Maisie Dobbs (31 page)

They kissed once more. Then, taking up her bag, Maisie asked Simon to let her walk back to the house alone. She did not want to suffer a difficult farewell, possibly in front of her father and whoever else might be in the gardens to witness their parting. Simon objected, on the grounds that no gentleman would allow a lady to walk unaccompanied to her home, but Maisie was adamant, reminding Simon that she had walked along that lane many a time, and often with a heavy basket.

Simon did not argue her decision. Instead of more words, they held each other close and kissed. She went swiftly from the motorcar and along the driveway, eventually hearing Simon start the engine in the distance and pull away onto the road.

QWisie insisted that she travel alone back to Folkestone, and Frankie, seeing a new maturity and independence in his daughter, agreed to allow Lady Rowan's new chauffeur, an older man passed over for military service, to take her to the station. Maisie said goodbye to her father at home. She had no stomach for more platform farewells.

It was on her journey to Folkestone, and then to France, that she thought back over the events of the days she had spent on leave. She remembered Simon's easy camaraderie with her father, his smile upon introduction, and how he immediately began asking about the horses and allowed himself to be led to the stables so that Frankie Dobbs was relaxed in the domain over which he was the obvious master.

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- tegee.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 that 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"