Jacqueline Winspear - The Mapping of Love and Death

James came to the Groom's Cottage to see her off on her journey back to London.

"James, may I come to your office tomorrow? I need to collect the parcel I left in your safe."

"Of course. I've been as good as my word-your belongings are as safe as houses." He ran his fingers through his hair.

Maisie smiled. "I've been so busy since Maurice-"

He put his arms around her. "It's all right, Maisie. I understand. More than you think."

She nodded. "Thank you-I'll see you tomorrow then, about three o'clock?"

He held her to him, kissed her once on the cheek, and then drew back. "I'd better be going back to the house; it's my turn to get ready to drive back to town. Take care."

Maisie watched James Compton walk along the lane towards the drive up to Chelstone Manor, hands in pockets, shoulders stooped. She wasn't the only one grieving the loss of Maurice Blanche.

Clad in her black day dress, black shoes, and black cloche, Maisie felt as if she was standing out in stark relief as she entered the bright, golden morning tones of Ella Casterman's mansion.

"Lady Casterman is in her rooms, but has asked me to show you into the library," said the butler.

Maisie had always felt at home in a library. She loved walking past rows of books, reading titles, taking down a book that piqued her interest, and opening the pages. She had seen libraries where the books were hardly touched, the spines of every text cracking with an unopened newness. And there were other libraries where each book seemed to have been read time and time again. Ella Casterman kept Maisie waiting for some moments, giving her an opportunity to peruse the shelves upon shelves of books. Books on philosophy and history might well have been the choice of an earlier reader, for although well-thumbed, the stiff pages did not yield easily, so must have not been read for many a year. Novels had been read and re-read, as Maisie could see by the frayed edges of cover and pages, and torn dust jackets. She suspected the Casterman girls had been lovers of romance-perhaps a reading preference shared with their mother.

A section of books on explorers, on travel, on distant lands appeared to have been used with some frequency. A series of new acquisitions had been added, and when she looked around at the oak table in the center of the room, a cluster of books on geographical subjects were open at various pages, and a notebook set alongside them. She smiled. The explorer was Christopher Casterman.

Close to the window, which looked out to a garden resplendent with the colors of spring, Maisie found another well-used collection, and thought she had found Ella Casterman's true literary love-poetry. Maisie took down book after book, each one well thumbed, each one with slips of paper here and there noting a favorite line, a verse that touched the heart. It was when she found a shelf of books by Elizabeth Barrett Browning that she stopped. She ran her fingers along the spines of the books until she found the collection she was looking for. It came as no surprise that, as she took the book in her hands, it fell open to one page in particular.

THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD

What's the best thing in the world?

June-rose, by May-dew impearled;

Sweet south-wind, that means no rain;

Truth, not cruel to a friend;

Pleasure, not in haste to end…

"Ah, there you are. I am so sorry to keep you, but I was speaking with my daughter. All being well, I will be a grandmother before the week's end."

"Congratulations, Lady Casterman."

"Ella, please. Do call me Ella." She turned as the butler entered, carrying a tray with a coffeepot, hot milk jug, two cups, and some arrowroot biscuits. "Ah, just the ticket. Let's sit down, Maisie."

A few moments later the women were seated, each with a cup of coffee. Maisie had already placed the book of poetry on the table in front of her.

"I see you are a fellow reader. What have you found?" Ella Casterman set her cup on the low table and reached for the book. "I knew you would love Elizabeth-I have adored her poetry since I was a girl and feel that we are on Christian name terms."

"Yes, I can see that-you have quite a collection there," said Maisie.

"Here, let me read you one of my favorites." She turned the pages.

"Oh, I think I know which one it is." Maisie reached for the book. "May I?"

The poem was easy to find. Maisie held the book open as she faced Ella Casterman, and recited the verse.

"Ah, you were already familiar with her work." The woman blushed.

Maisie shook her head. "No, and-in truth-I think you know why I know this poem, Ella. I first discovered it written on a scrap of paper and tucked into the back of Michael Clifton's journal."

"I-I don't know what you're talking about. Do explain. Michael Clifton?"

Maisie set the book on the table, once more, then reached out and took her hostess' hand. "Please, Ella. I know. I know about your affair with Michael Clifton."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Ella Casterman stood up and began to pace. "This is really…really…" At once she bent over from the waist as if in pain, and the tears came so quickly that Maisie thought she might collapse and went to her aid.

"Come, please sit down," said Maisie, her voice soft.

The woman continued to weep for some moments, then sat back on the chesterfield.

"I thought you might find out the truth. As soon as I met you-it's your eyes, Maisie, they seem to just go right through a person."

"Ella, you've harbored this secret-and the fear that goes with it-for so long. Would you like to tell me about it?"

"Do I have your word that it will not go beyond these walls and this conversation?"

"I keep many secrets, Ella. It's part of my job."

She nodded, reached for her now-cool coffee, and took a few sips before placing the cup back on the tray.

"How did you meet Michael Clifton?" asked Maisie.

"I-I first saw him in Paris with one of my nurses. They seemed to be having so much fun together, so much joy. There wasn't much that was uplifting in the hospital, though of course everyone did their best to put on a sunny face for the wounded. But it seemed there was this frenetic desire among the young people, when they were away from it all, to just get out there and enjoy life for what it was-fleeting, at best. I did as much as I could for my nurses, you know, and I thought they should have some lightness when they were on leave. And as I told you before, I tried to ensure they didn't get themselves into any difficult situations."

Maisie nodded. "Of course."

"But…" She looked down at the handkerchief bundled in her hands. "I also harbored some envy. Oh, dear, I know that sounds just dreadful, and I really wasn't myself. You see, I was married when I was quite young, and my husband, my dear, precious husband, was so much older than I. It seemed of no concern for such a long time, and we had two beautiful daughters to whom we were both devoted. But time marched on, and we went through a troublesome interlude-or perhaps I should say that I went through the troublesome interlude."

Once again, Maisie did not offer any interruption, but leaned forward to pour more coffee for herself and Ella Casterman, who sighed, then went on.

"I was only thirty-six or so. I was as fit as a fiddle, had more energy than I knew what to do with, and I was married to a man who suddenly seemed so much older. He no longer wanted to be in company and seemed to retreat to his library or to his club on many occasions. My love for him had not waned, rather it had become…it's hard to explain, but it wanted for fresh air. I wanted a breath of fresh air."

As if to underline her words, she walked to the windows and opened them wide, returning to continue her story only when she had taken several deep breaths.