs doin' any little tests to see if you're an h-onest sort--like puttin' a farthin' under the carpet to see if you take it or leave it on the side. Anyway, come on, Dobbsie, I'll show you where the facilities are. Come along with me."

Enid put her hand on Maisie's shoulder and led her along a dimly lit hallway to the "fac-hilities."

Carter had chosen to introduce her at breakfast. Maisie knew that in some houses the staff weren't introduced until they had reached a higher position, if at all. The practice changed at the Compton residence when Lord Julian had asked a maid to inform Lady Rowan that he would take tea with her in the drawing room, to which the maid had answered,"Yes, Sir. And who shall I say is calling?" Lady Rowan was appalled, and since that time had insisted upon meeting whoever was under her roof, even if the meeting was a short one.

"Your Lordship, Your Ladyship, may I introduce our new downstairs member of staff, Miss Maisie Dobbs." Carter held his hand out toward Maisie, who took one step forward, curtsied, and stepped back to her place alongside Carter.

Lord and Lady Compton were cordial, welcoming Maisie to the household, saying they were absolutely sure that she would be happy there. After a brief encounter, she left the dining room with Carter, to go down to the kitchens and receive her instructions for the day.

"My word, Julian, what a striking girl."

Lord Compton looked over a folded edge of The Times toward his wife. "Striking? Yes. Yes, I suppose so. Very young."

"Yes, very young. Very . . . there was something about her, wasn't there?"

"Mmm? About whom?" Lord Julian continued to read the newspaper.

"About Miss Dobbs. Something quite different about her, don't you think? Julian, are you listening?"

"Hmm? Oh, Rowan. Yes. Miss Dobb, Dobbins . . . what was her name? Dobbs?" Lord Julian looked out of the window to recall the conversation. "You know, Rowan, I think you are right. Could be those eyes. Very deep blue. Don't see that very often."

"Julian. I don't think it was the color of her eyes. It was nothing I could put my finger on."

Lady Rowan spread a thin slice of toast with butter and marmalade as Lord Julian turned to the next page of the morning paper. "Yes, Darling, probably nothing."

Within a few days, most people agreed that Maisie Dobbs had indeed settled in well to life at the Compton residence. Her day started at half past four, when she rose and poured cold water from the pitcher on the washstand into a large china bowl. She splashed her face and moistened a cloth to wash her body before hurriedly dressing, then tiptoeing down to the lowest level of the house to fill the coal scuttles.

Her first job was to take heavy coal scuttles to the breakfast room, the drawing room, His Lordship's study, the morning room, and to the hall. Kneeling by each fireplace, she pulled back the black iron grate cover, swept out yesterday's ashes, and placed them in an old empty scuttle. She rolled sheets of yesterday's newspaper, placed them in the grate, then carefully positioned dry kindling on top and lit the newspaper with a match.

As flames licked up and caught on the wood, Maisie leaned forward and balanced bricks of coal, one by one, on the spitting wood. Sitting back, she watched for just a few seconds as the fire crackled and flared into life. Satisfied that the wood and coal had taken the flames, she brushed splinters, coal dust, and ash under the grate, replaced the cover, and put a few more pieces of coal onto the mound before giving the fireplace a quick dust. She was ready to move on to another room.

When she had finished lighting fires in each of the rooms, it was time to fill the scuttles again and feed the fires so that the rooms were ready to warm those who had time to sit by a fire--people who had the time to be warmed by something other than hard work.

Throughout the day Maisie cleaned, ran errands for Cook, and generally served at the bidding of anyone above her in the pecking order, which was almost everyone in the household. But the duties of her waking hours brought a calm to Maisie's life that she had not known since before her mother became ill. She had only to follow the direction of others, and in the rhythm of her daily round, whether blacking the fireplaces, sweeping the stairs, or polishing furniture, there was room for thought--thought of what might be.

Maisie's "day off " was Sunday afternoon. As soon as the heavy clock on the mantelpiece over the kitchen stove struck a single chime at half past eleven, Maisie waited for Cook to look up at her and nod toward the door.

"All right, lass, off you go. And mind you're back by a decent hour!"

It was a feigned warning, because Maisie had nowhere to be at an indecent hour.

Untying her pinafore as she hurried from the kitchen and up the back stairs toward the servants' quarters, Maisie thought that her legs would never carry her as fast as her mind wanted to travel. She quickly changed into a long black skirt that had belonged to her mother, and a clean cotton blouse. She checked her reflection in the mirror just once, pushed her hat onto her head, and reached for her coat and coin purse before rushing through the bedroom door again. She was off to see her father, knowing that at twelve noon he would pull the fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and smile to himself. Frankie Dobbs couldn't wait for his girl to come home so they could spend a few hours together, a precious respite from a work-weary week.

On Sundays, Frankie was always to be found at the stable where he kept his mare, under the dry arches that were part of the Southern construction of Waterloo Bridge. Sunday was the day to clean the horse from head to hoof, to oil the leather traces, polish the brasses, and make sure the cart was ready for another week's work. It was an easy morning, a morning made sweeter by the knowledge that soon Maisie's footsteps would clatter against the cobblestone street leading to the stables.

"Love, you are a sight for sore eyes. How are you, my girl?"

"Well enough, Dad. I'm well enough."

"Let me just finish this, then we'll go home for a cuppa."

Together they worked in the stable, finally leaving the horse to the remainder of her day at rest. After a cup of tea, Frankie would dress in his Sunday best, and father and daughter would catch a bus to Brockwell Park, where they walked together before stopping to eat a packed lunch.

"You should see the library, Dad! I've never seen so many books. Walls of them. About everything."

"You and your books, girl. You keeping up with your reading?"

"Yes, Dad. I go to the public library every week on a Wednesday afternoon. Mrs. Crawford sends me with a list for her and Mr. Carter, and I get books for myself as well. Mind you, Enid says she can't sleep with the light on, so I can't read for long."

"You watch your eyes, my girl, you only get one pair, you know."

"Dad!"

