Jacqueline Winspear - The Mapping of Love and Death

Edward Clifton had insisted upon getting up from his bed, and now sat alongside a window in pajamas and dressing gown. He wore a dark blue cravat at this neck, and Maisie could not help but smile, for he reminded her of a certain type of English gentleman depicted in American films. His son, Teddy, sat in a chair opposite, and was dressed casually in gray trousers, shirt, and pullover. The table in front of them was set for coffee, and a selection of pastries had been served.

"Miss Dobbs. We've been anxious to see you." Teddy Clifton rose from his chair to greet Maisie, shaking her hand before steering her to his chair. He and Charles Hayden then pulled up chairs and the four were seated together.

"Charles tells me you're doing well, and that Mrs. Clifton is making good progress."

"According to Teddy, she complained when he visited her yesterday, so I consider that a good sign. Slowly but surely she's on the mend."

"I'm glad." Maisie looked at Teddy.

"Miss Dobbs, Charles gave us as many details as he could, but we'd like to hear the whole story, start to finish-frankly, I didn't even know I had a cousin called Peter Whitting. And needless to say, the whole family is shocked at what has happened to Tommy. Fortunately, my sister Meg is with Anna now-it's a boon we all live so close to each other."

"Even close families can grow apart, so it's not surprising that distance and time played a part in the fact that you had no knowledge of your cousin. Your home is a great distance from your father's place of birth."

"I blame myself. I was little more than a boy when I left, and I let them all go. When I arrived in the States, I wrote a few letters, but they were returned. Time passed, and with it any connection to my former life. My new family was all that mattered to me. Perhaps I should have tried harder."

"Do not blame yourself, Mr. Clifton. Many families have been divided by the distance of emigration, and it is usually left to subsequent generations to renew the blood ties, if at all."

"Miss Dobbs is right, Dad. You can't take all this on because you wanted something different from the life your father had dictated for you." Teddy turned to Maisie. "Please, tell us the whole story, from the time you began work on my parents' behalf."

Once again, Maisie recounted each milestone in her investigation, annotating here, cutting a detail there. She told them about the attack by Mullen, about viewing the cine films at a house in Notting Hill, and about her visits to Whitting, Temple, and Thomas Libbert. She described the help given by Priscilla, the fortuitous meeting with Ben Sutton, and gave only the briefest account of her visit to the home of Lady Ella Casterman. Finally, she told them about her meeting with Michael's young nurse, and Whitting's arrest. Then, opening her shoulder bag, she brought out the parcel that had been kept safe by James Compton.

"I think you will find everything here to lift the legal stalemate regarding Michael's property. There's a key and details of a bank, and as you will see from his notes, you will also be able to locate his original maps and the documents of title-we call them deeds-to the land he owned in the Santa Ynez Valley. His last will and testament are also mentioned with notes as to his final wishes, which are in favor of Anna's children. All papers are dated August 1914."

And as she passed the package to Edward Clifton and watched as his liver-spotted hands fingered the wrapping, she felt tears prickle the corners of her eyes, for at the mention of that place so far away she could see Michael's simple drawings in her mind's eye, and on a rainy day in London, could almost feel a breeze from the Pacific Ocean ripple across the hills and kiss her skin.

Edward Clifton sat with the package held tight in his hands and bowed his head. His eldest son reached forward, placing an arm around his shoulder.

"Dad," said Teddy. "It's Michael, come home to us."

Maisie cleared her throat. "Michael's relationship with the young woman came to an end before he was killed. I managed to open pages in both the letters and his journal that were fused, and it was clear they had considered war to be an inauspicious time to continue a courtship. She kept his belongings, which he had given to her for safekeeping, all these years in the hope that one day she might know how to find his family. She is not a worldly woman."

"We must write to thank her, Teddy," said Edward Clifton, before turning back to Maisie. He shrugged his shoulders. "Martha will be a bit disappointed. She had an idea in her head-I didn't say anything to you when we first met-but she had a notion that there might have been a child. It was a real bee in her bonnet, and it started in France. She said it had happened a lot, in the war, that war does things to people, makes them mad for each other when reason would suggest they exercise caution in their personal lives. You don't know her, she can be a terrier where family are concerned. I have to rein her in. As much as we agreed that our children have to find their way in the world and do as their hearts decree, she would have the whole tribe living in adjoining houses on Beacon Hill." He held the book to his chest, as if to touch his heart. "She kept saying that she just knew, so I'd better tell her that this time, she just didn't know. We have wonderful children and grandchildren, Miss Dobbs, and Teddy's boy is the image of Michael-isn't he, Teddy?"

"Right down to talking nonstop about the places he'll go when he leaves Harvard," said Teddy Clifton.

Maisie smiled. "What's his name?"

"Christopher-Chris to the family. Suits him-he's becoming a real Columbus!"

Maisie's next visit was to Elizabeth Peterson, who had remained at the home of her aunt and uncle, though Maisie assured her it was safe to return to her bed-sitting-room. The comfort of family and attendant companionship proved difficult to leave. The police had already taken a statement, and she was able to provide much-needed evidence with which to bring charges against Peter Whitting.

After each visit, Maisie fought the need to give in to the deep exhaustion that accompanied her sadness. There were only a few days until the funeral, and if she was to complete the final accounting before Maurice was laid to rest, there was much to accomplish. As each item was completed, she drew a line through the name and place listed on a sheet of paper, and went on to the next.

At the home and studio of Henry Gilbert, she assured him that his cine films would be returned, and committed to keeping in touch until they were once again in his possession. She almost ran into Ben Sutton as she left the house, and was relieved that he did not press her to accept an invitation to supper or the theater.

She visited the British Museum, where she did not ask to see books of poetry, but instead inquired if there were books that included photographs of California, in the United States. Several books were brought to her, and she read for an hour from Under the Sky in California by Charles Francis Saunders, imagining Michael Clifton poring over such a book before embarking upon his journey westward. She knew some words would remain with her for days.

Sauntering over these open mountains through miles and miles of chaparral-that sun-scorched tangle of sumac and manzanita, adestoma, islay and wild lilac, rarely above a man's head…

Maisie waved to Mrs. Hancock and left the museum, bound for Selfridges, where she completed the simple task of walking through the shoe department.

Martha Clifton was asleep when Maisie called at the hospital, but she left flowers for her client, along with good wishes for her recovery and a timely return to her home in Boston. A letter of thanks was dispatched to Lady Ella Casterman, in which Maisie enclosed the small sheet of paper bearing the verse of Elizabeth Barrett Browning she'd given to a young American man with whom she had fallen in love. Tucked inside was the lock of her hair he had cherished enough to keep.