The Mapping of Love and Death

'Everything will be all right, Maisie. I'm aware you've been through a lot in the past few years, but Maurice is a resilient chap, he bounces back. You know that.'

'I think this is different.'

'Wait and see. There.' He pressed the handkerchief into her hand. 'Will you be all right?'

She nodded and smiled as she looked up at him. James kissed her on each cheek; then, just at the point when she thought he would turn to leave, he took her in his arms once again and kissed her on the lips. She did not draw back.

So, like I said, the American bloke, from the embassy, name of John Langley, said he'd be in touch with you before the end of the week, which I suppose means by Friday for the likes of these diplomatic types.'

'What? Sorry, Billy, what did you say?'

'Is everything all right, Miss?'

'Yes. Yes, of course. Why?'

Billy shrugged. 'Nothing, really. You just seemed miles away, that's all, and I wondered if you were all right. You had that nasty fall, and a rotten time of it yesterday, what with having to rush down to Tunbridge Wells with that James Compton-and I bet he drives like a madman as well.'

Maisie shook her head. 'No, not at all. He was quite, well, careful.'

'Hmmm. Always thought of him as a bit of a fast one. A bit of a jack-the-lad.'

Maisie said nothing, but remained deep in thought. Had Billy known of the romantic encounter with James Compton, he might have attributed her distraction to the fledgling courtship. He would not have known that, after James had left her flat, Maisie had once again turned to the letters from the English nurse to Michael Clifton. It was when she read the penultimate letter that she drew back to absorb its meaning.

Dearest Michael,

I have never been terribly good with my good-byes, so forgive the stilted nature of this letter. I think it's best that I come straight to the point, rather than linger with explanations or fumble with my words.

For various reasons that do not bear recounting, I have decided that our courtship, or whatever you might call it when you hardly see a person, must come to an end. This war has made all thoughts of the future almost worthless. Neither of us knows what might happen tomorrow, next week, or next month, so it's probably best if we cease all communication. If you like, I can have those items you gave to me for safekeeping sent back to you. Please let me know what you would like me to do. Rest assured, I will take good care of them until I receive word from you.

I hope you understand, dear Michael. I see nothing but the wounded and dying each day. Perhaps that's why I cannot see a future for us.

Yours, fondly,

'Tennie'

THIRTEEN

Having left her motor car parked outside her flat in Pimlico that morning, Maisie traveled by trolley bus and the underground for most of the journey to the Mayfair mansion where Lady Petronella Casterman lived with her son, Christopher. Priscilla had informed her-with information from her friend Julia Maynard-that the son was about sixteen years of age, and was known as 'Tuffie' to members of the family. The two daughters were now married, with the eldest due to give birth to Lady Petronella's first grandchild in the not-too-distant future, to the delight of the grandmother-to-be.

Though on the outside the mansion seemed much like any other in the area-an imposing white stucco exterior; large windows on each of three floors, with smaller top-floor windows for the servants' accommodation; and a grand entrance with Grecian-inspired columns on either side of the front door-as soon as she stepped into the light- filled entrance hall, it was clear that Lady Petronella had indulged in extensive alterations to the interior of the house. Upon entry the home inspired good cheer and optimism, its walls painted the shade of a bride's satin wedding gown, and the doors a lighter but complementary hue. It seemed that even on a bleak day, light would filter past the swags of golden fabric that adorned the windows, to be transmuted so that one might believe the sun to be shining. There was no grand collection of paintings of now-dead ancestors, though in the drawing room Maisie's attention was drawn to a family portrait of Lady Petronella and her daughters, with Tuffie sitting on his mother's knee, a toy train in one hand and the thumb of his other hand in his mouth. Another large yet simple charcoal sketch revealed Giles Casterman to have been a man of fine features, with slightly hooded eyes and a wry smile that suggested he and the artist had just shared a joke.

As Maisie was looking at a series of silver-framed family photographs set on the grand piano by the window, the door opened and Lady Petronella entered the room.

'Miss Dobbs. How lovely to meet you.'

Maisie turned at the woman's entrance and stepped in her direction. Not all women, especially those of a certain age, expected to shake hands in greeting with another female, especially one they presumed to be of a lower station-and a working woman was often thought of as such-but the aristocratic widow showed no such sensibility and held out her hand to take Maisie's in a firm grasp.

'Thank you so much for agreeing to see me, Lady Petronella, and for taking the time to place a telephone call to my office.'

'Not at all. If someone wants to see you, you might as well get it over and done with and help them if you can.' She held out her hand towards a chintz-covered sofa, and as they were seated, Maisie took stock of her hostess.

Lady Petronella was of average height, perhaps a couple of inches shorter than Maisie, but in the way she held herself, she seemed taller. She had retained the leanness of girlhood, her clothes were fashionable without revealing a woman loath to give up her youth, and her rich black hair-the color possibly enhanced with a tint-was cut in a soft, wavy bob. She wore little makeup, which drew attention to still-flawless skin, and had a ready smile and eyes that seemed to sparkle upon meeting her guest for the first time. Maisie thought she was the kind of woman that one could not help but like upon meeting.

'Would you care for some tea, Miss Dobbs? Our cook has just made delicious macaroons-they're my son's favorite, and she spoils him terribly.'

Maisie smiled. She remembered Mrs. Crawford making ginger biscuits for James when he returned to Ebury Place, and the playful teasing between the two when he sneaked into her domain to steal the hot-from-the-oven treat.

'Yes, a cup of tea and a macaroon would be lovely-thank you.'

Lady Petronella summoned the butler and asked for tea and macaroons to be brought to the drawing room, and then turned to Maisie. 'Now then, Miss Dobbs, perhaps you could tell me why you've been anxious to see me. I understand you're interested in my work during the war.'

Maisie nodded. 'Yes, that's right. I'm trying to locate an English nurse who became…let us say, she became romantically involved with an American man. I should add that he enlisted in 1914, and was a military cartographer with the Royal Engineers. He was able to enlist in our army because his father was born a British subject, and of course his expertise in his field made him a valuable recruit.'

'Yes, yes, I can imagine.' Lady Petronella looked up as the butler returned with tea, and did not continue speaking until the table in front of their chairs was set for the repast. 'Milk and sugar?' asked Maisie's hostess, before she poured tea.

'Just a dash of milk,' said Maisie.

When they were both equipped with tea and a small plate bearing a single macaroon, Maisie offered more information. 'The young man, Michael Clifton, was killed, though his remains have only been discovered quite recently. His parents are in possession of a collection of letters from the young woman in question, and would like to trace her.'

'Don't they have her name and address?'