Maisie Dobbs

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--"

"But what? If you love him, Enid, you can--"

"Can what, Maisie? Can what? No, theres no 'buts' in the matter. He's going, and when he's gone, I've got my life to get on with. And in some way or another, I've got to get out of this 'ere job. I've got to get on, like you're getting on. But I've not got your cleverness."

"Dr. Blanche says that having a mental picture works. He said once that it's good to have a vision of what the future may hold. He says it's important to keep that in mind."

"Oh, he does, does he? Well, then, I'll start seeing myself all dolled up like a lady, with a nice husband, and a nice house. How about that for a picture?"

"I'll picture that for you too, Enid!"

Enid laughed and rolled over."I tell you, Maisie Dobbs, you're one of a kind! Now then, you just turn off that thinking and imagining mind of yours, and let's get some kip."

Maisie did as she was told, but as she settled into the quiet of the night, she was sorry that the conversation had ended. It was always like that with Enid, as soon as you got a little closer to her, she moved away. Yet Maisie knew that at this very moment Enid was thinking of James Compton, hoping that if she held on to a picture of them together, it would come to pass. And Maisie thought of them together, too. Of seeing them on the landing, not long after she had come to work at 15 Ebury Place. She had seen them since, once in Brockwell Park when she was walking with her father. They must have thought that no one would recognize James on the south side of the river-- his sort rarely ventured across the water. Enid was in her Sunday best: her long deep-lavender coat, which she kept hanging in the wardrobe covered in a white sheet and protected by mothballs. Her black woolen skirt poked out underneath, and you could just about see her laced-up boots, polished to a shine. She wore a white blouse with a high neck and a little sprig of lavender pinned to the front of the collar, right where a brooch might have been, if Enid had owned one. She wore black gloves and an old black hat that Maisie had seen her hold over a steaming pot of water in the kitchen, then work with her hands to mold it into shape, before making it look just like new with a band of purple velvet ribbon. Oh, she did look lovely, with her red hair tied in a loose knot so that you could see it beneath her hat. And James, she remembered him laughing when he was with Enid, and just before she managed to steer her father in another direction, so that Enid and James wouldn't see her, she watched as he took the glove off Enid's right hand and lean over to press his lips to her thin knuckles, then turn it over to the palm and kiss it again. And as he stood up, Enid reached up and flicked back his fair hair, which had flopped into his eyes.

And though she was now snuggled down into the bedclothes and blankets, a hot-water bottle at her feet, Maisie shivered and was frightened. Perhaps she should speak to Dr. Blanche about it, this strange feeling she had at times, as if the future had flashed a picture into her mind, like being at the picture house and seeing only a few seconds' worth of the show.

Just one week after Enid had taken Maisie into her confidence, James Compton departed on a ship bound for Canada. As a result Enid had become less than affable.

"I do wish you would turn out that bloomin' light so that I can get some shut-eye. I'm sick of it, I am. 'Alfway through the night and all I can hear is you turnin' those bloomin' pages over and over."

Maisie looked up from her book, over to the lump that was Enid in the adjoining bed. She could not see Enid's face, for she was curled sideways with her back to Maisie, and the blankets over her head.

"I'm sorry, Enid, I didn't realize--"

Suddenly one arm came over the blankets as Enid pulled herself up into a sitting position, her face furiously red. "Well, you wouldn't bloomin' realize, would you, Miss Brainy? Always got yer 'ead in a book round 'ere when everyone else is workin'."

"But Enid, I pull my weight. No one else has to do my work for me. I can manage my jobs."

"Oh yes? You can manage your jobs, can you? Well, next time you go over to that mirror to do 'yer 'air, take a look at the sacks of coal under yer eyes. Your idea of pullin' weight is just a bit different from mine. And what with all that other stuff you 'ave to think about, it's a wonder you can get up in the morning. Now then. I'm off t'sleep, and it'd be a good idea if you did the same thing."

Maisie quickly marked her place in the book Maurice had given her earlier in the week, and extinguished the lamp at her bedside. Pulling the covers up to her shoulders and pressing her hands to her sore, watering eyes, she sought refuge from Enid's words. It seemed to Maisie that since Enid confided in her, she had become standoffish and unpleasant, as if her frustrated aspirations to become a lady had caused an unbearable resentment to grow. Maisie had begun to avoid her when Enid lost her temper at being asked to replenish coal in one of the upstairs rooms, and was reprimanded by Carter. But something must have sparked in Carter, for he called Maisie into the butler's pantry next to the kitchen.

"Maisie, I am worried about your ability to manage both your routine in the house and the schedule set by Dr. Blanche."

"Oh, Mr. Carter, I am managing."

"I want you to know that I will be watching, Maisie. I must obviously support Her Ladyship's wishes, but I must also bring it to her attention if changes should be made."

"No, you don't have to do that. I'll manage, sir. I promise."

"Right you are, Maisie. You may continue with your duties. But do make sure, doubly sure, that your work is complete at the end of the day."

"Yes, Mr. Carter."

It was with a heavy heart that Maisie visited Frankie Dobbs on the following Sunday. More than at any other time since she had started lessons with Dr. Blanche, Maisie couldn't wait to leave the house and immerse herself in the warmth of the stable and her father's love.

"There you are. Bit late today, young Maisie, aren't you?"

"Yes, Dad. I was late getting up, then had to stay to finish some jobs, and missed the bus. I had to wait for the next one."

"Oh, so you couldn't get up in time on the one day you come to see your poor old dad?"

"That's not it, honestly, Dad," responded Maisie defensively.

She took off her hat and coat, folded them and put them on top of her basket, which she left just outside the stable door. She walked over to Persephone and rubbed the soft spot behind her ears.

"I was just a bit late, that's all, Dad."

"You doin' too much of that readin'?"

"No, Dad. No, I'm not."

"So how about your week then, Love? What've you been doing?"

"Oh, we had a to-do in the kitchen this week. Mrs. Crawford was experimenting with pouring brandy over the cooked meat and then adding a flame to it. Some new French idea that Lady Compton had asked Carter about. The whole kitchen nearly caught alight. You should have seen it, Dad. It was hilarious!"

Frankie Dobbs stopped work and looked at Maisie.

"What is it, Dad?"The smile seemed to evaporate from her face.

"'Ilarious, was it? I like that. 'ilarious. Can't use ordinary words anymore. Got to use big ones now, 'aven't you?"

"But Dad . . . I thought . . . ."

"That's the trouble with you. Too much of that thinking. I dunno . . . ."

Frankie turned his back on Maisie, the set of his shoulders revealing a seldom-seen anger."I dunno. I thought this was all very well and all, you gettin' an education. Now I dunno. Next thing you know, you won't want to talk to the likes of me."

"Now that's silly, Dad."

"Silly, am I?" Frankie looked up again, his eyes blazing.

"I didn't mean it like that. What I meant was . . ." Maisie was exhausted. She let her arm drop to her side. Persephone nuzzled her to continue the ear rubbing, but there was no response. Father and daughter stood in stony silence.

How had this happened? How was it that one minute it seemed that everyone was on her side, and the next everyone was against her? What had she done wrong? Maisie went over to an upended box in the corner and slumped down. Her furrowed brow belied her youth as she tried to come to terms with the discord between her beloved father and herself.

"I'm sorry, Dad."

"I'm sorry, too. Sorry that I ever talked to that Mr. Carter in the first place."

"You did right, Dad. I would never have had this opportunity. . . ."

Frankie was also tired. Tired of worrying about Maisie, tired of fearing that she would move into circles above her station and never come back. Tired of feeling not good enough for his daughter. "I know, love. I know. Let's 'ave an end to the words. Just make sure you come back and see your old dad of a Sunday."

Maisie leaned over to Frankie, who had upended another wooden box to sit next to her, put her arms around his neck, and sobbed.

"Come on, love. Let's put the words behind us."

"I miss you, Dad."

"And I miss you, Love."

Father and daughter held on to each other a moment longer, before Frankie announced that they should be getting along to the park if they were to enjoy the best of the day. They worked together to finish jobs in the stable and, leaving Persephone to her day of rest, went to the park for a walk and to eat the sandwiches that Mrs. Crawford had made for Maisie.

As she traveled back to Belgravia that evening, Maisie couldn't help but remember Frankie's outburst, and wondered how she would ever balance her responsibilities. As if that were not enough, Enid's tongue was as sharp as a knife again when Maisie entered the room they shared on the top floor of the house.

"It's a wonder you can bring yourself to see that costermonger father of yours. Isn't he a bit lower class for you now, Maisie?"

Maisie was stunned and hurt by Enid's words. Slights against herself she could handle, but those against her father she would not tolerate." My father, Enid, is one of the best."

"Hmmph. Thought he wouldn't be good enough, what with you bein' 'er Ladyship's pet."

"Enid, I'm not anyone's pet or favorite. I'm still here, and working hard."

Enid was lying on her back on the bed, pillows plumped up behind her head. She was reading an old copy of The Lady magazine while speaking to Maisie.

"Hmmph. Maisie Dobbs, all you've done is give 'er Ladyship a cause. They like causes, do these 'ere toffs. Makes 'er feel like she's doin' something for the lower classes. Right old do-gooder she is, too. And as for that funny old geezer, Blanche, I'd worry about 'im if I was you. D'you really think you can become a lady with all this book lark?"

"I've told you before, Enid--I don't want to be a lady."

Maisie folded her day clothes and put them away in the heavy chest of drawers, then took up her hairbrush and began to unbraid her glossy black hair.

"Then you're as stupid as you are silly lookin'."

Maisie swung around to look directly at Enid.

"What is wrong with you? I can't do a thing right!"

"Let me tell you what's wrong with me, young Maisie. What's wrong with me is that I might not be able to do the learning from books that you can, but mark my words, I'll be out of here before you, 'er Ladyship or not."

"But I'm not stopping you--"

In frustration Enid flounced to her feet, pulled back the bedclothes, and threw herself into bed. Without saying goodnight, she turned her back on Maisie, as had become her habit.

Maisie said nothing more, but climbed into her heavy brass bed to lie upon the hard horsehair mattress between cold white muslin sheets. Without attempting to read her book or work on the assignment Maurice Blanche had given her, she turned out the light.

Jealousy. Now she was beginning to understand jealousy. Together with the exchanges of the past few weeks, and the heated conversation with her father, Maisie was also beginning to feel fully the challenge of following her dream. And she was disturbed, not for the first time, by Enid's words about Lady Rowan. Was she just a temporary diversion for Lady Rowan, a sop to her conscience so she could feel as if she was doing something for society? Maisie couldn't believe this, for time and time again she had seen genuine interest and concern on her employer's face.

"So, Maisie. Let me see your work. How are you progressing with Jung?"

Maisie walked into the library for her meeting with Maurice Blanche and stood before him.

"Sit down, sit down. Let us begin. We have much work to do."

Maisie silently placed her books in front of him.

"What is it, Maisie?"

"I don't think, Dr. Blanche, that I can have lessons with you anymore."

Maurice Blanche said nothing but nodded his head and studied Maisie's countenance. Silence seeped into the space between them, and Maurice immediately noticed the single tear that emerged from Maisie's right eye and drizzled down her face.

"Ah, yes, the challenge of position and place, I think."

Maisie sniffed and met Blanche's look. She nodded.

"Yes. It has been long overdue. We have been fortunate thus far, have we not, Maisie?"

Once again Maisie nodded She expected to be dismissed, as she would in turn dismiss her ambitions and the dream she had nurtured since first planning to visit the Comptons' library at three o'clock in the morning so long ago.

Instead Maurice took up the book he had assigned at their last meeting, along with her notes, and the lessons she had completed in the subjects of English, mathematics, and geography.

Looking through her work, Maurice inclined his head here, and raised his eyebrows there. Maisie said nothing, but inspected her hands and pulled at a loose thread in her white pinafore.

"Maisie. Please complete these two final chapters while I speak with Lady Rowan."

Once again Maisie was left, if only for a short time, to wonder at her fate, and whether all would be well. As Maurice Blanche left the room, Maisie took up the book and turned to the chapters he had indicated. But try as she might, she could not read past the first paragraph of her assignment and retain what she had read. Instead she put her right hand to her mouth and with her teeth worried a hangnail on her little finger. By the time Maurice Blanche returned with Lady Rowan and Carter, Maisie had to plunge her right hand into her pinafore pocket so that the blood now oozing from the cuticle would not be seen.

Clearly much discussion had taken place in the interim. It fell to Carter, as head of the domestic staff, to stand at Lady Rowan's side as she told Maisie of a plan that had been incubating and had just hatched, inspired by her genuine need. It was a plan that would in turn help Maisie. And not a moment too soon.

"Maisie, the Dowager Lady Compton lives in the dower house at Chelstone Manor, in Kent. My mother-in-law is in command of her faculties but has some difficulty in movement, and she does sleep long hours now that she is of advanced age. Her personal maid gave notice some weeks ago, due to impending marriage."

Lady Rowan glanced at Maurice Blanche and at Carter before continuing."Maisie, I would like to offer you the position."

Maisie said nothing, but looked intently at Lady Rowan, then at Carter, who simply nodded, then raised an eyebrow, and focused his gaze quickly on her hand in the pinafore pocket.

Maisie stood up straighter, twisted a handkerchief around the sore finger, and brought her hand to her side.

"The Dowager Lady Compton has only a small staff," said Lady Rowan, "as befits her needs. Aside from her personal maid and a nurse, household staff do not live at the dower house but at the manor. When we are in residence, as you know, Carter and Mrs. Crawford travel to Chelstone to join the staff. However, Mrs. Johnson, the housekeeper, is in sole charge of the household at Chelstone while we are in London."

Lady Rowan paused for a moment, walked to the window, and crossed her arms. She took a moment to look out at the garden before turning back into the room to continue.

"Employment with my mother-in-law will allow you some--let us say 'leeway'--to continue your work with Dr. Blanche. In addition you will not be subject to some of the scrutiny that you have experienced in recent weeks, although you will report to Mrs. Johnson."

Maisie looked at her feet, then at Carter, Lady Rowan, and Dr. Blanche, all of whom seemed to have grown several inches while Lady Rowan was speaking.

Maisie felt very small. And she was worried about her father.

As she remained silent, Carter raised an eyebrow, indicating that she should speak.

"Is there a bus so I can get back to London to see my father on Sundays?"

"There is a train service from the village, on the branch line via Tonbridge. But you may wish to make the visits to Mr. Dobbs farther apart, since the distance requires several hours of travel," replied Maurice Blanche.

Then he suggested that Maisie be given a day to consider the offer.

"You will see Mr. Carter with your decision tomorrow at five o'clock in the afternoon, Maisie?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir--and thank you, Your Ladyship, Mr. Carter."

"Right you are. I will bid you goodnight."

Carter bowed to Lady Rowan, as did Dr. Blanche, while Maisie bobbed a curtsy, and put her hand back in her pocket, lest the company see her handkerchief bloodied from the bitten hangnail.

"I think, Mr. Carter, that Maisie should continue with her household responsibilities this evening, rather than her assignments from me. Such endeavors will be a useful accompaniment to the process of coming to a decision.'

"Right you are, sir. Maisie?"

Maisie curtsied again, then left the room to return to her duties.

Blanche walked over to the window and looked out at the gardens. He had anticipated young Maisie's challenges, which had come later than he might have expected. How he despised wasted talent! He knew that the move to Kent would be a good one for her, but the decision to pursue her opportunity was one Maisie alone would have to make. He left the house, wending his way to familiar streets south of the Thames.

It surprised the staff when Frankie Dobbs came unsummoned to the back door of the kitchen the next morning, to report that some very nice lettuces and tomatoes had just been brought in from Jersey, and would Mrs. Crawford be needing some for the dinner party on Friday night?

Usually Frankie would not see Maisie when he came to the house to deliver fruit and vegetables each week, but on this occasion Mrs. Crawford took no time at all to summon Maisie to see her father, for she knew that the motive for Frankie Dobbs's appearance extended beyond urgent notification of what was best at Covent Garden market.

"Dad, . . . Dad!" cried Maisie as she went to her father, put her arms around his waist, and held him to her.

"Now then, now then. What's all this? What will Mr. Carter say?"

"Oh Dad, I'm so glad you came to the house. What a coincidence!"

Maisie looked at her father inquisitively, then followed him up the outside stairs to the street, where Persephone waited, contentedly eating from the nosebag of oats attached to her bridle. Maisie told Frankie about the new position she had been offered with the Dowager Lady Compton.

"Just as well I 'appened by, then, innit, Love? Sounds like just what you need. Your mother and me always wanted to live in the country, thought it would be better for you than the Smoke. Go on. You go, love. You'll still see me."

"So you don't mind then, Dad?"

"No, I don't mind at all. I reckon bein' down there in the country will be a real treat for you. Hard work, mind, but a treat all the same."

Maisie gave Carter her answer that evening. It was agreed with Lady Rowan that she should leave at the end of the month. Yet even though he wanted her to see and learn all there was to see and learn, Frankie often felt as if fine sand were slipping through his fingers whenever he thought of his girl, Maisie.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Maisie first came to Chelstone Manor in the autumn of 1913. She had traveled by train to Tonbridge, where she changed for Chelstone, on a small branch line. She'd brought one bag with her, containing clothes and personal belongings, and a small trunk in which she carried books, paper, and a clutch of assignments written in Maurice Blanche's compact almost indecipherable hand. And in her mind's eye Maisie carried a vision. During their last lesson before she left for Chelstone, he had asked Maisie what she might do with this education, this opportunity.

"Um, I don't really know, Dr. Blanche. I always thought I could teach. My mum wanted me to be a teacher. It's a good job for me, teaching."

