'Like many young women, your wife lost someone she loved. In the war. The man was her first love, a puppy love. Had he lived, no doubt such an affection would have died with the onset of maturity. However--'
'Who?'
'A friend of her brother. His name was Vincent. It's in my report. Mr. Davenham, may we slow down just a little, you see, my feet . . . .'
'Of course, yes, I'm sorry.'
Christopher Davenham settled into a more relaxed gait, to match Maisie, who had reduced her stride to allow him to consider her words.
'Mr. Davenham, have you ever spoken with your wife about the war, about her brother, about her losses?'
'No, never. I mean, I know the facts. But one just has to get on with it. After all, you can't just give in, can you?'
'And what about you, Mr. Davenham?
'I didn't serve. I have a printing company, Miss Dobbs. I was required by the government to keep the people informed.'
'Did you want to serve?'
'Does that matter?'
'Perhaps it does, to your wife. Perhaps it matters to your wife to be able to discuss her past with you, for you to know--'
'Your report will give me the facts, Miss Dobbs.'
'Mr. Davenham, you may know the facts, but it isn't a catalog of facts that is causing your wife's melancholy. It is the storage of memories and of feelings. Do you understand?'
The man was silent, as was Maisie. She knew she was out of bounds. But this was not new for her. She had spent much of her life out of bounds, living and speaking where, according to some, she had no business.
'Allow the past to have a voice,' Maisie continued. 'Then it will be stilled. It's only then that your marriage will have a future, Mr. Davenham. And Mr. Davenham . . .'
'Yes.'
'Just in case you were considering such a move, your wife does not need medication, and she does not need a doctor. Your wife needs
The man took a few more steps in silence, then nodded.
'Shall we go back to the office?' Maisie asked, her head to one side.
Davenham nodded again. Maisie allowed him his thoughts, allowed him the room that he needed in which to take her words to heart. If she persisted, he might become defensive. And this was a door that needed to remain open. For there was something about the experience with Celia Davenham that nagged at Maisie. She didn't yet know what it was, but she was confident that it would speak to her. Maurice Blanche maintained that amid the tales, the smokescreens, and the deceptive mirrors of life's unsolved mysteries, truth resides, waiting for someone to enter its sanctum, then leave, without quite closing the door behind them. That is when truth may make its escape. And Maisie had ensured that the door was left open when she last saw Celia.
It was Maisie's intention that Thursday's meeting would reveal what she needed to know about Vincent's passing, about the mystery of the single name on his headstone, and what had occupied his time between the end of the war and his death. She wanted her next meeting with Celia to reveal Vincent's whereabouts just prior to, and at the time of, his death.
Maisie felt that she understood much about the relationship between Celia and Vincent. Their love had been more of a youthful infatuation--Celia had admitted as much herself--and in going forward with marriage to Christopher Davenham, she had tried to bury her feelings for Vincent at a time when emotions were running high throughout the country. But the ordinary rituals of marriage to the seemingly bland Christopher Davenham could not erase the memory of Vincent, the hero of her imagination, the handsome, fearless knight she might have married. Maisie believed that, to Vincent, Celia had remained simply the younger sister of a dear friend. Yet it was among the friends of one's brothers that so many young women found suitable partners.
Maisie met Celia Davenham at the Ritz for afternoon tea on Thursday, as arranged. As she made her way from the main doors of the Piccadilly entrance to join Celia, Maisie caught her breath when she saw the heavy marble columns at either side of the Winter Garden ahead. She walked toward the steps leading up into the venue for tea, and felt soothed by the warm shafts of light that entered through the windows at either end of the room. For a minute she allowed herself not to consider the expense of the expedition. The opulent grandeur of the Winter Garden, designed to resemble a French pavilion, with decorated cornices and a skylight that allowed soft natural light to bathe the room, almost took Maisie's breath away. With perfect white damask tablecloths, shining silver cutlery, and voluminous swags of fabric hung around the windows, the Winter Garden might not have encouraged intimate conversation between the two women, but the surrounding mirrored panels, and calming presence of water in the golden mermaid sculpture, brought a certan serenity to the room. Instead, with the delicate sound of Royal Doulton china clinking in the background, as cups were replaced on saucers, talk between the two women was light, skimming over the surface of confidence like a fly buzzing over a tranquil millpond.
Maisie touched each side of her lips with her table napkin, and placed it at the side of her plate. 'I think it's time for that walk, Mrs. Davenham. Such a lovely day, one feels as if summer is almost here.' She reached for her handbag and gloves.
'Oh yes, indeed. Let's walk . . . and please, do call me 'Celia.' I feel as if we know each other so very well now.' Celia Cavendish inclined her head in invitation.
'Thank you, Celia. It does seem as if the time for such formality has passed, so I expect you, in turn, to use my Christian name.'
With the bill settled, waiters hurried to pull back chairs for the women, their deep bows signaling the exit of a well-satisfied customer, and that the table must be cleared and prepared for the next duo of well-heeled ladies.
