The Mapping of Love and Death

TWELVE

Maisie placed telephone calls to her father and Priscilla prior to leaving the clinic, and when she informed her friend of the reason she was unable to come to tea, Priscilla insisted that she and James drive from the clinic straight to the house in Kensington for an early supper. "We'll be sitting down with those toads, but as I always warn you, that's how we do things in this house in all but the most illustrious company. In any case, as soon as they know that James was an aviator in the war, they will be all over him like a sprawling vine-your eldest godson has aeroplanes on the brain, and is already saying that he wants to be a fearless flier when he grows up. I swear that one of them, and probably my budding airman, will send me back to daytime drink!"

Having had her cheek tended by Andrew Dene, Maisie left the clinic with a heavy heart, and for a time she and James Compton sat in silence on the drive back to London. Yet it was a comfortable silence, soothing her as much as the journey itself.

They were close to Sevenoaks when Maisie spoke. "It was good of you to take me to the clinic, James. I do hope it doesn't seem like too much of a wasted journey because Maurice was asleep."

"Absolutely not. And remember, I was under my mother's orders to chauffeur you to Tunbridge Wells, so there's no blame on your part. It was important that we went-for me as much as you, Maisie." James slid the motor into a higher gear as they went up River Hill. "Dene reckons Maurice will be able to go home on Saturday afternoon, so I imagine you'll want to come straight to Chelstone after we've been to Brooklands-and if you don't want to go to the racing, do say. You won't be letting me down." He turned and half smiled. "But perhaps the day out might help take your mind off things."

Maisie felt unsure at first, for she could not imagine her mind being on anything but Maurice. Yet on the other hand, the thought of hours filled with mounting concern at home was not an attractive proposition. She turned to James. "Yes, let's go. You're right-if I'm at Brooklands, I won't have time to worry. But I would very much like to return to Chelstone as soon as the meet is over, to see Maurice as soon as he's settled. Andrew said he'd telephone tomorrow and Friday to keep me apprised of his progress."

James nodded, and for a moment Maisie thought he might ask about her courtship with Andrew Dene.

"We're making good time. We'll be in Kensington before you know it-and Maisie, I know that your friend Priscilla has extended the invitation for me to come to supper, but if it's awkward for you-"

"Oh, please-do come. Priscilla loves meeting new people, and her boys will be thrilled to come face-to-face with a man who flew aeroplanes in the war. You'll be grilled about your exploits, and by the time they go to school tomorrow morning, they will have elevated you to being personally responsible for taking down the Red Baron."

"Oh yes, James Compton, aviator extraordinaire, who sustained his war wounds while on the ground."

"You came under enemy attack."

"I would have felt better about it if I'd have been up in the air at the time."

"Well, your mother was delighted that you came home wounded, and not at death's door, doubly so when you were transferred to a desk job. She thought she would lose you."

"It's a bit hard to face someone like Douglas Partridge, a man who was felled by his wounds, who cannot walk without a cane, and who has had an arm amputated. And whose writing-his pacifism-makes him a force to be reckoned with."

Maisie turned to face James. "You've read his articles?"

"Of course. The man is brilliant. To tell you the truth, I am looking forward to meeting him. Why?"

"Nothing. I suppose I was just a little surprised, James."

They were silent again, and in that time, Maisie felt James' discomfort, as if there were more he wanted to say. On her part, there was also a lack of ease, as she considered that she had held on to impressions of James gained in earlier days, when she was a girl and he was the young man for whom Enid-the outspoken housemaid who had taken Maisie under her wing when she first came to work at the Ebury Place mansion-had set her hat. Enid, who would forever be twenty years of age.

Maisie was so wrapped in her thoughts that she was startled when James spoke again.

"Look, about that day at Khan's house."

She raised her hand. "You don't need to say anything, James. I have known Khan for a long time. Whatever the purpose of your visit, it's no business of mine. Your reasons for being there are your own, so there is no need to explain anything to me."

"Thank you. Yes-yes, you're right. Perhaps another time."

"Another time. Of course."

Maisie could see that Priscilla's sons had been coiled like springs, the three of them waiting on the staircase for the much-anticipated guests to arrive. After running to Maisie to welcome her, they turned their attention to James and, she thought, all but saluted him.

Priscilla came out to meet her guests, and was introduced to James. Maisie could see that he had merited her friend's broadest smile.

