Maisie and Emma returned to the settee, where the demonstrative woman had taken Maisie’s hands in her own once again. She was talking about Nick’s wartime service, explaining how he had felt the need to “do his bit” for King and country, and had joined the Artists’ Rifles at the outset of war in 1914.
“I think it was having been in Belgium before the war, he felt that he should. Of course, we were completely against it—after all, Nick was a sensitive boy.” She smiled. “Now if they had given a rifle to Nolly or Georgie, I might not have worried so much, but then Georgie went in, anyway, and rather got herself in trouble with the authorities. And as for Nolly—”
“‘As for Nolly’ what?” The door slammed, and a tall, fortyish woman wearing a tweed walking skirt, brown leather shoes and a brown woolen jacket strode into the room. Pulling a beret from her head and running her fingers through mousey-brown hair cut in a sharp bob, she cursed the snow that had begun to fall again and glared at Maisie as she helped herself to tea and a scone. With features more pointed than Georgina’s, Noelle Bassington-Hope appeared terse and inflexible, and it occurred to Maisie that worry and tension had taken a toll on her looks.
“Go on, Mother, confess all, ‘as for Nolly’—what?”
“Oh, don’t be boring, Nolly. Miss Dobbs is our guest.” Georgina fumed at Nolly as she and her father had entered the drawing room through the French doors, just in time to hear the elder sibling demand an explanation of the overheard conversation.
Maisie held out a hand to Noelle, though she realized that she did not know Noelle’s married surname. “Mrs….”
“Grant. You must be Georgie’s inquiry agent, not that there’s anything to inquire into.” She took a bite from her scone, set the plate back on the table and held out her hand. Her actions were revealing: the nonchalant insult, executed with a certain flippancy, though Maisie understood her manner to reveal a lack of confidence, and something else, a sensation she had encountered already today. She’s afraid of me.
“A pleasure, Mrs. Grant.” Maisie paused. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
“Hmmph!” Noelle sat down next to her mother, in the place just vacated by Maisie. “I’m surprised a woman of your intelligence would get involved in this sort of thing—after all, our family was bereaved by an accident. Mind you, the things that women of supposed intelligence are wont to get up to always did flummox me, eh Georgie?” She looked across at her sister, who had claimed her seat once more, though her father was now holding out his hand for Maisie to be seated, while reaching for a sturdy wooden chair that was not simply varnished but painted in a wine color, with gold stars embellishing the seat.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Noll.” The younger sister rolled her eyes.
Though a family row might well have revealed much to her, Maisie did not want to become embroiled in sibling arguments. She stood up, claiming her shoulder bag. “Mrs. Grant, I realize that Georgina’s decision to enlist my services must have come as a complete shock to you—after all, your family is so recently bereaved, and of course you have broad responsibilities as a justice of the peace here and also in managing your parents’ estate. I would very much like to speak with you, especially as, in your role as a JP, you are familiar with the need for detail—is that not so?”
“Well…I…when you put it like that, I suppose…”
“Good.” Maisie held out her hand toward the garden, where one could just about make out the path against the dusk. “Let’s go for a stroll. It’s not as cold as it was and it’s only just started to snow lightly. I would value your opinion on a few matters.”
“Righty-o.” Noelle Grant set down her cup and plate, clearly warming to Maisie’s compliments. “I’ll whistle for the dogs and off we’ll go. Just a tick while I grab a scarf and gloves.” She stopped by the window as she looked out. “We’ll go out by the back door—I’ll find you some gum boots and an old jacket; you’ll need them.”
Noelle led Maisie to the gun room, which smelled of wet dogs, rubber boots and stale pipe smoke. Once furnished with suitable outdoor clothing, Noelle took two walking sticks from an old clay pot, handed one to Maisie before opening the door and striding forward into the gently falling snow.