"But?"

Maisie looked at Maurice Blanche, at the bright eyes that looked into the soul of a person so that they naturally revealed to him in words what he could silently observe.

"But. But I think I want to do something like what you do, Dr. Blanche."

Maurice Blanche made a church and steeple with his hands, and rested his upper lip on his forefingers. Two minutes passed before he looked up at Maisie.

"And what do I do, Maisie?"

"You heal people. That is, I think you heal people. In all sorts of ways. That's what I think."

Blanche nodded, leaned back in his chair, and looked out of the library window to the walled gardens of 15 Ebury Place.

"Yes, I think you could say that, Maisie."

"And I think you find out the truth. I think you look at what is right and wrong. And I think you have had lots of different . . . educations."

"Yes, Maisie, that is all correct. But what about that vision?"

"I want to go to Cambridge. To Girton College. Like you said, it's possible for an ordinary person like me to go, you know, as long as I can work and pass the exams."

"I don't think I ever used the word 'ordinary' to describe you, Maisie."

Maisie blushed, and Maurice continued with his questions. "And what will you study, Maisie?"

"I'm not sure. I am interested in the moral sciences, sir. When you told me about the different subjects--psychology, ethics, philosophy, logic--that's what I most wanted to study. I've already done lots of assignments in those subjects, and I like the work. It's not so--well-- definite, is it? Sometimes it's like a maze, with no answers, only more questions. I like that, you know. I like the search. And it's what you want, isn't it, Dr. Blanche?"

Maisie looked at Maurice, and waited for his response.

"It is not what I want that is pertinent here, Maisie, but what you are drawn to. I will, however, concur that you have a certain gift for understanding and appreciating the constituent subjects of the moral sciences curriculum. Now then, you are young yet, Maisie. We have plenty of time for more discussion of this subject. Perhaps we should look at your assignments--but remember to keep those hallowed halls of Girton College uppermost in your mind."

The old lady was not too demanding, and there was the nurse to take a good deal of the responsibility for her care. Maisie ensured that the dowager's rooms were always warm, that her clothes were freshly laundered and laid out each day. She brushed her fine gray hair and twisted it into a bun which the dowager wore under a lace cap. She read to the dowager, and brought meals to her from the main house. For much of the time, the old lady slept in her rooms, or sat by the window with her eyes closed. Occasionally, on a fine day, Maisie would take her outside in a wheelchair, or support her as she stood in the garden, insisting that she was quite well enough to attend to a dead rose, or reach up to inhale the scent of fresh apple blossom. Then she tired and leaned on Maisie as she was assisted to her chair once again. But for much of the time Maisie was lonely.

There was little conversation with staff up at the manor, and despite everything, Maisie missed Enid and her wicked sense of humor. The other members of staff at Chelstone would not speak with her readily, or joke with her, or treat her as one of their own. Yet though she missed the people she had come to love, she did enjoy having solitude for her studies. Each Saturday, Maisie walked into the village to post a brown-paper-wrapped package to Dr. Blanche, and each Saturday she picked up a new envelope with her latest assignment, and his comments on her work of the week before. In January 1914 Maurice decided that Maisie was ready to take the Girton College entrance examinations.

In March, Maurice accompanied Maisie to Cambridge for the examinations, meeting her early at Liverpool Street Station for the journey to Cambridge, then on to the small village of Girton, home of the famous ladies' college of Cambridge University. She remembered watching from the train window as the streets of London gave way to farmland that was soft in the way that Kent was soft, but instead of the green undulating hills of the Weald of Kent, with hedges dividing a patchwork quilt of farms, woodland, and small villages, the Cambridgeshire fens were flat, so that a person could see for miles and miles into the distance.

The grand buildings of Cambridge, the wonderful gardens of Girton College two miles north of the town, the large lecture hall, being taken to a desk, the papers put in front of her, the hours and hours of questions and answers, the nib of her pen cutting into the joint at the top of the second finger of her right hand as she quickly filled page after page with her fine, bold script, were unforgettable. Thirst had suddenly gripped at her throat until she felt faint for lack of breath as she left the hall, whose ceiling now seemed to be moving down toward her. Her head was spinning as she leaned on Maurice, who had been waiting for her. He steadied her, instructing her to breathe deeply, as they walked slowly to the village teashop.

While hot tea was poured and fresh scones placed in front of them, Maurice allowed Maisie to rest before asking for her account of each question on the examination papers, and her responses to them. He nodded as she described her answers, occasionally sipping tea or wiping a crumb from the corner of his mouth.

"I believe, Maisie, that you have done very well."

"I don't know, Dr. Blanche, sir. But I did my best."

"Of course. Of course."

"Dr. Blanche. You went to Oxford, didn't you?"

"Yes, indeed, Maisie--and I was only a little younger than you at the time. Of course, as I am male, a degree could be conferred upon me. But there will be a time, I hope before too long, when women will also earn degrees for their advanced academic studies."

Maisie flicked the long braid of jet black hair from her shoulder and felt its weight along her spine as she sat back in her chair to listen to Maurice.

"And I was also fortunate to study in Paris at the Sorbonne, and in Edinburgh."

"Scotland."

"I'm glad to see that you have a grasp of geography, Maisie."

Maurice looked over his spectacles at Maisie and smiled at her."Yes, the Department of Legal Medicine."

"What did you do there, Dr. Blanche?"

"Learned to read the story told by a dead body. Especially when the person did not die of natural causes."

"Oh . . ." said Maisie, temporarily bereft of speech. She pushed away the crumbly scone and took a long sip of the soothing tea. Maisie slowly regained energy after the ordeal of the past few hours, which she had endured along with several dozen other hopeful students." Dr. Blanche. May I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"Why did you want to learn about the dead?"

"Ah. A good question, Maisie. Suffice it to say that sometimes one's calling finds one first. When I first came to Oxford it was to study economics and politics; then I went to the Sorbonne to study philosophy-- so you see we have similar interests there--but it was as I traveled, seeing so much suffering, that medicine found me."

"And legal medicine? The dead bodies?"

Maurice looked at his watch."That is a story for another time. Let us now walk over to the college again, where no doubt you will be studying later this very year. The gardens really are quite lovely."

The Comptons had gathered a coterie of important and influential guests, not only to sample the delights of a July weekend in the country but for animated discussion and conjecture upon the discord that had been festering in Europe since June, when the Austrian archduke was assassinated in Serbia. It was predicted that the conflict, which had started two years earlier, in 1912, in the Balkans, would become general war, and as the Kaiser's armies reportedly moved into position along the Belgian border, fear of its escalation grew. Dread stalked Europe, snaking its way from the corridors of government to the households of ordinary people.

Carter was in full battle mode for the onslaught of visitors, while Mrs. Crawford held her territory in the kitchen, blasting out orders to any maid or footman who came within range of her verbal fire. Lady Rowan swore she could hear Cook's voice reverberating through every wooden beam in the medieval manor house, though even she declined to intervene at such a time.

"Rowan, we have the very best cook in London and Kent, but I fear we also have the one with the loudest voice."

"Don't worry, Julian, you know she'll pipe down when everything's in its place and the guests start to arrive."

"Indeed, indeed. In the meantime, I wonder if I should tell the War Office about her, in advance. She could put a seasoned general to shame--have you seen how she marshals her troops? I should have every new subaltern serve in Cook Crawford's battalion for a month. We could overcome the Hun by launching meat pies clear across France and into the Kaiser's palace!"

"Julian, don't be absurd--and don't be so full of certainty that Britain will be at war," said Lady Rowan. "By the way, I understand that our Miss Dobbs received a letter from Girton this morning."

"Did she, by Jove? Well, not before time, my dear. I don't think I could bear to look at those nail-bitten fingers holding onto the tea tray any longer."

"She's had a hard life, Julian." Lady Rowan looked out of the windows and over the land surrounding Chelstone Manor. "We can't presume to imagine how difficult it has been for her. She's such a bright girl."

"And for each Maisie Dobbs, there are probably ten more that you can't save. Remember, we may not have done her any favors, Rowan. Life can be very difficult for someone of her class at Cambridge."

"Yes, I know, Julian. But times are changing. I am glad that we were able to contribute in some way."

She turned from the window to look at her husband."Now then, shall we go downstairs to see what news the letter from Girton has brought? I don't know if you've noticed, but it has gone awfully quiet in the house."

Lord and Lady Compton went together to the large drawing room, where Lord Julian rang the bell for Carter. The impeccably turned-out and always punctual butler answered the call within a minute.

"Your Lordship, Your Ladyship."

"Carter, what news does Miss Dobbs have from Cambridge?"

"Very, very good news, M'Lord. Miss Dobbs has been accepted. We are all terribly proud of her."

"Oh, that's wonderful, wonderful!" Lady Rowan clapped her hands."We must get word to Maurice, Julian. Carter, send Miss Dobbs to see us immediately."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Maisie could not wait to tell Frankie Dobbs her news in person, and as soon as she could, traveled by train to Charing Cross Station, and from there to the small soot-blackened terraced house that had once been her home.

"Well, what do you know? Our little Maisie all grown up and going away to the university. Blow me down, your mum would have been chuffed."

Frankie Dobbs held his daughter by the shoulders and looked into her eyes, his own smarting with tears of pride--and of concern.

"Do you think you're ready for this, love?"

Frankie pulled out a chair and beckoned Maisie to sit with him by the coal stove in the small kitchen. "It's a big step, isn't it?"

"I'll do all right, Dad. I've won a place, and next year if I do well, I might get a college scholarship. That's what I'm aiming for. Lord and Lady Compton will be my sponsors, for the first year, anyway, and I've been putting a bit by as well. Lady Rowan is going to give me some of her day clothes that she doesn't want, and Mrs. Crawford said she'll help me with tailoring them to fit me, although there are strict rules about what I can wear. Not much different from a maid's uniform, but without the pinny, from what I can make out."

Maisie rubbed her father's hands, which seemed strangely cold.

"I told you, I'll be all right, Dad. And at Christmas, Easter, and summer, I can come back to the house to earn some more money."

Frankie Dobbs could barely meet his daughter's eyes, knowing only too well that it would be nigh on impossible for Maisie to return to the Comptons' employ once she had left. He knew how it was in those houses, and once she had moved beyond her station, she could never go back. She'd been lucky so far, but after she left, she wouldn't be so easily accepted. The gap between Maisie and the other staff would become a chasm. And what worried Frankie more than anything was that Maisie might not ever fit in to any station, that she would forever be betwixt and between.

"So when will you be leaving?"

"I'll start in the autumn. They call it the Michaelmas term, you know, like those mauve Michaelmas daisies that bloom in September, the ones Mum used to love. I had to get special permission because I'm not quite eighteen."

Frankie got up from his seat and rubbed at his back. He wanted to get the conversation back to a point at which he could voice his offer.

"Well, talking about 'avin' a bit more, like we were before we started talking about the daisies, I've got something for you, love." Frankie reached up and took down a large earthenware flour jar from the shelf above the stove.

"Here you are, Love. After I paid off the debts, you know, after your mother . . . I started putting a bit by each week meself. For you. Knowing that you'd be doing something important one day, where a bit extra might come in 'andy."

Maisie took the jar, her hands shaking. She lifted the lid and looked into the earthenware depths. There were pound notes, some brand new ten-shilling notes, florins, half-crowns, and shillings. The jar was full of Frankie Dobbs's savings for Maisie.

"Oh, Dad . . ." Maisie stood up and, clutching the jar of money with one hand and her father with the other, held him to her.

In August 1914 people still went about their business, and war seemed to be something that had nothing to do with ordinary life. But then a boy she knew in the village was in uniform, and certain foods were just a little more difficult to find. A footman at the Belgravia house enlisted, and so did the grooms and young gardeners at Chelstone. Then one weekend Maisie was called to Lady Rowan's sitting room at Chelstone.

"Maisie, I am beside myself. The grooms have all enlisted, and I am fearfully worried about my hunters. I have spoken to all sorts of people, but the young men are going into the services. Look, I know this is unusual, but I wonder, do you think your father might consider the position?"

"Well, M'Lady, I don't really know. There's Persephone, and his business."

"There is a cottage in the grounds for him if he wants it. You'll be able to see him when you are not at Girton, of course, and his mare can be stabled here. They will both be well looked after."

The next day Maisie traveled by train to London to see her father. To her complete surprise, Frankie Dobbs said he would "think about it" when she told him of the offer from Lady Rowan. "After all, I'm not getting any younger, and neither is Persephone. She could do with a bit o' the old fresh country air. And 'er Ladyship's been very good to you, so come to think of it, if I 'elped 'er out, it'd be only right. It's not as if I'm a stranger to Kent, 'aving been down there picking the old 'ops every year when I was a bit of a nipper meself."

Frankie Dobbs and Persephone moved from Lambeth on a misty, unseasonably cold morning in late August 1914, to take up residence in the groom's cottage and stables, respectively, at Chelstone Manor. Instead of rising at three o'clock to take Persephone to Covent Garden market and then setting out on his rounds, Frankie now enjoyed a lie-in before rising at five o'clock to feed Lady Rowan's hunters and Persephone, who seemed to be relishing her own retirement. In a short time Frankie Dobbs was being feted by Lady Rowan as the man who knew everything there was to know about the grooming, feeding, and well-being of horses. But it was a deeper knowledge that would endear him to her for the rest of her life.

Only days remained before Maisie was to leave for Cambridge, so time spent in each other's company was of prime importance to Maisie and her father. They had resumed the ritual of working together in making a fuss of Persephone as often as possible. It was on such an occasion, while they were working and talking about the latest war news, that Lady Rowan paid a surprise visit.

"I say, anybody there?"

Maisie snapped to attention, but Frankie Dobbs, while respectful, simply replied, "In 'ere with Persephone, Your Ladyship."

"Mr. Dobbs. Thank goodness. I am beside myself."

Maisie immediately went to Lady Rowan, who always claimed to be "beside herself " in a crisis, despite a demeanor that suggested otherwise.

"Mr. Dobbs, they are coming to take my hunters--and possibly even your mare. Lord Compton has received word from the War Office that our horses are to be inspected for service this week. They are coming on Tuesday to take them. I cannot let them go. I don't want to be unpatriotic, but they are my hunters."

"And they ain't taking my Persephone either, Your Ladyship."

Frankie Dobbs walked toward his faithful old horse, who nuzzled at his jacket for the treat she knew would be forthcoming. He took sweet apple pieces from his pocket and held them out to Persephone, feeling the comforting warmth of her velvety nose in his hand, before turning back to Lady Rowan.

"Tuesday, eh? You leave it to me."

"Oh, Mr. Dobbs--everything depends upon you. What will you do? Take them somewhere and hide them?"

Frankie laughed. "Oh no. I think I might be seen running away with this little lot, Your Ladyship. No, I won't have to run anywhere. But here's one thing--" Frankie Dobbs looked at Maisie and at Lady Rowan. "I don't want anyone coming in these stables until I say so. And, Your Ladyship, I'll come to the 'ouse on Tuesday mornin' and tell you what to say. But the main thing is, whatever you see or 'ear, you're not to mind or to say anything else, other than what I tell you. You've got to trust me."

Lady Rowan stood taller, regained her composure, and looked directly at Frankie Dobbs. "I trust you implicitly."

Maisie's father nodded, tipped his cap toward Lady Rowan, and then smiled at Maisie. The stately woman walked toward the stable door, then turned around. "Mr. Dobbs. One thing we spoke about only briefly when you first came to Chelstone. I seem to remember that you were at a racing yard as a boy."

"Newmarket, Your Ladyship. From the time I was twelve to the time I came back to 'elp my father with the business at nineteen. Bit big for a jockey, I was."

"I expect you learned quite a thing or two about horses, didn't you?"

"Oh yes, Your Ladyship. Quite a thing or two. Saw a lot, good and bad."

The men from the War Office came to Chelstone at lunchtime on Tuesday. Lady Rowan led them to the stables apologizing profusely and explaining, as she had been instructed by Frankie Dobbs, that she feared her horses might not be suitable for service as they had contracted a sickness that even her groom could not cure. They were met by Frankie Dobbs, who stood in tears by Sultan, her jet black hunter.

The once-noble horse hung his head low as foam dropped from his open mouth. His eyes rolled back in his head as he struggled for breath. Lady Rowan gasped and looked at Frankie, who would not meet her alarmed eyes with his own.

"By God, what is wrong with the beast?" asked the tall man in uniform, who held a baton under his arm. He stepped carefully toward Sultan, avoiding any soiled straw that might compromise the shine on his highly polished boots.

"Not anything I've seen for years. Caused by worm. Bacteria," Frankie Dobbs replied, and spoke to Lady Rowan directly."I'm sorry, Your Ladyship. We'll probably lose them all by tomorrow. That old cart 'orse will be first. On account of 'er age."

The men stopped briefly to glance into Persephone's stall, where Frankie Dobbs's faithful horse lay on the ground.

"Lady Compton. Our sympathies. The country needs one hundred and sixty-five thousand horses, but we need them to be fit, strong, and able to be of service on the battlefield."

Lady Rowan's tears were genuine. She had been primed by Frankie as to what she should say, but had not been prepared for what she would see."Yes . . . yes . . . indeed. I wish you luck, gentlemen."

The two men were soon gone. After seeing them off, Lady Rowan ran immediately to the stables once again, where Frankie Dobbs was working furiously to pour a chalky liquid down Sultan's throat. Maisie was in another stall, feeding the liquid to Ralph. Persephone and Hamlet were on their feet.

Lady Rowan said nothing, but walked over to Hamlet, and touched the pale, drawn skin around his eyes. As she brought her hand away she noticed the white powder on her gloves and smiled.

