Maisie Dobbs

by Jacqueline Winspear

  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-tégée. 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 tha
t 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 he
artily, 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.