“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.”
Maisie Dobbs Page 13