"Mr. Dobbs, I shall never ask what you did today. But I will remember this forever. I know what I asked of you was wrong, but I just couldn't bear to lose them."

"And I couldn't bear to lose Persephone, Your Ladyship. But I 'ave to warn you. This war is far from over. You keep these 'ere horses on your land. Don't let anyone outside see them, just them as works 'ere. Times like these changes folk. Keep the animals close to 'ome."

Lady Rowan nodded and gave a carrot to each horse in turn.

"Oh, and by the way, Your Ladyship. I wonder if Mrs. Crawford could use two and a half dozen egg yolks? Terrible waste if she can't."

Ten household staff sat down to dinner at the big table in the kitchen at Chelstone Manor on Maisie's last night before leaving for Cambridge. She was on the cusp of her new life. The Comptons were in residence, so the servants whom Maisie loved from the Belgravia house were there to see her off.

Carter sat at the head of the table in the carver's chair, and Mrs. Crawford sat at the opposite end within easy striking distance of the big cast-iron coal-fired stove. Maisie sat next to her father and opposite Enid. Even Enid, who had been summoned from the London house to assist with late-summer entertaining at Chelstone, joined in the fun and looked happy: She had brightened up considerably since Mr. James had returned from Canada.

"Gaw lummy, I think the world's spinnin' even faster these days. What with the war, Master James coming home, Maisie goin' to Cambridge--Cambridge, our Maisie Dobbs! Then there's all the important people coming tomorrow to meet with Lord Compton," said Cook, as she took her seat after a final check on the apple pie.

"All arrangements are in order, Mrs. Crawford. We will make a final round of inspection after our little celebration here. Now then . . ."

Standing up, Carter cleared his throat and smiled. "I'll ask you to join me in a toast."

Chairs scraped backward, people coughed as they stood up and nudged one another. The entire complement of household staff turned to face Maisie, who blushed as all eyes were upon her.

"To our own Maisie Dobbs! Congratulations, Maisie. We've all seen you work hard, and we know you will be a credit to Lord and Lady Compton, to your father--and to us all. So we've got a small token of our affection. For you to use at the university."

Mrs. Crawford reached under the table and took out a large flat box, which she passed down the table to Carter with one hand, while the other rubbed at her now tearful eyes with a large white handkerchief.

"From all the staff at Chelstone Manor and the Compton residence in London--Maisie, we're proud of you."

Maisie blushed, and reached for the plain brown cardboard box. "Oh, my goodness. Oh, dear. Oh--"

"Just open it, Mais, for Gawd's sake!" said Enid, inspiring a scowl from Mrs. Crawford.

Maisie pulled at the string, took off the lid, and drew back the fine tissue paper to reveal a butter-soft yet sturdy black leather document case with a silver clasp.

"Oh . . . oh . . . it's . . . it's . . . beautiful! Thank you, thank you. All of you."

Carter wasted no time in taking his glass and continuing with the toast."To our own Maisie Dobbs . . ."

Voices echoed around the table.

"To Maisie Dobbs."

"Well done, Mais."

"You show 'em for us, Maisie!"

"Maisie Dobbs!"

Maisie nodded, whispering, "Thank you . . . thank you . . . thank you."

"And before we sit down," said Carter, as the assembled group were bending halfway down to their seats again."To our country, to our boys who are going over to France. Godspeed and God save the King!"

"God save the King."

The following day Maisie stood on the station platform, this time with an even larger trunk of books that far outweighed her case of personal belongings. She clutched her black document case tightly, afraid that she would lose this most wonderful gift. Carter and Mrs. Crawford had chosen it, maintaining that Maisie Dobbs should not have to go to university without a smart case for her papers.

On her journey up to Cambridge, when Maisie changed trains at Tonbridge for the main service to London, she was taken aback by the multitude of uniformed men lining up on the platform. Freshly posted handbills gave a hint of things to come:

LONDON, BRIGHTON & SOUTH COAST RAILWAYS

MOBILIZATION OF TROOPS

PASSENGERS ARE HEREBY NOTIFIED THAT IT MAY BE NECESSARY TO SUSPEND OR ALTER TRAINS WITHOUT PREVIOUS NOTICE

It was clear that the journey to Cambridge would be a long one. Sweethearts and the newly married held tightly to each other amid the crush of bodies on the platform. Mothers cried into sodden handkerchiefs; sons assured them, "I'll be back before you know it," and fathers stood stoically silent.

Maisie passed a father and son standing uncomfortably together in the grip of unspoken emotion. As she brushed by, she saw the older man clap his son on the shoulder. He pursed his lips together, firmly clamping his grief in place, while the son looked down at his feet. A small Border collie sat still between them, secure on a leash held by the son. The panting dog looked between father and son as they began to speak quietly.

"You mind and do your best, son. Your mother would have been proud of you."

"I know, Dad," said the son, moving his gaze to his father's lapels.

"And you mind you keep your head out of the way of the Kaiser's boys, lad. We don't want you messing up that uniform, do we?"

The boy laughed, for he was a boy and not yet a man.

"All right, Dad, I'll keep my boots shined, and you look after Patch."

"Safe as houses, me and Patch. We'll be waiting for you when you come home, son."

Maisie watched as the man pressed his hand down even harder on the young man's shoulder."Listen to that. Your train is coming in. This is it, time to be off. You mind and do your best."

The son nodded, bent down to stroke the dog, who playfully wagged her tail and jumped up to lick the boy's face. He met his father's eyes only briefly, and after passing the leash to the older man, was suddenly swallowed up in a sea of moving khaki. A guard with a megaphone ordered, "Civilians to keep back from the train" as the older man stood on tiptoe, trying to catch one last glimpse of his departing son.

Maisie moved away to allow the soldiers to board their train, and watched the man bend down, pick up the dog, and bury his face in the animal's thick coat. And as his shoulders shook with the grief he dared not show, the dog twisted her head to lick comfort into his neck.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Upon arrival at Girton College, Maisie registered with the Porter's Lodge and was directed to the room that had been assigned to her for the academic year. Assured that the trunk of books would be brought up to her room in due course, clutching her bag, she began to leave the lodge, following the directions given by the porter, who suddenly called her back."Oh, Miss! A parcel arrived today for you. Urgent delivery, to be given to you immediately."

Maisie took the brown paper parcel and immediately recognized the small slanted writing. It was from Maurice Blanche.

Few women were already in residence when Maisie arrived, and the hallways were quiet as she made her way to her room. She was anxious to unwrap the parcel, and paid hardly any attention to her new surroundings after opening the door to her room. Instead she quickly put her belongings down by the wardrobe and, taking a seat in the small armchair, began to open the package. Under the brown paper, a layer of tissue covered a letter from Maurice, and a leather-bound book with blank pages. Inside the cover of the book, Maurice had copied the words of Soren Kierkegaard, words that he had quoted to her from memory in their last meeting before her journey to Cambridge. It was as if Maurice were in the room with her, so strong was his voice in her mind as she read the words:"There is nothing of which every man is so afraid, as getting to know how enormously much he is capable of doing and becoming." She closed the book, continuing to hold it as she read the letter in which Maurice spoke of the gift:

In seeking to fill your mind, I omitted to instruct you in the opposite exercise. This small book is for your daily writings, when the day is newborn and before you embark upon the richness of study and intellectual encounter. My instruction, Maisie, is to simply write a page each day. There is no set subject, save that which the waking mind has held close in sleep.

Suddenly the loud crash of a door swinging back on its hinges, followed by the double thump of two large leather suitcases landing one after the other on the floor of the room next door, heralded the arrival of her neighbor. Amplified by the empty corridor, she heard a deep sigh followed by the sound of a foot kicking one of the cases.

"What I wouldn't give for a gin and tonic!"

A second later, with wrapping paper still between her fingers and her head raised to follow the audible wake of her neighbor, Maisie heard footsteps coming toward her room. In her hurry to open the parcel from Maurice, she had left her door ajar, allowing the young woman immediate access.

A fashionably dressed girl with dark chestnut hair stood in front of her, and held out her finely manicured hand. "Priscilla Evernden. Delighted to meet you--Maisie Dobbs, isn't it? Wouldn't happen to have a cigarette, would you?"

It seemed to Maisie that she lived two lives at Cambridge. There were her days of study and learning, which began in her room before dawn, and ended after her lectures and tutorials with more study in the evening. She spent Saturday afternoons and Sunday mornings in the college chapel, rolling bandages and knitting socks, gloves, and scarves for men at the front. It was a cold winter in the trenches, and no sooner had word gone out that men needed warm clothes than every woman suddenly seemed to be knitting.

At least Maisie felt that she was doing something for the war, but it was her studies that were always at the forefront of her mind. If anything, the endless talk of war seemed to her a distraction, something that she just wanted to be over, so that she could get on with her life at Cambridge--and whatever might come after.

There were times when Maisie was thankful that a very bright spark was resident in the next room. Priscilla seemed to gravitate toward Maisie and, surprising Maisie herself, appeared to enjoy her company.

"My dear girl, how many pairs of these infernal socks must one knit? I am sure I have kitted out an entire battalion."

Another sharp observation from Priscilla Evernden. In truth Maisie loved Priscilla's theatrical tone as much as she had loved Enid's down-to-earth wit, and she was only too aware that, though miles apart in their upbringing, the two girls shared a ready exuberance that Maisie envied. Despite her early fumblings with the language of the aristocracy, Enid was sure of who she was and sure of what she wanted to be. Priscilla was equally sure of herself, and Maisie loved the sweep and flourish of her language, punctuated as it was by exaggerated movements of her hands and arms.

"You seem to be doing quite well, really," said Maisie.

"Oh, sod it!" said Priscilla as she fumbled with her knitting needles, "I fear, dear Maisie, that you are clearly made of knitting stock, one only has to look at that plait hanging down your back. Good Lord, girl, that plait could be a loaf at Harvest Festival! Obviously you have been bred for knitting."

Maisie blushed. Over the years the edges had been knocked away from her London accent. She might not pass for the aristocracy, but she could certainly be taken for a clergyman's daughter. And not one bred for knitting.

"I hardly think so, Pris."

"Well, I suppose not. One only has to look at your academic work, and those books that you read. Anyone who can read those turgid tomes can make short work of a sock. Dear God, give me a drink that bites back and good tale of love and lust any day of the week."

Maisie dropped a stitch, and looked up at Priscilla."Now, don't tell me that, Pris. Why did you come up to Cambridge?"

Priscilla was tall, giving the impression of strength, though she carried no extra weight. Her chestnut hair hung loose around her shoulders, and she wore a man's shirt with a pair of man's trousers, "borrowed" from her brother before he left for France. She claimed that they wouldn't be in fashion by the time he returned anyway, and swore that she would only wear them indoors.

"Dear girl, I came to Cambridge because I could, and because my dear mother and father were ready to fling themselves burning into the lake rather than have me roll in through the window at two in the morning again. Out of sight, out of mind, darling. . . . Oh my dear Lord, look at this sock! I don't know what I am doing wrong here, but it's like knitting into a funnel."

Maisie looked up from her work.

"Let me see."

"Whoopee! M. Dobbs to the rescue."

Priscilla got up from her place on the old armchair, where she had been sitting sideways with her legs dangling over the arm, while Maisie sat on the floor on a cushion.

"I'm going out now, and to hell with Miss What's-Her-Name downstairs' curfew."

"Priscilla, what if you get caught? You're not supposed to be out late. You could be sent down for this."

"Dear Maisie, I will not get caught, because I will not be coming in late. If anyone asks, I know you will say that I've taken to my bed. And of course, when I come in at the crack of dawn tomorrow--well--I needed the early morning fresh air to clear the mind after myindisposition."

Minutes later Priscilla reappeared, dressed from head to toe in evening wear, and carrying a small bag.

"One thing you have to admit about war, darling--there's nothing quite like a man in uniform. See you at breakfast--and for heaven's sake do stop fretting!"

"Good Lord, Maisie Dobbs, where do you think you are going with those books?"

Priscilla Evernden was leaning out of the window of Maisie's room, and turned back to draw upon the cigarette she gamely smoked through a long ivory holder. It was the end of her second term at Girton, and Maisie was packing to go back to Chelstone for Easter.

"Well, Pris, I don't want to fall behind in my work, so I thought it wouldn't hurt--"

"Tell me, Maisie, when do you ever have fun, girl?"

Maisie reddened and began to fold a cotton blouse. The intensity of her movements as she ran the side of her hand along the creases and patted down the collar revealed her discomfort.

"I enjoy reading, Priscilla. I enjoy my studies here."

"Hmmm. You'd probably enjoy it a lot more if you went out a bit. You were only away for a few days at Christmas."

Maisie smarted, remembering her return to a depressed household at the end of her first term. The war had not ended by Christmas-- as predicted--and, though nothing was said, Maisie felt that others found her studies frivolous at a time when so many women were volunteering for jobs previously held by men who had enlisted to serve their country.

Holding a woolen cardigan by the shoulders, Maisie folded it and placed it in her case before looking up at Priscilla. "You know, Priscilla, life is different for some people. I don't go back to my horses, cars, and parties. You know that."

Priscilla walked toward the armchair and sat down, folding her legs to one side. Once again she drew heavily on the cigarette, leaned her head back, and blew smoke rings toward the ceiling. Then, holding her cigarette to one side, she looked at Maisie directly. "For all my strange, peculiar privileged ways, Maisie, I am quite acute. You wear your sackcloth and ashes a little too proudly at times. We both know that you will do terribly well here. Academically. But I tell you this, Maisie--we are all a long time dead when we go, if you know what I mean. This is our only ride on the merry-go-round."

She drew again on the cigarette and continued. "I have three brothers in France now. Do you think I'm going to sit here and mourn? Hell, no! I'm going to have fun enough for all of us. Enough fun for this time on earth. And just because it took a tremendous leap for you to be here doesn't mean that you can't enjoy life along with all this--this--studying." She waved a hand toward the books.

Maisie looked up from her packing."You don't understand."

"Well, perhaps I don't. But here's what I do know. You don't have to rush back to wherever it is you are rushing back to. Not this evening, anyway. Why not go tomorrow? Come out with me tonight. We may not have a chance again."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, look at me, Maisie. I really am not cut out for all this. I received a severe reprimand when I arrived back here after my last evening out, and was reminded that when I took up my place, I had denied another, more deserving young woman the opportunity to study. Which is true, no getting away from it. So, I'm leaving--and quite frankly, I'm sick of sitting on the sidelines either listening to crusty old dons or knitting socks when I can do something far more useful. And who knows, I might even have an adventure!"

"What are you going to do?"

Maisie walked over to the chair and sat on the arm, next to Priscilla.

"Got to find yourself a new person to share rooms with, Maisie. I'm off to France."

Maisie drew breath sharply. Priscilla was the last person she thought would enlist for service."Will you nurse?"

"Good Lord, no! Did you see my church hall bandages? If there's one thing I cannot do, it's walk around playing Florence Nightingale in a long frock--although I will have to get a First Aid Nursing Certificate. No, I have other arrows to my bow."

Maisie laughed. The thought of the dilettante Priscilla having skills that could be used in France was worthy of mirth.

"You may laugh, Maisie. But you've never seen me drive. I'm off to be a Fannie!"

"A what?"

"Fannie. F-A-N-Y. First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. An all-women ambulance corps. Actually they are not in France yet--although from what I understand, it might not be long, as Mrs. McDougal--she's the head of FANY--is planning to ask the War Office to consider using women drivers for motor ambulances. Apparently you have to be twenty-three to go to France, so I am extending the truth a little-- and don't ask me how, Maisie, please."

"When did you learn to drive?"

"Three brothers, Maisie." Priscilla leaned forward to take the cigarette stub from the holder, and to press in a fresh cigarette, which she took from an engraved silver case drawn from her pocket."When you grow up with three brothers you forget your cuts, scrapes, and bruises, and concentrate on your bowling arm, on coming back in one piece from the hunting field, and on not being run over by the lugworms when they come to the table. And unless you show that you are as good at everything as they are, you find that you spend virtually all your time running behind them screaming like a banshee, 'Me too, me too!'"

Priscilla looked over her shoulder to the gardens beyond the window and bit her bottom lip. She turned and continued telling her story.

"The chauffeur taught us all to drive. At first it was only going to be the boys, but I threatened to tell all if I was not included. And now the fact is, my dear, I simply cannot have them in France without me. It's 'Me too, me too!'"

Priscilla wiped the hint of a tear from the inner corner of her left eye and smiled.

"So, what do you say to a party this evening? Despite my dismal record, I have permission to go out--probably because they will soon see the back of me, and also the hostess this evening is a benefactor. How about it, Maisie? You can go back to wherever it is you go to wash the ashes from your sackcloth tomorrow."

Maisie smiled and looked at Priscilla, sparkling in defiance of what was considered good behavior for young women at Girton. There was something about her friend that reminded her of Lady Rowan.

"Whose party?"

Priscilla blew another smoke ring.

"Given by family friends, the Lynches, for their son, Simon. Royal Army Medical Corps. Brilliant doctor. Always the one who remained at the bottom of the tree just in case anyone fell from the top branches, when we were children. He leaves for France in a day or two."

"Will they mind?"

"Maisie, I could turn up with a tribe and no one would turn a hair.

The Lynch family are like that. Oh, do come. Simon will adore it. The more the merrier for his send-off."

Maisie smiled at Priscilla. Perhaps it would do her good. And Priscilla was leaving.

"What about permission?"

"Don't worry, I'll take care of that--and I promise, all above board. I'll telephone Margaret Lynch to make the necessary arrangements."

Maisie bit her lip for just a second longer.