"I know, I'm naggin'. So, what about the other folk downstairs, what're they like, then?"

Father and daughter sat down on a wooden bench overlooking a flowerbed."Well, you know Mr. Carter and Mrs. Crawford."

"That I do. Good people, both of them."

"Well, anyway, Mrs. Crawford is called 'Cook' and 'Mrs. Crawford' without any--well, without any method to it."

"What do you mean, love?"

"I mean that sometimes she's called 'Cook' or sometimes 'Mrs. Crawford' and there's no rule--sometimes it's both names in one sentence."

Frankie chewed on a sandwich, and nodded his head for Maisie to continue.

"There's two footmen, Arthur and Cedric, and there's Her Ladyship's maid, Nora--she's a bit quiet. Apparently, at the big house, in Kent, there's more staff and a housekeeper, Mrs. Johnson. There's some scullery maids--Dossie, Emily, and Sadie--who help Mrs. Crawford in the kitchen, and of course there's Enid."

"What's she like, then?"

"She's got hair the color of a blazing fire, Dad. Really red, it is. And when she brushes it out at night, it goes right up like this."

Maisie held out her hands to indicate a distance away from the sides of her head, which made Frankie laugh. Something he couldn't understand--how she could look like a child one minute, and like a mature woman the next.

"She nice to you, love?"

"She's all right, Dad. Blows hot and cold, though. One minute she seems full of the joys of spring, and the next, well, I just keep out of her way."

"I might've guessed. Your carrottops are always the same. Remember, love, the more you're yourself, the more it's like you've just put iron shoes on yer feet--they'll 'old you to the ground when that 'ot and cold air comes rushing from 'er direction. That's the key with that sort."

Maisie nodded, as if to take in this important advice, and continued with her story. "The other thing about Enid is that I think she's sweet on Master James."

Frankie laughed again. "Oh! I see it didn't take you long to get wind of the goings-on! What's 'e like, then, this James? Bit old to be called 'Master,' in' 'e?"

"Well, apparently, so I heard Cook saying, His Lordship gave instructions that Master James should be called Master until he proved his worth. Or something like that. He comes into the kitchen sometimes, you know, of an evening, after dinner. I've watched him. He comes in to see Cook, and as he walks by Enid, he always winks at her. She goes all red in the face and looks the other way, but I know she likes him. And Cook pretends to tell him off for coming into her kitchen, as if he was still a little boy, but then she brings out a big plate of ginger biscuits--which he gets stuck into while he's standing there in the kitchen! Drives Mr. Carter mad, it does."

"I should think it does! Likes order, does Mr. Carter. Now then, tell me about the 'ouse itself."

And Maisie smiled, glad to be in the easy company of her father, a man who was given to remark that a person could take him as they found him, there were no airs around Frankie Dobbs. And Frankie was more at peace now. Life itself was easier--easier now that the man knew his daughter to be in good hands. Easier now that the bills were being paid. Yes, thought Frankie Dobbs as he walked with his daughter in the park, it was all getting easier.

Maisie was fascinated by the library. It was well used, for both Lord and Lady Compton enjoyed literature, politics, and keeping up with the fancies of intellectual London. But when Maisie opened the door and brought in the coal scuttle at five in the morning, it was a quiet room. The lush velvet curtains kept drafts at bay and allowed warmth to seep into every corner after Maisie had lit the fire ready for whoever would use the room that morning.

Each day she lingered just a little longer before kneeling down to the fireplace, before her hands were blackened by the lighting of fires. Each day she learned a little more about the depth and breadth of knowledge housed in the Comptons' library, and each day her hunger grew. Gradually she became braver, first tentatively touching the leather binding as she read the title on the spine of a book, then taking the text from its place on the shelf and opening the fine onionskin pages at the front of the book.

The library seized Maisie's imagination, rendering the small public library with which she was familiar a very poor runner-up in her estimation. Of all the rooms in the house, she loved this the most. One morning, as she replaced a book to attend to the fireplace, a thought occurred to Maisie.

After her mother's death, she had been used to rising at three in the morning to make her father his tea. It had never hurt her then. In fact, she considered getting up at half past four to be "lying in." So, what if she got up at three in the morning and came down to the library? No one would know. Enid could sleep through the roof falling in over her head, and she had started coming up to bed late over the past week anyway. Lord knows where she had been, but it certainly wasn't out, because Carter locked up the house as if it were the Bank of England every night. She dreaded that Enid might be with Master James. Just two weeks ago, as she was leaving Lady Rowan's sitting room, where she had been sent to collect a tray one evening, Maisie saw Enid and James together on the first-floor landing. Without being observed by them, she watched as James ran his fingers through his fair hair and continued speaking with Enid, his gray eyes intent upon her response to his question. Was it a question? Surely it was, because she saw Enid shake her head and look at the carpet, while brushing her right shoe back and forth across the fibers.

And now Enid was never in bed before midnight--which meant that, thankfully, she would be deep in slumber by three o'clock. Maisie resolved to come to the library when the house was asleep. That night, before pulling up the covers and extinguishing the small lamp beside her bed, Maisie pinched the skin on her right arm sharply three times to ensure that she would awake in time to put her plan into action.

The next morning Maisie awakened easily by three o'clock. A chill in the attic room tempted her to forget her plan, but she sat up, determined to go through with it. She washed and dressed with hardly a sound, crept out of the room carrying her shoes and a cardigan, and felt her way downstairs in the dark. In the silent distance, the kitchen clock struck the single chime of a quarter past the hour. She had almost two hours before the coal scuttles had to be filled.

The library was silent and pitch black as Maisie entered. Quickly closing the door behind her, she lit the lamps and made her way to the section that held philosophy books. This was where she would start. She wasn't quite sure which text to start with, but felt that if she just started somewhere, a plan would develop as she went along. The feeling inside that she experienced when she saw the books was akin to the hunger she felt as food was put on the table at the end of the working day. And she knew that she needed this sustenance as surely as her body needed its fuel.

