“Thanks for bringing me to the station, Miss. Don’t think I would have left Doreen and the nippers if you ’adn’t.”
“It won’t be long until you see them again, Billy. And it’s for the best.”
Billy pulled change from his pocket to buy a newspaper. “Look at this, Miss.” Billy pointed to the front page, “I dunno, there’s this young lady, Amy Johnson, flying off to Australia on ’er own—twenty-six she is—and goin’ in a little aeroplane, if you please. And here I am, scared of going down to Kent on the train.”
Maisie placed her hand on Billy’s shoulder. “Never judge a journey by the distance, Billy. Your journey, from the time you went over to France, has demanded bravery of a different kind—and I admire you for it.”
Maisie drove to Joseph Waite’s house in Dulwich after seeing Billy off. It was a fine day, one that was welcome after the fiercely cold Easter. It seemed to presage another long hot summer, perhaps to rival the previous one. Maisie had dressed in summer clothes for the first time that year, and wore a new pale gray suit, with a hip-length jacket and mid-calf skirt with two small kick pleats at the front and back. Simple black shoes matched a new black hat made of tightly woven straw with a gray ribbon joined in a flat rosette at the side—at two guineas the hat had been an extravagant purchase from Harvey Nichols. The jacket had a shawl collar, a style that Maisie favored, even though it had been more fashionable several seasons earlier.
She parked according to the usual instructions, and smiled as the door opened and Harris inclined his head in greeting.
“Good morning, Miss Dobbs. I trust that you are well?”
“Yes, very well, thank you very much, Harris.”
The butler smiled and a moment passed when neither knew quite what to say next. Maisie took the lead.
“Have you seen Will this week?”
“Oh yes, Miss Dobbs. Two of the maids went on Sunday afternoon, and I expect to go on Thursday, my afternoon off.”
“How is he?”
“The usual, Miss. The usual. He seemed a little confused when new people turned up to take him into the gardens, but settled down again quickly. We can let his mother know that he’s not been forgotten.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Will you visit him, Miss Dobbs?”
“I promised Mrs. Willis that I would, so I’ll see him when I next visit my . . .” Maisie stopped speaking for a second as an image of Simon came to her, not as he was now, but as a young man. “When I next visit my friend.”
The butler indicated the library’s open door.
“Mr. Waite will be with you shortly.”
“Thank you.”
Maisie walked over to the library window, which commanded a broad view of the gardens and the dove-cote. The white birds flew to and from their home, cooing as they settled again, perched among their kind.
“Good morning, Miss Dobbs.” Joseph Waite closed the door behind him and offered her one of the chairs by the fireplace. He waited until Maisie was seated, then settled into his own chair.
“How are you, Miss Dobbs?” he asked.
“I’m well, thank you. Is Charlotte settling in comfortably?”
“Yes, she seems to be.”
“Have you spent much time with her, Mr. Waite?”
Joseph Waite shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“I know this is a difficult time for you, Mr. Waite—”
“You think this is difficult? I lost my son, you know.”
Maisie allowed a moment for Joseph Waite’s still pent-up anger to settle, and watched as the tension he felt coursed through him. Unmoved, she was determined to continue.
“Mr. Waite, why did you instruct your staff to tell me you were not at home when I came here for our previous appointment?”
Joseph Waite twisted the diamond ring on his little finger, the ring that had caught the sun so easily as he reached out to feed doves at his windowsill.
“I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Maisie settled into the chair, a move that caused Joseph Waite to look up.
“Yes, Mr. Waite, you know very well what I’m talking about. So please answer my question.”
“I don’t have to take this! Just give me your account and—”
“With respect, Mr. Waite, I risked my life in this house, so I will be heard.”
Waite was silent, his face flushed.
“The truth is that you kept your daughter in this house because you feared for her life. Your grief and anger over what she had done when she was but a foolish young girl festered, but your love for her caused you to keep her close.”
“
