Maisie opened her eyes as dawn was just visible through the tops of rectangular paned windows beyond the screens. How long had she slept? She moved her head to look at her father and sat up carefully so that she would not disturb him.
“Dad! Dad—you’re awake!”
Frankie Dobbs forced a smile. “Been awake for a while, love. Just didn’t want to unsettle you.”
“Oh, Dad, I’m so glad.” Maisie leaned across the bed to embrace her father, then sat back.
“And I’m glad you came, love.”
“Straightaway, as soon as I heard.”
Frankie squeezed his daughter’s hand in his own broad palm. “To tell you the truth, for a moment I thought you were your mother. Fair took my breath away, it did, seeing you there. Thought I’d been taken, I did, and was with ’er again.”
Maisie checked her father’s pulse and touched his forehead with her slender fingers.
“Always checking something, my girl. Always making sure, eh?”
Father and daughter were silent for a while. Maisie knew she must use the door that Maurice had opened, in speaking of her mother.
“We don’t seem to talk of Mum any more do we, Dad?”
Frankie tried to move toward Maisie, and grimaced. “No, love, we don’t. Kept my memories to myself, and I s’pose you did, too.”
“Oh, Dad—”
“And I was thinking, as I was watching you ’ave a kip, that we’ve let a few things get between us, ’aven’t we?”
“I know—”
With a low screech the metal feet of the screen were pulled across the floor, and the nighttime Staff Nurse interrupted their conversation.
“I thought I heard voices. Good to see you awake, Mr. Dobbs. Had us all worried there. Doctor will be along to see you soon, and Matron will have a fit if she finds you here, Miss Dobbs. I’ll be going off duty directly doctor has finished, but you’d better be off, Miss.”
“Yes, I’d better. Dad, I’ll be back later today, during visiting hours.” Maisie reached down to kiss her father, then left the enclosure to step out into the ward. Morning sunlight was filtering in, warming patients and nurses alike.
Walking toward the exit, Maisie turned to the nurse.
“What’s the prognosis?”
“Well, Miss—”
“I was a nurse myself, so I have some understanding of the situation.”
“I’m not supposed to say, but I can tell you this—of course, we’ll know more after Doctor sees him this morning—but he sustained a serious concussion, plus he’s cracked both tibia. Not complete fractures, but something to watch all the same. I suspect he will need at least two or three months of rest, considering his age, and they will probably advise convalescence where he can receive adequate care.”
“I see.”
“But we’ll be able to say more when you come back this afternoon. Go home, have a nice cup of tea and a good sleep. Your father needs you in tip-top health!”
As Maisie drove, she thanked any unseen entity or power that might have had a hand in the events of the past hours, for openings that seemed to have materialized in several directions. It occurred to her that helping out with the horses in her father’s absence would be a real job for Billy. He would be close enough to be guided by Maurice, to receive instruction from Gideon Brown, and to be monitored by Andrew Dene. Her father wouldn’t rest until he knew the horses were being cared for by someone he knew, and who better than another London man? If her father needed to enter a convalescent home for a month or so, perhaps All Saints’ would be a good choice. Dr. Andrew Dene would understand a man who spoke his own language.
Her brain was in top gear as she sped along the country lanes to Chelstone, a list of things to do growing in her mind.Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle . . .
But before she did anything, before she bathed, took nourishment, or slept, she must go to Maurice. Maisie leaned sideways toward the passenger seat and, keeping her eyes on the road, reached inside the document case to feel the linen handkerchief into which she had carefully placed the tiny items she had taken from the homes of Lydia Fisher and Philippa Sedgewick. She wanted to share her delicate clues with Maurice. She wanted his counsel.
Maisie slowed as she drove along the gravel carriage sweep leading to Chelstone Manor. As grit began to spit and crackle under the tires, she rubbed her eyes against the onslaught of spring sunshine rising at a low angle into a clearing sky. It would be a bright but cold day. Frost-dusted daffodil heads bobbed in columns along the driveway, inter- spersed with bluebells and primroses. Yes, it would be a good day. Frankie Dobbs was out of the woods.
The upstairs curtains at the Dower House were still closed; Maurice was not yet up and about. Maisie felt a tinge of frustration, but she checked herself. Perhaps it was fortunate that she would have more time alone to marshal her thoughts and to anticipate questions. She missed working with Maurice, though awareness of the chasm left by his retirement was fading as she grew in skill and confidence. She maneuvered the car into the courtyard behind the manor house, the domain of George, the Comptons’ chauffeur.
“Mornin’, Miss.” George wiped his hands on a clean white cloth and walked across the flagstones toward Maisie. “Blimey O’Reilly, what’ve you been doin’ with that little motor of yours? Racin’ ’er at Brooklands? I’d better get the full kit out this mornin’.You’ll need oil, a good cleaning under the bonnet, to say nothing of ’er paintwork. And look at them tires!”
“You’re the man for the job, George!”