“Hmmm, I hope this doesn’t settle, you know. Otherwise I’ll have to get old Jenkins out with his horses to clear the drive in the morning.” She went on, barely glancing at Maisie as she spoke. “The man has a brand-new tractor in his barn and still maintains the shires do a better job. I keep telling him, ‘Move with the times, Jenkins, or be done for!’”
Maisie kept up stride for stride as they passed an old shooting brake that she supposed Noelle used to drive herself to and fro between committee meetings and visits to tenant farmers. “There are some folk who are just more confident with tools they know, and he will probably do a better job with the horses than the tractor because of it.”
“Hmmph! Well, we’ll see about that tomorrow morning, won’t we?”
The footpath ahead was barely visible under a layer of snow, so as far as Maisie was concerned, it would have to be a quick walk if she were to get on the main road to Chelstone before the weather made the going difficult for her low-slung MG.
“Mrs. Grant, I—”
“Call me Nolly, everyone else does—we’re nothing if not informal at Bassington Place.”
“Nolly, I wonder if you could tell me about your brother Nick, from your perspective. I’m curious to know more about him—and I understand you may have more insight than most, given that your husband served with him during the war.”
Maisie looked sideways and noticed creases form around her companion’s mouth as she pressed her lips together. Though she could not see her forehead under her hat, she knew the woman was frowning.
“I don’t think Nick was ever as much a flibbertigibbet as Georgie. Yes, they were twins, but Nick was always more single-minded.” She paused for just a second or two, then continued. “Now, I know you asked about Nick, but if we go back to the beginning then we have to talk about them both, for they were twins, and although they were always each their own person, there were obvious similarities, and people tended to think of them together.”
“I see.”
“Georgie could—and still can, I must say—be a bit of a will-o’-the-wisp, a new idea every five seconds—like hiring you, if you don’t mind me saying so.” She turned toward Maisie, her frown now evident. “Of course, the war calmed her down a lot—a grand idea to do what she did, but she almost bit off more than she could chew. It made her pull her neck in a bit, being in the midst of the horror. Don’t get me wrong, I admire her for it, but…anyway, you asked about Nick.” She paused to negotiate a fallen branch and beckoned Maisie to walk ahead of her for a moment or two before continuing along the path side by side. “Nick had all of Emsy’s emotion, all of that feeling, that intensity, but it was tempered by something from my father, a solidity, I suppose you could call it. Of course, they’re all an arty lot, my family, but Piers has a bit more—Lord, what would you call it?” Nolly stopped and looked up, taking a moment to call the dogs back to heel.
“Practicality?” suggested Maisie.
“That’s it! Yes, Piers may be a creative individual, but he also has a practicality about him—for example, his skill is in making furniture that’s both functional as well as artistic; he is craftsman and artist in equal measure. Now, if you take me—I am under no illusions, no illusions whatsoever—I am all practicality, and not a shred of the arty. Nick, as I said, was both. But as boy and man he could and did sail close to the wind.”
“Just like Georgina?”
“But in a different way. Georgina didn’t care who she upset, whereas Nick was more deliberate. He wanted to shake certain people, certain types of people, out of assumptions they may have made. Georgina sprayed her bullets with abandon; Nick always had a target before he took aim. And don’t get me wrong, I admired him terribly. I just think…oh, I don’t know…I just think certai
n sleeping dogs should be allowed to lie, that’s all.”
“The war?”
“Yes, the war, for a start.” Nolly looked up again and across the land now covered with soft, white snow. “We’d better be walking back soon. It’s getting dark and this snow is in for the night now. We’ll put on the wireless to listen to the weather forecast when we get back.”
The women walked for a while, talking about Nolly’s various occupations and plans for Bassington Place and the surrounding land. The estate extended for some considerable distance before reaching the first farm. Though much of the land was obscured by snow, there were meadows and woodland where, Maisie imagined, primroses, bluebells and abundant white wood anemones bloomed in spring. A river meandered across part of the land, probably to join the river Rother as it flowed on through the Marshes.
Maisie continued her questioning as they made their way back to the house. “So, tell me about the war and Nick.”