Maisie's fingers tapped along the spines of books until she could bear the electric tingle of excitement no longer. Within minutes, she was seated at the table, opening The Philosophical Works of David Hume, and drawing the desk lamp closer to illuminate the pages. Maisie took a small notebook and pencil from her apron pocket, set it down on the desk and wrote the title of the book and the author's name. And she read. For an hour and a half, Maisie read. She read with understanding on a subject she had barely even heard of.

As the library clock chimed a quarter to five, Maisie turned to her notebook and wrote a precis of what she had read, what she understood, and her questions. The clock struck five, Maisie put the notebook and pencil away in her apron pocket, closed the book, replaced it ever so carefully on the shelf, extinguished the desk light, and left the room. She closed the door quietly behind her and went quickly downstairs to fill the coal scuttles. Just a short while later she opened the library door again. Without looking at the shelves, as if eye contact with the spines of the beloved books would give her game away, she set the coal scuttle down and knelt by the grate to build and light the fire.

Each weekday morning Maisie rose at three to visit the library. Sometimes a party at the house would keep the Comptons up until the small hours, and the change in routine made the library expeditions a risk she could not afford. She was liked in the house, though she had been spoken to by Lord and Lady Compton only once, when she had first arrived.

Half past two. Maisie crept out of bed. It was earlier than usual, but she couldn't sleep. She had gone to bed early, so it would be just as well to get up now. Enid slept soundly, which hardly surprised Maisie as the girl hadn't been in bed long. She was becoming a late one, that Enid. As late as Maisie was early. One of these days we'll meet in the doorway, thought Maisie. Then we'll have to do some talking.

The house was silent; only the ticking of clocks accompanied her to the library. Now when she entered the room it was as if she were falling into the arms of an old friend. Even the tentacles of cold receded as she turned on the light, placed her notebook and pencil on the desk, and went to the bookshelves. She took down the book she had been reading for the past three days, sat at the desk, found her place, and commenced.

Frankie Dobbs always said that when she was reading Maisie had "cloth ears." She always seemed instinctively to know the time and when she would need to stop reading to run an errand or complete a chore, but as far as Frankie was concerned, "Those ears don't even work when you've yer nose in a book!"And he loved her all the more for it.

Lord and Lady Compton were caught up in the midst of the London season, which Lady Rowan loved for its energy, even if she did have to tolerate some people she considered to be "light." Fortunately late nights usually fell on weekends, but this invitation, in the middle of the week, was not to be missed: an intimate yet sumptuous dinner with one of London's most outspoken hostesses.

"Thank God there's someone with a bigger mouth than mine," Lady Rowan confided to her husband.

Guests were to include some of the leading literary lights of Europe. It was an opportunity for sparkling conversation, definitely not to be missed. Maurice Blanche would accompany them, a rare event, as he was known to shun society gatherings.

After-dinner conversation drifted past midnight. It was only as Maisie Dobbs crept downstairs to the library that Lord and Lady Compton, along with Maurice Blanche, bade their hostess adieu, thanking her profusely for a wonderful evening. They arrived home at three in the morning. Carter had been instructed not to wait up, but an evening supper tray had been left for them in the drawing room. Lady Rowan was still in fine argumentative fettle as Lord Julian led the way.

"I tell you, Maurice, this time you are mistaken. Only last week I was reading--where was I reading--oh yes, that new book. You know, Julian, what was it called? Anyway, I was reading about a new hypothesis that utterly controverts your position."

"Rowan, could we please--" interrupted Lord Julian.

"Julian, no, we couldn't. Pour Maurice a drink. I'll find the book, then you'll see!"

"As you will, Rowan. I am very much looking forward to seeing what you have read. One always welcomes the opportunity to learn," said Maurice Blanche.

While the men settled by the embers of the drawing-room fire, Lady Rowan stormed upstairs to the library. Maisie Dobbs was deep in her book. She heard neither footsteps on the stairs nor the approach of Lady Rowan. She heard nothing until Lady Rowan spoke. And she did not speak until she had watched Maisie for some minutes, watched as the girl sucked on the end of her single braid of thick, black hair, deep in concentration. Occasionally she would turn a page back, reread a sentence, nod her head, then read on.

"Excuse me. Miss Dobbs."

Maisie sat up and closed her eyes tightly, not quite believing that a voice had addressed her.

"Miss Dobbs!"

Maisie shot up from the chair, turned to face Lady Rowan, and quickly bobbed a curtsy."Sorry, Your Ladyship. Begging your pardon, Ma'am. I've not harmed anything."

"What are you doing, girl?" asked Lady Rowan.

"Reading, Ma'am."

"Well, I can see that. Let me see that book."

Maisie turned, took the book she had been reading, and handed it to Lady Rowan. She stepped back, feet together, hands at her sides. Bloody hell, she was in trouble now.

"Latin? Latin! What on earth are you reading Latin for?"

Lady Rowan's surprise stemmed questions that another employer might have put to the young maid.

"Um . . . well. Um . . . I needed to learn it," replied Maisie.

"You needed to learn it? Why do you need to learn Latin?"

"The other books had Latin in them, so I needed to understand it. To understand the other books, that is."

Maisie shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Now she needed to pee. For her part Lady Rowan was regarding Maisie sternly, yet she felt a strange curiosity to know more about the girl she had already thought unusual.

"Which other books? Show me," demanded Lady Rowan.

One by one Maisie took down the books, her hands shaking, her legs turning to jelly as she moved the library steps from one shelf to another. Whatever happened next, it was sure to be bad. Very bad. And she had let down her dad. How would she tell him she had been sacked? What would she say?

Maisie was so scared that she did not notice that, in her curiosity, Lady Rowan had forgotten the formality with which she would ordinarily address a servant. She asked Maisie about her choice of books, and Maisie, taking up her notebook, recounted what she had learned in her reading, and what questions had led her to each text in turn.

