James slowed the motor car and pulled onto a grass verge. There were no other vehicles on the road, and they were in silence until James continued. 'You see, you know. You've spent so much time with him.'
'Since I was about fourteen.'
James nodded. 'Seeing Khan has helped me to…I don't know how to explain it. He's helped me to feel as if I'm…I'm…as if I'm all there again. After the war, after all that happened, I felt as if parts of me were missing, and I now know that it wasn't all the war, because part of me had been missing since Emily died. I'm not very good at all this, talking about these things, but it's as if I now know more about who I am and what I want in my life, rather than just being swept back and forth.'
'I understand, James, really I do.'
'I know you do.'
They were silent for a few moments before James reached across and took Maisie's hand.
'And I know that I want to spend more time with you, Maisie. If that's all right with you.'
Maisie nodded, though James could not see her gesture. 'Yes, James. I'd like that too.'
'And I don't want to do it in secret either. I will not hide my affection or my regard for you from my mother and father, or from anyone else, for that matter.'
Maisie did not reply. Was she prepared for such a thing? That Lady Rowan, Carter, her father-Maurice-might know of the fondness between James and herself? She had never set out to be an example of social climbing, nor would she want her feelings for James to be interpreted as such. Perhaps she should nip this liaison in the bud, before it had time to bloom in full view of all who might judge if it began to fade.
'I know we've both loved before, Maisie. I am not a monk, nor have I wanted for the company of women. But will you take a chance on me? And please, be honest with me.'
Maisie knew she must be honest, for in opening his soul to her, James had touched her heart.
'James, I want to be by myself to think things over. Let's go for a walk tomorrow morning-you can call for me at my father's house after breakfast, if that's all right. I want to really think about what you're saying, and what it will mean for me. You see…' She faltered, not sure of her ground. 'You see, I am not as brave as Enid, you know. I never was. And I do care what people think, what they say, when it's about me. I've worked hard, James, and I don't want there to be any misunderstanding, especially-and I have to say this-with your mother, who has been one of my most ardent supporters over the years.'
'Enid was a long time ago, Maisie. I was no more than a boy when we fell in love, and I am now a man in middle age. I have come to terms with all that happened between us, and the others since then. But I understand your reticence. I'm just glad it's not on account of me, of everything I've just told you.'
Maisie shook her head. 'Oh, no, James. Far, far from it.'
'And don't worry about my mother. I think she would be delighted to know that we were seeing more of each other. She is enormously proud of you.'
'That's not the same as seeing us walking out together.'
'I know, but-'
Maisie rested her hand on his. 'Let's talk again in the morning, James. It's been a lovely day, hasn't it? Now I want to go back to Chelstone to see Maurice.'
Maisie could hear the dog barking as she walked along the path leading to her father's cottage, and before she could reach for the handle, the door opened and she was greeted by both Frankie Dobbs and Jook, the gypsy dog Maisie had brought home the previous year.
'There you are! I knew James Compton was bringing you home, so I've been worried. They say he drives like a madman.'
Maisie kissed her father on the cheek and bent down to make a fuss of Jook.
'Don't believe everything you hear, Dad. He was the perfect gentleman and a capable driver-probably doesn't drive as fast as me, and definitely not as fast as Lady Rowan.'
'That's all right, then. Come on, I've got a nice soup going in the kitchen.'
Later, Maisie and her father sat at the kitchen table, soup plates filled with piping hot broth in front of them, along with slices of fresh crusty bread cut into deep 'doorstep' slices. They talked of the estate's news, then of Maurice, who had returned in an ambulance just a few hours earlier.
'I'll go up to see him tomorrow morning,' said Maisie, buttering a slice of bread.
'I wouldn't go too early, being as he's only just come home,' said Frankie.
Maisie shook her head. 'No, it won't be. I'm going for a walk with James.' She looked up at her father.
Frankie sighed, rested his spoon in the bowl, and sat back in his chair. 'I've never been one to interfere, Maisie, you know that. You're as old now as your mother, God rest her soul, when she was going back and forth to the hospital. And you're a grown woman, not a girl. But-'
'But?'
'Hear me out, Maisie.' He leaned forward. 'But are you sure walking out with that James Compton is the right thing to do? I mean, there's been talk, you know.'
Maisie felt color rush to her cheeks. 'Dad, if I had listened to talk, I might still be shoveling coal in the morning in a grand house in London.'
'Now then-everyone in that house was proud of you, of what you've made of yourself.'
'So why are they talking now?'
'Because no one wants to see you hurt. Not with Simon gone last year.'
Neither spoke for some moments, then Maisie broke the silence.
'Simon had been gone for years, Dad. Years. And I will be all right-I won't make an idiot of myself. But I enjoy his company, Dad. He's a good man.'
'I hope he is, Maisie.'
Later, in her small bedroom with the low beams and diamond-paned casement windows, Maisie lay in bed and considered James Compton. She was no expert in love, and she knew she had floundered when it came to personal relationships with men. After Simon was wounded in 1917, returning home to live in a hospital for men whose minds had been sacrificed to war, she had not even looked at a man until she returned to Girton College to complete her education. Then there had been occasional evenings out, the odd accepted invitation to lunch or even a party. There had been a time when she'd had what Priscilla might have called a 'fling,' but she had neither confided in her friend nor considered the matter again. There was nothing to touch her heart anyway, just a passing comfort; and such moments of warmth, even if temporary, were balm for the wounds in her heart. But she was different now. She had grown up, and she knew she was, as James had said, 'all there again.' And she liked being with someone who knew how that felt.
It was late morning by the time Maisie left the cottage by the back door and walked up to The Dower House to see Maurice. Mrs. Bromley had brought a note earlier, suggesting that before lunch would be the best time to visit.
'Maurice.' Maisie went to her old mentor's bedside, took his hand, and kissed his forehead. 'You have worried us all.'
She tried not to reveal how his pallor concerned her still, how the hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes told all she needed to know about his state of health. But he seemed to have more energy than during their last visit, though she knew he would tire soon.
'Andrew told me that you came to the clinic-such a long way to see an old man not at all present with the world.'
'You were ill, Maurice, and your respiration was compromised by fluid in your lungs. How are you feeling now?'
'Well enough. Andrew would not have allowed me to return to my home had he not been satisfied regarding my condition.'
'Oh yes he would-if you'd bullied him.'
'You underestimate Andrew Dene.'
'No, I don't-but he was your pupil too, and would let you have the last word.'
'I am well enough, Maisie. Now, come on, sit down next to me. First, tell me about your work, about progress on the case of the young mapmaker.'
She shook her head. 'I'm waiting, Maurice.'
'Waiting?'
