had been sent to collect Priscilla and Maisie, and as they climbed aboard for the journey to the Lynches' large house in Grantchester, Maisie felt butterflies in her stomach. It was the first time she had ever been to a party that had not been held in a kitchen. There were special Christmas and Easter dinners downstairs at the Belgravia house and at Chelstone, and of course she had been given a wonderful sendoff by the staff. But this was a real party.
Margaret Lynch came to greet Priscilla as soon as her arrival was announced. 'Priscilla, darling. So good of you to come. Simon is dying for news of the boys. He can't wait to get over there, you know.'
'I have much to tell, Margaret. But let me introduce my friend, Maisie Dobbs.'
'How lovely to meet you, my dear. Any friend of Priscilla's is welcome here.'
'Thank you, Mrs. Lynch.' Maisie started to bob, only to feel a sharp kick from Priscilla.
'Now then, you girls, let's see if we can get a couple of these young gentlemen to escort you in to the dining room. Oh, there's Simon now. Simon!'
Simon. Captain Simon Lynch, RAMC. He had greeted Priscilla as one would greet a tomboy sister, asking for news of her brothers, his childhood friends. And as he turned to Maisie, she felt a shiver that began in her ankles and seemed to end in the pit of her stomach.
'A pleasure to meet you, Miss Dobbs. And will the British Army be at your mercy as you sit behind the wheel of a baker's lorry, converted and pressed into service as an ambulance?'
Priscilla gave Simon a playful thump on the arm as Maisie met his green eyes. She blushed and quickly looked at the ground. 'No. I think I would be a terrible driver, Captain Lynch.'
'Simon. Oh, do call me Simon. Now then, I think I'd like a Girton lass on each arm. After all, this is my last evening before I leave.'
As a string quartet began to play, Simon Lynch crooked an elbow toward each girl and led them into the dining room.
Simon had completely drawn Maisie from her shell of shyness and embarrassment, and had made her laugh until her sides ached. And she had danced. Oh, how Maisie Dobbs had danced that evening, so that when it was time to leave, to return to Girton, Captain Simon Lynch made a gracious sweeping bow before her and kissed her hand.
'Miss Dobbs, you have put my feet to shame this evening. No wonder Priscilla kept you locked up at Girton.'
'Don't take my name in vain, Lynchie--you brute! And it's a book of rules that keeps us all locked up, remember.'
'Until we meet again, fair maiden.'
Simon stepped back and turned toward Priscilla. 'And I'll bet my boots that any wounded in your ambulance will go running back to the trenches rather than put up with your driving!'
Simon, Priscilla, and Maisie laughed together. The evening had sparkled.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The young women arrived back at the college in the nick of time before their extended curfew--arranged at the request of The Honorable Mrs. Margaret Lynch-- expired. Just six hours later, standing on the station platform waiting for the early train that would take her to London for her connection to Chelstone, Maisie replayed, yet again, the events of the evening. In her excitement she had not slept a wink, and now that same excitement rendered her almost oblivious to the chilly air around her. Maisie held her coat closer to her body and up to her neck, feeling only the memory of sheer silk next to her skin.
As Maisie reflected upon the three of them laughing just before they left the party, she realized that it was laughter that held within it the sadness of a bigger departure. The gaiety of Simon's party had an undercurrent of fear. She had twice looked at Margaret Lynch, only to see the woman watching her son, hand to her mouth, as if any minute she would rush to him and encircle his body in her protective arms.
Her fear was not without cause, for the people of Britain were only just receiving news of the tens of thousands of casualties from the spring offensive of 1915. From a land of quiet farms in the French countryside, the Somme Valley was now a place writ large in newspaper headlines, inspiring angry and opinionated debate. The Somme was indelibly enscribed on the hearts of those who had lost a son, a father, brother, or friend. And for those bidding farewell, there was only fearful anticipation until the son, father, brother, or friend was home once again.
From Liverpool Street, Maisie traveled to Charing Cross for the journey to Kent. The station was a melee of khaki, ambulances, red crosses, and pain. Trains brought wounded to be taken to the London hospitals, nurses scurried back and forth, orderlies led walking wounded to waiting ambulances, and young, new spit-and-polished soldiers looked white-faced at those disembarking.
As she glanced at her ticket and began to walk toward her platform, Maisie was suddenly distracted by a splash of vibrant red hair in the distance. She knew only one person with hair so striking, and that was Enid. Maisie stopped and looked again.
Enid. It was definitely Enid. Enid with her hand on the arm of an officer of the Royal Flying Corps. And the officer in question was the young man who loved ginger biscuits: James Compton. Maisie watched as they stopped in the crowd and stood closer together, whispering. James would be on his way down to Kent, most probably on the same train as Maisie, except that she would not be traveling first class. From there Maisie knew that James would be joining his squadron. He was saying good-bye to Enid, who no longer worked for the Comptons. Mrs. Crawford had informed Maisie in a letter that Enid had left their employ. She was now working in a munitions factory, earning more money than she could ever have dreamed of earning in service.
Though she knew it was intrusive, Maisie felt compelled to stare as the two said good-bye. As she watched, she knew in her heart that Enid and James were truly in love, that this was not infatuation or social climbing on Enid's part. She lowered her head and walked away so that she would not be seen by either of them. Yet even as she walked, Maisie could not help turning to watch the couple once again, magnetized by two young people clearly speaking of love amid the teeming emotion around them. And while she looked, as if bidden by the strength of her gaze, Enid turned her head and met Maisie's eyes.
Enid held her head up defiantly, the vibrant red hair even brighter against her skin tone, which was slightly yellow, a result of exposure to cordite in the munitions factory. Maisie inclined her head and was acknowledged by Enid, who then turned back to James and pressed her lips to his.