"Yes. I'll come. Though I've nothing to wear, Pris."

"No excuse, Maisie darling, absolutely no excuse. Come with me!"

Priscilla took Maisie by the arm and led her to her own adjacent room. Pointing to the chair for Maisie to take a seat, she pulled at least a dozen gowns of various colors, fabrics, and styles from her wardrobe and threw them on the bed, determined to find the perfect dress for Maisie.

"I think this midnight blue is really you, Maisie. Here, let's just pull the belt--oh gosh, you are a skinny thing aren't you? Now let me just pin this here . . ."

"Pris, I look like two penn'orth of hambone trussed up for the butcher's window."

"There. That's just perfect," replied Priscilla,"Now step back, step back. Lovely. Very nice. You shall have that dress. Have your Mrs. Whatever-Her-Name-Is at Chelstone hem it properly for you."

"But, Priscilla--"

"Nonsense. It's yours. And make the most of it--I saw a bill posted yesterday that I memorized just to remind myself to have some fun while I can."

Priscilla stood to attention, mimicked a salute, and affected an authoritarian mode of speech: TO DRESS EXTRAVAGANTLY INWARTIME IS WORSE THAN BAD FORM. IT IS UNPATRIOTIC!

She began to laugh as she continued adjusting the blue silk dress on Maisie's slender frame.

"I'll have no need of evening dresses in France, and besides, there will be new styles to choose from when I get back."

Maisie nodded and looked down at the dress. "There's another thing, Pris."

Priscilla took up her cigarette, placed her hand on her hip, and raised an eyebrow."Now what's your excuse, Maisie?"

"Priscilla, I can't dance."

"Oh, good Lord, girl!"

Priscilla stubbed out the cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, walked over to her gramophone near the window, selected a record from the cabinet below, placed it on the turntable, wound it up using the small handle at the side of the machine, and set the arm across the record. As the needle caught the first spiral ridge in the thick black disc, Priscilla danced toward Maisie.

"Keep the dress on. You'll need to practice in what you'll be wearing tonight. Right. Now then, start by watching me."

Priscilla positioned her hands on imaginary shoulders in front of her, as if held in the arms of a young man, and as the music began she continued.

"Feet like so, and forward, side, together; back, side, together;watch me, Maisie. And forward, side, together . . ."

A Car had been sent to collect Priscilla and Maisie, and as they climbed aboard for the journey to the Lynches' large house in Grantchester, Maisie felt butterflies in her stomach. It was the first time she had ever been to a party that had not been held in a kitchen. There were special Christmas and Easter dinners downstairs at the Belgravia house and at Chelstone, and of course she had been given a wonderful sendoff by the staff. But this was a real party.

Margaret Lynch came to greet Priscilla as soon as her arrival was announced. "Priscilla, darling. So good of you to come. Simon is dying for news of the boys. He can't wait to get over there, you know."

"I have much to tell, Margaret. But let me introduce my friend, Maisie Dobbs."

"How lovely to meet you, my dear. Any friend of Priscilla's is welcome here."

"Thank you, Mrs. Lynch." Maisie started to bob, only to feel a sharp kick from Priscilla.

"Now then, you girls, let's see if we can get a couple of these young gentlemen to escort you in to the dining room. Oh, there's Simon now. Simon!"

Simon. Captain Simon Lynch, RAMC. He had greeted Priscilla as one would greet a tomboy sister, asking for news of her brothers, his childhood friends. And as he turned to Maisie, she felt a shiver that began in her ankles and seemed to end in the pit of her stomach.

"A pleasure to meet you, Miss Dobbs. And will the British Army be at your mercy as you sit behind the wheel of a baker's lorry, converted and pressed into service as an ambulance?"

Priscilla gave Simon a playful thump on the arm as Maisie met his green eyes. She blushed and quickly looked at the ground. "No. I think I would be a terrible driver, Captain Lynch."

"Simon. Oh, do call me Simon. Now then, I think I'd like a Girton lass on each arm. After all, this is my last evening before I leave."

As a string quartet began to play, Simon Lynch crooked an elbow toward each girl and led them into the dining room.

Simon had completely drawn Maisie from her shell of shyness and embarrassment, and had made her laugh until her sides ached. And she had danced. Oh, how Maisie Dobbs had danced that evening, so that when it was time to leave, to return to Girton, Captain Simon Lynch made a gracious sweeping bow before her and kissed her hand.

"Miss Dobbs, you have put my feet to shame this evening. No wonder Priscilla kept you locked up at Girton."

"Don't take my name in vain, Lynchie--you brute! And it's a book of rules that keeps us all locked up, remember."

"Until we meet again, fair maiden."

Simon stepped back and turned toward Priscilla. "And I'll bet my boots that any wounded in your ambulance will go running back to the trenches rather than put up with your driving!"

Simon, Priscilla, and Maisie laughed together. The evening had sparkled.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The young women arrived back at the college in the nick of time before their extended curfew--arranged at the request of The Honorable Mrs. Margaret Lynch-- expired. Just six hours later, standing on the station platform waiting for the early train that would take her to London for her connection to Chelstone, Maisie replayed, yet again, the events of the evening. In her excitement she had not slept a wink, and now that same excitement rendered her almost oblivious to the chilly air around her. Maisie held her coat closer to her body and up to her neck, feeling only the memory of sheer silk next to her skin.

As Maisie reflected upon the three of them laughing just before they left the party, she realized that it was laughter that held within it the sadness of a bigger departure. The gaiety of Simon's party had an undercurrent of fear. She had twice looked at Margaret Lynch, only to see the woman watching her son, hand to her mouth, as if any minute she would rush to him and encircle his body in her protective arms.

Her fear was not without cause, for the people of Britain were only just receiving news of the tens of thousands of casualties from the spring offensive of 1915. From a land of quiet farms in the French countryside, the Somme Valley was now a place writ large in newspaper headlines, inspiring angry and opinionated debate. The Somme was indelibly enscribed on the hearts of those who had lost a son, a father, brother, or friend. And for those bidding farewell, there was only fearful anticipation until the son, father, brother, or friend was home once again.

From Liverpool Street, Maisie traveled to Charing Cross for the journey to Kent. The station was a melee of khaki, ambulances, red crosses, and pain. Trains brought wounded to be taken to the London hospitals, nurses scurried back and forth, orderlies led walking wounded to waiting ambulances, and young, new spit-and-polished soldiers looked white-faced at those disembarking.

As she glanced at her ticket and began to walk toward her platform, Maisie was suddenly distracted by a splash of vibrant red hair in the distance. She knew only one person with hair so striking, and that was Enid. Maisie stopped and looked again.

Enid. It was definitely Enid. Enid with her hand on the arm of an officer of the Royal Flying Corps. And the officer in question was the young man who loved ginger biscuits: James Compton. Maisie watched as they stopped in the crowd and stood closer together, whispering. James would be on his way down to Kent, most probably on the same train as Maisie, except that she would not be traveling first class. From there Maisie knew that James would be joining his squadron. He was saying good-bye to Enid, who no longer worked for the Comptons. Mrs. Crawford had informed Maisie in a letter that Enid had left their employ. She was now working in a munitions factory, earning more money than she could ever have dreamed of earning in service.

Though she knew it was intrusive, Maisie felt compelled to stare as the two said good-bye. As she watched, she knew in her heart that Enid and James were truly in love, that this was not infatuation or social climbing on Enid's part. She lowered her head and walked away so that she would not be seen by either of them. Yet even as she walked, Maisie could not help turning to watch the couple once again, magnetized by two young people clearly speaking of love amid the teeming emotion around them. And while she looked, as if bidden by the strength of her gaze, Enid turned her head and met Maisie's eyes.

Enid held her head up defiantly, the vibrant red hair even brighter against her skin tone, which was slightly yellow, a result of exposure to cordite in the munitions factory. Maisie inclined her head and was acknowledged by Enid, who then turned back to James and pressed her lips to his.

Maisie was sitting at a cramped table in the station tea shop when Enid found her.

"You've missed the train to Chelstone, Mais."

"Hello, Enid. Yes, I know, I'll just wait until the next one." Enid sat down in front of Maisie.

"So you know."

"Yes. But it doesn't make any difference."

"I should bloody 'ope not! I'm away from them all now, and what James does is 'is business."

"Yes. Yes, it is."

"And I'm earning real money now." Enid brushed her hair back from her shoulders. "So, how are you my very clever little friend? Cambridge University treating you well?"

"Enid, please. Let me be." Maisie lifted the cup to her lips. The strong tea was bitter, but its heat was soothing. The sweet joy of meeting Simon Lynch seemed half a world away as she looked once again at Enid.

Suddenly Enid's eyes smarted as if stung, and she began to weep. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Mais. I've been so rotten to you. To everyone. I'm just so worried. I lost him once. When 'e went to Canada. When they sent him away because of me. And now 'e's going to France. Up in one of them things--I've 'eard they only last three weeks over there before they cop it, them flyin' boys--and if God 'ad wanted us to leave the ground, I reckon we'd 'ave wings growin' out of our backs by now, don't you?"

"Now then, now then." Maisie moved around to sit next to Enid and put her arms around her. Enid pulled out a handkerchief, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose.

"Least I feel as if I'm doing something. Making shells, like. Least I'm not just sitting on my bum while them boys get shot to bits over there. Oh, James . . . ."

"Come on, Enid. He'll be all right. Remember what Mrs. Crawford says about James--he's got nine lives."

Enid sniffed again. "I'm sorry, Maisie. Really I am. But it just gets me 'ere sometimes." Enid punched at her middle. "They look down their noses at me, think I'm not good enough. And 'ere I am working like a trooper."

Maisie sat with Enid until she became calm, as the ache of farewell gave way to anger, tears, and eventually calm and fatigue.

"Maisie, I never meant anything. Really, I didn't. James will come back, I know he will. And this war is changing everything. 'ave you noticed that? When the likes of me can earn a good living even in wartime, the likes of the better-offs will have to change, won't they?"

"You could be right there, Enid."

"Gaw, lummy . . . look at that time. I've got to get back to the arsenal. I'm not even s'posed to leave the 'ostel without permission. I'm working in a special section now, handling the more volatile--that's what they call it--the more volatile explosives, and we earn more money, specially as we're 'avin' to do double shifts. All the girls get tired, so it gets a bit tricky, tapping the ends of the shells to check 'em, and all that. But I'm careful, like, so they promoted me. Must'a bin workin' for that Carter for all them years. I learned to be careful."

"Good for you, Enid."

The two women left the tea shop and walked together toward the bus stop just outside the station, where Enid would catch a bus to work. As they were bidding farewell, a man shouted behind them. "Make way, move along, make way, please."

A train carrying wounded soldiers had arrived, and the orderlies were hurriedly trying to bring stretchers through to the waiting ambulances. Maisie and Enid stood aside and looked on as the wounded passed by, still in mud-caked and bloody uniforms, often crying out as scurrying stretcher-bearers accidentally jarred shell-blasted arms and legs. Maisie gasped and leaned against Enid when she looked into the eyes of a man who had lost most of the dressings from his face.

After the wounded had passed Enid turned to Maisie to say goodbye. The young women embraced, and as they did so, Maisie felt a shiver of fear that made her tighten her hold on Enid.

"Come on, come on, let's not get maudlin, Mais." Enid loosened her grasp.

"You mind how you go, Enid," said Maisie.

"Like I always said, Maisie Dobbs, don't you worry about me."

"But I do."

"You want to worry about something, Maisie? Let me give you a bit of advice. You worry about what you can do for these boys." She pointed toward the ambulances waiting outside the station entrance. "You worry about whatever it is you can do. Must be off now. Give my love to Lady Bountiful for me!"

It seemed to Maisie that one second she was with Enid, and then she was alone. She walked toward the platform for the penultimate part of her journey home to her father's cottage next to the stables at Chelstone. With trains delayed and canceled due to troop movements, it would once again be many hours before she reached her destination.

The journey to Kent was long and arduous. Blackout blinds were pulled down, in compliance with government orders issued in anticipation of Zeppelin raids, and the train moved slowly in the darkness. Several times the train pulled into a siding to allow a troop train go by, and each time Maisie closed her eyes and remembered the injured men rushed into waiting ambulances at Charing Cross.

Time and again she fell into a deep yet brief slumber, and in her half waking saw Enid at work in the munitions factory, at the toil that caused her skin to turn yellow and her hair to spark when she brushed it back. Maisie remembered Enid's face in the distance, reflecting the love she felt as she looked at James Compton.

She wondered about love, and how it must feel, and thought back to last night, which seemed so many nights ago, and touched the place on her right hand where Simon Lynch had placed his lips in a farewell kiss.

As the train drew in to Chelstone station late at night, Maisie saw Frankie standing by his horse and cart. Persephone stood proudly, her coat's gloss equaled only by the shine of the leather traces that Maisie could see even in the half-light. Maisie ran to Frankie and was swept up into his arms.

"My Maisie, home from the university. My word, you're a sight for your dad."

"It's grand to be back with you, Dad."

"Come on, let me have that case and let's get going."

As they drove back to the house in darkness, dim lanterns set at the front of the cart swinging to and fro with each of Persephone's heavy footfalls, Maisie told Frankie her news and answered his many questions. Of course she mentioned the meeting with Enid, although Maisie left out all mention of James Compton.

"The arsenal, eh? Blimey, let's 'ope she wasn't there this afternoon."

"What do you mean, Dad?"

"Well, you know 'is Lordship is with the War Office and all that. Well, 'e gets news before even the papers, you know, special messenger, like. He's very well--"

"Dad, what's happened?"

"'is Lordship received a telegram late this afternoon. The special part of the factory went up this afternoon, the place where they 'andle the 'eavy explosives. Just as the new shift came on. Twenty-two of them munitions girls killed outright."

Maisie knew that Enid was dead. She did not need the confirmation that came the next morning, as Lord Compton told Carter that Enid had been among the young women killed and that he should take care of informing the staff in a manner that he saw fit. Not for the first time, Maisie considered how so much in life could change in such a short time. Priscilla enlisting for service, the wonderful evening, meeting Simon Lynch--and Enid. But of the events that had passed in just three days, the picture that remained with Maisie Dobbs was of Enid, swishing back her long red hair and looking straight at Maisie with a challenge. A haunting challenge.

"You worry what you can do for these boys, Maisie. You worry about whatever it is you can do."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Maisie caught sight of the London Hospital in the distance and did not take her eyes off its austere eighteenth-century buildings until the bus had shuddered to a halt, allowing her to clamber down the steps from the upper deck to the street below. She looked up at the buildings, then at the visitors filing in, people leaving, many in tears, and the ambulances drawing alongside to allow their wounded and bloody cargo to be taken to the safety of the wards.

Maisie closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as if about to jump from a precipice into the unknown.

"'scuse me, Miss, comin' through. You'll get run over if you stand there, young lady."

Maisie opened her eyes and moved quickly to allow a hospital porter through carrying two large boxes.

"Can I 'elp you, Miss? Look a bit lost to me."

"Yes. Where do I enlist for nursing service?"

"You bloomin' angel, you. You'll be just the medicine some of these poor lads need, and that's a fact!"

Positioning his left foot awkwardly against the inside of his opposite shin, the porter held the boxes steady on his knee with one hand, pushed back his flat cap, and used his free hand to direct Maisie.

"You go through that door there, turn left down the long green-tiled corridor, turn right at the end to the stairs. Up the stairs, to the right, and you'll see the enlisting office. And don't mind them in there, love--they pay them extra to wear a face as long as a week, as if a smile would crack 'em open!"

Maisie thanked the man, who doffed his cap quickly before grabbing the boxes, which were about to fall to the ground, and then went on his way.

The long corridor was busy with people lost in the huge building, and others pointing fingers and waving arms to show them the way to reach a certain ward. Taking her identification papers and letters of recommendation out of her bag, Maisie walked quickly up the disinfectant-cleaned tile staircase and across the landing to the enlisting office for nurses. The woman who took Maisie's papers glanced at her over her wire-rimmed spectacles.

"Age?"

"Twenty-two."

She looked up at Maisie again, and peered over the top of her spectacles.

"Young-looking twenty-two, aren't you?"

"Yes, that's what they said when I went to university."

"Well, if you're old enough for university, you're old enough for this. And doing more good while you're about it."

The woman leafed through the papers again, looking quickly at the letter with the Compton crest that attested to Maisie's competence and age. There would be no questions regarding the authenticity of documents that bore not only an impressive livery but the name of a well-known figure at the War Office, a man quoted in newspapers from the Daily Sketch to The Times, commenting on dispatches from France.

Maisie had taken the sheets of fine linen paper from the bureau in the library at Chelstone, and written what was needed. Emboldened by Enid's challenge, she had felt only the shallowest wave of guilt. She was going to do her part for the boys, for those who had given of themselves on the fields of France.

"You've done what? Are you mad, Maisie? What about your university learning? After all that work, all that . . . ."

Frankie turned his back on Maisie and shook his head. He was silent, staring out of the scullery window of the groom's cottage, out toward the paddocks where three very healthy horses were grazing. Maisie knew better than to interrupt until he had finished.

"After all that fuss and bother . . . ."

"It's only a postponement, Dad. I can go back. I will go back. As soon as the war is over."

Frankie swung around, tears of fear and frustration welling in his eyes.

"That's all very well, but what if you get sent over there? To France. Blimey, if you wanted to do something useful, my girl, I'm sure 'is Lordship could've got a job for a bright one like you. I've a mind to go up to that hospital and shop you for your tales--you must've said you were older than you are. I tell you, I never thought I'd see the day when my daughter told a lie."

