Jacqueline Winspear - The Mapping of Love and Death

Though on the outside the mansion seemed much like any other in the area-an imposing white stucco exterior; large windows on each of three floors, with smaller top-floor windows for the servants' accommodation; and a grand entrance with Grecian-inspired columns on either side of the front door-as soon as she stepped into the light-filled entrance hall, it was clear that Lady Petronella had indulged in extensive alterations to the interior of the house. Upon entry the home inspired good cheer and optimism, its walls painted the shade of a bride's satin wedding gown, and the doors a lighter but complementary hue. It seemed that even on a bleak day, light would filter past the swags of golden fabric that adorned the windows, to be transmuted so that one might believe the sun to be shining. There was no grand collection of paintings of now-dead ancestors, though in the drawing room Maisie's attention was drawn to a family portrait of Lady Petronella and her daughters, with Tuffie sitting on his mother's knee, a toy train in one hand and the thumb of his other hand in his mouth. Another large yet simple charcoal sketch revealed Giles Casterman to have been a man of fine features, with slightly hooded eyes and a wry smile that suggested he and the artist had just shared a joke.

As Maisie was looking at a series of silver-framed family photographs set on the grand piano by the window, the door opened and Lady Petronella entered the room.

"Miss Dobbs. How lovely to meet you."

Maisie turned at the woman's entrance and stepped in her direction. Not all women, especially those of a certain age, expected to shake hands in greeting with another female, especially one they presumed to be of a lower station-and a working woman was often thought of as such-but the aristocratic widow showed no such sensibility and held out her hand to take Maisie's in a firm grasp.

"Thank you so much for agreeing to see me, Lady Petronella, and for taking the time to place a telephone call to my office."

"Not at all. If someone wants to see you, you might as well get it over and done with and help them if you can." She held out her hand towards a chintz-covered sofa, and as they were seated, Maisie took stock of her hostess.

Lady Petronella was of average height, perhaps a couple of inches shorter than Maisie, but in the way she held herself, she seemed taller. She had retained the leanness of girlhood, her clothes were fashionable without revealing a woman loath to give up her youth, and her rich black hair-the color possibly enhanced with a tint-was cut in a soft, wavy bob. She wore little makeup, which drew attention to still-flawless skin, and had a ready smile and eyes that seemed to sparkle upon meeting her guest for the first time. Maisie thought she was the kind of woman that one could not help but like upon meeting.

"Would you care for some tea, Miss Dobbs? Our cook has just made delicious macaroons-they're my son's favorite, and she spoils him terribly."

Maisie smiled. She remembered Mrs. Crawford making ginger biscuits for James when he returned to Ebury Place, and the playful teasing between the two when he sneaked into her domain to steal the hot-from-the-oven treat.

"Yes, a cup of tea and a macaroon would be lovely-thank you."

Lady Petronella summoned the butler and asked for tea and macaroons to be brought to the drawing room, and then turned to Maisie. "Now then, Miss Dobbs, perhaps you could tell me why you've been anxious to see me. I understand you're interested in my work during the war."

Maisie nodded. "Yes, that's right. I'm trying to locate an English nurse who became…let us say, she became romantically involved with an American man. I should add that he enlisted in 1914, and was a military cartographer with the Royal Engineers. He was able to enlist in our army because his father was born a British subject, and of course his expertise in his field made him a valuable recruit."

"Yes, yes, I can imagine." Lady Petronella looked up as the butler returned with tea, and did not continue speaking until the table in front of their chairs was set for the repast. "Milk and sugar?" asked Maisie's hostess, before she poured tea.

"Just a dash of milk," said Maisie.

When they were both equipped with tea and a small plate bearing a single macaroon, Maisie offered more information. "The young man, Michael Clifton, was killed, though his remains have only been discovered quite recently. His parents are in possession of a collection of letters from the young woman in question, and would like to trace her."

"Don't they have her name and address?"

"She used a pseudonym throughout the letters-it seemed to be an affectionate nickname used by her lover. He called her 'The English Nurse,' which then became 'Tennie.' It appears they used methods other than the available postal services to exchange letters. The censor was avoided, so that was another reason for her to keep her name private."

"Ah, I see," said Lady Petronella. "And because my unit was known as The English Nursing Unit, with the initials T-E-N, which might then become 'Tennie,' you thought I might know the girl in question."

"That's the measure of it." Maisie paused. "I realize it's a long time ago now, and rather a leap, but I was hoping you might recall if one of your nurses was involved in such a liaison. I was informed that you took a personal interest in all of those who worked for you."

Lady Petronella sighed. "I wish the whole thing didn't seem so immediate sometimes-do you know what I mean?" She looked at Maisie directly. It was not a rhetorical question.

Maisie nodded. "Yes, I do. I know exactly what you mean. You'll be going about your daily round, and then, for one reason or another-" She shrugged. "I don't know-possibly an aroma in the air, or the way the wind is blowing, or even something someone said-you feel as if you're back there, in the midst of it all, and that it will never end." Her cheeks became flushed as she recognized her own candor.

"It's so refreshing to speak to someone who knows. Sometimes one really needs to have a good chat with someone else who has gone through a similar experience and is willing to talk about it." She stared out towards the piano, as if she could see into the gardens beyond, then turned back to Maisie. "I sometimes think that we-the whole country-would have benefited from just talking, all of us having a good old chat about it all and what we all lost instead of simply wading on through. I'm rather fed up with this 'buck up and put your best foot forward' approach to the terrors that face one in life." She reached forward to pour more tea. "Mind you, I am probably not a good example. People always say I am rather accomplished at just getting on with things."

Maisie smiled, for the woman's honest account of her feelings had given substance to her first impressions.

"Lady Petronella, I-"

"Do call me 'Ella.' Petronella is such a mouthful. I rue the day my mother picked up that book she was reading prior to going into labor on the day I was born. The heroine was a Petronella, and I have always wished someone had given her a copy of Jane Eyre . It would have made life so much simpler."

Maisie edged forward. "Lady Ella-"

"Ella. I insist."

"Ella, then-and thank you for according me the privilege, Ella. Your attitude to memories of the war would be a source of some optimism among a few doctors I know who work with the damaged psyche. Not all, mind, but those who are at the forefront of new research." She took a sip from the just-poured second cup of tea. "As I said, I understand you had something of a matriarchal approach to the care of the doctors and nurses who were retained to work in your unit, so I thought you might recall hearing about a courtship between one of the nurses and an American. After all, the fact that he was an American was one thing, but he came from a very good family."