“He joined up straightaway, dragging his arty friends with him, even that one who was far too young at the time, what was his name”—she pulled up her collar—“Courtman, that’s the one, Alex Courtman. Anyway, they were all sent to different regiments following their training, so it was rather a surprise when Godfrey and Nick found they were serving together.”
“I was sorry to learn that your husband was lost in France.”
Nolly Grant shook her head. “Nothing lost about it. He was killed, buried over there. No, he wasn’t lost, I know exactly where he is. My husband died a hero on a battlefield, fighting for his country—and proud of it, I’ll have you know! Let’s get down to brass tacks here, none of this ‘lost’ or ‘passed’ business. I get so fed up with all this pussy-footing around the truth. People die, they don’t get lost and they don’t pass anywhere either!”
Maisie raised her eyebrows. “I understand that Nick was close to him when he died.”
“Nick was wounded shortly after Godfrey died. I received the telegram informing me that I was a widow, then looked after my brother as soon as he was brought home. Kept me busy. No time to think about it, you know. You have to get on and look after the living, don’t you?”
“Of course.” Maisie nodded, choosing her words with care. “Nolly, did you appprove of Nick?”
The woman sighed, looking at cobblestones underfoot as they came back into the stable yard. “What did it matter whether I approved or disapproved? This family does what it wants when it wants, without thinking of anyone else. And if they don’t let me go ahead with plans for the estate, we’ll all be at the doors of the poorhouse!” She paused. “Of course, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but I’m the only one with any sense of the money it takes to run the place or how to deal with the tenant farmers—Godfrey was a sort of de facto manager after we got married and before he went over to France and we ran things together. Now I want to draw people in, you know, visitors. And visitors would never come if two of the Bassington-Hopes—make that three, if Harry has his way—manage to rub people up the wrong way all the time. So, did I approve? No, I didn’t. They tried to change things that you just can’t change.” She looked directly at Maisie. “Did Nick and Georgie really think they could stop a war with their pictures and words? Bloody stupid if you ask me. Frankly, someone should have stopped them long ago. Here, use this to pull off your boots.”
The women removed boots and coats, and before entering the main part of the house, Nolly looked out of the window to cast judgment on the weather.
“Well, Maisie, I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere but a guest room tonight. From here I can see that the avenue down to the main road is barely passable now. In fact, you should bring your motor around to the stable yard and get it under cover.”
“But I must—”
“Please don’t argue. We never allow guests to leave impaired by wine or weather. Now at least Piers can impress you with his 1929 elderflower!”
“NOLLY’S ABSOLUTELY RIGHT, you simply cannot expect to drive as far as Chelstone in this weather—it’s probably even worse over toward Tonbridge anyway. No, you must stay, mustn’t she, Emsy, Piers?” Georgina looked at her mother and father while her sister poured glasses of sherry from the tray just brought into the room by Mrs. Gower.
Maisie acquiesced. “Thank you for your hospitality. I do have to ask a favor, though—I’ve left my bag at my father’s house and I should really telephone him so that he won’t worry about me.”
“Of course, my dear. Nolly, do show Maisie the telephone. Let’s just hope the lines aren’t down, you never know. The good news is that, according to Jenkins, who came to the door just after you left, this little lot should clear with ease tomorrow morning. He said—his words—that it was the light fluffy stuff, not the hard stuff, so he’ll be over with Jack and Ben to clear the avenue first thing.”
“Not the tractor?”
“No, the horses.”
“That silly man!” Nolly cursed as she led Maisie to the telephone in the entrance hall.
Having assured her father that she was safe with friends, Maisie moved the MG to a spare stall in the stable block. Originally built to house fifteen horses, the stables were now home to four hunters, with other stalls kept for storage and for horses belonging to the paying guests welcomed by Nolly Grant. Returning to the house, she was shown to a guest room by Georgina.
