Jacqueline Winspear - The Mapping of Love and Death

As soon as she was furnished with a drink-Priscilla had ensured that a bottle of champagne was chilled ready for their arrival-Maisie made her way to the French windows overlooking the courtyard and garden beyond and took out Billy's note, written in his distinctive primary-school hand.

Dear Miss,

I telephoned Mrs. Partridge to see if she was still expecting you, so I thought that if I brought a note round, it would be the best way to get in touch. We had a visitor today, from the American embassy. He came in to ask some questions about Mr. and Mrs. Clifton. Seemed more like a copper to me, to tell you the truth. I said that you were the person to speak to, so he left his card and said he'd be in touch as he'd like to ask a few questions for his report, being as American citizens were attacked in London. Then when he was gone, old Caldwell turned up, and what with the notes and names all over the case map on the table, I had to cover things up a bit sharpish because that man has eyes in the back of his head. He said he wanted to see you, and asked if you would be so kind as to telephone him-apparently there have been developments. And he also said to tell you that Mrs. Clifton is improving, and that the doctors have said they're a bit happier with her progress, but not to get all over the moon because she could go on the turn again. Then there was a telephone call from Lady Petronella Casterman. She said she had received word that you had reason to talk to her and that she could see you on Thursday-that's tomorrow-at half past two in the afternoon. I felt like reminding her of who I was, but thought better of it.

I will tell you everything else in the office tomorrow morning.

Yours sincerely,

Wm. Beale (Billy)

The usually boisterous Partridge boys were on their best behavior throughout the meal, though Maisie suspected the show of exemplary manners was mainly to ingratiate themselves with the much-anticipated guest, and to persuade him to look at their aeroplane drawings and models. The youngest, Tarquin, soon began to give in to tiredness, and rubbed his eyes as he became rather grumpy with his older brothers.

"All right, that's it. Time for grown-ups to talk now, boys." Priscilla called for Elinor, who came to take the children upstairs to bathe. James promised to come to their room as soon as they were in bed, and the boys seemed mollified by his offer as they followed their nanny.

"You've done it now, James-they will never let you out!" Douglas Partridge reached across to pour more wine for his guests.

"You have a lovely family." James raised a glass to Douglas and Priscilla. "My boyhood was rather unconventional for the day-mainly due to my mother, who did not subscribe to the notion that children should be seen and not heard-but I still had to endure the rigors of boarding school."

Priscilla laughed, and Maisie joined her, having been present at the boys' former school when Priscilla decided that such an institution was not the best place for her sons.

"We tried, James, but our boys didn't quite fit," explained Douglas. "Now they are day pupils at a school that draws from the more international families. It seems to suit them a bit better."

"Very much so," added Priscilla. "And they have each other. Both you and Maisie are only children, aren't you? I had three smashing brothers, and Douglas has a sister and brother, so we both wanted a houseful."

James cleared his throat. "Actually, I did have a sibling. A sister." He swirled the wine in his glass and seemed to concentrate on the whirlpool plume created by the liquid as it moved.

Maisie and Priscilla exchanged glances. It was Maisie who spoke first.

"You had a sister, James? I didn't know."

He shrugged. "No, I daresay you wouldn't know. It wasn't really spoken about after she…after the loss. My mother and father were so distraught-I don't know how they managed. If it hadn't been for Maurice…" He raised his glass to his lips and finished his wine.

Maisie nodded to Priscilla, sensing that, having begun to speak, James might either want to change the subject immediately, or continue his story. If he were relaxed enough in their company, he might go on.

"What was her name, James?" asked Maisie.

"Emily. Emily Grace Compton. She was eleven years old when she died." He did not look up, but remained staring at the dregs of white wine in the glass. Douglas reached forward with the bottle again, and James smiled, but Maisie could see that it was a smile with no immediate feeling, as if his face were subjected to some mild paralysis. "Thank you-just half a glass."

Maisie, Priscilla, and Douglas allowed silence to punctuate James' slow telling of the story. At the same time, Maisie recalled Lady Rowan's anxious inquiries about the Beales, her interest in Doreen's progress, and the way she brushed off the fact that the bereaved mother had fallen behind in work-alterations and needlework-for Lady Rowan. " It's the last thing she should worry about, the clothes on my back. Oh, the poor, poor woman. She won't know where to put that terrible grief. "

"What happened, James?"

He looked at Maisie, and brushed the fingers of his left hand through blond hair threaded with barely distinguishable gray. "We'd gone down to the woods-you know, at the bottom of the field just beyond the Dower House garden. It's a grand place for children. We used to climb trees and make camps out of fallen branches as if we were medieval bandits living in the woods. It was all very wild, but we were allowed a fairly free rein. My parents believed that too much oversight would deprive us of spirit, and already Emily was a very energetic girl. She rode her horse like the wind and was fearless when it came to jumping a hedge or fence-you should have seen her keeping up with my mother, who was a bold horsewoman in her day."

James paused, breathing in deeply.

"I was about nine at the time, just a couple of years younger than Emily. There used to be a place where a sort of dam had been built across the stream that runs through the wood. I think children from the village dragged some logs into position so that a makeshift swimming pool formed. There was a rope hanging from the old beech tree, so we would swing from the bank across the pool-and the water was always fresh and cool on a summer's day. The idea was to let go and splash down into the pool, which went down at least six feet in depth. So you fell in and then had to swim to the side in short order. That was the game." He took another sip of wine, his voice cracking as he spoke.

"On this day, we'd gone down to the wood-I can still remember the smell of wild garlic underfoot wafting up around our ankles as we ran to the pool. I went first, then Emily. Time and again we ran to the swing and jumped in-we were soaking wet, but it was such fun." He paused and placed his hand on his chest. "The trouble is, I still can't quite say what happened next. I have gone over it again and again and again in my mind, and I just don't know. I can only say what I think happened." He closed his eyes. "It was my turn, but Emily was out of the water just after me and we raced each other to the bank and grabbed the rope at the same time, both of us hurtling across. We were flying through the air, giggling and whooping…then I heard a crack that seemed to ricochet through the trees, and before we knew what was happening, we were falling into the water, and the giant limb from which the swing had been hanging came down upon us." He seemed to wince as if in pain, and as his chest rose and fell against his hand, Maisie could see that the memory of being unable to breathe was still imprisoned within each cell of his body.

"I was pressed down into the water, and I remember Emily's hand at my neck, grasping for my collar. When I tried to turn, to pull her with me, I could see she was trapped. I was coughing, trying to get out of the water, trying to get some purchase on the river mud underfoot, but the branches were clutching at me, as if the tree were alive. I could hear screaming, and realized it was me. Then I must have passed out, because the next thing I knew my father's voice came into my consciousness. Mrs. Crawford was holding me, and there were a couple of grooms from the stables on the bank trying to pull the limb out. I looked up and saw my father in the water, lifting the tree, and my mother had launched herself in to help him. I watched them try to move the branches while my mother went down into the water in a bid to free Emily. They dragged her to the bank together, and they tried so hard to save her, to no avail. I was helpless. Utterly helpless. My sister had saved my life, and I could do nothing for her. I was no better than useless."