"Dad, please understand--"

"Oh, I understand all right. Just like your mother, and I've lost her. I can't lose you, Maisie."

Maisie walked over to her father and put her hand on his shoulder." You won't lose me Dad. You watch. You'll be proud of me."

Frankie Dobbs dropped his head and leaned into his daughter's embrace."I've always been proud of you, Maisie. That's not the point."

As a member of the Voluntary Aid Detachment, Maisie's duties seemed to consist of daily round of mopping floors, lining up beds so that not one was out of place, and being at the beck and call of the senior nurses. She had obtained a deferment from Girton, and no sooner had the letter been posted, along with another to Priscilla, than Maisie put her dream behind her and with the same resolve that had taken her to university, she vowed to bring comfort to the men coming home from France.

Maisie became a VAD nurse at the London Hospital in May, amid the never-ending influx of casualties from the spring offensive of 1915. It was a hot summer, and one in which Maisie saw little rest and spent only a few hours at her lodgings in Whitechapel.

Sweeping a stray tendril of hair under her white cap, Maisie immersed her hands into a sinkful of scalding hot water, and scrubbed at an assortment of glass bottles, bowls, and measuring jugs with a bristle brush. It was not the first time in her life that her hands were raw or her legs and back ached. But it could be worse, she thought, as she drained the suds and began to rinse the glassware. For a moment she allowed her hands to remain in the water as it began to cool, and looked straight ahead through the window to the dusk-dusted rooftops beyond.

"Dobbs, I don't think you've got all day to rinse a few bottles, not when there are a dozen other jobs for you to do before you go off duty."

Maisie jumped as her name was spoken, quickly rushing to apologize for her tardiness.

"Don't waste time, Dobbs. Finish this job quickly. Sister wants to see you now."

The nurse who spoke to her was one of the regulars, not a volunteer, and Maisie immediately reverted to the bobbed curtsy of her days in service. The seniority of the regular nurses demanded respect, immediate attention, and complete deference.

Maisie finished her task, made sure that not a bottle or cloth was out of place, then went quickly to see Sister, checking her hair, cap, and apron as she trotted along the green-and-cream-tiled corridor.

"Nurses never run, Dobbs. They walk briskly."

Maisie stopped, bit her bottom lip, and turned around, hands by her sides and balled into fists. Sister, the most senior nurse on the ward. And the most feared, even by the men who joked that she should be sent out to France--that would send the Hun running.

"I'm sorry, Sister."

"My office, Dobbs."

"Yes, Sister."

Sister led the way into her office, with its green-tiled walls, dark wood floor, and equally dark wooden furniture, and walked around to the opposite side of her desk, sweeping her long blue dress and bright white apron aside to avoid their catching on the corner. A silver buckle shone at the front of her apron, and her scarflike cap was starched. Not a hair was out of place.

"I'll get quickly to the point. As you know we are losing many of our staff to join detachments in France. We therefore need to move our nurses and volunteers up through the ranks--and of course we need to keep many of our regular nurses here to keep up standards and direct care of the wounded. Your promotion today to Special Military Probationer means more responsibility in the ward, Dobbs. Along with Rigson, Dornhill, and White, you must be prepared to serve in military hospitals overseas if needed. That will be in one year, at the end of your training. Let me see . . ."

The austere woman shuffled papers in a file on the desk in front of her.

"Yes, you'll be twenty-three at the end of the year, according to your records. Eligible for duty abroad. Good."

Sister looked up at Maisie again, then checked the time on the small watch pinned to her apron."I have already spoken to the other VADs in question during their duty earlier today. Now then, from tomorrow you will join doctors' rounds each day to observe and assist, in addition to your other duties. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Sister."

"Then you are dismissed, Dobbs."

Maisie left the office and walked slowly toward the kitchen.

Yes, sooner than she had thought, she would be in France. Possibly this time next year. How she longed to see Maurice, how she ached to speak with him. For here was time again, the trickster, changing the circumstances of her life in an instant. Yet she knew that Maurice would ask her if she was not herself the trickster. She had lied about her age unashamedly to do this work, and now she was burdened by doubt. Could she do what was required of her? Could she live up to Enid's memory?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Maisie pulled herself away from the side rail of the ship. She had never dreamed that seasickness could be this bad. A salty wind blew around her head and nipped at her ears as she struggled to keep the heavy woolen cape drawn across her aching body. Nothing in the world could top this. Nothing could be this unbearable.

"Here, miss, old merchant navy trick for the indisposition . . ."

She looked sideways from the place she had claimed, holding on to a handrail that led to a cabin door, then rushed to the side of the boat again. She felt a strong hand between her shoulder blades and pushed against the guard rail bring herself to a standing position. A member of the crew, sensibly wearing foul-weather clothing, with his cap miraculously still on his head, held out a tin mug of hot cocoa and a lump of Madeira cake. Maisie put her hand to her mouth in terror.

"What you do is, when you think you're going to lose your insides again, you take a bite o' this and a quick swig of cocoa. And you do it every time you feel queasy. Then it'll go away; you'll see."

Maisie looked at the man, shook her head, and leaned over the side rail. Exhausted to the core, she stood up again and held out her hands for the cake and cocoa. It had to be worth a go.

Iris Rigson, Dottie Dornhill, Bess White, and Maisie Dobbs had set sail with a small contingent of nurses on July 20, 1916, bound for service in France. Iris, Dottie, and Bess had not suffered unduly on the requisitioned freighter, now in the service of king and country, ferrying supplies--and in this case nurses, too--between England and France. But Maisie Dobbs, granddaughter of a lighterman on the Thames, was embarrassingly seasick. Whatever the battlefield had to offer, it could not possibly make her feel worse than this, though she had in her pocket a letter from Priscilla, who had been sent to France in January with the first FANY convoy. The censors might be able to take out words, but they could not delete the emotion poured from inkwell to paper. Priscilla was exhausted, if not in body then in mind. Her words seemed to bite through the edges of Maisie's thoughts and expectations. For just a moment, as she fingered the letter in her pocket, she felt as if she were a ghostly presence watching over Priscilla as she worked. Priscilla had written:

My back is killing me, Maisie. Florrie the Lorry did not want to go to work this morning, so I did double duty with the starting handle. I had only two hours rest last night, after a twenty-hour shift. Maisie, I can only barely remember the last time I slept for more than just a few hours. My clothes are becoming one with my body, and I dread to imagine how I must reek! Mind you, one simply cannot go on about one's aching back and stinging eyes when faced with the good humor of these boys, even as they are suffering the pain of torn limbs and the terror of seeing comrades die. Despite rain that seems to come down in buckets here, there are some days that suddenly get very hot and humid indeed, especially if you are lugging around the added weight of a heavy uniform glued to your body. Many of the boys have taken a knife to their woolen trousers to get some relief from the chafing of army issue cloth. I suppose it's less for the doctors to cut away, but loaded on to Florrie they look like schoolboys who've taken a wrong turning into hell. I had a boy die on me yesterday. Maisie, his eyes were as deep a blue as that dress you wore to Simon's party, and he could not have been more than seventeen. Poor lad hadn't even begun to shave, just a bit of fluff on his chin. I wanted to just sit there and weep. But you know, you just have to go on. If I stood around in mourning for them, another poor boy would die for want of an ambulance. I don't know what the papers are saying, but here's

Priscilla's letter was abruptly halted by heavy black ink of the censor's pen.

"Here she is. Maisie o' the high seas!" Iris announced as Maisie returned to the cabin.

"Blimey, Maisie, how're you now, then?" Dottie came over to Maisie and put an arm around her shoulder. "Come and sit down. We'll soon be there. Le Havre can't be much longer--can it?" She looked at the other nurses, their heavy capes drawn around them, and settled Maisie into a seat."You poor little mite, Dobbs. There's nothing of you to start with. Never you mind, we'll soon be in Le Havre. Get us a nice cuppa. That's if the French can make tea."

Iris felt Maisie's forehead and looked at her watch."You do seem a bit better, though."

Maisie looked at the other girls and leaned against Iris."Cocoa and cake," she muttered, and promptly fell into a deep sleep.

From Le Havre the train journey to Rouen passed uneventfully. The young women were tired from the journey but managed to keep awake long enough to watch their first few minutes of foreign soil speed past. Arriving at the port of Rouen, the nurses were met by a medical officer, and taken to the Hotel St. Georges, where they expected to stay for two nights while they waited for orders.

"Let's get ourselves a nice wash and have a cup of tea downstairs," suggested Iris as they settled into the room all four women were to share.

Iris was a tall, big-boned girl, whose uniform always looked rather too small for her. She considered this a blessing. The unfashionably long and impractical woolen dress of the uniform was shorter on her than on the other nurses. Not only could she move with greater ease, but soon she would avoid having her hemline drag in the never-ending mud, the bane of a nurse's life in France.

"How are you feeling, Dobbs?" asked the soft-spoken Bess, maintaining the discipline of hospital address.

"Much better, thank you. And a cup of tea would be just lovely."

The women each unpacked their few belongings, washed faces and hands at the large white enameled stone sink, and brushed hair back into place. As usual Maisie struggled to fasten the stray tendrils of jet black hair that crept out from under her hat. When they left the room, the women looked almost as fresh as they had in the early hours of the morning, when they had joined their train at Charing Cross for the journey to Folkestone, their port of departure for France.

"Look at those cakes. My word, never seen a pastry like that before; it's a wonder they can do that in wartime," said Dottie.

"No, and you've never tasted a cup of tea like this before either."

Iris winced at the weak tea and reached out to take one of the delicate pastries from the china plate placed in the center of the table.

Maisie was quiet, looking around her at the rather aged grandeur of the dining room at the Hotel St. Georges. Large mirrors were positioned on each wall, and ornate archways led into the lounge on one side and the marble-floored lobby on the other. Waiters ran back and forth, elegant in black trousers that shone with too much pressing, white shirts, black ties, and long white aprons. They were all older men, for the younger men had gone to war.

The clientele was mainly military personnel, and the hotel was packed with officers going on leave or passing through on their way back to join their regiments. Some were with sweethearts or wives, still others with parents, the fortunate ones whose people could make a journey across the Channel to bid them farewell in France.

Maisie sipped her tea, feeling the warmth, if not the flavor, reach the core of her tired body. She was aware of the conversation at their table, a familiar to-ing and fro-ing of observations and opinions, a giggle here, a raised voice there. But for the most part, as the journey to France ebbed away behind her, Maisie was lost in her own thoughts.

"Excuse me, it's Miss Dobbs, isn't it?"

Maisie was jolted from her daydream back into the dining room. She jumped up and turned to face the person who had spoken to her.

"Oh my goodness!" said Maisie, spilling tea onto the white cloth.

Captain Simon Lynch quickly took her elbow to steady Maisie, and greeted her with a broad smile, which he then extended to her table companions, who had immediately stopped all conversation, indeed all movement, to look at the man who had come to the table to see Maisie.

"Captain Lynch. Well, what a surprise this is!"

Maisie regained her composure and took Simon's offered hand. A waiter quickly and efficiently replaced the tablecloth and offered to bring a chair for Simon, who declined, commenting to her companions that he had just been leaving when he had seen his friend, Miss Dobbs.

Simon turned again to Maisie, and as he did so she noticed that he seemed older. Not just in years, for it was just over a year since they had first met. No, he was older in his soul. His eyes were ringed with gray skin, lines had formed on his fresh young man's face, and already gray hair was showing at his temples. Yet he could be no more than twenty-six.

"Just here for two days' leave. Not enough time for Blighty, I'm afraid. I'd heard from Pris that you'd joined up."

"How is she? Have you seen her?"

"Our paths crossed only once. She brought wounded men to my hospital, but, well, we didn't have time to stand and chat." Simon looked at his hands, then back at Maisie."So, do you know where you are going yet?"

"No, we get our orders tomorrow morning, perhaps even this evening. Seems a bit chaotic, really."

Simon laughed.

"Chaotic? You haven't seen chaotic until you've been out there."

"I'm sorry." Maisie rubbed her hands together. "What I meant was--"

"No, I'm sorry. That was horrible of me. And, yes, it is chaotic. The right arm of the British army hardly seems to know what the left arm's doing. Look, I have to dash off now, but, I wonder, is there any chance that you could have dinner with me tomorrow evening? Or do you have to be chaperoned?"

Simon grinned and looked into Maisie's eyes.

"Well, um, well . . ."

Maisie looked sideways at her companions, who were continuing with their tea quietly in order to listen to the conversation. She caught Iris's eye and saw the other woman smile, nod her head and mouth the word "Go." Maisie turned back to Simon.

"Yes, Captain Lynch. Dinner would be lovely. And, yes, actually I do have to be chaperoned, so my friends will be dining nearby."

"Right you are. Let's make it an early one then, I'll meet you in the lobby at six o'clock. In fact, I'll meet you all in the lobby at six o'clock!"

Simon bowed, bade good-bye to the nurses, smiled at Maisie, and moved to go.

"Oh, and by the way--that uniform--it's almost as stunning as the blue silk dress."

And then he was gone.

Maisie took her place once again, amid the giggles of Iris, Dottie, and Bess.

"And what silk dress might that be, Dobbs?"

"You kept that one quiet, didn't you?"

"Sure you want a chaperone?"

Maisie blushed at the teasing, which she knew would continue for some time. She was about to explain that Simon was only a friend of a friend when an RAMC officer approached their table.

"Dobbs, White, Dornhill, and Rigson? Good. Orders are here, and travel warrants. Sorry. You won't be going to the same place. White and Dornhill together at the base hospital. Dobbs and Rigson, you're going to the Fourteenth Casualty Clearing Station-- enjoy it here while you can."

And with that he was gone, clutching several large manila envelopes under his arm while negotiating his way through the busy dining room, in search of other nurses on his list.

The four women sat in silence for a few minutes, looking at the brown manila envelopes.

"Well, he's a bundle of joy, isn't he?" said Iris, taking a knife from the table and slicing open the envelope.

"Dobbsie, my girl, we are indeed off to the Fourteenth Casualty Clearing Station, near Bailleul, like Cheerful Charlie over there said. A CCS, that's as near to the battlefield as nurses are allowed, isn't it?"

"And we're at the base hospital here in Rouen, so we won't be going far, will we, Bess?"

"Well, there we are, then. Let's make the most of it, that's what I say. And let's get some sleep."

Iris dabbed at her mouth with her table napkin, and a waiter scurried over to pull out her chair.

"Yes, good idea. At least one of us needs her sleep if she's to be walking out with an officer!"

"Oh, Dottie, he's just--"

Maisie rushed to defend herself as the women left the table, but her protestations were lost amid the teasing and banter.

Remembering the events of her dinner with Simon Lynch took Maisie's mind off the journey. First by train, then by field ambulance along mud-filled and rutted roads, Maisie and Iris traveled to the casualty clearing station where they would be based until due for leave in four months' time.

As the train moved slowly along, though it was still light, Maisie had a sense of darkness descending. Gunmetal gray clouds loomed overhead, splashes of rain streaked across the windows, and when the train stopped at a station, the sound of heavy artillery in the distance seemed to echo and reverberate along the tracks. Even the birds had been silenced by the mighty orchestra of battle. With the sights and sounds of war around them, people in the landscape loomed with a stark intensity.

Maisie watched from the train window as lines of people trudged along, and more lines of battered humanity appeared to be strung out into the distance. Whole families were leaving communities close to the battlefields, seeking a place of safety with relatives in other towns and villages. Yet the river of civilian evacuation was a stream compared to the long column of marching soldiers, battle weary in weathered uniforms. Young men with faces prematurely aged, showing fatigue and fear as well as a determined levity.

What's the use of worrying?It never was worthwhile, soPack all your troubles in your old kit-bag,And smile, smile, smile.

The marching songs rang out, and as their train passed by, Iris and Maisie leaned out of the slow-moving carriages, waved to the soldiers, and joined in their songs.It's a long way to Tipperary, it's a long way to go;It's a long way to Tipperary, to the sweetest girl I know;Good-bye Piccadilly, farewell Leicester Square,It's a long, long way to Tipperary, but my heart's right there.

With a final wave, Iris and Maisie pulled up the window, and tried to make themselves comfortable again on the prickly wool train seating.

"Funny that your young man's not that many miles from us, isn't it, Dobbs?" Iris looked inquiringly at Maisie when they were settled.

"Oh, for goodness sake, he's not my young man. He's just an old friend of a very good friend of mine. It really is a coincidence that I saw him at all."

"That's as may be, Dobbsie, but I saw the way you two were looking at each other, and I'd say that you were a-courting. Right pair of turtle doves, if you ask me."

"Nonsense. And don't you go repeating this silliness either, Iris. Please. I hardly know him--and I could get into trouble!"

"Blue silk dress eh?"

Iris continued to tease Maisie.

Iris, Dottie, and Bess had taken a table next to Maisie and Simon at dinner, lest it be thought that she was dining completely without a chaperone. But surprising even herself, Maisie hardly noticed other people in the hotel dining room. From the time he had greeted her in the lobby, at six o'clock as arranged, and held out his arm to her, Maisie and Simon Lynch had eyes only for each other.

Now Maisie lowered her eyelids and feigned sleep, which effectively silenced Iris. Left in peace, she was able to envision the dining room again, the waiters running to and fro, and the busyness of people enjoying last farewells or a few days respite from the business of war. And there, at the table with her, was Simon.

Simon who made her laugh with his jokes, putting her at ease. Simon who asked her why she had become a nurse, and when she told the story of Enid, leaned across and took her hand. "She must have meant a lot to you, your friend."

"Yes, yes, she did . . . she made me think about all sorts of things. While I was busy with my head in a book, she would bring me down to earth with a thud. Yes . . . she made me reconsider my opinions on more than one occasion."