“Good, the fire’s been lit, and Mrs. Gower has laid out fresh towels for you. Here, let me show you, there’s a bathroom next door. It’s a bit old, you could do a lap or two in the bathtub. I’ll bring along some nightclothes for you, and a dress for dinner, though it may be a bit big. Nolly likes to keep up appearances and as much as she annoys me, she’s stuck down here, so I just go along with it. We never did that sort of thing when we were growing up, so she was always embarrassed to bring friends home. Shame really.” Georgina smiled, waving as she left the room. “Drinks in about half an hour, then we’ll have dinner. I think it’s roast duck this evening.”
Maisie looked around the room. The wooden paneling must have once been dark brown, varnished then waxed to a glorious shine. Now it was painted in different colors, a checkerboard of green and yellow with a blue border. In each yellow square, someone had painted a geometric interpretation of a butterfly, a moth or a bee on the flower. Above the blue picture rail, a golden spider’s web ran up to and across the ceiling, with the center of the web at exactly the point at which the light fixture had been added.
“Caught in the Bassington-Hope web!” Maisie smiled to herself as she contemplated the serendipitous assignment of guest room. She walked through to the bathroom, which was mercifully plain, she thought, painted in white, with white tiles surrounding the ancient claw-footed bath and covering the floor. A dark oak chair was situated in one corner and a matching towel rail in another. As she leaned over to turn on the taps, however, she noticed that both pieces of furniture had likely been made to match the room, for the chair had a butterfly carved as if it had just landed on the back, and the towel rail bore a wooden spider climbing along one side. Returning to the bedroom, a closer inspection of the counterpane revealed a patchwork design of garden insects, with needlepoint cushions on the window seat crafted to match. As the bath filled with piping-hot water, Maisie turned to see a poem painted on the back of the door. It was a simple verse, a child’s poem. No doubt the room was the work of Georgina and Nick together, the furniture had been made by Piers, with the counterpane and cushions designed by Emma. Was every room in this house an exhibition of the Bassington-Hopes’ artistry? And if so, how did Nolly feel about being excluded from the hive of activity, for thus far Maisie had seen no evidence of her involvement.
Maisie found Piers to be most solicitous toward his wife and daughters, formally crooking his left elbow for Emma to rest her hand and be escorted into the dining room, then stepping aside for his daughters and Maisie to enter first. He led Emma to one end of the table, made sure she was comfortable, then waited for the women to be seated before taki
ng his place opposite his wife. Emma was wearing a deep-red velvet gown with a black shawl around her shoulders. Her gray hair had been brushed back, but remained loose, neither braided nor coiled.
“Now you’ll be treated to Daddy’s wines!” Georgina reached for her table-napkin, then turned to Piers. “What are we having this evening to grace the duck, Daddy?”
Piers smiled. “Last year’s damson.”
“Fruity with an oakish balance,” added Georgina.
“Utter tosh!” Nolly reached for her glass, as Gower, now dressed in formal attire, served a rich blood-red wine from a crystal decanter. “Not the wine, of course, Daddy, but Georgina’s description, as usual trimmed with lace!”
“Girls, please! Let’s not bicker in front of our guest.”
“Hear, hear, Em, hear, hear.” Piers raised an eyebrow in mock annoyance, then reached out to place a hand on the hand of each daughter. “They may be grown women, Maisie, but together they can be like cats!”
“And when Nick was here, why—”
Maisie looked from Emma to Piers. The head of the Bassington-Hope household had released his daughters’ hands, and now looked down, shaking his head.
“Oh, darling, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have.” Emma shook her head, admonishing herself. “It was the wrong moment, with us all together here, and with company.”
“If you would excuse me—” Piers placed his table-napkin next to his still-full glass and left the room.
Nolly pushed back her chair, as if to follow her father.
“Noelle!” Emma used her elder daughter’s Chistian name, which, Maisie noticed, caused her to turn immediately. “Let your father have a moment. We all feel grief, and we never know when it might catch us. For Piers, it is as a father for his son, and none of us know how deeply that might touch the heart.”
Messenger of Truth Page 11
