“Well…I…when you put it like that, I suppose…”
“Good.” Maisie held out her hand toward the garden, where one could just about make out the path against the dusk. “Let’s go for a stroll. It’s not as cold as it was and it’s only just started to snow lightly. I would value your opinion on a few matters.”
“Righty-o.” Noelle Grant set down her cup and plate, clearly warming to Maisie’s compliments. “I’ll whistle for the dogs and off we’ll go. Just a tick while I grab a scarf and gloves.” She stopped by the window as she looked out. “We’ll go out by the back door—I’ll find you some gum boots and an old jacket; you’ll need them.”
Noelle led Maisie to the gun room, which smelled of wet dogs, rubber boots and stale pipe smoke. Once furnished with suitable outdoor clothing, Noelle took two walking sticks from an old clay pot, handed one to Maisie before opening the door and striding forward into the gently falling snow.
“Hmmm, I hope this doesn’t settle, you know. Otherwise I’ll have to get old Jenkins out with his horses to clear the drive in the morning.” She went on, barely glancing at Maisie as she spoke. “The man has a brand-new tractor in his barn and still maintains the shires do a better job. I keep telling him, ‘Move with the times, Jenkins, or be done for!’”
Maisie kept up stride for stride as they passed an old shooting brake that she supposed Noelle used to drive herself to and fro between committee meetings and visits to tenant farmers. “There are some folk who are just more confident with tools they know, and he will probably do a better job with the horses than the tractor because of it.”
“Hmmph! Well, we’ll see about that tomorrow morning, won’t we?”
The footpath ahead was barely visible under a layer of snow, so as far as Maisie was concerned, it would have to be a quick walk if she were to get on the main road to Chelstone before the weather made the going difficult for her low-slung MG.
“Mrs. Grant, I—”
“Call me Nolly, everyone else does—we’re nothing if not informal at Bassington Place.”
“Nolly, I wonder if you could tell me about your brother Nick, from your perspective. I’m curious to know more about him—and I understand you may have more insight than most, given that your husband served with him during the war.”
Maisie looked sideways and noticed creases form around her companion’s mouth as she pressed her lips together. Though she could not see her forehead under her hat, she knew the woman was frowning.
“I don’t think Nick was ever as much a flibbertigibbet as Georgie. Yes, they were twins, but Nick was always more single-minded.” She paused for just a second or two, then continued. “Now, I know you asked about Nick, but if we go back to the beginning then we have to talk about them both, for they were twins, and although they were always each their own person, there were obvious similarities, and people tended to think of them together.”
“I see.”
“Georgie could—and still can, I must say—be a bit of a will-o’-the-wisp, a new idea every five seconds—like hiring you, if you don’t mind me saying so.” She turned toward Maisie, her frown now evident. “Of course, the war calmed her down a lot—a grand idea to do what she did, but she almost bit off more than she could chew. It made her pull her neck in a bit, being in the midst of the horror. Don’t get me wrong, I admire her for it, but…anyway, you asked about Nick.” She paused to negotiate a fallen branch and beckoned Maisie to walk ahead of her for a moment or two before continuing along the path side by side. “Nick had all of Emsy’s emotion, all of that feeling, that intensity, but it was tempered by something from my father, a solidity, I suppose you could call it. Of course, they’re all an arty lot, my family, but Piers has a bit more—Lord, what would you call it?” Nolly stopped and looked up, taking a moment to call the dogs back to heel.
“Practicality?” suggested Maisie.
“That’s it! Yes, Piers may be a creative individual, but he also has a practicality about him—for example, his skill is in making furniture that’s both functional as well as artistic; he is craftsman and artist in equal measure. Now, if you take me—I am under no illusions, no illusions whatsoever—I am all practicality, and not a shred of the arty. Nick, as I said, was both. But as boy and man he could and did sail close to the wind.”
“Just like Georgina?”
“But in a different way. Georgina didn’t care who she upset, whereas Nick was more deliberate. He wanted to shake certain people, certain
“The war?”
“Yes, the war, for a start.” Nolly looked up again and across the land now covered with soft, white snow. “We’d better be walking back soon. It’s getting dark and this snow is in for the night now. We’ll put on the wireless to listen to the weather forecast when we get back.”
The women walked for a while, talking about Nolly’s various occupations and plans for Bassington Place and the surrounding land. The estate extended for some considerable distance before reaching the first farm. Though much of the land was obscured by snow, there were meadows and woodland where, Maisie imagined, primroses, bluebells and abundant white wood anemones bloomed in spring. A river meandered across part of the land, probably to join the river Rother as it flowed on through the Marshes.
Maisie continued her questioning as they made their way back to the house. “So, tell me about the war and Nick.”
“He joined up straightaway, dragging his arty friends with him, even that one who was far too young at the time, what was his name”—she pulled up her collar—“Courtman, that’s the one, Alex Courtman. Anyway, they were all sent to different regiments following their training, so it was rather a surprise when Godfrey and Nick found they were serving together.”
“I was sorry to learn that your husband was lost in France.”
Nolly Grant shook her head. “Nothing