Simon did not release Maisie's hand, and for a moment their eyes met again and they were silent. Abashed, Maisie pulled her hand away and took up her fork. She poked at her food.

"I hope I didn't embarrass you. I, I didn't think--"

"Oh no. That's all right."Maisie blushed.

"It's a strange thing, war. Maisie, you must prepare yourself for what you are going to see. This past year . . . the Somme . . . I cannot tell you what injuries the men suffer. As a doctor I was trained to deal with one surgical case at a time: I operated on a leg, or a chest, or an arm. But these men are brought in with multiple gaping wounds, I--"

Simon stopped speaking and reached for his glass of claret, which he gripped but did not pick up. He stared into the wine, at the deep red liquid, and then closed his eyes. As he did so, Maisie saw again the lines that crept from the edges of his eyelids to his temples, the creases on his forehead, and the dark circles above his cheekbones.

"I came here thinking I could save every one of them, but half the time--" Simon hesitated, swallowed deeply, and looked directly at Maisie.

"It's so very good to see you, Maisie. It reminds me of how it was before I left England. How I felt about being a doctor. And how very much I hoped that I would see you again."

Maisie blushed again but smiled at Simon.

"Yes, Simon. I am glad too."

Without thinking she reached for his hand, which he took and gripped tightly. Suddenly aware of the proximity of other diners, Maisie released her hold, and they took up their knives and forks.

"Now then, tell me all about Lady Rowan. I've heard of her, of course. She has quite a reputation as a staunch supporter of the suffragettes. And I've heard that Lord Julian is an absolute saint-- although I doubt he has much time to worry about what she's up to, now that he's at the War Office."

Conversation slipped into the exchanging of stories, of opinions and observations, and by the time dinner was over, Maisie noticed that they had spoken of their dreams, of what they would do "when the war's over."

In that moment she remembered Maurice, walking with her in the orchard one day while at Chelstone, as she broke the news that she had requested a deferment of her place at Cambridge, that she had enlisted at the London Hospital.

She remembered him looking into the distance and speaking, very quietly, almost to himself."Such is the legacy of war . . . the discarded dreams of children . . . the waste. The tragedy."

Simon looked at his watch."Well, sadly, Maisie, I must go. I have meetings while I'm here, I'm afraid. So much for leave, eh?"

"Yes, I have to go, too. We set off early tomorrow morning."

As Maisie placed her white linen table napkin alongside her plate, Simon watched her intently."Would you mind very much if I wrote to you? It may take a while, but letters can be sent up the line. I'll work out something."

"Yes, that would be lovely. Please write."

Simon rose to pull out Maisie's chair, and as he did so Maisie noticed her three friends at an adjoining table, all holding coffee cups to their lips and looking at her over the rims of the cups. She had forgotten they were there.

In the lobby Simon once again made a sweeping bow. "You may be clad in that wonderfully practical nursing attire, Miss Dobbs, but in my eyes you will forever be wearing a stunning blue silk dress."

Maisie shook hands with Simon, and bade him good-bye before joining the three nurses standing directly behind her, and doubtless waiting to begin teasing her once again.

Maisie and Iris saw the tents in the distance, a musty afternoon cordite-laden fog lingered overhead, and a heavy ground mist was moving up and around them.

"I'm freezing just looking at that lot, and it's nowhere near winter yet," said Iris.

"I know what you mean. Looks bleak, doesn't it?"

Maisie pulled her cape around her body, though the day was not that cold.

The main tents had giant red crosses painted on top, and beyond were bell tents that were home to the nursing contingent of the casualty clearing station. The ambulance moved slowly along the rutted road, and as they came closer to the encampment, it was clear that they were in the midst of receiving wounded.

The ambulance pulled alongside the officers' tent, where records were kept and orders given. All around them people moved quickly, some shouting, others carrying fresh supplies. Iris and Maisie stepped down and had barely taken up their bags when a sister rushed up to them.

"No time to dawdle. We need you now--time for the paperwork and receiving line later! Get your capes off, your aprons on, and report immediately to the main tent. It's the deep end for you two."

Two hours later, as Maisie stood over a young man, cutting heavy uniform cloth away from an arm partially severed by shellfire, Maisie remembered Simon's words:"You must prepare yourself for what you are going to see."

Quickly pushing the still-fresh words to the back of her mind, and brushing the sweat from her forehead with the back of her bloodied hand, Maisie felt as if she were in the eye of the storm. The young soldier lying in front of her was conscious, watching her face all the time, searching for the glimmer of expression that would give away her assessment of his wounds. But the sisters of the London Hospital had taught their nurses well: Never, never ever change your expression at the sight of a wound--they'll be looking into your eyes to see their future. Look straight back at them.

As Maisie worked quickly, taking up disinfectant and swabs, a surgeon accompanied by nurses and medical orderlies moved from one soldier to the next, cutting away skin, bone and muscle, pulling shrapnel from the bodies of boys who had taken on the toil of men.

The soldier continued to stare into Maisie's eyes as she prepared his wounds for the surgeon's knife. Following the trail of blood and flesh, Maisie cut away more uniform, taking her scissors to his trousers, pulling at the bindings around his lower leg. And as she felt her hand sink into the terrible injuries to his thigh, the soldier cleared his throat to speak.

"Rugby player's legs, those."

"I thought so," said Maisie as she continued to work on his leg, "You can always tell the rugby players."

"Nurse, nurse," the soldier reached out toward her with his uninjured hand,"Nurse, could you hold my hand?"

And as Maisie took his hand in hers, the young man smiled.

"Thank you, nurse."

Suddenly Maisie was aware that someone was bending back the soldier's fingers and moving his arm to his side, and she looked up at the nursing sister in charge. An army chaplain placed his hand on her shoulder for barely a second before lifting it to perform last rites over the young soldier's not-yet-cold body, while two stretcher-bearers waited to remove him to allow room for more wounded.

"Oh, I'm sorry--"

"No time for sorry," said the sister. "He's been gone less than a minute anyway. You did all you could. Now then, there's work to do here. No time to stop and think about it. Just got to get on with it. There's plenty more waiting outside that need your helping hand."

Brushing back a stray hair with the back of her hand once again, Maisie prepared the table as best she could for the next soldier.

"'Allo, Nurse. Going to make me all better, are you?" said the man as the stretcher bearers quickly but carefully placed him on the table.

Maisie looked straight into the man's eyes and saw intense pain masked by the attempt at humor. Taking up scissors and swabs, along with the pungent garlic juice used to disinfect wounds, she breathed deeply and smiled.

"Yes. I'm going to make you all better, young man. Now then, hold still."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Maisie awoke in the tent she shared with Iris. Snuggling under her blankets, she looked over at her friend and, in the half sleep of early morning, thought for a moment that it was Enid, but realized that it was the bump of Iris's behind forming a mound in the bed as she, too, curled herself against the early morning chill.

She took a deep breath. The chill air notwithstanding, Maisie suddenly sat up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders as she did so. She must do everything in her power to keep a calm head, to brace herself for the day, and to prepare herself for the elements. Rain had started to fall again. Rain that soaked into the ground to form a stew of mud and filthy water that seeped up into the cloth of her long woolen dress, making it hang heavily against her ankles as she worked again and again to clean and bandage wounds. By the end of each day the mud had worked its way up to her knees, and time and time again she told herself that she was warm, really, that her feet felt dry, really. Then at night, she and Iris would hang up their dresses to allow the moisture to evaporate, and check each other's bodies for the battlefield lice that seemed to know no defeat.

"You first, Maisie," said Iris, still clutching the bedcovers around her body.

"You just don't want to be the one to crack the ice."

"What ice?"

"I told you, Iris, there was a layer of ice on the top of that water yesterday."

"No!"

Iris turned over in her cot to look at Maisie, who sat cross-legged on her bed.

"I don't know how you can sit like that, Dobbs. Now then, are you telling me there was ice on the water? It's not even proper winter yet."

"Yes. Even though it's not proper winter."

Maisie took another deep breath, which, when exhaled, turned to steamy fog in front of her face. She cast the blanket aside and nimbly ran over to the water pitcher and bowl that stood on top of a wooden chest.

"And the sitting in the morning--it's what helps to keep me from freezing solid all day, Iris. It clears my head. You should try it!"

"Hmmmph!"

Iris turned over in bed and tried to ignore her cold feet.

Maisie poked her finger into the water pitcher. She cracked the thin layer of ice as if tentatively testing a piecrust, then gripped the handle of the pitcher with both hands and poured freezing cold water into the bowl. Reaching over to the side of the chest, Maisie unhooked a flannel cloth, which she steeped in the water. After wringing it out, Maisie unbuttoned the front of her nightgown and washed first her face, then under her arms and up to her neck. Oh, what she would give for a bath! To sit in a deep bathtub filled with piping hot water and soap bubbles coming up to her ears.

Again she plunged the cloth into the cold water, squeezed the excess water back into the bowl, and this time lifted her nightgown and washed between her legs and down to her knees. A nice hot bath. For hours. She wouldn't come out for hours. She'd keep twiddling that hot tap with her big toe, and she wouldn't come out until every last molecule of mud, blood, sweat, and tears had been washed away.

Taking down her still-damp dress, which had been hanging from a wire she and Iris had rigged up inside the tent, Maisie checked every seam and in the hem for lice. It was the morning drill: Check for lice everywhere, and when you've finished checking, check some more, because lice are crafty little beggars. She dressed quickly, finally slipping a white armband with a red cross just above the elbow of her right sleeve, and taking out a fresh apron and attaching a silver watch pin to the left side of the bib. Along with the black leather document case, which now held her writing paper and letters received, the nurse's watch was her talisman from home, a gift from Lady Rowan.

Finally Maisie placed a towel on her cot and leaned over it to brush her hair, looking carefully for lice falling out. She and Iris checked each other's hair every night or, if they were on duty at night, whenever they were both in the tent and awake at the same time. But Maisie always checked again in the morning, brushing her hair over a towel until her head spun. Then she quickly pinned her hair up into a bun, and placed her cap on her head.

"I'm all finished, Iris."

"Right you are, Dobbsie." Iris shivered under her bedclothes."Lord knows what this will be like in the real winter."

"At least we're not up to our waists in mud in the trenches, Iris. Least we're not piling up bodies to make a wall to protect us. Not like the boys."

"You're right there, as always," said Iris as she leaped from bed and began the morning ritual that Maisie had just finished. "Brrrr . . . I 'spect you're going over to see if there's a letter from your young man."

Maisie rolled her eyes. "I've told you, Iris. He's not--"

"Yes, I know, I know. He's not your young man. Well then, go and get your letter from your special friend of a friend then, and leave me to my delousing, if you don't mind!"

The young women laughed, as Maisie pulled back the tent flap, leaving Iris to her morning ablutions. Picking her way across wooden boards covering mud and puddles, Maisie made her way to the cooks' tent to get tea and bread for breakfast.

"There you are, Sister, get this down you." The orderly on duty held out a large enamel mug along with a slice of bread and dripping for Maisie, addressing her as "sister" in the way that soldiers called all nurses, regardless of rank, "sister."

"And a little something else for you, passed on to me this morning." He reached into his pocket and brought out a simple brown envelope that clearly contained a long letter, such was the thickness of the packet. The envelope was crumpled and bore stains of the four sets of dirty hands it had passed through before reaching its destination.

The letters from Simon Lynch to Maisie Dobbs would never travel through the censor's office, passed as they were from orderly to ambulance driver to stretcher bearer to cook. Her letters in return were passed in the same way, from person to person. And each time a letter changed hands, there would be a comment exchanged, a remark about young love, or that it was all very well for him, Captain Romantic over there.

The writers said nothing of love when the first letter, from Simon to Maisie, was sent and received. But in the way that two people who are of one mind on any subject move closer, as if their heads were drawn together by thoughts that ran parallel toward a future destination, so the letters of Simon and Maisie became more frequent, one hardly waiting for the other to reply before setting pen to paper again. Bearing up under exhaustion that weighed on their backs and pushed like a fist between their shoulder blades, Simon and Maisie, each in a tent several miles apart, and each by the strained light of an oil lamp, would write quickly and urgently of days amid the detritus of war. And though both knew that war, and the ever-present breath of despair might have added urgency to their need to be together again, they began unashamedly to declare their feelings in the letters that were passed from hand to hand. Feelings that, with each shared experience and story, grew deeper. Then Simon wrote:

My Dearest Maisie of the Blue Silk Dress,I have been on duty for 30 hours without so much as sitting down for five minutes. Wounded started coming in again at eleven yesterday morning. I have bent over so many bodies, so many wounds that I fear I have lost count. I seem to remember only the eyes, and I remember the eyes because in them I see the same shock, the same disbelief, and the same resignation. Today I saw, in quick succession, a man and his son. They had joined up together, I suspect one or both lying about their age. And they had the same eyes. The very same. Perhaps what I see in each man is that no matter what their age (and by golly, some of them shouldn't be out of school), they seem so very old.I am due for a short leave in three weeks. I will receive orders soon. I plan to go back to Rouen for two days. I remember you said that you would be due for leave soon, too. Would it be too presumptuous for me to ask if we might possibly meet in Rouen? I so long to see you, Maisie, and to be taken from this misery by your wonderful smile and inspiring good sense. Do write to let me know.

Iris had leave at the same time as Maisie, providing Maisie with a female companion. The journey to Rouen seemed long and drawn out, until finally they reached the Hotel St. Georges.

"I swear I cannot wait to get into that bath, Maisie Dobbs."

"Me too, Iris. I wonder if we can get our dresses cleaned. I've another day dress with me that I haven't worn. How about you?"

"Yes, me too. Not supposed to be out of uniform, but for goodness sake, this dress will walk to the laundry if I don't take it."

Maisie and Iris hurried immediately to their assigned room. The ceilings seemed extraordinarily high and there was chipped paint on the walls and doorframe. The room itself was small and simple, containing two single beds and a washstand, but after several months of living with the roof of a leaking tent barely six inches above their heads, they saw only grandeur. Two bathrooms were situated along the red-carpeted corridor, and the ever vigilant Iris immediately checked to see whether either was already occupied.

"One already gone, I'm afraid, and he's singing at the top of his voice."

"Golly, I am just aching for a nice hot bath," said Maisie.

"Tell you what. I'll put on my day dress and see if I can get our laundry done, while you draw a bath. We can top and tail it--check for the dreaded lice at the same time. It'll save waiting. Did you see the officers coming in after us? Bet they'll be bagging the bathrooms a bit sharpish."

"Don't some officers get rooms with bathrooms?"

"Oh, yes. Forgot that. Privilege and all that."

Iris and Maisie had discarded their uniform dresses quickly, and Iris gathered the laundry and walked toward the door.

"Never know, Maisie, p'raps your Captain Lynch will let you use his bathroom."

"Iris!"

"Only joking, Dobbsie. Now then, go bag us a bathroom."

The bathtub easily accommodated the two women, who lay back in the steaming water and audibly allowed the tension of the past few months to drain away.

"Bit more hot water, Maisie. Another five minutes and we'll swap ends."

"And about time!"

Maisie turned on the hot tap and pulled the plug to allow some of the cooler water out at the same time. After wallowing for another five minutes, they swapped ends, giggling as they moved, and continued to linger in the soothing steamy heat.

"Maisie," said Iris, as she leaned back, trying to comfortably position her head between the heavy taps,"Maisie, do you think your Captain Lynch will ask you to marry him, then?"

"Iris--"

"No, I'm not kidding you on now. I'm serious. What with the war and all. Makes you a bit more serious, doesn't it? Look at Bess White--gets a letter from her sweetheart, says he's going home on leave, she goes on leave, and boom! There they are--married, and him back at the front."

Maisie leaned forward, dipped her head in the water and sat up, sweeping back the long dark tresses.

"Here's what I do know, Iris. I know that when this is over, when the war is done with, I'm going back to university. That's what I know. Besides, when the war's over, I don't know if I'll be . . . well, Simon comes from a good family."

Iris looked at Maisie, then sat up and took hold of her hand.

"I know exactly what you are just about to say, Maisie, and let me tell you this, in case you haven't noticed. We are living in different times now. This war has made everything different. I've seen the letters from your dad, and from that Carter and Mrs. Whatsername with the pies. Those people, Maisie, are your family, and they are every bit as good as Simon's. And you are every bit as good as anyone Captain Simon Lynch will ever meet."

Maisie held on to Iris's hand, bit her bottom lip, and nodded. "It's just that--I can't explain it, but I have a feeling here," she held her hand to her chest,"that things will change. I know, I know, Iris, what you're going to say, 'It's the war. . . .' But I know this feeling. I know it to be true. And I know that everything will change."

"Come on. This water's going to your head, Maisie Dobbs. You are a grand nurse, Dobbsie, but I tell you, sometimes I wonder about all your wondering."

Iris put her hands on either side of the bath and levered herself up. She stepped out onto the tiled floor, grabbed one of the sturdy white towels, and began to dry herself. Maisie continued to sit in the rapidly cooling water while Iris dressed.

"Come on, dreamer. We'd better get a move on. That's if you want to see young Captain Lynch for dinner this evening. What time did he say to meet him?"

"The note said seven o'clock. By the desk in the main corridor as you come into the hotel."

Wearing a plain gray day dress, her hair up in a bun, and accompanied by Iris, Maisie walked down the wide sweeping staircase of the hotel. She had tried not to anticipate meeting with Simon again, in case she imagined too much, in case the expectation of excited conversation, of hands held, of feelings expressed, was to clash with reality.

