Beattie shook her head. “No, still at the newspaper, I’m afraid.”
“Then what have you been doing in London—hot on a scoop?”
“Not quite. I’ve been seeing a few publishers.”
Maisie changed gear to pass a horse and cart. “Go on.”
She shrugged. “I knew I couldn’t write the story—the one you told me about Heronsdene—for the newspaper. It was as if I had a lot of fabric and no sewing machine or pattern. So I racked my brains until they hurt, and I decided what to do.”
“And what’s that?”
“I decided that this newspaper woman would become an authoress. I took the story and wrote it as a novel— embellishing it a bit, you understand.”
“And will it be published?”
“I went through several typewriter ribbons and eight fingernails to provide manuscripts for three publishers, and—you will never guess what—I think one of them will buy it!”
“Congratulations, Beattie, that’s wonderful—and it might help you get a job on a bigger newspaper.”
She shook her head. “I’m not so sure about that.”
“Don’t rule it out. And you can always write more novels. I’m sure your work has provided you with more than enough
Beattie thanked Maisie for the lift and for keeping her promise. As the newspaperwoman closed the passenger door and walked away, Maisie wound down her window and called out to her.
“What will you call the book, so I know what to look for?”
Beattie Drummond cupped her hand around her mouth and shouted her answer above the throng of passengers going in and out of the station, then she turned away and ran for her train, the book’s title caught up in the melee. The only word Maisie heard was
HERONSDENE WAS QUIET as she drove through the village and parked the MG. She stepped out of the motor car, changed her shoes for a pair of Wellington boots, pulled out her umbrella in case it rained, and set off on a walk across the hop-gardens and up to the clearing. A moment later she saw the lurcher, standing by the entrance to the farm, watching her every move.
“Jook, what are you doing here?”
The dog loped toward Maisie, her head low, her tail tucked under, brushing close as if to feel the warmth of a human being.
“You should have gone with your people.” Maisie looked up and around her. The dog must have recognized the distinctive rumble of her motor car and followed her from the village. “Do you want to come with me, then?”
The dog’s ears flattened back, so Maisie leaned down, stroked her neck, and set off across the hop-gardens, which were muddy now, the spent bines heaped in brown, brackenish piles ready to be burned. She cut through the wood, across the field where the gypsies had grazed their horses, and up the hill toward the clearing. Everything around her was silent, with the bright silver sky a portent for stormy weather.
Blackened soil marked the place where Beulah’s vardo had burned, and with it evidence of her sojourn on earth. All that remained was that which was carried in the heart. Maisie touched the ground, while the lurcher sniffed, pawed the soil, and then began to slink away to the clearing as if called. Maisie followed, almost expecting to hear the gypsies, but it was silent, with only the wind sifting through the branches and light reflecting off the bark of silver beech trees and muted by giant oaks. Walking to the center of the circle where the gypsies’ fire had once crackled with life, Maisie remembered the night she danced with the women, the color and energy of their celebration reverberating through her bones, along with the sound of Webb’s violin as his bow scorched back and forth across the strings, teasing out sounds she had never heard and might never hear again. Soon, the lurcher touched her hand with its nose, as if knowing there was nothing more to be said or done in this place.
The dog left Maisie at the MG, vanishing into the bushes on a shortcut to the village. Maisie knew she would see her soon enough. Pulling up outside the inn, she waved to Fred Yeoman, who was sweeping the street outside the residents’ entrance.
“Miss Dobbs, didn’t think I’d see you again.”
“How are you, Mr. Yeoman?”
“Mustn’t grumble. Bit quiet now, not so many day-trippers passing through.”
Maisie nodded. “Stormy, today, isn’t it?” She looked back at clouds gathering in the distance, then at the innkeeper. “Tell me, where does the gypsy’s dog stay?”
He stopped sweeping and leaned on his broom. “Strange old thing, that one. She stays with her mistress, sleeping on that grave as if the old lady were about to get up at any minute and walk off with her. I call out to her some nights, save a bit of broth for her, you know, put out a bowl here by the door. She’ll come across, eat it up, then go back to her place. And the funny thing is, it’s as if she knows we’ve done right by her, because I’ll go out the next morning, and find a hare by the door, freshly caught, like it’s her payment.” He shrugged. “Whyte says he’ll build a kennel for her, put it in the churchyard, but we’ve some cold nights coming, and she’ll freeze. Mind you, she’s used to it, I suppose.”
Maisie glanced toward the church. “Yes, I suppose.” She paused, then turned back to Yeoman. “I’d better be off. Remember me to the villagers, say I asked after them.”
“Right you are, Miss Dobbs—oh, and before you leave, go down to the old bakery site. We’ve had a bit of a go at it, you know, in case he ever comes back.”
She walked toward the church, stopping alongside the waste ground. The overgrowth had been cut back, old bricks removed, and a series of flower beds tilled. Copper markers indicated where bulbs had been planted, and when Maisie looked closer, she smiled. According to the markers, in spring there would be a profusion of tulips in this very place. She turned toward the church, stopping alongside the war memorial where Willem van Maarten’s name remained among those of the village who gave their lives in the war. She thought of Simon and of the thousands of other young men who had returned wounded.