"I hope you don't mind, but they have been champing at the bit, lurking on that staircase to get a bird's-eye view of you as soon as you crossed the threshold. I know this is not how young English boys should behave, but, well, they've been used to a different kind of life. Now then, let's repair to the drawing room for a glass of something interesting, eh." Priscilla led the way and gestured her guests to follow. "Douglas, they're here!" she called out to her husband, then leaned towards Maisie. "By the way, your assistant called at the house earlier. I have a message for you." She took a folded envelope from the slanted pocket set at the side of her wide palazzo pants. "Let's get settled, then you can huddle by yourself in the corner for a moment or two to read. If you need to use the telephone, nip up to use the one in my sitting room, for some privacy." She turned back to James and, taking his arm, introduced him to her husband. "Darling, here's Maisie's friend, James Compton. Do engage him while you can before your sons drag him off to their lair."

As soon as she was furnished with a drink-Priscilla had ensured that a bottle of champagne was chilled ready for their arrival-Maisie made her way to the French windows overlooking the courtyard and garden beyond and took out Billy's note, written in his distinctive primary-school hand.

Dear Miss,

I telephoned Mrs. Partridge to see if she was still expecting you, so I thought that if I brought a note round, it would be the best way to get in touch. We had a visitor today, from the American embassy. He came in to ask some questions about Mr. and Mrs. Clifton. Seemed more like a copper to me, to tell you the truth. I said that you were the person to speak to, so he left his card and said he'd be in touch as he'd like to ask a few questions for his report, being as American citizens were attacked in London. Then when he was gone, old Caldwell turned up, and what with the notes and names all over the case map on the table, I had to cover things up a bit sharpish because that man has eyes in the back of his head. He said he wanted to see you, and asked if you would be so kind as to telephone him-apparently there have been developments. And he also said to tell you that Mrs. Clifton is improving, and that the doctors have said they're a bit happier with her progress, but not to get all over the moon because she could go on the turn again. Then there was a telephone call from Lady Petronella Casterman. She said she had received word that you had reason to talk to her and that she could see you on Thursday-that's tomorrow-at half past two in the afternoon. I felt like reminding her of who I was, but thought better of it.

I will tell you everything else in the office tomorrow morning.

Yours sincerely,

Wm. Beale (Billy)

The usually boisterous Partridge boys were on their best behavior throughout the meal, though Maisie suspected the show of exemplary manners was mainly to ingratiate themselves with the much-anticipated guest, and to persuade him to look at their aeroplane drawings and models. The youngest, Tarquin, soon began to give in to tiredness, and rubbed his eyes as he became rather grumpy with his older brothers.

"All right, that's it. Time for grown-ups to talk now, boys." Priscilla called for Elinor, who came to take the children upstairs to bathe. James promised to come to their room as soon as they were in bed, and the boys seemed mollified by his offer as they followed their nanny.

"You've done it now, James-they will never let you out!" Douglas Partridge reached across to pour more wine for his guests.

"You have a lovely family." James raised a glass to Douglas and Priscilla. "My boyhood was rather unconventional for the day-mainly due to my mother, who did not subscribe to the notion that children should be seen and not heard-but I still had to endure the rigors of boarding school."

Priscilla laughed, and Maisie joined her, having been present at the boys' former school when Priscilla decided that such an institution was not the best place for her sons.

"We tried, James, but our boys didn't quite fit," explained Douglas. "Now they are day pupils at a school that draws from the more international families. It seems to suit them a bit better."

"Very much so," added Priscilla. "And they have each other. Both you and Maisie are only children, aren't you? I had three smashing brothers, and Douglas has a sister and brother, so we both wanted a houseful."

James cleared his throat. "Actually, I did have a sibling. A sister." He swirled the wine in his glass and seemed to concentrate on the whirlpool plume created by the liquid as it moved.

Maisie and Priscilla exchanged glances. It was Maisie who spoke first.

"You had a sister, James? I didn't know."

He shrugged. "No, I daresay you wouldn't know. It wasn't really spoken about after she…after the loss. My mother and father were so distraught-I don't know how they managed. If it hadn't been for Maurice…" He raised his glass to his lips and finished his wine.

Maisie nodded to Priscilla, sensing that, having begun to speak, James might either want to change the subject immediately, or continue his story. If he were relaxed enough in their company, he might go on.

"What was her name, James?" asked Maisie.

"Emily. Emily Grace Compton. She was eleven years old when she died." He did not look up, but remained staring at the dregs of white wine in the glass. Douglas reached forward with the bottle again, and James smiled, but Maisie could see that it was a smile with no immediate feeling, as if his face were subjected to some mild paralysis. "Thank you-just half a glass."

Maisie, Priscilla, and Douglas allowed silence to punctuate James' slow telling of the story. At the same time, Maisie recalled Lady Rowan's anxious inquiries about the Beales, her interest in Doreen's progress, and the way she brushed off the fact that the bereaved mother had fallen behind in work-alterations and needlework-for Lady Rowan. "It's the last thing she should worry about, the clothes on my back. Oh, the poor, poor woman. She won't know where to put that terrible grief."