Iris was accompanying Maisie, but had already made up her mind to retire early. Not that she should, really. Fraternizing between men and women in uniform was frowned upon. But with a bit of luck, Maisie's young man would have a nice friend for company. Chaperone, my eye! thought Iris. Nothing like being the piggy in the middle.

Maisie and Simon Lynch saw each other at exactly the same time, and moved quickly through the throng of visitors. The thumping of Maisie's heart seemed to radiate to her throat, and stopped the words of greeting she had so carefully planned. Simon simply stood in front of her, took both her hands in his and looked into her eyes.

"I thought I would never see you again, Maisie."

Maisie nodded and looked down at their hands held together.

A deep, throaty "Ahem!" brought Simon and Maisie's attention back into the room. Iris was looking at her feet, inspecting the soles of her shoes, when the man accompanying Simon spoke.

"Think you could introduce us, Lynch? Don't know how you folks do things, but where I'm from, we try to get acquainted."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Please forgive me. Maisie, Iris, may I introduce Captain Charles Hayden. Currently sporting a British uniform, but as you can hear, he's an American. Good man came over here with the Massachusetts General Hospital contingent to do his bit. God bless them all. We've been exchanging notes about dealing with gas poisoning. Charles--Miss Maisie Dobbs and Miss Iris Rigson."

"And delighted to meet you. It was worth coming all this way. And Lynch was becoming a bit of a bore, as you might say. Well, are we going to eat, or stand here all evening? Personally I'm for eating."

"Me too," said Iris.

Charles Hayden provided the group with a much-needed dose of humor at dinner, and as time passed the waves of conversation shifted, so that the voices of Hayden and Iris could be heard above all others, laughing loudly, teasing, and generally exchanging good cheer. Instinctively they had assumed the task of allowing their friends the intimacy that can be had, even in a crowded room, when two people want only to be with each other.

"I have longed to see you, Maisie, and yet now that you are here, I hardly know what to say."

"Yes, I know."

Simon turned his body toward Maisie and reached for her hand.

"Talk to me about anything, Maisie. I want to know everything about you. Even if you've already told me in a letter. I want to hear your voice. Start anywhere, but not with the war. Tell me about London, Kent, about your father, your mother--and what about that funny little man Maurice Blanche? Tell me about it all, Maisie."

Maisie smiled, looked briefly across the table at Iris laughing with her head back.

"I'll tell you about my father. Francis. Known to just about everyone as Frankie. He has three loves in his life. My mother, who died when I was a child, me, and Persephone, his horse."

Maisie and Simon each unfolded tales of their lives that transported them from the memory of more recent experiences. Even after dinner had ended, the two walked close together along a cobblestone street that led to nowhere in particular and back again. For two days Simon and Maisie were almost exclusively with each other, apart only when Simon kissed her hand at the end of each day and watched as she climbed the stairs to the room she shared with Iris.

"Well, we're off tomorrow, Maisie. Back to the delightful Maison Tent."

"Have you enjoyed yourself, Iris?"

"Thank God for Chuck--that's what he calls himself--Hayden. Nice man, good company. We swapped sweetheart stories while you collected stars in your eyes."

"Iris, I'm sorry. I can't thank you enough."

"Oh, Maisie, don't get me wrong. It was a very nice time I had. Seriously, like I said, he was good company. Left his wife and young son behind to come over here with other American doctors and nurses. Misses his family something rotten. I told him all about my Sid. Blimey, I dunno if I would've come over here if I didn't have to."

"You didn't have to come here, Iris."

"I know. But there again I did, because it's my country that's here in this war. They're our boys and I'm a nurse. But they didn't; the Americans didn't have to come here. Though Charles seems to think it won't be long before they're in."

Iris began packing her small bag ready for the journey back to the casualty clearing station. "Made a nice job of the uniforms they did, here in the hotel laundry. And in double-quick time. Enjoy the clean dress, my girl;we'll be in mud up to our knees before long. And fighting off the lice again."

"Oh don't, Iris. . . ."

Simon accompanied Maisie and Iris to the station, and while Iris walked along to the platform for their train, Simon and Maisie stood together. Maisie shivered.

"I'll write as usual."

"That would be lovely, Simon. Gosh, it's cold."

Simon looked at her and without thinking put his arms around her.

"Please," Maisie protested weakly.

"Don't worry. No nasty sisters around to report you for dawdling with an unscrupulous RAMC captain."

Maisie laughed and shivered at the same time, moving her body closer to Simon. He held her to him and kissed her first on her forehead, then, as she looked up at him, Simon leaned down and kissed Maisie again on her cheek, then her lips.

"Simon, I--"

"Oh dear, will I get you into terrible trouble?"

She looked up at him, then around at the other travelers, none of whom seemed to notice the pair, and giggled nervously.

"Well, you might if someone sees us, Simon."

The guard signaled a loud whistle to alert passengers that the train would soon be leaving. Steam from the heavy engine was pushed up and out onto the platform. It was time for Simon and Maisie to part.

"Maisie. Look, I have a leave coming up again in a few months. Back to England. When's your leave? Perhaps it will be at the same time."

"I'll let you know, Simon. I'll let you know. I must run. I'll miss the train."

Simon held Maisie to him, and as the train signaled the "all aboard," she pulled herself away and ran along the platform. Iris was leaning out of the window of their carriage waving to her. She clambered aboard and sat down heavily on the seat just as the train began to move.

"I thought I'd be leaving without you, Dobbs."

"Not to worry, Iris. I'm here."

"Yes. You're here, Dobbsie. But I think you've left your heart behind with a certain young man."

Catching her breath as the train pulled out of the station, Maisie closed her eyes and thought of Simon. And as she saw his face in her mind's eye, the pressure returned to her chest. Rain slanted down across the windows as the fields of France seemed to rumble past with the movement of the train. Maisie looked out at this country she had willingly come to, so close to home, yet so far away from all that she loved. Almost. Simon was near.

CHAPTER TWENTY

On a cold, wintry morning in February 1917, with the sun barely visible through the morning fog, Maisie pulled the wool cape around her shoulders and walked back to the tent she shared with Iris. Burning a hole in her pocket were two letters. One was from Simon. The other contained her leave papers. Her fingers were crossed.

"So, did you get it?" asked Iris, as Maisie tore at the small buff-colored envelope.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. Yes! Yes! Yes!"

Maisie jumped up and down. She was going on leave. Areal leave. Allowing two days for travel, she would have three days at home. Three days! One whole day more than her last leave, which was-- she couldn't even remember. She immediately opened Simon's letter, scanned the lines of fine, right-slanted handwriting and jumped up and down again.

"Yes, Yes! He's got it, he's got leave!"

And the dates, April 15 to 20, were almost the same as hers. They would have two days together. Two whole days.

Iris smiled and shook her head. Oh, how that girl had changed. Not in her work. No, the skill and compassion she brought to her work were as unquestionable as ever. But this joy, this excitement, was something new.

"Dobbsie, I do believe you are becoming a normal young woman!"

"Nonsense. I've always been normal," said Maisie, continuing to read Simon's letter.

"No, you haven't. I can tell. Taken life far too seriously, you have."

Iris reached for her cape and shivered. "And you can't do that in these times, Maisie. Take your work seriously, yes. But the rest of it, it'll drive you mad."

Iris carefully positioned her cap so that the red cross was in the center of her crown, and the point of the linen square was centered at the back of her head, just grazing the area between her shoulder blades.

"Ready, then?"

"Yes, I'm ready."

"Good. Let's get to work."

The weeks seemed to drag on, yet when Maisie looked back at the time between the arrival of her leave papers and the moment when which she walked onto the boat for the crossing back to Folkestone, it seemed that time had flown. As she stowed her bags, sought out hot cocoa and cake, Maisie almost dreaded the start of her leave, for by this time next week, she would be back in France. It would be over.

The crossing was calmer than last time, and though the sea was not quite like a millpond, the boat did not seem to pitch and toss as violently as before, and the tops of waves did not suddenly rear up and cover the deck. The nausea of her previous journey was not repeated to the same extent, yet a band of pressure around her forehead caused her to lean against the rail, counting off the quarter hours until land came in sight. She breathed in, waiting for sea saltiness to give way to the clear air of the county of Kent.

Oh, how she ached to see her father, to be drawn into the warm, steamy atmosphere of Mrs. Crawford's kitchen. In France she had dreamed of Kent, of apple orchards in full blossom, primroses and bluebells carpeting the woodland, and the soft countryside stretching out before her.

She longed to be home. She could hardly wait to see Simon.

Maisie disembarked, walking down the gangway and toward the port buildings. As she came through into the main waiting area, she saw her father, cap in hand, anxiously searching the sea of faces for her. Pushing her way through people jostling for extra height to see over the heads of others to the line of weary passengers, Maisie pulled at her father's arm.

"Dad! What are you doing here?"

"Darlin' girl. Couldn't wait for you to get to Chelstone, could I? So, I took the day off, like, and came down to meet you off the boat. Gawd, this ain't 'alf a busy old place! Come on, let me get that bag of yours, and let's get out of this lot. Never could stand a crowd, even at the market."

Maisie laughed and, still holding tightly to his arm, followed as he pushed his way through the surging throng making their way to the station.

The journey to Chelstone took another two hours, first by train to Tonbridge, then by the small branch line down to Chelstone. In a field across from the station, Persephone was grazing, her cart resting just inside the gate.

"Just a minute, love. Won't take me long to get old Persephone ready for you. Stationmaster let me leave the old girl here. I know it's not a fancy motorcar, but I thought you'd appreciate a ride home on the old cart with Persephone."

"That I do, Dad."

They rode in silence for a while, Frankie Dobbs with his arm around his daughter's shoulder.

"'Ard to know what to say to you, love. Bet you don't really want to talk about it, do you?"

"No. Not now, Dad. I'm not home for long. I'll be back there soon enough."

"And how long will I see you for?"

Frankie looked sideways at Maisie.

"Well, I'll be seeing a friend while I'm on leave. But we've got all day tomorrow."

"Is that all I get? Blimey, this Captain Lynch must be an interestin' fella."

Maisie swung round to her father.

"How do you know--?"

"Now then, now then. Just you 'old your 'orses, young lady. You're still my girl, and that's a fact."

Frankie grinned at Maisie. "There's a letter waiting indoors for you. Just sent to Miss Dobbs at Chelstone Manor. Got 'is name printed on the back of the envelope. Very posh. Knows your old Dad's the groom, does 'e?"

"Yes. He does, Dad. He knows who you are and who I am."

"Good. That's all right then. Look forward to meeting the man."

"Well, I don't know . . . ."

Frankie put his arm around Maisie again, and in the security of her father's embrace and his love for her, she slept as she had not been able to sleep since she left for France.

"Well, I never. Look at you. All skin and bone, Maisie, all skin and bone."

Mrs. Crawford drew Maisie to her, then pushed away to inspect her from head to toe.

"A good dinner, that's what you need, my girl. Thank heavens we are all down here now, have been ever since her ladyship said it was too dangerous in London, what with the Zeppelin raids. Anyway, at least I can get a good dinner down you. That's what you need--a good dinner."

Maisie had hardly stepped from Frankie Dobbs's cart before the "welcome homes" began. And it seemed that one welcome was followed by another. She had been immediately summoned to the drawing room to meet with Lady Rowan. Already the short leave was turning into a whirlwind, but the next day Maisie spent time only with her father, alone.

Frankie Dobbs and Maisie groomed the horses together, walked across farmland, and speculated on the apple crop that would surely be the result of such fine hearty white blossom. And sitting alone in the gardens at Chelstone, Maisie wondered about the war, and how it was that such blooms could give joy to the soul, when one only had to stand on cliffs overlooking the Channel to hear the boom of cannons on the battlefields of France.

On the second day of her leave, Maisie was to see Simon in London, a meeting arranged in letters passed between their respective medical stations in France. She would meet his parents at the family's London home during their first day together. They both knew better than to have Simon suggest she stay at the house, as an overnight invitation would come only after a more formal luncheon meeting, the invitation for which had arrived from Mrs. Lynch, and along with Simon's letter, had awaited Maisie's return to Chelstone. Simon wrote that he couldn't wait to see her.

Frankie Dobbs took Maisie to the station, and they stood awkwardly on the platform to wait for the local train, which would connect with the London train at Tonbridge.

"Now, you make sure you don't overdo it. That Crawford woman was right. Skin and bone you are. You're like your mother, a tall drink of water in a dress."

"I'll eat them out of house and home, Dad."

"And you mind yourself, Maisie. I've not met this young man, but seeing as you've been invited by his people, I'm sure he's a fine person. And a doctor. But you mind yourself, Maisie."

"Dad, I'll be back on the train this evening--"

"Maisie. It's in 'ere that I'm talking about."

Frankie Dobbs pressed his hand to the place that still held grief for his departed wife.

"I'm talking about your 'eart, Maisie. Mind out for your 'eart."

The sun was shining by the time the engine met the end-of-the-line buffers at Charing Cross station. Maisie checked her face in the shell-shaped mirror on the bulkhead between the carriages. She had never been one to fuss over her appearance, but this was different. This was important.

Once again butterflies were holding court in her stomach, and once again she was filled with the joyous anticipation of seeing Simon Lynch. She opened the heavy wooden door and stepped down onto the platform.

"Maisie!"

"Simon!"

The young officer swept Maisie up into his arms and unashamedly kissed her, much to the delight of people rushing to catch trains, or anxiously waiting for loved ones on the platform. There was usually little cause for humor or delight at a wartime railway station, filled as they often were with war wounded, anxious farewells, and the bittersweet greetings of those who would have such a short time together.

"I have missed you so much. I can hardly believe we are here."

Maisie laughed, laughed until the tears fell down her cheeks. How she would hate to say good-bye.

The time spent at the Lynches' London house could not have been more perfect. Simon's parents welcomed Maisie into their home with great affection, as if she were part of the family. Mrs. Lynch personally showed Maisie to a guest room to "repair after the long journey."

Maisie's fears that she might have to field questions about her father's line of business proved to be unfounded, and she was asked only about her time at Cambridge and whether she might return when the war was over. Simon's parents understood that talk of "intentions" was almost futile at such a time, and the joy of having a dear son home was not to be sullied by questions that might give rise to discord. Time was too short.

Simon and Maisie had one more day together, then Maisie would leave early on Sunday morning for France. After lunch Simon escorted Maisie to Charing Cross Station again, and spoke of what they would do the next day.

"So, I've managed to get the car, lucky, eh? I'll leave early for Chelstone, then we can have a nice day out together--perhaps go on to the Downs."

"That would be lovely."

"What is it, Maisie?"

Maisie looked at her watch, and at the many men and women in uniform at the station.

"Remember to come to the groom's cottage, Simon. Not to the main house."

"Oh, I see. You're worried about me coming to Chelstone, aren't you?"

Maisie looked at her hands, and at Simon."A little."

"It doesn't matter to me, Maisie. We both know that there are bigger things to worry about. Besides, it's me that has to worry about Chelstone, what with the formidable Mrs. Crawford waiting to render judgment!"

Maisie laughed."Yes, Simon, you may have a good point there!"

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

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

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

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

"Ah, yes, the wise man Maurice. Perhaps I'll meet him one day."

Maisie looked into Simon's eyes and shivered. "Yes, perhaps. One day."

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

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

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

"Looks like your young man is here."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maisie laughed along with Simon.

"It's that French mud that does it, gets right into your bones."

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

"Will you definitely return to Cambridge after the war?"

"Yes. And you, Simon?"

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

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

"I'm not sure."

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

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

"Yes."

It was all she could say.

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

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

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

"No, Simon. No. It was just a surprise."

"Maisie, I love you."

He took her hand and looked deeply into her eyes.

"Yes. And I love you too, Simon. I love you too."

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

"You never gave me an answer, Maisie."

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

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

"But Simon. I do love you. Very much."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She remembered praying to see Simon just one more time.

SUMMER 1929

CHAPTER TWENTY- ONE

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

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

Coincidence was a messenger sent by truth.

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

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

"A very wise decision, Maisie. You know the way."

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

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

"Mrs. Crawford," said Maisie in a raised voice,"I'm here!"

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

"Well, look at you now! Don't you go getting those nice clothes all covered with flour."

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

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

"I promise I'm eating, Mrs. Crawford. In fact, what's for dinner?"

"A nice vegetable soup, followed by roast beef with all the trimmings--and it's not even Sunday. Then there's apple pie and the cheese board."

"Oh my goodness. I'll pop!"

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

"I thought he had his own flat--I didn't know he was back at home."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly one of the bells over the door rang.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'll bet he said a bit more than that. I know Maurice too, Lady Rowan."

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

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

"Anything interesting?"

Maisie smiled at Lady Rowan, without speaking.

"I know, you can't divulge a secret."

"Tell me about James," asked Maisie.

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

"Maurice is right, Lady Rowan."

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

"Tell me about James,"Maisie prodded her.

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

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

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

"Wonderful, Carter, wonderful. Compliments to Mrs. Crawford, as always."

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

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

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

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

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

At once Maisie thought of Vincent Weathershaw. Vincent.

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

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

"What do you mean?" Maisie asked.

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

"What does Jenkins do with the money?"

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

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

"Where is James now?"

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

Maisie pushed the food around on her plate. There was a time when mother and son had been almost inseparable, sharing a dry wit and a mischievous sense of humor. She remembered being at the London house soon after she received news that she had been accepted by Girton College. James had just returned from Canada, hoping to join the Royal Flying Corps. There was much joy in the household, and as she walked down the outside stairs toward the kitchen, Maisie saw the tall, fair young man through the window, creeping up behind Mrs. Crawford and putting his arms around her ample waist. And as Maisie watched through the condensation that had built up inside the pane of glass, Mrs. Crawford swung around, clipped the young man around the ear, and, laughing, pretended to admonish him."You, young James, why no sooner are you back than you'll be the death of me. Look at you, you young lout--and if you are after fresh ginger biscuits, I've baked up a batch 'specially for you, though I'm not sure you deserve them now!"

