Christopher Davenham's appearance had represented the beginning of a respectable stream of visitors. There were a couple of referrals from Lady Rowan's solicitors, along with three of Maurice's former clients who finally overcame any reticence they might have had about completely confiding in his former assistant, who happened to be a woman.
The work ranged from simple analysis of correspondence to reveal anomalies in funds paid to a company to a report on a 'missing' daughter. As Maisie expected, there had not yet been the requests for assistance from government or from the legal or judicial services that Maurice had enjoyed, but she knew that such business would come in due course. She was qualified to consult on matters far beyond those that had come to her. Maurice had seen to that.
Maisie was now busy, and more to the point, had the money to research matters that presented themselves for investigation without initiation by an actual client. Unless you could call Vincent Weathershaw a client.
The restaurant at Fortnum & Mason's was busy, but as she walked in and feigned interest in the menu, Maisie quickly scanned the room and immediately saw Celia Davenham sitting by a window. She was looking out at the rooftops as if in a dream, with her hands clasped around a cup of tea.
'May I have a seat by the window?' requested Maisie of the tall waiter with slicked-back, brilliantined hair who greeted her.
Taking the table next to Celia, Maisie deliberately sat facing the woman, although she did not look at her as she removed her gloves, placed them on top of her bag, and set the bag on the chair next to her. Maisie opened the menu and read down the list of dishes until she felt the woman's eyes upon her, then she looked up, meeting Celia's gaze. Maisie smiled. Her 'planetary' smile, as Simon had once said. She quickly banished all thought of Simon; her concentration had to be on the job in hand.
'Hello,' said Maisie in greeting.'Such a lovely day today, isn't it?'
'Yes. Yes it is,' responded Celia. She smiled at Maisie.'Forgive me . . . but, have we met?'
'You know, I must say, you look very familiar, but I . . . I can't think where.' Maisie smiled again.
'Nether Green. I've seen you at Nether Green.' Color flushed Celia Davenham's cheeks as she recognized Maisie.
'Why, yes, yes. Look, would you like to join me?' Maisie moved her bag and gloves from the seat next to her, an invitation to Celia Davenham.
A waiter quickly came to assist Celia, and placed her teacup, saucer, and place mat on Maisie's table. The perfectly dressed woman sat down opposite Maisie, who held out her hand.
'Blanche. Maisie Blanche. How do you do.'
'Celia Davenham. I'm very well, thank you.'
For a while the two women talked of small matters. The price of flowers at the stall, the late arrival of trains this past winter. Before Celia could ask, Maisie offered the story of her visits to the cemetery.
'Donald was a cousin. Not close, but family all the same. I thought that now I'm here in town, it would be easy to go out to Nether Green. One doesn't like to forget, does one?'
'No. Absolutely. No. Not that I could,' replied Celia.
'Did you lose your brother?' asked Maisie.
'Yes, one of them. In the Dardanelles. The other was wounded. Seriously wounded.'
'I'm sorry. You were lucky to have your brother come home from the Dardanelles,' said Maisie, knowing that often brother fought alongside brother, which led to many a mother grieving the loss of not one child but two or three.
'Oh, no. No. My brother's body was never found. He was listed missing. I visit the grave of my other brother's friend. Vincent.' Celia fussed with her handkerchief.
'I see. Is your brother, your other brother, recovered?'
'Um. Yes, yes, in a way.'
Maisie held her head to one side in question but added,'Oh, this is such a difficult subject--'
'No, I mean, yes. Yes. But . . . well, he has scars. Vincent had scars too.'
'Oh. I see.'
'Yes. George, my brother who survived, is like Vincent. His face--'
Celia slowly moved her finely manicured hands and touched her cheek with delicate fingers. She flinched and tears filled her eyes. At that moment Maisie saw her chance for connection. A connection that was deeper than she would admit. She reached out and touched Celia lightly on the arm until the other woman's eyes met hers. Maisie nodded her understanding.
'I was a nurse,' said Maisie, her voice lowered, not to avoid being heard but to draw Celia toward her.'In France. When I returned from France I nursed again in a secure mental hospital. I understand the wounds, Mrs. Davenham. Those of the body--and of the soul.'
Celia Davenham took Maisie's hand. And at that moment Maisie knew she was in the woman's confidence, that she was trusted. Maisie had anticipated that it would take no longer than the twenty minutes that the women had sat together at the same table. Such was Celia's hunger for connection to someone who understood. And the depth of Maisie Dobbs's understanding of her situation was greater than Celia Davenham could possibly imagine.
Celia Davenham sat for a moment before speaking again. Wave upon wave of grief seemed to break across her heart with such force that she made a fist with one hand, and gripped Maisie's offered hand of understanding with the other. A waiter coming toward the table to inquire if more tea was required stopped suddenly and moved away, as if repelled by the force of her emotion.
Maisie closed her eyes, concentrating her calming energy on the woman who sat opposite her. The moment passed, and Maisie opened her eyes to observe Celia relax her shoulders, arms, and the tight grasp on her hand.