"My, my, young lady. You have been busy. All I can remember of Latin is the end of that verse:'First it killed the Romans, and now it's killing me!' "

Maisie looked at Lady Rowan and smiled. She wasn't sure if it was a joke, but she couldn't stop the grin from forming. It was the first time she had truly smiled since coming to the house. The expression was not lost on Lady Rowan, who felt herself torn between regard for the girl and the appropriate response in such a situation.

"Maisie--Miss Dobbs. There is still time for you to enjoy a short rest before your duties commence. Go back to your room now. I shall need to discuss this incident. In the meantime, do not use the library until you hear from Carter, who will instruct you as to how we will deal with this . . . situation." Lady Rowan felt the requirements of her position pressing upon her, just as it had when she had been taken by Maurice to the East End of London. How could she do what was right, without compromising--how had Maurice described it? Yes, without compromising "the safety of her own pond"?

"Yes, Your Ladyship." Maisie put her notebook into in her pocket, and with tears of fear visibly pricking the inner corners of her eyes, bobbed another curtsy.

Lady Rowan waited until Maisie had left the room before extinguishing the lights. It was only as she walked slowly down the staircase that she remembered that she had gone to the library for a book.

"Bloody fool," she said to herself, and walked toward the drawing room to speak with her husband and Maurice Blanche on a new topic of conversation.

CHAPTER TEN

Maisie had hardly been able to concentrate on anything since being discovered. She felt sure that notice to leave the employ of Lord and Lady Compton would soon follow, and was surprised that one week had gone by without any word. Then Carter summoned Maisie to his "office," the term he sometimes used--especially in grave situations where a reprimand was to be meted out--to describe the butler's pantry, a small room adjacent to the kitchen, where he kept meticulous records regarding the running of the house.

Maisie was in a miserable state. The embarrassment of being caught, together with the pain of anticipating her father's dismay at her behavior, was almost too much to bear. And of course, she no longer had access to the Comptons' library. Wringing her already work-reddened hands, Maisie knocked on the door of Mr. Carter's office. Her nails were bitten down to the quick, and she had picked at her cuticles until her fingers were raw. It had been a nerve-wracking week.

"Enter," said Carter, with a tone that was neither soft and welcoming nor overtly displeased. It was a tone that gave nothing away.

"Good morning, Mr. Carter." Maisie bobbed a curtsy as she walked into the small room."You wanted to see me, Sir?"

"Yes, Maisie. You know why I have summoned you. Lady Compton wishes to meet with you at twelve noon today. Sharp. In the library. I shall myself be in attendance, as will a colleague of both Lord and Lady Compton.

"Yes, Mr. Carter."

Maisie could bear the wait no longer, and although fear was nipping at her throat and chest, she had to know her fate.

"Mr. Carter, Sir?"

"Yes, Maisie?" Carter regarded her over half-moon spectacles.

"Mr. Carter. Can't you just get on with it? Give me the sack now, so that I don't have to--"

"Maisie. No one has said anything about the sack. I am instructed only to accompany you to a meeting with Lady Rowan and Dr. Blanche. I have also been requested to take your notebooks to the library this morning at half past ten. Please bring them to me directly so that I can take them to Lady Rowan."

"But . . ." Maisie did not understand, and although she thought that Carter did not understand either, she suspected he might have an inkling."Mr. Carter, Sir. What's this all about?"

Carter adjusted his tie and swept an imaginary hair from the cuff of his crisp white shirt."Maisie, it is most unusual. However, I do not believe your employment here is at an end. In fact, rather the contrary. Now then. The notebooks. Then I believe the sideboard in the dining room is to be waxed and polished this morning, so you had better get on."

Maisie bobbed another curtsy and turned to leave the office.

"And Maisie," said Carter, sweeping back his well-combed gray-at-the-temples hair. "Although respect should always be accorded our employers and their guests, there's no need to keep bobbing up and down like a sewing-machine needle when you are downstairs."

Maisie absentmindedly bobbed again and quickly left the office. She returned fifteen minutes later with her collection of small notebooks for Carter. She was terrified of the meeting that was to take place at twelve noon, and was sure that she would spend half the time until then in the lavatory.

Carter was waiting at the foot of the first-floor stairs at five minutes to twelve when Maisie walked toward him from the landing that led to the lower stairs and the kitchen. He drew his pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket, determined to be not a moment too soon or a second too late.

"Ah, Maisie," he said as she approached, hands clasped together in front of her white pinafore.

Carter looked the girl up and down to check for marks on the pinafore and scuffs on her shoes, for stray tendrils of hair escaping from her white cap.

"Nicely turned out. Good. Let us proceed."

Carter checked his watch once more, turned, and led the way to the library. Maisie had a horrible taste in her mouth. What would her father say when she came home with her small canvas bag and no job? Well, perhaps it was for the best. She missed him something rotten, so perhaps it would be a very good thing. Carter knocked briskly at the door. A voice could be heard within.

"Come in."

Maisie closed her eyes for a second, put her hands behind her back, and crossed her fingers.

"Ah, Carter. Miss Dobbs. Maisie. Do come in."

"Thank you, Ma'am," said Carter. Maisie bobbed her curtsy and looked sideways at Carter. Lady Rowan beckoned Maisie to her.

"Maurice, this is the girl of whom we have been speaking."Then, inclining her head slightly toward Maisie, she said, "I would like to introduce Dr. Maurice Blanche. He knows of our meeting in the library, and I have consulted with him regarding the situation."

Maisie was now utterly confused. What situation? And who was this man? What was going on? Maisie nodded and curtsied to the man standing alongside Lady Rowan.

"Sir," she said in acknowledgment.

She didn't know what to make of this small man. He wasn't as tall as Lady Rowan, and while he looked well fed, there was a wiryness to him. Solid, as her dad would have said. Solid. She couldn't even guess his age, but thought he was older than her dad, but not as old as Grandad. Over fifty, perhaps sixty. He had blue-gray eyes that looked as if they were floating in water, they were that clear. And his hands--they had long fingers with wide nails. Hands that could play the piano, very exact hands that made precise movements. She saw that when he took up her notebooks from a walnut side table and flicked a page or two.

