The Mapping of Love and Death

'The English Nurse?' Maisie said aloud. 'The English Nurse? Don't you have a name? Why are you calling yourself 'The English Nurse'-and why no address?' Then she reminded herself that during the war she had never given an address at the top of the page; the official 'Somewhere in France' had seemed both insipid and melodramatic at the same time. And in her chest she felt a tightening, imagining the tall American with the broad smile on a sunny day laughing with this girl, perhaps teasing her…'my English nurse.'

Maisie folded the letter and placed it in the envelope once again. She brought an old newspaper from the box room and laid it out on the floor, then took the letters and set them on the paper as if she were placing cards for a game of patience. They were close enough to the radiator to benefit from the shallow heat, yet away from any damp that might be leaching through the wall from outside. Each letter had enough space around it for air to flow freely, and when she returned, she would open the letters one by one, peel away the pages and set them to dry in the same way.

Though rain clouds threatened to slow the drive to Kent, the promise of better weather ahead was signaled by shafts of sunlight breaking through shimmering new leaves on the tree canopy overhead. Maisie began to feel more settled as she made her way through Sevenoaks, and down River Hill towards Tonbridge. Her recent visits to Chelstone had been brief, and she had visited Maurice only occasionally since the beginning of the year. She was anxious, as always, to see her father, who would be both pleased to see her and worried that she was visiting in the middle of the week. He was a man who liked the rhythm of routine, and any deviation gave him cause for concern.

At the sound of wheels crunching on the gravel lane leading from the manor house drive to his small cottage, Frankie Dobbs was quick to open the front door. 'Maisie, love-' He walked towards the MG, his dog at his side.

'Hello, Dad-you're looking well! And so's Jook.'

Frankie Dobbs leaned forward to kiss his daughter on the cheek, and carried her overnight case into the house while she made a fuss of the dog. Soon father and daughter were in the kitchen, the kettle on the stove to boil, and Frankie had opened the range door so that Maisie could feel the benefit of hot coals.

'This weather doesn't know what to do, does it? One minute you think it's spring, the next minute you're banking up the fire.'

'That's exactly what Billy said only today.'

Frankie nodded. 'Here to see Maurice?' There was no resentment in his voice, for Maisie's father had long ago come to understand that the bond between Maisie and her former teacher and mentor was an enduring one, though tested at times.

'Yes, I want him to look at a report, just to see what he has to say.'

'Must be urgent, if it couldn't wait until Friday.'

Maisie nodded, reaching out to take the mug of tea offered by her father. 'No, I didn't want to wait.'

'He's been right poorly, you know.'

'I thought he was getting better.' Maisie set down her mug after one sip.

'To my mind, it was all that going over to France what did it. I told him, 'You can't be going over there when you still feel rough.' He said he had to go, had to get some affairs sorted out, and the next thing you know, Lady Rowan gets a message that he's staying there because he's gone down again-well, you know, don't you?'

'How is he now?'

'As soon as he came home, they brought a bed into the conservatory for him, so he could rest during the day- it's very warm in there when sun shines right through, plus there's that nice fireplace. I reckon the ailment's sitting on his chest and just won't be moved. Nasty cough he's got-and it's such a shock, because he's always been your busy sort, hasn't he? If he's not over there in France, or on business in London, he's out with his roses, or you can see him reading a book up there by the window. Always one to pass the time of day, he is. But this has knocked him for six, I can see that.'

'I'll go up and see the housekeeper this evening, ask if it's all right to call tomorrow morning. I should have telephoned, but I thought-'

'I know-this isn't like him. And Lady Rowan is all beside herself. You know how she is, what with her 'I am beside myself.''

Maisie laughed upon hearing her father's imitation of his employer, whom he held in high regard, a respect that was mutual.

'What's caught her attention now?'

'James is home from Canada?'

'James is home?' She reached for her mug again. 'Well, that is a surprise, given that he hates sailing in what he calls the 'iceberg months.' I thought he wouldn't return until summer, and then perhaps not until next year.'

'No, he's back, and they say-them downstairs-that he's back for good. There's talk of the London house being opened up for him, and Lady Rowan is said to be very happy because his lordship is going to retire.'

'Well, I never.' Maisie leaned back in her chair. 'I don't visit for a few weeks, and look what happens. I wonder how things might change around here.'

'We all wonder. It's like the changing of the guard-out goes one lot, and in comes another.'

'I doubt it will be that bad. Lady Rowan loves Chelstone and hates going up to town now-even for the season.'

'You watch. Next thing you know, James will be matched up, mark my words.'

Maisie laughed. 'He's about thirty-six now, Dad, and he's been engaged three times already. He won't be easily pressed into marriage.'

'Another one who lost his heart nigh on twenty-odd years ago.' Frankie shook his head and looked out of the window across the fields.

'Well, that's as may be.' Maisie stood up, rinsed her mug under the cold tap, and set it on the draining board. 'Now then, I think I'll nip up to see if I can have that word with Maurice's housekeeper.'

Is that Maisie?' Maurice's voice could be heard calling from the conservatory as Maisie spoke with the housekeeper in the entrance hall.

'One minute, Dr. Blanche.' Mrs. Bromley, the housekeeper, scurried away, returning a few minutes later. 'He wants to see you now, Miss Dobbs. I was just about to bring him in from the conservatory-he does like to sit there until it's dark, and even though it's warm and we've plugged it up so there's no drafts, I do worry about him. The nurse comes in at about eight o'clock-she should be here any minute-and makes sure he's comfortable for the night, so you've time for a little chat. He's been waiting for you to come home.'

Come home. Even though she had her own flat in London, even though she was London born and bred, when she came to her father's house, to all intents and purposes she was considered to be home. Maisie smiled. He's been waiting for you to come home. It was true, she always felt a sense of belonging at Chelstone, and particularly when she reflected upon the hours spent with Maurice at The Dower House.

Together with Mrs. Bromley, Maisie helped Maurice into a wheel-chair, then to his favorite chair alongside the fireplace in his study. As he sat down, she noticed how frail he looked. His shoulder blades seemed sharp against the fabric of his dressing gown, and his eyes milky, sunken like those of an old dog.

'Maisie, I am so happy to see you.'

'And you too, Maurice.' She leaned towards him, and they kissed on both cheeks. 'I wish I had known that you were so poorly-I thought you were getting well again.'

He lifted a hand towards the chair on the opposite side of the fire-place, Maisie's usual seat; then he shook his head. 'I did not want you to be worried, so I asked that you not be alerted to my ill health. I am sure that as soon as summer comes, I will be as fit as a fiddle.' He coughed, reaching into the pocket of his woolen cardigan for a handkerchief, which he held to his mouth. Maisie could hear the rasping in his chest, the wheeze as he caught his breath. 'I beg your pardon.' He paused before continuing. 'I saw the light from your torch as you came along the path. I'm glad you've come. Now then, Maisie, what is it you want to discuss? Give an old campaigner something to chew on; I'm fed up with being the resident invalid.'

Maisie pulled an envelope from her pocket, slipped out Michael Clifton's postmortem report, and passed the pages to Maurice, who squinted to see the words even though he had set his spectacles on his nose. He read in