Jacqueline Winspear: The Mapping of Love and Death

Klein reached for a glass of water and, over his spectacles, seemed to use the moment to take the measure of those seated before continuing.

"On the next page, you will see a complete inventory of the property known as The Dower House, including the house and gardens, plus two farms with long-standing tenant farmers, Mr. Arthur Lodge and Mr. Cecil Button. The acreage is given, along with terms etc., etc. Dr. Blanche's instructions are as follows." Again he peered over his glasses at the listeners in turn, but focused his attention upon Maisie as he went on, barely consulting his notes.

"All properties in France, Scotland, and England, together with monies held in investment and bank accounts, I leave to Miss Maisie Dobbs, my daughter in kind, if not in name. Should Miss Dobbs see fit to sell The Dower House, the property should first be offered to Lord Julian Compton, and if he predeceases such divestment, to Viscount James Compton, so that, if desired, it may once again become part of the Chelstone Manor Estate."

He smiled at Maisie. "I should add that there are no mortgages attached to any of the properties listed, which were owned in their entirety by Dr. Blanche. I am sure you would like clarification on multiple points; however, before you and I continue speaking alone, is there anything regarding the foregoing that you wish to discuss in the company of Lord Julian and Lady Rowan, specifically, Maurice's stipulation pertaining to a future possible sale of The Dower House?"

Maisie stood up, only vaguely aware that her knees were shaking. "If you don't mind, I think I might need some fresh air."

James Compton was already standing, and caught her as she collapsed.

When Maisie opened her eyes, her first thought was that she was in her room at her father's cottage. She closed them again when she realized that she was still in The Dower House, resting in the guest room she'd occupied long ago when she first came to live in the house. Mrs. Bromley was by her side, and leaned over to press a cold, damp cloth to her forehead.

"How are you feeling, mu'um?"

Maisie shook her head. "Please don't call me that, Mrs. Bromley. You've always called me Miss Dobbs-don't change now."

"You took quite a turn there. The viscount carried you up the stairs-he's down in the drawing room. Lady Rowan was very worried, and will want to know you've come around."

"I-I think I've been imagining things."

The housekeeper shook her head. "No, you haven't, Miss Dobbs. Dr. Blanche was a dark horse-you of all people knew that. But he loved you as if you were his own, and I know he told you as much. So he left you what he would leave to a daughter-and he's done right by you."

Maisie sat up on the bed and took the glass of water offered. "I'd better go downstairs and show my face. I'm so embarrassed at having fainted."

Mrs. Bromley took an envelope from her pocket. "Mr. Klein gave me strict instructions to give this to you straightaway, as soon as you were well enough. He said he would telephone tomorrow to make an appointment to come to the house again-he said there's a lot of things to talk about."

"It's a letter from Maurice."

Mrs. Bromley stood up and opened the door to leave. "You take your time, Miss Dobbs. I'll make tea for everyone downstairs. I baked some Eccles cakes for you this morning-I know they're your favorites."

Maisie smiled and expressed thanks at such thoughtfulness, and when the door closed and she was on her own, she slipped her finger under the flap of the envelope, and removed Maurice's letter. It was a letter she would read time and again in the weeks and months that followed.

Maisie sat on the floor in The Dower House conservatory with sun streaming through the glass panes. She was surrounded by a series of boxes, each clearly marked in Maurice's flowing script, with the year cataloged and a description of the contents, be it letters, reports, or case files. Several weeks had passed since the funeral, weeks in which she had felt as if she might flounder. It was clear to her, now, why Lady Rowan had shown such concern, and why she had intimated that Maisie's life would change, though Maisie herself was pleased with the many ways it had not changed, thus far.

Knowing she needed time to absorb all that had come to pass, she had taken a week of leave from work and instructed Billy to come into the office only to gather the post and be in touch with potential new clients, though otherwise he should consider the time his own. She did not bring him into her confidence regarding the bequest from Maurice, for she considered the matter to be one that required utmost privacy on her part, at least until she had assimilated all that it meant to her life. She had yet to spend a night at The Dower House, preferring to sleep in her father's cottage, or if there were meetings with Maurice's solicitors-who now acted on her behalf-she welcomed the spartan surroundings of her own flat. In any case, The Dower House was being prepared for the arrival of Edward and Martha Clifton, who would spend four or five weeks at the country home so that Mrs. Clifton might convalesce before returning to Boston.

She had begun to read, again, the letter written by Maurice and lodged with his solicitors before he died. He wrote of his recollections of their early days together as teacher and pupil, days when she supped eagerly from the table of learning he laid out before her. He spoke of his pride at her acceptance to Girton, and his deep respect for her when she gave up her studies to enlist for nursing service in the war. He confided that he had always known she would become his assistant, that they would work together, for he could think of no other student who would best take on the legacy of his life's calling. His reflections became more serious when he looked to the future.

We have spoken on many an occasion, you and I, of the darkness I fear will envelop Europe once again. You will find in my archive of papers much that will help you in the years to come, for you will be called to service as I was prior to and during the last war. My work in this realm continued until recent months, as you learned when we were in Paris together not two years ago. I believe you are ready and suited to any challenges that come your way, and I predict that they will be the making of you. I have observed your work in recent years and, in my estimation, it does not claim the full measure of your skill or intellect. In time there will be a new path for you to follow. It will not be an easy one, but one for which you are supremely suited. I will say no more on this subject, save that you have received my highest commendations and I have great faith in your ability to assume challenges that stand between you and the quest for what is right and true.

The letter continued with advice regarding her communications with Bernard Klein, and his recollections of each of his properties and their individual significance in his life.

I leave my estate in your good hands, Maisie, not only because I know you will comport yourself with excellence in the face of such a change in circumstance, but because you deserve all that I have to leave to you.

Now, having come to the end of the letter, Maisie folded the pages and placed the envelope in her cardigan pocket. She remembered Maurice's words regarding his letter, that if her personal situation should change, she must not feel beholden to follow his hopes for her to their conclusion. Now at least part of the riddle had been made clear, and in going through each box with care, she was slowly but surely preparing herself for what might come.

She stood up and walked to the windows to look out across the land. Her land. Though she had visited Maurice many times over the years, she realized that she had never really spent time looking out of the conservatory windows-her attention had always been on Maurice, on his counsel, his opinions, news, and ideas. Now she could see why he loved the room so much, for as he had described to her, from this vantage point he could see for miles. To the right the carriage sweep snaked past the boundary of The Dower House gardens, and she could follow it with her eyes along to the main entrance of Chelstone Manor. The lane that branched off to her father's cottage was in clear view, as was the cottage itself and gardens to the rear, which adjoined the bottom edge of Maurice's rose garden. She could see-as Maurice could in his day-the gate that led from her father's garden up towards the conservatory, and another gate at the bottom of her father's garden opening out into one of several fields that surrounded both their homes. Her gaze followed the path down to the woods, and across to the land rising up on the other side, where sheep were grazing in the late morning light.