He was a plain dresser, not done up like two penn'orth of hambone like some of them that she'd seen at the house. No, this was a plain man. And he looked right through her. And because she thought that she had nothing to lose and because her dad had told her always to "stand tall," Maisie stiffened her spine, pulled her shoulders back, and looked him straight in the eye as he had looked at her. Then he smiled.

"Miss Dobbs, Maisie. Lady Rowan has spoken with me about your encounter in the library last week."

Here it comes, thought Maisie. She clenched her teeth.

"Now then, come with me."

Maurice Blanche walked to the library table and sat down, then invited Maisie to sit next to him, with her notebooks in front of them.

Lady Rowan nodded at Carter, who remained by the door, as she walked to stand by the window. They watched as Blanche spoke with Maisie.

Gradually he broke down Maisie's shyness and the formalities that separated housemaid and houseguest. Within fifteen minutes the two were in animated conversation. Maurice Blanche asked questions, Maisie answered, often with another question. Clever, thought Carter, very clever. The way that Dr. Blanche drew Maisie out, with his voice, his eyes, a finger tapped upon the page, a question punctuated by a hand placed on the chin to listen. Lady Rowan was equally riveted by the discourse, but her interest was of a more personal nature. Maisie Dobbs's future was part of her own quest to challenge herself, and what was considered correct in a household such as hers and for a woman of her titled position.

An hour passed. An hour during which Carter was sent to bring tea for Dr. Blanche. Nothing was requested for Maisie. It would never do for a man of Carter's position to be at the service of a maid. Yet Carter sensed that something important was happening, that this was an hour during which the established structure of life in the house was changing. And he foresaw that changes that came as a result of whatever came to pass in this room this morning would affect them all. And these were strange-enough times already, what with old King Edward just dead and King George V's coronation around the corner.

Finally Maurice Blanche asked Maisie to close and collect her books. She did as instructed and drew away from the table to stand next to Carter, while Lady Rowan joined Maurice Blanche at the table.

"Rowan, I am more than satisfied," said Dr. Blanche. "You may reveal our plan to Miss Dobbs and Mr. Carter. Then we shall see if Mr. Carter agrees and how we may begin."

Lady Rowan spoke, first looking at Carter, then at Maisie. "Last week when I came upon Miss Dobbs in the library, I was struck by the breadth of her reading. We know that anyone can take down a book and read, but when I briefly looked at her notebooks I realized that there was also a depth of understanding. You are a very bright girl, Miss Dobbs."

Lady Rowan glanced at Maurice Blanche, who nodded to her to continue.

"I know that this is most unusual. Carter has already been given an indication of my thoughts, and has concurred with my decision. Now I can be more specific. Lord Compton and I are believers in education and opportunity. However, opportunities to contribute directly are rare. Miss Dobbs, we have a proposal for you."

Maisie blushed and looked at her shoes as Lady Rowan continued.

"Under the direction of Dr. Blanche you will continue your studies here. Dr. Blanche is a busy man, but he will meet with you once every fortnight in the library. Your studies, and the tutorials with Dr. Blanche, must, however, be on your own time and must not interfere in any way with your work in the house. What do you say to that, Maisie?"

Maisie was shocked, but after taking a moment to consider, she flashed the smile that seemed to be working its way back into her life. "Thank you, Ma'am. Sir--Dr. Blanche--thank you."

"Miss Dobbs," said Maurice Blanche, "hold your thanks for the time being. You may not take kindly to me when you have seen my plans for your education."

That night, when Maisie was in bed, she was hardly able to sleep for wondering about the events of the day. Carter had been accommodating, but then he was kind. And the other staff, when they had learned about it later--because that Mrs. Crawford was a right old chatterbox--seemed to be all right with it all, as long as she pulled her weight in the house. There hadn't been any snide comments, or jealousy. But when Enid finally came to bed in the early hours, she wasted no time in voicing a thought that had been at the back of Maisie's mind.

"You'd've thought they would've just sent you to one of those fancy schools, on the QT, like. Or even paid for your uniform and all that, for the school where you won the scholarship. They're not short of a few bob, are they?"

Maisie nodded.

"But you know what I reckon, Mais? To be perf-hectly honest with you. I reckon they knew you would 'ave a rotten time there. What with all them toffs. It would get you down, it would. Reckon that's what it is."

Without waiting for a response, and using her hairbrush as a pointer for emphasis, Enid continued. "And what you've got to remember, Dobbsie, is that there's them upstairs, and there's us downstairs. There's no middle, never was. So the likes of you and me can't just move up a bit, if that's what you think. We've got to jump, Dobbsie, and bloody 'igh to boot!"

Maisie knew that there was more than a grain of truth in her words. But if Her Ladyship wanted a cause, someone with whom to play 'Lady Bountiful,' she didn't mind being on the receiving end if it meant getting on with her education.

Maisie changed the subject. "So, where were you tonight, Enid?" she asked.

"Never you mind. You can keep that there clever mind of yours on your own business now, and don't you be thinking about mine."

Maisie closed her eyes, then quickly fell asleep. She dreamt of long corridors of books, of Dr. Blanche at the library table, and of Enid. And even with the excitement of her lessons with Dr. Blanche, it was the dream about Enid that remained with her throughout the next day, and for some days to come. And she tried not to think about the dream and Enid, because every time she did, she shivered along the full length of her spine.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Lord Julian Compton knew of his wife's "project" and gave the education of Maisie Dobbs his blessing, although secretly he believed that the exercise would soon falter and any ambitions shown by young Miss Dobbs would be extinguished under the strain of trying to be two very different people, to say nothing of being a girl on the cusp of womanhood. He was intrigued by Maurice Blanche and his interest in Maisie's education, and it was this involvement, rather than his wife's philanthropic gestures, that led him to allow that the project might, in fact, have some merit. He held Maurice Blanche in high esteem, and was even in some awe of the man.

