Birds of a Feather

Maisie sighed. “It’s Dad, too. He seems to be drawing back from me. I don’t know what came first, my work keeping me in London, even at weekends, or my father always finding jobs to do. He’s preoccupied with other things when I visit. Of course he loves me, and there’s always a warm welcome, but then there’s . . . nothing. It’s as if seeing me is troublesome to him. As if I’m not part of him anymore.”

Maurice said nothing for a while, then asked, “Have you given it much thought?”

“Of course I’ve thought about it, but then I just put it out of my mind. I suppose I keep hoping that I’m imagining it, that he’s just immersed in Lady Rowan’s ambition to raise a Derby winner, or that I’m too caught up in a case.”

“But if you had to guess, if you brought your intuition into play, what would you say—truly—is causing the change?”

“I . . . I don’t really know.”

“Oh, Maisie, I think you do know. Come on, my dear, we have worked together for too long, you and I. I have seen you grow, seen you strive, seen you wounded, seen you in love, and I have seen you grieve. I know when you are evading the truth. Tell me what you think.”

Kneading her father’s hands, she spoke quietly. “I think it has to do with my mother. I remind him of her, you see. I have her eyes, her hair—even these.” She pulled at a tendril of hair, then pushed it back into the chignon. “In just a few years I’ll be the same age as she was when she first became ill, and I look just like her. He adored her, Maurice. I think he only kept going because of me. The fact is that he can’t see me without seeing her, though I’m not her. I’m different.”

Maurice nodded. “The pain of being reminded is a sharp sword. But there’s more, isn’t there?”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose there is.” Maisie swallowed deeply. “He sent me away, didn’t he? To Ebury Place. And I know, I know, it all worked out for the best, and I wouldn’t be where I am today if he hadn’t, but—”

“But you can’t forget.”

“No.”

“And what of forgiveness?”

“I love my father, Maurice.”

“No one is questioning your love. I ask again: What of forgiveness?”

“I suppose . . . yes, I suppose some resentment still lingers. When I think about it, even though we made up and he would do anything for me. I . . . I suppose I am still upset, in a deep part of me, right in here.” Maisie placed her hand against her ribs.

Silence filtered into the air around them once again, drowning out the echoes of Maisie’s whispered confession until Maurice spoke again. “May I make a suggestion, Maisie?.”

She nodded and replied quietly, “Yes.”

“You must speak with your father. Not to him, but with him. You must create a new path. You do not need me to tell you that, strong as he is, your father is not getting any younger. This accident will have weakened him, though I expect he will enjoy a full recovery. I observed you enter this ward dragging your guilt, regret, and—yes—fear with you, fear that you might have lost your chance. But you haven’t lost it at all. Use your training, Maisie, your heart, your intuition and your love for your father to forge a new, even stronger, bond.”

Maisie watched Maurice as he spoke.

“I feel so . . . weak, Maurice. I should have known better than to allow the situation to continue.”

“Should have? Should, Maisie? Fortunately you are a human being, and it is recognizing our own fallibility that enables us to do our work.” Blanche stood up from his chair and rubbed his back and neck. “Now then, it’s getting late.”

“Oh I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kept you.”

Blanche held up his hand to silence her. “No, I wanted to remain here until you arrived. But now, I must report back to Lady Rowan. I suspect that our patient will improve with your presence.”

“Thank you, Maurice.”

Blanche inclined his head, and took up his coat and hat, which had been placed on the back of the chair.

“Maurice, I wonder if I might speak with you tomorrow about a case.”

“Waite?”

“It’s gone a bit further than that, really. I’m now convinced that the Coulsden and Cheyne Mews murders, and perhaps one more, are connected with the Waite case.”

“You will need to return to Chelstone later, perhaps after doctor’s rounds tomorrow morning, or before if Matron learns that you are here. Come to the Dower House when you are ready.”

“Thank you.” Maisie looked at her father again, then turned back to Maurice. “You know, it’s strange, but I believe the murders have to do with being reminded, and remembering . . . and, now that I think about it, with forgiveness, too.”

Blanche smiled and drew back the screen to leave. “I am not at all surprised. As I have said many times, my dear, each case has a way of shining a light on something we need to know about ourselves. Until tomorrow.”

Maisie took Maurice’s seat at her father’s bedside, ready to continue the vigil until he regained consciousness. In the distance she heard a receding footfall as her mentor left the ward. She was alone with her thoughts, and though she held on to her father’s hands firmly, and made a commitment to better times together in the future, she was wondering about the murdered women, and about Charlotte.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN