stability? Her strength? She knew he would want to know exactly how she was feeling, as that information would dictate how he opened their conversation. Only this time she would be the one to begin speaking.
“I have some news, Maurice.” She sat down as he pulled a cord to summon his housekeeper. “Some sad news.”
“Yes, I know. You carry the weight of bereavement, of loss.”
She nodded. Though she had also carried, for almost a year now, a resentment regarding Maurice, this animosity was rendered weak under the weight of her desire to speak of the events of last night. “Simon is dead, Maurice. He’s gone.”
Maurice handed her a glass of port and sat opposite her in his favorite wingback chair. He set a crystal glass with two fingers’ worth of single-malt whisky onto a small table at his side and reached for his pipe, which he tapped against the brick of the fireplace before taking up his tobacco pouch. Then he responded to her announcement. “It was past his time, the poor man.”
Maisie nodded. “Yes, it was.” She spoke quietly. “I don’t know how I feel, Maurice.”
Her former employer and mentor regarded her, then turned to his pipe, pressing the bowl against the tobacco in the pouch and filling it so as not to waste even a strand. “Do not expect to know how to feel, Maisie. You buried your grieving for years, not only for Simon but for your own lost innocence. And the death you saw as a girl in France—that is the most terrible loss of innocence.” He paused while he held a match to his pipe and drew against the flame. Then he looked at Maisie. “Last year was a watershed for you, your collapse in France reflecting a weight of emotion, of remembrance, that could not be borne any longer. Do not try to second-guess your responses. Otherwise you will encounter guilt if you have reason to embrace laughter, or you will draw away from those things that bring you joy, because you will be trying to feel a certain way, a way expected by a broader society.”
“I was with Priscilla today, and we were laughing at her boys. When it came time to write to Margaret Lynch, I found I was taking myself to task for those moments of lightness.”
“The challenge with death is that it can lift a burden, and we feel those two sensations—the lightness you speak of, along with melancholy, of loss. You have already suffered one, Maisie, so do not be taken aback when there is only one remaining and it is the one that brings with it moments of levity.” He paused, as if taking care to look for stepping-stones as he negotiated difficult terrain. “Cast your mind back to the time when you were seeing Andrew Dene.” Maisie sat straighter in her chair, as if to brace herself, but Maurice continued. “Though you had happy times, and he certainly could make you laugh, you always carried the obligation you felt toward Simon. Of course, I understand that there were other difficulties, but do not underestimate your feelings, and don’t draw back from doors that open, now that the one closed for years has locked forever. Simon’s spirit is at peace. Allow yours to be free as you live.”
Maisie sighed. She would consider Maurice’s words later, in her room in her father’s house. For now, though she had opened the subject, she wanted to deflect the conversation away from Simon, for his death was ground upon which she, too, stepped with care. “My father said you saw the man who came looking for me today.”
Cradling the pipe by its bowl in one hand, Maurice reached again for his single malt. “Not a particularly nice character, if I may say so.”
“Far from it, I’d say. I wonder how he might have known my father lives at Chelstone.”
“You’re working for James Compton, I take it?”
“Yes, but—”
“That man came here to see James. He came to the front of the house. I had been visiting Lady Rowan and was about to leave when he arrived, looking for James. When informed the Viscount was out on his hunter, the man mounted his horse and made for the back of the house. I can only assume one of the groundsmen confirmed that James was out and, when asked when he’d left, said ’Mr. Dobbs would know’ Then the horseman of course realized that there was some connection between the Dobbs who was the groom and the Dobbs who had been breathing down his neck.”
“I wouldn’t say that I was breathing down—”
“The man kept running his fingers around his collar, which was not tight. It suggested an outward demonstration of his state of mind.” Maurice sipped the malt and placed the glass back on the table. “Can you tell me more about the case? Would you like to discuss your findings?”
Maisie saw that Maurice was again treading with care lest he cause offense. She had claimed a measure of independence since last year, and knew her mentor anticipated that she would not be willing to concede significant ground. However, she valued a dialogue that would help marshal her thoughts on the case.
“James is about to purchase a large estate in Heronsdene, about ten or so miles from here.”
“Yes, I know.”
“He’s really interested in the brickworks, to take advantage of the increase in building, despite the slump. The only parts of the estate that will remain in the owner’s hands—and that was him who came to Chelstone today, a man called Alfred Sandermere—are the house and the immediate gardens, plus the stables. James is concerned about instances of petty crime that have been plaguing the area for years, especially a spate of fires set deliberately.”
“Fires?”
“Yes. And there’s a mood in the village, a sort of scar formed following a tragedy that happened in the war. Three people were killed in a Zeppelin raid, and that event, as much as the loss of their young men, seems to have been a catalyst—for a change of heart, if you like. Of course, one expects such a thing to leave a mark, to lead to different behaviors, but that was fourteen years ago.”
“The heart does not know chronos time, Maisie.”
“Yes, I understand.” She paused. “I don’t trust Sandermere, even though I know I should refrain from such conclusions. I believe he’s embezzling his insurers, and I have a sense that he’s trying to pull a fast one on this deal with James. Perhaps with more bad publicity, the news of a likely lower price on the estate will bring in more potential buyers, which will drive up the price again. It’s counter to what one might otherwise believe, but we both know that once people are bent on acquisition, they continue, even if it comes close to breaking them.”
“Yes, indeed. Tell me more about the villagers and what you’ve sensed.”
“It’s hard to get a clear reading at this time of year. The hop-picking brings in the Londoners, plus a tribe of