"What happened, James?"

He looked at Maisie, and brushed the fingers of his left hand through blond hair threaded with barely distinguishable gray. "We'd gone down to the woods-you know, at the bottom of the field just beyond the Dower House garden. It's a grand place for children. We used to climb trees and make camps out of fallen branches as if we were medieval bandits living in the woods. It was all very wild, but we were allowed a fairly free rein. My parents believed that too much oversight would deprive us of spirit, and already Emily was a very energetic girl. She rode her horse like the wind and was fearless when it came to jumping a hedge or fence-you should have seen her keeping up with my mother, who was a bold horsewoman in her day."

James paused, breathing in deeply.

"I was about nine at the time, just a couple of years younger than Emily. There used to be a place where a sort of dam had been built across the stream that runs through the wood. I think children from the village dragged some logs into position so that a makeshift swimming pool formed. There was a rope hanging from the old beech tree, so we would swing from the bank across the pool-and the water was always fresh and cool on a summer's day. The idea was to let go and splash down into the pool, which went down at least six feet in depth. So you fell in and then had to swim to the side in short order. That was the game." He took another sip of wine, his voice cracking as he spoke.

"On this day, we'd gone down to the wood-I can still remember the smell of wild garlic underfoot wafting up around our ankles as we ran to the pool. I went first, then Emily. Time and again we ran to the swing and jumped in-we were soaking wet, but it was such fun." He paused and placed his hand on his chest. "The trouble is, I still can't quite say what happened next. I have gone over it again and again and again in my mind, and I just don't know. I can only say what I think happened." He closed his eyes. "It was my turn, but Emily was out of the water just after me and we raced each other to the bank and grabbed the rope at the same time, both of us hurtling across. We were flying through the air, giggling and whooping…then I heard a crack that seemed to ricochet through the trees, and before we knew what was happening, we were falling into the water, and the giant limb from which the swing had been hanging came down upon us." He seemed to wince as if in pain, and as his chest rose and fell against his hand, Maisie could see that the memory of being unable to breathe was still imprisoned within each cell of his body.

"I was pressed down into the water, and I remember Emily's hand at my neck, grasping for my collar. When I tried to turn, to pull her with me, I could see she was trapped. I was coughing, trying to get out of the water, trying to get some purchase on the river mud underfoot, but the branches were clutching at me, as if the tree were alive. I could hear screaming, and realized it was me. Then I must have passed out, because the next thing I knew my father's voice came into my consciousness. Mrs. Crawford was holding me, and there were a couple of grooms from the stables on the bank trying to pull the limb out. I looked up and saw my father in the water, lifting the tree, and my mother had launched herself in to help him. I watched them try to move the branches while my mother went down into the water in a bid to free Emily. They dragged her to the bank together, and they tried so hard to save her, to no avail. I was helpless. Utterly helpless. My sister had saved my life, and I could do nothing for her. I was no better than useless."

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

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

"I say, I must apologize, going on like that."

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

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

"Did you know any of that?"

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

"Such as?"

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

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

"What were you going to say?"

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

"Fine ally you are in a time of need!" joked Priscilla, taking Douglas' hand.

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

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

"No, Pris. It's just how I view the situation."

"The view from your mountain might be wrong."

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

"As long as it doesn't involve a chandelier," said Priscilla, rolling her eyes.

"I think I'm ready, James," said Maisie.

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

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

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

"So, this is where you live. Quite modern, isn't it?"

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

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

Maisie nodded. "I'm looking forward to the day, though I know I'll be worrying about Maurice."

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

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

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

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

"I think this is different."

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

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

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

"What? Sorry, Billy, what did you say?"

"Is everything all right, Miss?"

"Yes. Yes, of course. Why?"

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

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

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

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

Dearest Michael,

I have never been terribly good with my good-byes, so forgive the stilted nature of this letter. I think it's best that I come straight to the point, rather than linger with explanations or fumble with my words.

For various reasons that do not bear recounting, I have decided that our courtship, or whatever you might call it when you hardly see a person, must come to an end. This war has made all thoughts of the future almost worthless. Neither of us knows what might happen tomorrow, next week, or next month, so it's probably best if we cease all communication. If you like, I can have those items you gave to me for safekeeping sent back to you. Please let me know what you would like me to do. Rest assured, I will take good care of them until I receive word from you.

I hope you understand, dear Michael. I see nothing but the wounded and dying each day. Perhaps that's why I cannot see a future for us.

Yours, fondly,

"Tennie"