someone who I will
“Is that why you ended the liaison with Bradley?” Maisie risked the impertinent question.
Georgina shrugged. “It began to end almost as soon as it started. To tell you the truth, I hadn’t been really inspired since the war—you hit the nail on the head there, Maisie.” With her hands still resting upon her brother’s sketches, Georgina looked out the window and, it seemed, into the past. “I took such huge chances out there in the war, but—oh, it is so hard to explain—there was this thrill, this feeling here”—she touched a place just above her belt buckle—“that told me that what I was doing was right, that I might be taking a risk, might even be killed, but it was a gamble for a good reason. I would have something to show for it.” Her words began to slow, and she shrugged her shoulders. “I missed that feeling, and I think I tried to get it back by having an affair. But it was never right. You see”—she turned so that she and Maisie were face-to-face—“you see, I realized that even though there was the risk, the thrill of an affair with a married man, and an exciting married man at that—it was completely false. Completely without substance. There was no…no…no truth, no solid, meaningful reason to play with that particular fire. Do you understand?”
“I do, yes; I do understand.”
“So now, with this work, with Nick’s sketches there to challenge me, I’ve found that reason again, that old voice saying, ‘Do it, it’s worth it.’ And I can feel it inside me, that the chance, the challenge of taking off on my own is a worthwhile endeavor.”
Georgina spoke for some moments longer, while Maisie encouraged her with a ready smile, leaning forward to show excitement about the expedition and that she was keen to wish her well. Then having submitted her written report, Maisie gathered her belongings, ready to leave, but Georgina touched her on the arm.
“I’ve something for you. Call it a gift from Nick.” She held out a parcel wrapped in brown paper and string. “No prizes for guessing, it’s a painting. But one you will find quite extraordinary, I think.”
“A painting, for me?”
“Yes. I found it in the lock-up. A completed watercolor. Quite extraordinary, you know, because he had rolled a note along with it, explaining the subject. It reminded me of you, and I remembered you saying something about bare walls in your new flat, and I thought you might like it so I had it framed for you. Of course, if it isn’t to your liking, you can give it away.”
MAISIE UNLOCKED THE front door of her flat and called out. “Anyone home?”
Sandra emerged from the box room, a duster in her hand.
“Settling in, Sandra?”
“Yes, miss. I can’t thank you enough. I hope me being here won’t be too much of an imposition.”
“Not at all. We can’t have you living in a hostel until your wedding in June, can we?”
Sandra smiled, beckoning to Maisie. “Come and have a look. Eric helped me move a bed and dressing table in. Got them cheap we did—at a house sale, you know.”
Maisie looked into the room that had already been made cozy by the new lodger.
“And now that I’ve got a job in that dress shop, I can do night classes as well—typewriting’s the thing, you know. I was just about to go and sign up.”
“Right you are, Sandra. I’ll see you later.” Maisie smiled as the younger woman gathered her coat and hat and left the flat. Though she had wondered about her decision to extend the offer to Sandra to live with her until her marriage, she was delighted to lend a helping hand, as others had in turn helped her in the past. And in the way that fortune and providence gravitate toward each other, Sandra had found a new job soon after accepting Maisie’s offer.
LATER, AFTER SHE had hung the painting on the wall above the fireplace, Maisie dragged one of her two armchairs and set it in front of the fire. Sipping tea from a tin mug, she read the note that Nick Bassington-Hope had left with the painting he’d completed a year before.
Maisie wondered what Nick had seen on that day, for the picture could well have been a photograph taken on her last visit to Dungeness, as she walked on the shingle and looked out to sea. She finished her tea and sat for some time, studying the painting, thinking about the man who had caught a moment of reflection. Her moment of reflection. She read the note again and closed her eyes.
Also by Jacqueline Winspear
Acknowledgments
As always, deepest thanks to my writing buddy, Holly Rose, for keeping me on track with my writing, and for limitless encouragement. More especially, Hol, thank you for your yellow high-lighter—where would Maisie and I be without it? Gratitude must also go to my “old china plate,” Tony Broadbent: thank you for our wonderful conversations about “old London” and for giving me even more research materials with which to breathe life into Maisie’s time and place—my bookshelves runneth over! In addition, my Cheef Resurcher (who knows who he is) has once again been on his toes, bringing golden nuggest of historical significance to my attention.
The Imperial War Museum has fascinated me since childhood, and continues to inspire and intrigue me, not least when I am using the archive and library—thanks must go to the ever-helpful staff, who so efficiently find books and correspondence to support my understanding of the Great War and its aftermath.
To my agent, Amy Rennert—love and gratitude for your powerful blend of experience, knowledge and grace; to my editors, Jennifer Barth (in New York) and Anya Serota ( in London, thank you both for your skillful and sensitive editing, for your insights and that shared uncanny ability to read my mind.
And thanks to my family—for everything: my husband, John Morrell; my brother John and sister-in-law, Angella; my wonderful parents, Albert and Joyce Winspear, who visited Dungeness with me, tramping across the shingle on