Maisie, for her part, felt no fatigue at the end of a long day. She began her chores in the household at her usual early hour, starting with the lighting of fires, the cleaning of rooms, and the polishing of heavy mahogany furniture. The job of cleaning cutlery fell to the junior footman, though when she handled the solid silver knives and forks, perhaps when cleaning the dining room after dinner guests had departed to the drawing room, she looked with care at the inscription. Each piece of fine cutlery bore the Compton crest, a great hunting dog and a stag together with the words "Let There Be No Ill Will." Maisie pondered the crest as she collected the soiled silverware. The hunter and the hunted, the suggestion of forgiveness between the victor and the victim, and the fact that both stood tall and proud. In fact, Maisie had taken to pondering just about everything that happened in the course of a day, seeing coincidences and patterns in the life around her.

Mrs. Crawford put Maisie's behavior down to her work with Maurice Blanche, an assumption that was, of course, correct.

"I dunno, when I was a girl learning meant your reading, your writing, and your 'rithmetic. None of this lark, this philosophy nonsense."

Mrs. Crawford pointed a floury finger at Maisie, who had just returned from the weekly visit to the library. She was placing books, those for Mrs. Crawford and Mr. Carter, as well as her own, carefully in a kitchen cupboard, so they would not become soiled by the business of the kitchen. Later she would take her selection to her room for more late-night reading. Cook had immediately noted the girth of Maisie's books, and could not resist comment--to which Carter felt bound to respond.

"I am sure that Mr. Blanche knows more about the education of a young person for today's world than either you or I, Cook. But I must say, Maisie, that is rather a large tome, is it not?"

Carter, decanting a fine port, did not stop his task to wait for an answer, but cast his eyes over his spectacles in Maisie's direction.

"Maisie--are you listening to Mr. Carter?"

Carter exchanged glances with Mrs. Crawford, and both rolled their eyes in a compact that hid their true feelings. They were very proud of Maisie Dobbs, and laid some claim in their hearts to the discovery of her intellectual gifts.

"Sorry, Mr. Carter. Were you speaking to me?" She had to remove her little finger from her mouth to speak. Maisie had hurried back from the library to allow an extra few moments to dip into one of her books.

"Yes, Mr. Carter was speaking to you, Maisie--and if I see that finger in your mouth again, I swear I'll paint your nails with carbolic. It's a wonder you've got hands left, they way you chew on those fingers."

"Sorry, Mrs. Crawford. Begging your pardon, Mr. Carter? I'll get going again now. I just thought I'd take a quick peek."

Carter studied the kitchen clock. "You can have five minutes. Cook and I were commenting on the width of that book. It's a fair size. Is Dr. Blanche working you too hard, Maisie?"

"It's Kierkegaard. Mr. Blanche says I should read this because he-- Kierkegaard--has had a considerable influence on modern thought. And no, don't worry, I can keep up with everything."

Cook and Carter exchanged glances once again, neither wanting to show ignorance about some newfangled thing that sounded to both of them like "kick the guard."

In the meantime Maisie took a notebook from her apron pocket and began to write down her questions and observations for Maurice Blanche. As Carter had suspected, she had already started reading the book on her way back from the library, and was sufficiently into it to be completely absorbed. Once finished, she replaced the notebook in her pocket, glanced at the heavy oak clock with the pearl white face and bold black numbers that was visible from any angle in the kitchen, and stood up from the table.

"I just need to put my book away, then I'll get on with making up the stove before I do the polishing."

Maisie moved quickly from the room, remembering the house rule that those from "below stairs" never ever ran, but when speed was of the essence, a brisk walk was permissible.

"I don't know how she still manages to see her poor father, what with her work down here, and all that book learning. I will say this for her, she's got some spirit, has that girl." Mrs. Crawford swept her forearm across her brow and continued with the pastry making. Carter had completed the task of decanting the port and was now uncorking brandy, to be carefully poured into a fine cut-crystal decanter. He made no reply to Mrs. Crawford's comments, which rather annoyed the woman, as she was given to strong opinions and the need to defend and discuss them.

"I wonder, Mr. Carter, what will happen when Maisie has a young man. I wonder, you know, what will happen to her. Fish can't survive long out of water, you know."

Mrs. Crawford stopped rolling the pastry and looked at Carter, who remained silent. "I said, Mr. Carter--"

"Cook--Mrs. Crawford--I know what you said. I would suggest that the education of Miss Dobbs is in good hands. I would also suggest that Miss Dobbs is a very determined young woman who will be more successful than most when it comes to surviving outside her established boundaries. Now then, it is not for us to question the decisions of our employers. We can do only what is required of us in the circumstances, don't you think?"

Mrs. Crawford, who had been filling a pastry-lined dish with fresh-sliced apple, added cinnamon and clove with rather more than her usual flourish, replied with a certain asperity, "Right you are, Mr. Carter," before turning her back on him to check the oven.

Maisie's education was indeed going well. Maurice Blanche had encouraged an easy camaraderie while maintaining the certain distance required by his position, and by Maisie's. Within eighteen months of embarking upon the demanding timetable set by Blanche, Maisie was studying at a level of which a master at one of the prestigious private schools of the day would have been proud.

For her part Maisie knew only that the work challenged and excited her. When Maurice handed her a new text, she felt a thrill of anticipation. Would the book be brand new, unread, with pages untouched by another? If so, then Maurice would request a precis of the content, and her assessment of the text.

"Four pages of quarto, if you please. And a word of advice. This man has opinions. Opinions, as we have discussed, are not fact. But of course, as we know, Maisie, they may be the source of truth. I will be speaking with you about the truth demonstrated in this thesis, Maisie, so be prepared!"

Of course, the text may have already been read and in that case, each page would bear penciled notation in Maurice Blanche's small, fine handwriting with its slight slant to the right. A single page of questions would be tucked inside, between the back page and the cover. Maisie knew that each question must be answered.

"I never want to learn that you 'don't know,' Maisie, I want to know what you think the answer is to the question. And once more, a word of advice: Stay with the question. The more it troubles you, the more it has to teach you. In time, Maisie, you will find that the larger questions in life share such behavior."

