Maisie Dobbs

by Jacqueline Winspear

  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.