Maisie had walked in through the back door of the kitchen just as James was taking his first bite of a fresh ginger biscuit.

"And look who else is here," said Mrs. Crawford."Maisie Dobbs, I do believe you are even thinner! My back only has to be turned for one minute, and you're not eating properly."

With crumbs around his mouth, James swallowed the biscuit, and struggled to greet Maisie politely."Ah, the clever Miss Maisie Dobbs, passing exams that the rest of us mere mortals have nightmares about!"

Then as Mrs. Crawford turned to the stove, James whispered to Maisie,"Tell Enid I'm home."

Later, as she walked past the drawing room on her way to Lord Julian's study to serve afternoon tea, which he had elected to take alone, she saw James and Lady Rowan through the open door. Lady Rowan was laughing heartily, having been whisked by her son into an impromptu dance, accompanied only by the sound of his own booming voice:

Oh, he floats through the air with the greatest of ease

The daring young man on the flying trapeze

His actions are graceful, all girls he does please

And my love he has stolen away.

"I won't ask you to see James, Maisie," continued Lady Rowan, bringing Maisie back into the present,"I know your opinion will mirror Maurice's, so I know better than to ask. But I wonder. Would you find out something about this farm, or whatever it is? I have to say that I do feel he would be better in the world rather than trying to escape from it."

"I will certainly look into it, Lady Rowan. I'll go down to Kent next week. I have to go anyway, as I need to speak with Maurice, and I must see my father. I'll find out about James's retreat as well."

"Maisie. Take the MG. I know very well that you can drive, so do please take the car. It's not as if I've used it much since Julian bought it for me to run around in--and George drives Julian to the City in the Lanchester."

"Yes, all right, Lady Rowan. It's very kind of you to offer, and I may need to be flexible, so the car will be handy."

"It's almost new, so the young thing should get you there and back with no trouble at all. And Maisie--don't forget to send me your bill!"

Maisie directed conversation to other matters, and soon Lady Rowan was laughing in her old infectious manner. Carter watched as two maids cleared the table and brought in the delicious apple pie, to be served with a generous helping of fresh clotted cream. After dinner Maisie and Lady Rowan returned to the drawing room, to sit beside the fire until Lady Rowan announced that it was past time for her to be in bed.

Maisie made her way to the guest room that had been prepared for her visit. Nora had already unpacked Maisie's small bag and laid out her nightclothes on the bed. Later, as she snuggled closer to the hot water bottle that warmed the sheets, Maisie remembered, as she always did when she slept at the Compton residence, the nights she'd spent in the servants' quarters at the top of the house.

She left before breakfast the next morning, stopping quickly to drink tea with Carter and Mrs. Crawford, and to collect the apple pie. Billy Beale would love that apple pie, thought Maisie. She might need it when she asked him if he would take on a very delicate task for her. In fact, as the plans began to take shape in her mind, she might need more than apple pie for Billy Beale.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

" Right then. Watch carefully, miss. 'Ere's how you start 'er up."

The young chauffeur walked around to the front of the 1927 MG 14/40 two-seater roadster, and put his hand on the engine cover.

"You've basically got your five steps to starting this little motor, very straightforward when you know what you're about, so watch carefully."

George enjoyed the attention that came as a result of his expertise in the maintenance and operation of the Compton's stable of very fine motor cars.

"First you lift your bonnet, like so."

George waited for Maisie to nod her head in understanding before continuing with his instructions, and as he turned his attention once again to the MG, she grinned with amusement at his preening tutorial.

"Right. See this--you turn on your fuel. Got it?"

"Yes, George."

George closed the engine cover, and indicated for Maisie to move away from the side of the car so that he could sit in the driver's seat.

"You set your ignition, you set your throttle, set your choke--three moves, got it?"

"Got it, George."

"You push the starter button--on the floor, Miss--with your foot and--"

The engine roared into life, perhaps somewhat more aggressively than usual, given the enthusiasm of George's lesson.

"There she goes."

George clambered from the seat, held open the door, and, with a sweep of his hand, invited Maisie to take his place.

"Think you've got all that, Miss?"

"Oh yes, George. You explained everything very clearly. As you say, it's very straightforward. A lovely motor."

"Oh, nice little runner, to be sure. 'Cording to them at Morris Garages, this one can do sixty-five miles an hour--up to fifty in the first twenty-five seconds! 'Er ladyship goes out of 'ere like a shot out of a gun, doesn't know where she's going, but goes like a shot anyway. Comes back all red in the face. Worries me with them gears though. Talk about crunch! Makes me cringe when I 'ear it. Thank 'eavens for us all that she don't get out in it much anymore. Now, then, sure of your way?"

"I'm sure, George. Down the Old Kent Road, and just keep on from there, more or less. I've done that journey many a time when I was younger."

"'Course, you was at Chelstone, wasn't you? Mind you, if I were you, I'd go out onto Grosvenor Place, then along Victoria Street, over Westminster Bridge, St. George's Road, and just the other side of the Elephant and Castle. . . ."

"I think I can remember the way, George, and thank you for the advice."

George walked around to the back of the MG and dropped Maisie's bag into the car's rear luggage compartment, while she made herself comfortable in the rich claret leather seat. He checked once again that her door was closed securely before standing back and giving her a mock salute.

Maisie returned the wave as she eased the smart crimson motor car out into the mews. It wasn't until she was across the Thames and past the Elephant and Castle that Maisie felt she could breathe again. At every turn she sat up straight and peered over the steering wheel, making sure that each part of the vehicle was clear of any possible obstruction. She had learned to drive before returning to Cambridge in 1919, but took extra care as it had been quite some time since she'd had an opportunity--although she did not want to admit as much to George. In fact, she did not change from first gear until she was well out of George's hearing, fearing a dreadful roaring as she reacquainted herself with the intricacies of the double-de-clutch maneuver to change gear.

It was a fine day in early June, a day that seemed to predict a long hot summer for 1929. Maisie drove conservatively, partly to minimize chances of damage to the MG and partly to savor the journey. She felt that she only had to smell the air and, blindfolded, she would know she had arrived in Kent. And no matter how many times she came back to Chelstone, every journey reminded her of her early days and months at the house. As Maisie drove, she relaxed and allowed her mind to wander. Memories of that first journey from the house in Belgravia came flooding back. So much had happened so quickly. So much that was unexpected yet, looking back, seemed so very predictable. Ah, as Maurice would say, the wisdom of hindsight!

Drawing to a halt at the side of the road to pull back the roadster's heavy cloth roof, Maisie stood for a moment to look at the medley of wildflowers that lined the grass verge. Arrowheads of sunny yellow charlock were growing alongside clumps of white field mouse-ear, which in turn were busily taking up space and becoming tangled in honeysuckle growing over the hedge. She leaned down to touch the delicate blue flower of the common speedwell, and remembered how she had loved this county from the moment she first came to work for the dowager. It was a soft patchwork-quilt land in which she found solace from missing her father and the Belgravia house.

Maisie had decided already that the day in Kent should become a two or three day excursion. Lady Rowan had given her permission to keep the car for as long as it was needed, and Maisie had packed a small bag in case she chose to stay. The hedgerows, small villages and apple orchards still full of blossom, were working their magic upon her. She stopped briefly at the post office in Sevenoaks.

"I'm looking for a farm, I think it's called The Retreat. I wonder if you might be able to direct me?"

"Certainly, Miss."

The postmaster took a sheet of paper and began to write down an address with some directions.

"You might want to be careful, Miss."

Maisie put her head to one side to indicate that she was listening to any forthcoming advice. "Yes, Miss. Our postman who does the route says it's run like a cross between a monastery and a barracks. You'd've thought that the blokes in there had seen enough of barracks, wouldn't you? There's a gate and a man on duty--you'll have to tell him your business before he'll let you in. They're nice enough, by all accounts, but I've heard that they don't want just anyone wandering about because of the residents."

"Yes, yes indeed," said Maisie, taking the sheet of paper. "Thank you for your advice."

The sun was high in the sky by the time Maisie came out of the post office, and as she touched the door handle of the MG it was warm enough to cause her to flinch. Pay attention, Maurice had always cautioned her. Pay attention to the reactions of your body. It is the wisdom of the self speaking to you. Be aware of concern, of anticipation, of all the feelings that come from the self. They manifest in the body. What is their counsel?

If those from the outside were questioned, albeit in a nonthreatening manner, when they entered, how might it be for the residents, the men who had been ravaged by war, in their coming and going? Maisie decided to drive on toward Chelstone. The Retreat could wait until she had seen Maurice.

Frankie Dobbs put the MG away in the garage and helped Maisie with her bags. She would stay in the small box room at the groom's cottage, which had once been her bedroom and was now always made up ready for her to visit, even though such visits were few and far between.

"We don't see enough of you, Love."

"I know, Dad. But I've been occupied with the business. It's been hard work since Maurice retired."

"It was 'ard work before 'e retired, wasn't it? Mind you, the old boy looks as if 'e's enjoyin' 'avin' a bit of time to 'imself. He comes in 'ere to 'ave a cup of tea with me now'n again, or I'll go over to see 'is roses. It surprised me, what 'e knows about roses. Clever man, that Maurice."

Maisie laughed.

"I have to go over to see him, Dad. It's important."

"Now then, I'm not stupid. I know that I'm not the only reason for you comin' all this way. Mind you, I 'ope I'm the main reason."

"'Course you are, Dad."

Frankie Dobbs finished brewing tea and placed an old enamel mug in front of Maisie, then winked and went to the cupboard for his own large china cup and saucer. As he brought some apple pie out of the larder, Maisie poured tea for them both.

"Maisie. You are lookin' after yourself, aren't you?"

"Yes, Dad. I can take care of myself."

"Well, I know that this work you do is sometimes, well, tricky like. And you're on your own now. Just as long as you're careful."

"Yes, Dad."

Frankie Dobbs sat down at the table with Maisie, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small package wrapped in brown paper and secured with string. "Anyway, I was in the 'ardware shop last week, talking to old Joe Cooke--you know 'ow that man can jaw--and, well, I saw this little thing. Thought it might come in 'andy, like, for you. Natty, innit?"

Maisie raised an eyebrow at her father, wondering if he was teasing her. With nimble fingers, she pulled away the string and opened the paper to reveal a shining new stainless-steel Victorinox pocket knife.

"Old Joe said it was a bit odd, buying a thing like this for me daughter, like, but I said, 'Joe, let me tell you, a daughter on 'er own can make more use of a thing like this, with them little tools, than any of them lads of yours.' In any case, y'never know when it might be just the thing you need, 'specially if you're runnin' all over in that motor."

"Oh, Dad, you shouldn't go spending money on me." Maisie pulled out each tool in turn, then looked at the closed knife in the palm of her hand. "I'll keep it with me all the time, just in case." Maisie slipped the knife into her bag, leaned across the table to kiss her father on the cheek, then reached for her tea.

Father and daughter laughed together, then sat in companionable silence drinking tea and eating apple pie, comfortable with only the heavy tick-tock of the grandfather clock for company. Maisie was thinking about The Retreat, and how she would present the story to Maurice.

Years of working with Maurice had helped Maisie prepare her answers to some of his questions, like a chess player anticipating the moves in a game. But she knew that the ones likely to be most difficult were those that pertained to her own past.

Frankie Dobbs interrupted Maisie's thoughts.

"So, that MG. Nice little motor, is it? What's she like on the corners?"

After tea Maisie walked though the gardens and down to the dower house. Maurice had been invited to use the house after the dowager's death, in 1916, and he had purchased the black-and-white beamed home in 1919. After the war, like many landowners of the day, the Comptons decided to sell parts of the estate, and were delighted when the much-loved house became the property of a friend. The gardens had suffered during the war as groundsmen left to enlist in the army, and land that had lain fallow was requisitioned to grow more produce. At one time it was feared that Chelstone Manor itself would be requisitioned to house army officers, but thankfully, given Lord Julian's work with the War Office, together with the fact that the fifteenth-century ceilings and winding staircases rendered the building unsuitable for such use, the manor itself was spared.

Though Maurice officially became resident at the dower house in 1916, he was hardly seen throughout the war years, and came to Chelstone for short periods, usually only to rest. The staff speculated that he had been overseas, which led to even more gossip about what, exactly, he was doing "over there." Maurice Blanche had become something of an enigma. Yet anyone watching him tend his roses during the scorching summer of 1929, as Maisie did before opening the latched gate leading to the dower house garden, would think that this old man wielding a pair of secateurs and wearing a white shirt, light khaki trousers, brown sandals, and a Panama hat, was not one for whom the word "enigma" was appropriate.

Maisie hardly made a sound, yet Maurice looked up and stared directly at her immediately she walked through the gate. For a minute his expression was unchanged, then his face softened. He smiled broadly, dropped the secateurs into a trug, and held both hands out to Maisie as he walked toward her.

"Ah, Maisie. It has taken you a long time to come to me, yes?"

"Yes, Maurice. I need to talk to you."

"I know, my dear. I know. Shall we walk? I'll not offer you tea, as your dear father will have had you swimming in the liquid by now."

"Yes. Yes, let's walk."

Together they passed through the second latched gate at the far end of the garden, and then walked toward the apple orchards. Maisie unfolded the story of Christopher Davenham, of his wife, Celia, the poor departed Vincent, and how she had first heard about The Retreat.

"So, you have followed your nose, Maisie. And the only 'client' in the case is this Christopher Davenham?"

"Yes. Well, Lady Rowan is a sort of client now, because of James. But we always took on other cases, didn't we? Where we felt truth was asking for our help."

"Indeed. Yes, indeed. But remember, Maisie, remember, truth also came to us as individuals so that we might have a more intimate encounter with the self. Remember the Frenchwoman, Mireille--we both know that my interest in the case came from the fact that she reminded me of my grandmother. There was something there for me to discover about myself, not simply the task of solving a case that the authorities could not begin to comprehend. Now, you, Maisie, what is there here for you?" Maurice pointed a finger and touched the place where Maisie's heart began to beat quickly. "What is there in your heart that needs to be given light and understanding?"

"I've come to terms with the war, Maurice. I'm a different person now,"Maisie protested.

The two walked on through the apple trees. Maisie was dressed for the heat and wore a cream linen skirt, with a long, sailor-collared linen blouse and a cream hat to shield her sensitive skin from the beating sun, yet she was still far too warm.

When they had walked for more than an hour, Maurice led them back to the dower house and into the cool drawing room. The room was furnished tastefully, with chairs covered in soft green floral fabrics of summer weight. Matching curtains seemed to reflect the abundant garden, with foxgloves, hollyhocks, and delphiniums framing the exterior of the dower house windows. As the winter months drew in, the light materials would be changed, with heavy green velvet drapes and chair covers bringing a welcome warmth to the room. For now the room was light and airy, and bore the faint aroma of potpourri.

Some indication of Maurice's travels was present, in the form of artworks and ornaments. And if one went into Maurice's study, adjacent to the drawing room, there were two framed letters on the wall, from the governments of France and Britain, thanking Dr. Maurice Blanche for his special services during the Great War of 1914-18.

"I am expecting a visitor this evening, for sherry and some reminiscences. The Chief Constable of Kent, an old friend. I will ask him about this Retreat, Maisie. I believe and trust your instincts. Go there tomorrow, proceed with the plan you have outlined to me, and let us speak again tomorrow evening after dinner--no doubt you will dine with your dear father--and let us also look again at your notes, to see what else speaks to us from the pages."

Maisie nodded agreement. A feeling of anticipation and joy welled up inside her as she realized how very lonely it had been working without Maurice. Before she left the house, Maurice insisted that Maisie wait for one minute.

"A new book. I thought you might be interested. All Quiet on the Western Front. It has just been published. You have no doubt read reviews and commentary about it."

Maisie raised an eyebrow, though she would never ignore a recommendation from Maurice Blanche.

"Remember, Maisie, while there is always a victor and a vanquished, on both sides there are innocents. Few are truly evil, and they do not need a war to be at work among us, although war provides them with a timely mask."

"Yes, I suppose you are right there, Maurice. I'll read it. Thank you.

And I'll see you tomorrow when I get back from The Retreat."

As Maisie turned to walk down the path and across the garden to the stables and groom's cottage, Maurice stopped her.

"And Maisie, when you visit The Retreat, consider the nature of a mask. We all have our masks, Maisie."

Maisie Dobbs held the book tightly in her hand, nodded, and waved to Maurice Blanche.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

On a bright sunny day The Retreat seemed truly to live up to its name, a place that would afford one sweet respite from the cares of the world. As she drew up to the Gothic cast-iron gate with a pillar of rough stone at either side, Maisie could see through the railings to the sun-drenched farm beyond. The road leading from the entrance to the front of the house was dusty, causing a rippled haze of heat to work its way up toward a blue sky dotted with only a few lintlike clouds.

In the distance she could see a large medieval country farmhouse fronted by apple orchards. A high brick wall restricted further inspection of The Retreat, but as she regarded the subject of her investigation and imagination, she noticed in front of her the pink and red blooms of roses that had grown furiously upward on the other side of the wall, and now seemed to be clambering toward her, to freedom. Each bloom nodded up and down in the breeze, and in that moment the wave of roses reminded Maisie of the men who scrambled from a mud-soaked hell of trenches over the top and into battle. Bleeding from their wounds, millions of young men had died on the sodden ground and barbed wire of no-man's land.