It had been almost two years since Maisie's mother passed away, and still Frankie Dobbs grieved. He swore that it was Maisie who kept him going, for Frankie Dobbs lived for Sundays, and always the ritual was the same.

Although it was not a market day, Frankie would be at the stable with Persephone from an early hour, not as early as on a weekday, but early all the same. He talked softly to his mare, brushing her coat until she shone, caring for mane and tail, and checking hooves that had to pull a heavy load over a considerable distance each day. There was a warm, oaty sweetness to the stable, and here Frankie, often so ungainly when walking down the street or in company, was completely at ease. It was usually as Frankie was halfway through the Sunday morning round of chores that Maisie could be heard walking up the cobblestones toward the stable.

"Dad, I'm here," Maisie called out to him before looking over the half-door and waving. Always she brought something for Frankie from Mrs. Crawford, perhaps a pork pie wrapped in fine white muslin and brown paper, freshly baked bread still warm to the touch, or a steamed apple pudding that needed only "A bit o' warming up over the stove," according to the cook.

Maisie quickly pulled off her coat and rolled up her sleeves. Father and daughter worked together to finish the morning's labor, their talk made easier by their movement. They shared confidences easily as their hands were busy with job of work.

"So, your learning's coming along, is it, Girl?"

"Yes, Dad. Dr. Blanche is looking ahead, he says. Reckons I could be ready for scholarship and entrance exams next year."

"Entrance for what?" asked Frankie, as he moved toward the pump to refill his bucket with water to rinse Persephone's leather reins and traces, which he had just lathered with saddle soap.

"Well, um, university. Dr. Blanche says I can do it. Her ladyship is very keen for me to apply to Cambridge, to Girton College. Says it's the place for an individualist."

"Did she now? Cambridge. Well, there's posh for you, my girl!" Frankie laughed but then looked seriously at Maisie. "As long as you don't push yourself, Love. And Cambridge is a long way off, isn't it? Where would you live? And what about mixing with the type of folk at a place like that"

"I dunno, Dad. I have to live at the college, I think. There are all sorts of rules about that, you know. And I will meet people. I'll be just fine, Dad. Girton is a women's college away in a village, after all."

"Yes, but those other young women have more money than you do, and they've got more, you know, connections, like."

Maisie looked up from brushing Persephone. Even though Frankie had already brushed the horse from head to tail, Maisie loved to feel the warm animal close to her, and knew the horse appreciated her efforts.

"Dad, I'm not a child any more. I'm fifteen now. And I've seen more than a lot of girls my age. Dr. Blanche knows what he is doing."

"Yes, love, I'm sure he does. Clever man, that one. I just worry about you."

Frankie rubbed the cleaned leather with a dry cloth, and hung reins and traces from a hook on the low ceiling. Later, after Maisie's return to Belgravia, Frankie would come back to the stable to feed Persephone, then take down the dry reins, bridle, and traces, and rub warmed neatsfoot oil into the leather.

"Don't worry about me, Dad. I'm doing very well, you know. Now then, where shall we go for our walk? I've got some nice sandwiches and a couple of bottles of ginger beer for us."

Three days after her visit with Frankie, Maisie walked briskly toward the library for her early-evening lesson. She saw Maurice Blanche on alternate Wednesday evenings, meeting promptly at half past five in the library, for three hours, until Dr. Blanche left to join the Comptons for an informal supper in the dining room. She studied alone until he had finished supper, when both he and Lady Rowan joined Maisie in the library to review her work. Lady Rowan was well pleased with the education of Maisie Dobbs, asking questions and suggesting new areas of study. But this evening a new possibility was discussed.

"Maisie, I think it is time for us to embark on some fieldwork."

Maisie looked first at Blanche, then at Lady Rowan. Botany. It had to be botany.

"Lady Rowan has spoken with Mr. Carter, and next week, on Wednesday, we will be taking an excursion. In fact, I have several such outings planned, and on those afternoons we must meet a little earlier than usual."

"What sort of outings? Where are we going?"

"Various places," said Blanche, "Of historical, social, or economic interest."

Little more was said, but in the following weeks Maisie was taken by Blanche to meet people with whom she would spend time alone in conversation. At first Maurice would remain with her, but as time went on, he would quietly leave the room to allow for conversation between Maisie and his friend, for each person who met with Maisie was considered a "friend" by Maurice Blanche. As far as Maisie was concerned, some of them were a strange lot altogether, and she wasn't sure what Frankie Dobbs would have to say about it all.

"Today we will be meeting with my dear friend Dr. Basil Khan," Maurice Blanche informed Maisie as they journeyed to Hampstead by taxi-cab. "An extraordinary scholar, born in Ceylon, into a very-high-caste family. His first name was given as a mark of respect to one of his father's former colleagues, an Englishman. Khan, as he prefers to be known, is completely blind. He lost his sight in an unfortunate accident, but as these things do, it became the foundation for his life's work."

"What's his life's work?"

"Khan, as you will see, is a man of great wisdom, of insight. His work uses that insight. He grants audiences to politicians, people of commerce, men of the cloth. He came to England as a young man, sent by his parents to see ophthalmic specialists, to no avail. While in England he gained his doctorate in philosophy at Oxford. Then he returned to Ceylon, and later traveled throughout the Indian subcontinent, himself seeking the counsel of wise men. To do this he had to give up the life he had once enjoyed in London and Oxford, which he had ceased to enjoy. Now he resides in Hampstead."

"So why am I to see him?"

"Maisie, we are visiting for him to see you. And for you to learn that seeing is not necessarily something one does with the eyes."

The visit to Khan was illuminating for Maisie. His apartments in a grand house were furnished in a simple manner: plain wooden furniture, curtains without pattern or texture, candlelight, and a strange smell that made her cough at first.

"You will get used to it, Maisie. Khan uses incense to bring a fragrant atmosphere to the house."

