Jacqueline Winspear - The Mapping of Love and Death

As she passed The Dower House, Maisie saw James Compton's Aston Martin move from its place at the front of the mansion and begin to make its way towards the gates. She sped up enough to turn into the lane before she had to pull over to make way for his motor car, which would likely necessitate a conversation. She still hadn't worked out what she might say to him. "Funny seeing you at Khan's house" did not seem quite right, though her curiosity regarding his visit had not diminished in any way. No, it was best not to linger.

Maisie sat with her father at the kitchen table, and breathed an audible sigh.

"All right, love?"

"Yes, Dad. Just a bit weary, to tell you the truth. I had to visit a very poorly man at St. George's Hospital this morning." She was aware that she rarely spoke of her work with her father, conscious that he would worry about her safety and well-being.

"What was wrong with him?"

Maisie paused before answering the question. She was sorry she had mentioned the visit to see Edward Clifton. The lie came easily. "He'd suffered a fall, and he is an important witness."

Frankie Dobbs was not easily fooled, but took his daughter at her word. "Nasty that, a fall. I remember when I came a cropper in the stables a couple of years ago, I felt more sorry for you than meself. It's always the ones who are left waiting who suffer the most, the people anxious for news. Terrible thing, having to wait to find out if they're all right."

Maisie knew her father spoke from the heart, from his memories of waiting, of hoping her mother would get well again, then watching her die. He waited once more, years later in the war, when Maisie sailed for France with a contingent of nurses, and he waited for her to regain her strength and health when she came home wounded.

"Which reminds me," added Frankie. "I saw Mrs. Bromley today, and she said Maurice was very much looking forward to your visit. You could pop over now, before they put him to bed."

Before they put him to bed. Maisie felt the swell of ache press down on her chest, her heart beat faster, and she thought she might not be able to breathe. Before they put him to bed. Maurice was failing, and she could no more bear to think of life without his presence than she could imagine being without her father's love and companionship, both always waiting for her at Chelstone.

"Yes, you're right. I'll go up now and see if he's well enough for me to sit with him for a while."

Maisie kissed her father on the cheek. "I'll put that pheasant in the oven before I go-we'll have a tasty supper tonight, Dad."

Mrs. Bromley opened the door before Maisie could set her hand upon the bellpull. "Miss Dobbs, how lovely to see you. Dr. Blanche saw you coming up the path and sent me to the door-he might be weary, but he still doesn't miss a trick! Come along into the conservatory. It's still quite warm in there."

The housekeeper spoke to Maurice as she entered the conservatory. "She's here, Dr. Blanche. Shall I bring a pot of tea?"

Maurice waved his hand. "No, I think a schooner of cream sherry would be more to Miss Dobbs' liking-and a malt whiskey for me, if you would be so kind."

"But the doctor said-"

"I am the doctor. Some dry biscuits would go down very well too, I think, and perhaps a little Stilton. Thank you very much!"

Maisie smiled, but did not speak until Mrs. Bromley left the room. "I think you just pulled rank on the doctor-and he wasn't even here!"

"So be it. I have earned all the rank I want to pull, so let that be a lesson to you when you are in your dotage." He began to laugh, but the breath caught in his chest and he started to cough. Maisie reached for a glass and filled it with water from a jug, but Maurice raised a hand. "It will pass. Please. It will pass."

The housekeeper returned, pushing a wooden trolley set with two decanters, crystal glasses, a plate of plain water biscuits, and a wedge of the pungent blue-veined cheese Maurice favored. With a reminder to Maurice to have no more than one glass, she left the room.

"A decent pour for us both, if you would be so kind, Maisie."

Maurice took a sip of the single-malt whiskey and closed his eyes. "I have always believed in the medicinal properties of this particular eighteen-year-old distillation."

"I won't argue with you, Maurice, even though I am inclined to agree with your doctor."

"So am I, Maisie, but that this stage of my life it does me a power of good to flout rules." He paused, lifted the amber liquid towards the setting sun, and turned to Maisie. "And what about you?'

"About me? Well, this morning I went to see Edward-"

"I'm not talking about work, Maisie. It's your life I'm interested in."

"My life? But my work-"

"Your work is not your life."

"But…" Maisie faltered. "But your work was most of your life."

"Granted, it might have seemed like that, but there was more. My life here, my life in Paris, my garden, my friends, associations. How about you?"

"Well, I…there's my friend Priscilla, and her children." Maisie took a sip from the schooner she had half filled with cream sherry. "What do you want to know, Maurice?"

Maurice Blanche rested his glass on the trolley, then looked at his hands, turning them over, frowning and smiling in equal measure. "They say the face tells all there is to know about a life, but I personally believe much can be deduced from the hands. There are lines and scars, bumps and calluses; indeed, the hands are both the sketch and the final work of art."

Maisie looked at her hands. She had always been somewhat embarrassed by them. They were hands that told a story of hard manual labor when she was a child, hands that had scrubbed floors, had polished heavy oaken furniture. Later, they had soothed the sick, and had rested on the foreheads of the dying. She realized that she had no recollection of her hands as a schoolgirl, and she was uncomfortable with the conversation's direction.

"I saw Khan this week."

Maurice smiled, aware of the change in topic. "How is my dear friend?"

"We sat together for a while. He seems old, yet at the same time, he seems not to have aged since I was a girl." Maisie paused for just a few seconds to take a sip of sherry. "And you will never guess who I saw there."

"I think I can."

"This one might stump you, Maurice."

"Might it have been James Compton?'

Maisie's widened eyes underlined her surprise. "How did you know?"

Maurice again waited before speaking, as if gauging his words with care. "Now, Maisie, you know better. I have to observe that, in personal matters, you do not have the breadth of vision that is at your disposal in your work. You have made a decision about James, that he is a certain kind of person, and that-given his character, as you have interpreted it-he is not worthy, perhaps, of an audience with someone you hold in the highest regard."

"I just didn't think he was the type." Maisie felt her neck grow hot, and knew how her words sounded.

"Again, you know better."

"You're right, I do. I'm sorry. But James Compton-"

"Is a lonely man in crisis, and if I were to commend anyone to your good graces, it would be him."

"I feel as if I had just been reprimanded by my teacher."

"You have."

Maisie looked at Maurice, and they both began to laugh, though Maurice soon held up his hand as the unforgiving cough claimed him. She poured a glass of water and helped steady him as he held the glass to his lips.

"I asked for that, didn't I?" said Maisie. "I am guilty of allowing my past memories of James to color my view of him, which I concede is wrong."

"James has floundered for some time, though as we know he has always found a certain peace of mind in Canada. But now he is back here, and to be once again-and likely forever-in a place where you never quite fit is like experiencing the worst of times once more."