The porter stepped from his office and directed Maisie with his hand. She thanked him, then ran toward the staircase.
She entered the cloister-like ward, with two lines of beds facing one another, not even one-eighth of an inch out of place. She knew that each day the nurses would go along the ward with a length of string and a yardstick, ensuring that all beds were positioned precisely, so that during her rounds Matron would see a ward that completely adhered to her high standards of order. Not one patient, nurse, bed, or bottle would be anywhere but where Matron expected them to be. Amid this order, as the slowly setting late-afternoon sun glanced off the ward’s cream-painted walls, Maisie searched for her father.
“Follow me, Miss Dobbs,” instructed the Staff Nurse, who checked the watch pinned to her uniform in the same way that Maisie still consulted her own watch every day. “He’s comfortable, though not yet recognizing anyone.”
“You mean he’s in a coma?”
“Doctor expects him to be much better tomorrow. The other gentleman hasn’t left his side. Allowed to stay on doctor’s orders.” The nurse whispered as they moved along the ward, to a bed set apart from the others, with screens pulled around to ensure privacy so that other patients would not see the man who lay unconscious.
“What other gentleman?”
“The older gentleman. The doctor.”
“Ah, I see,” replied Maisie, relieved that Maurice Blanche was here.
The nurse pulled back the screens. Tears welled up in Maisie’s eyes as she quickly went to her father’s bedside and took his hand in hers. She nodded at Maurice, who smiled but did not move toward her.
Leaning over her father’s body, which was covered with a sheet and standard-issue green hospital blanket, Maisie rubbed her father’s veined hands as if the warmth she generated might cause him to wake. She reached across to touch his forehead, then his cheek. A thick white bandage had been bound around his head, and Maisie could see dried blood where a deep wound had been tended. Looking down at his body, she saw a small frame over his legs. Fracture? Remembering the smoking chimney, she hoped so.
“I’m glad you’re here, Maurice. How did you manage to be allowed to stay?”
“I informed the ward sister that I was a doctor, so I was allowed to remain. Apparently, they are a bit short staffed and we both thought it best that your father be attended at all times.”
“You must be tired, but thank you, thank you so much.” Maisie continued to massage her father’s hands.
“Those of us who have reached our more mature years know the value of a nap, Maisie, and we can indulge ourselves without the comfort of pillow or bed.”
“Tell me what happened, Maurice.”
“The mare was experiencing some difficulty. According to your father, she was presenting incorrectly. Your father instructed Lady Rowan to summon the vet. Of course he was out on a farm somewhere. It’s lambing season, as you know. In the meantime your father was following all recognized procedures and had requested a length of rope to maneuver the foal into a better position for the birth. Lady Rowan was there, as were two of the farmworkers. From what I understand, your father lost his footing on hay that had become damp and soiled, and fell awkwardly. His head connected with the stone floor, which is bad enough, but a heavy implement that one of the farmworkers had left standing against the stall fell and struck your father.”
“When did this happen?”
“This morning, about half past nine or so. I came as soon as I was summoned, tended his immediate wounds, then deferred to Dr. Miles from the village, who arrived straightaway, followed by the vet. Your father was brought here immediately.”
Maisie watched the rise and fall of her father’s chest beneath the white and blue stripes of hospital-issue pajamas. She had only ever seen her father in his old corduroy trousers, a collarless shirt, waistcoat, and somewhat flamboyant neckerchief. Though a country groom since the war, on a working day he still looked more like a London costermonger, ready to sell vegetables from his horse and cart. But now he was pale and silent.
“Will he be all right?”
“The doctor thinks that the loss of consciousness is temporary, that he’ll be with us soon enough.”
“Oh God, I hope he’s right.” Maisie looked at her hands, now entwined with her father’s. Silence seeped into the space between Maisie and her former teacher and mentor. She knew that he was watching her, that he was asking questions silently, questions that no doubt he was waiting to put to her in words.
“Maisie?”
“Yes, Maurice? I think you want to ask me something, don’t you?”
“Indeed, yes.” Maurice leaned forward. “Tell me, what is at the heart of the division between yourself and your father? You visit rarely, though when you do you are pleased to see him. And though there is conversation between father and daughter, I see none of the old camaraderie, the old ‘connection’ in your relationship. You were once so very close.”
Maisie nodded. “He’s always been so strong, never ill. I thought nothing could stop him, ever.”
“Not like illness stopped your mother, or injury stopped Simon?”
“Yes.” Maisie brought her attention back to her father’s hands. “I don’t know how it started, but it’s not all my fault, you know!”
Blanche looked up intently. “Since our very early days together, when you were barely out of childhood, I can safely say that I do not think I have ever heard you