At first Maisie was timid when led into a large room with only cushions on the floor and an old man sitting with legs crossed. He was positioned by the long French window as if contemplating the view, so that as Maisie and Maurice Blanche walked toward him, Khan was framed by shafts of light, and appeared to have been borne into the room by some mystical means of transportation. Without turning, Khan gestured toward Maisie with his hand.

"Come, child, come sit with me. We have much to speak of."

To her surprise Maurice Blanche motioned Maisie to step forward, and moved toward Khan himself. He leaned down toward Khan, took the old man's bony brown hands in his own, and kissed his lined and furrowed forehead. Khan smiled and nodded, then turned to Maisie.

"Tell me what it is you know, child."

"Um . . ."

Both Khan and Maurice laughed, and the old man with long gray hair and almost colorless eyes smiled kindly at Maisie.

"Yes, a good start. A very good start. Let us talk of knowing."

So Maisie Dobbs--daughter of a costermonger from Lambeth, just south of the water that divided London's rich and poor--began to learn in the way that Maurice had intended, from the centuries of wisdom accumulated by Khan.

With Khan she learned to sit in deliberate silence, and learned too that the stilled mind would give insight beyond the teaching of books and hours of instruction, and that such counsel would support all other learning. When she first sat with Khan, she asked what it was she was to do as she sat with legs crossed on the cushion in front of him. The old man lifted his face to the window, then turned his clear white eyes toward her and said simply,"Pay attention."

Maisie took the practice of sitting with Khan seriously and to heart, with an instinctive knowledge that this work would serve her well. In just a few short years, the lessons learned in the hours with Khan would bring her calm amid the shellfire, the terrible injuries, and the cries of wounded men. But for now, Maurice Blanche told Maisie, it was no small coincidence that she often knew what a person was going to say before he or she spoke, or that she seemed to intuit an event before it had occurred.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Maisie, you'll ruin your eyes if you read by that good-for-nothing light in the corner--and look at that time, you've to be up in three hours!" "So have you, Enid, and you aren't anywhere near asleep yet.""Don't you be worrying about me. I've told you that."

Maisie slipped a page of notes into the book to mark the place, closed the book, and placed it to one side on her small table. She looked directly at Enid.

"And don't you look at me with those eyes either, young Maisie Dobbs. Gives me the willies, it does."

"You are being careful, aren't you, Enid?"

"'Course I am. I told you not to worry."

Khan might be teaching her many things about the human mind, but as far as Maisie was concerned, it didn't take much in the way of foresight to see that Enid was going to get into some trouble before long. In truth it was a surprise that the older girl was not only still as slim as a whip but was still employed at the house in Belgravia at all. But Enid, who was now almost eighteen, was loved by everyone downstairs. Her efforts at correct enunciation still fell short, and sometimes Maisie thought she sounded more like a music hall act than a maid in service. But she, too, had come to love Enid, for her laughter, for the unsought advice she gave so freely, and most of all for her unselfish support of Maisie.

Enid slipped a thick cotton nightdress over her head, pulled on woolen socks, and proceeded carefully to fold her clothes into the chest of drawers by the wall. Shadows cast by the oil lamp flickered on the sloping ceiling of the top-floor bedroom as Enid brushed out her thick hair with a hardy bristle brush.

"One hundred strokes for a good thick head of hair--have I told you that, Mais?"

"Yes, many a time."

Maisie ensured that her books and papers were carefully put away, and clambered into bed.

"Brrrr. It's cold in here."

Enid took an old silk scarf that had been hanging over the cast-iron bedpost, wrapped it around the head of her brush, and began brushing the silk over her hair to bring it to a lustrous shine.

"No, and it ain't getting any warmer. I tell you, Maisie, a chill wind blows through 'ere sometimes, a chill wind."

Maisie turned to face Enid.

"Enid, why don't you like it here?"

Enid stopped brushing, held the brush in her lap, and fingered the scarf. Her shoulders drooped, and when she looked up at Maisie, it was with tears in her eyes.

"Enid, what is it? Is it James? Or that Arthur?"

Maisie had guessed that the reason for Enid's absences over the past year resided in rooms on the third floor. Though it might have been Arthur, the young footman who had come to work at the house a month before Maisie. His position had been elevated since then. He had been given the task of ensuring the good health of the Comptons' Lanchester motorcar, keeping it polished, oiled, and spick and span. She thought that he had taken a shine to Enid, too.

"No, it's not 'im. That one's full of the old bluster, all mouth and trousers, that's Arthur. No, it's not 'im." Enid picked at the hairbrush, taking out long hairs and rolling them between her fingers.

"Come on, Enid. Something makes you sad."

The older girl sighed, the familiar defiance ebbing as Maisie's eyes sought her confidence.

"You know, Maisie, they're all very nice here until you overstep the line. Now you, you'll land on your feet; after all, 'avin' brains is like 'avin' money, even I know that. But me, all I've got is 'oo I am, and 'oo I am i'n't good enough."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on, Maisie, you must've heard talk--they love to talk in the kitchen of this place, 'specially that old Mrs. Crawford." Enid put down the brush, pulled back her bedsheets, and climbed into bed. She turned to face Maisie. "I don't know what it is about them eyes of yours, Mais, but I tell you, the way you look at me makes me want to spill my insides out to you."

Maisie inclined her head for Enid to continue.

"It's James. Master James. That's why His Lordship is talking about sending him away.To Canada. As far away from the likes of me as they can get 'im. It's a wonder they don't send me off too, to look for another job, but 'er Ladyship isn't a bad old bird, really. At least she can keep an eye on me if I'm 'ere--otherwise, who knows? I might just go to Canada meself!"

"Do you love James, Enid?"

Enid rolled to face the ceiling, and in the half-light, Maisie saw a single tear run from the corner of her eye onto the pillow.

"Love 'im? Gawd, Maisie, what business 'ave I got, going in for all that nonsense?"

Enid paused, dabbing at her eyes with a corner of the sheet."Love don't put food on the table, does it?" She looked at her crumpled handkerchief, dabbed her eyes, and nodded."I suppose I do, love him, that is. I do love James, but--"