her clothes into the chest of drawers by the wall. Shadows cast by the oil lamp flickered on the sloping ceiling of the top-floor bedroom as Enid brushed out her thick hair with a hardy bristle brush.
'One hundred strokes for a good thick head of hair--have I told you that, Mais?'
'Yes, many a time.'
Maisie ensured that her books and papers were carefully put away, and clambered into bed.
'Brrrr. It's cold in here.'
Enid took an old silk scarf that had been hanging over the cast-iron bedpost, wrapped it around the head of her brush, and began brushing the silk over her hair to bring it to a lustrous shine.
'No, and it ain't getting any warmer. I tell you, Maisie, a chill wind blows through 'ere sometimes, a chill wind.'
Maisie turned to face Enid.
'Enid, why don't you like it here?'
Enid stopped brushing, held the brush in her lap, and fingered the scarf. Her shoulders drooped, and when she looked up at Maisie, it was with tears in her eyes.
'Enid, what is it? Is it James? Or that Arthur?'
Maisie had guessed that the reason for Enid's absences over the past year resided in rooms on the third floor. Though it might have been Arthur, the young footman who had come to work at the house a month before Maisie. His position had been elevated since then. He had been given the task of ensuring the good health of the Comptons' Lanchester motorcar, keeping it polished, oiled, and spick and span. She thought that he had taken a shine to Enid, too.
'No, it's not 'im. That one's full of the old bluster, all mouth and trousers, that's Arthur. No, it's not 'im.' Enid picked at the hairbrush, taking out long hairs and rolling them between her fingers.
'Come on, Enid. Something makes you sad.'
The older girl sighed, the familiar defiance ebbing as Maisie's eyes sought her confidence.
'You know, Maisie, they're all very nice here until you overstep the line. Now you, you'll land on your feet; after all, 'avin' brains is like 'avin' money, even I know that. But me, all I've got is 'oo I am, and 'oo I am i'n't good enough.'
'What do you mean?'
'Oh, come on, Maisie, you must've heard talk--they love to talk in the kitchen of this place, 'specially that old Mrs. Crawford.' Enid put down the brush, pulled back her bedsheets, and climbed into bed. She turned to face Maisie. 'I don't know what it is about them eyes of yours, Mais, but I tell you, the way you look at me makes me want to spill my insides out to you.'
Maisie inclined her head for Enid to continue.
'It's James. Master James. That's why His Lordship is talking about sending him away.To Canada. As far away from the likes of me as they can get 'im. It's a wonder they don't send me off too, to look for another job, but 'er Ladyship isn't a bad old bird, really. At least she can keep an eye on me if I'm 'ere--otherwise, who knows? I might just go to Canada meself!'
'Do you love James, Enid?'
Enid rolled to face the ceiling, and in the half-light, Maisie saw a single tear run from the corner of her eye onto the pillow.
'Love 'im? Gawd, Maisie, what business 'ave I got, going in for all that nonsense?'
Enid paused, dabbing at her eyes with a corner of the sheet.'Love don't put food on the table, does it?' She looked at her crumpled handkerchief, dabbed her eyes, and nodded.'I suppose I do, love him, that is. I do love James, but--'
'But what? If you love him, Enid, you can--'
'Can what, Maisie? Can what? No, theres no 'buts' in the matter. He's going, and when he's gone, I've got my life to get on with. And in some way or another, I've got to get out of this 'ere job. I've got to get on, like you're getting on. But I've not got your cleverness.'
'Dr. Blanche says that having a mental picture works. He said once that it's good to have a vision of what the future may hold. He says it's important to keep that in mind.'
'Oh, he does, does he? Well, then, I'll start seeing myself all dolled up like a lady, with a nice husband, and a nice house. How about that for a picture?'
'I'll picture that for you too, Enid!'
Enid laughed and rolled over.'I tell you, Maisie Dobbs, you're one of a kind! Now then, you just turn off that thinking and imagining mind of yours, and let's get some kip.'
Maisie did as she was told, but as she settled into the quiet of the night, she was sorry that the conversation had ended. It was always like that with Enid, as soon as you got a little closer to her, she moved away. Yet Maisie knew that at this very moment Enid was thinking of James Compton, hoping that if she held on to a picture of them together, it would come to pass. And Maisie thought of them together, too. Of seeing them on the landing, not long after she had come to work at 15 Ebury Place. She had seen them since, once in Brockwell Park when she was walking with her father. They must have thought that no one would recognize James on the south side of the river-- his sort rarely ventured across the water. Enid was in her Sunday best: her long deep-lavender coat, which she kept hanging in the wardrobe covered in a white sheet and protected by mothballs. Her black woolen skirt poked out underneath, and you could just about see her laced-up boots, polished to a shine. She wore a white blouse with a high neck and a little sprig of lavender pinned to the front of the collar, right where a brooch might have been, if Enid had owned one. She wore black gloves and an old black hat that Maisie had seen her hold over a steaming pot of water in the kitchen, then work with her hands to mold it into shape, before making it look just like new with a band of purple velvet ribbon. Oh, she did look lovely, with her red hair tied in a loose knot so that you could see it beneath her hat. And James, she remembered him laughing when he was with Enid, and just
