smiling in equal measure. 'They say the face tells all there is to know about a life, but I personally believe much can be deduced from the hands. There are lines and scars, bumps and calluses; indeed, the hands are both the sketch and the final work of art.'
Maisie looked at her hands. She had always been somewhat embarrassed by them. They were hands that told a story of hard manual labor when she was a child, hands that had scrubbed floors, had polished heavy oaken furniture. Later, they had soothed the sick, and had rested on the foreheads of the dying. She realized that she had no recollection of her hands as a schoolgirl, and she was uncomfortable with the conversation's direction.
'I saw Khan this week.'
Maurice smiled, aware of the change in topic. 'How is my dear friend?'
'We sat together for a while. He seems old, yet at the same time, he seems not to have aged since I was a girl.' Maisie paused for just a few seconds to take a sip of sherry. 'And you will never guess who I saw there.'
'I think I can.'
'This one might stump you, Maurice.'
'Might it have been James Compton?'
Maisie's widened eyes underlined her surprise. 'How did you know?'
Maurice again waited before speaking, as if gauging his words with care. 'Now, Maisie, you know better. I have to observe that, in personal matters, you do not have the breadth of vision that is at your disposal in your work. You have made a decision about James, that he is a certain kind of person, and that-given his character, as you have interpreted it-he is not worthy, perhaps, of an audience with someone you hold in the highest regard.'
'I just didn't think he was the type.' Maisie felt her neck grow hot, and knew how her words sounded.
'Again, you know better.'
'You're right, I do. I'm sorry. But James Compton-'
'Is a lonely man in crisis, and if I were to commend anyone to your good graces, it would be him.'
'I feel as if I had just been reprimanded by my teacher.'
'You have.'
Maisie looked at Maurice, and they both began to laugh, though Maurice soon held up his hand as the unforgiving cough claimed him. She poured a glass of water and helped steady him as he held the glass to his lips.
'I asked for that, didn't I?' said Maisie. 'I am guilty of allowing my past memories of James to color my view of him, which I concede is wrong.'
'James has floundered for some time, though as we know he has always found a certain peace of mind in Canada. But now he is back here, and to be once again-and likely forever-in a place where you never quite fit is like experiencing the worst of times once more.'
'Never quite fit?'
'No. James Compton is his mother's son, his father's heir, and a man of his generation of young men. On the one hand, his mother has always enjoyed flying in the face of what was expected of her, and on the other, his father is a businessman with barely an equal, a man who has served his country without question when called to do so. Julian is a man of compassion, but he does not suffer fools gladly. And then there was the England that James came home to-and a young man who has been wounded in body and spirit, one who was seeking both solace and joy, found easy consolation in the antics of his peers. But that behavior gnawed at him, Maisie. He grew to hate himself before he went back to Canada. And now he is here again, and though he is a man of some accomplishment, showing every sign of being his father's worthy successor now that he has taken over the highest position in the everyday running of the Compton Corporation, his is not an easy journey.'
'I can see your point, Maurice, but there are starving people in lines for food in London-and theirs is not an easy journey either.'
Maurice took another sip of the whiskey, wincing as he swallowed. 'A little compassion for James, Maisie, might not go amiss.'
Maisie nodded, but said nothing in return.
'Have you made progress with your case?'
She was thoughtful before replying. 'Yes, yes, I think I have. Lord Julian gave me the name of a man to contact, and he in turn suggested others, one of whom I went to visit. Usually any connections initially effected by Lord Julian are without question, yet this time I…I can't say-there's just something about him.'
'Remember, Julian does not know all contacts personally-he just has an extraordinary roster of names at his disposal, not only through his commercial interests but also through his work for the government during the war. I am sure he could find out more about this man, if you wished to inquire.'
'Yes, yes, of course.'
A knock on the door, followed by Mrs. Bromley and the nurse entering the room, brought the conversation to an end.
'Here come the Furies!' Maurice shook his head and reached for Maisie's hands with his own. His eyes met hers, and she was pained to see the milky patina of age and sickness. 'Remember your childhood, Maisie. Remember being at Ebury Place, and here at Chelstone. Remember being different and having to make your way in a world for which there was no set of directions. Remember that next time you try to avoid conversation with James Compton.'
'But-'
'I've always loved sitting in this conservatory, Maisie. Have you never looked out across the estate from here? You can see the gardens, the carriage sweep. I can see down the slope to your father's house, across the lawns, right up to the entrance to the mansion. Indeed, if I am situated in a certain place, I can even view the stableyard and the paddocks-I take great joy in seeing your father with the young horses, or instructing the grooms when they exercise the hunters. I miss nothing, so the sound of an MG's engine accelerating when James Compton is leaving the manor would attract my attention.'
Maisie smiled. 'Guilty as charged.' She took his right hand, kissed the liver-marked skin, and felt the web of veins touch her lips. 'Good night, Maurice.'
'Good night, my dear.'
As if it had been orchestrated by Maurice, while Maisie was leaving Chelstone for London, James Compton was walking his mother's dogs, a Labrador and a springer spaniel, across the lawns. It would have been an obvious omission had she not stopped to greet him and ask after his mother, so instead of driving on towards the gates, she pulled over. James waved and came towards her.
'Hello, Maisie. Leaving the fold so soon?'
'I have to get back to London, James-busy as usual.'
'You're never here long enough for us to have a chat.' James turned away to whistle the dogs to him. 'Those dogs are tearaways. My mother has let them get away with murder.'
Maisie nodded. 'I've noticed.'
'I suppose that isn't the sort of thing I should say to you, is it? You'll be taking each of them by the scruff of the neck and marching them over to Scotland Yard.' He paused. 'Look, I was going to ask if…well, do you like motor cars?'
'Me?' Maisie was unsure of how she might answer the question, wondering where it might lead. 'Well, yes, I do-I mean, I love my MG, which as you know, I bought from Lady Rowan.'
'Um, would you like to come with me to Brooklands next weekend? There's a meet there. I thought it might be rather fun to watch. We could leave from London, take a picnic.' James reddened. 'I-I just thought it would be something-'
'Yes, that would be lovely, James. Saturday, is it?'
'Pick you up at eight, if that's all right?'
Maisie nodded. 'Now I must go, James.' Maisie slipped the motor car into gear, then paused as a thought occurred to her. 'James, just a minute-I wonder if I might ask a quick question?'
