Journey to Munich (Maisie Dobbs, #12)
Jacqueline Winspear
DEDICATION
In Memory Of
Joyce Margaret Winspear 1927–2015
Even if the whole world was throwing rocks at you, if you had your mother at your back, you’d be okay. Some deep-rooted part of you would know you were loved. That you deserved to be loved.
—Jojo Moyes, One Plus One
EPIGRAPH
The wheel is come full circle, I am here.
—William Shakespeare, King Lear
CHAPTER 1
Holland Park, London, February 1938
The day was bright, the air crisp, with sunshine giving an impression of imminent spring, though as soon as a person ventured out from a warm, cocooned indoors, a nip in the chill outdoors soon found its way to fingertips and toes.
Maisie Dobbs—as she preferred to be known, though she was now the bearer of a title through a marriage cut short—opened her eyes and decided it was mid-morning, given the way the sun was shining through a crack in the curtains. No one had disturbed her, no one had come to her room with breakfast or tea, though she supposed Priscilla would bring a tray soon, afraid to leave her friend alone and awake for too long.
Someone—likely the maid—had been in to light the fire, for the room was warm, and a gentle heat skimmed across her skin. Upon first waking, she thought she was still in Spain. But the deep mattress, soft pillows, and sheets reminded her that this was not her stone cell; she was not in her plain wooden bed with only a blanket to keep her warm, and there was no one to minister to in this grand house in Holland Park, a world away from battle, from soldiers who came to her filth-covered and bloody.
From a simple community she had grown to love, Maisie had come home to England—at first to Kent, to be with her father and stepmother, then to share the lingering grief of bereavement with her in-laws, who had lost their only son. How could she ever explain to them that service—tending the terrible wounds of those who fought for freedom from oppression—had lifted her own deep melancholy? How would they feel if she admitted that in becoming a nurse again, she’d found a reason to go on? Only now could she come home to face the landscape of her former life, and find her way through its changed paths and byways.
It was Priscilla who had found her in Spain, Priscilla who had brought her home to England, and it was to Priscilla she had come following the muted celebrations of Christmas and New Year at Chelstone, the estate where her husband had grown to manhood. It was Priscilla, she knew, who would leave her alone to do what she needed to do in her own good time—unless, of course, Priscilla had other ideas.
“Maisie? Maisie?” The knock at the door was insistent, as if, having waited long enough, her friend would no longer allow the late-sleeping guest any quarter. “Time for tea and today’s gossip!”
The door opened, and Priscilla Partridge stepped into the room—now “Tante Maisie’s room,” according to her three sons, who had spent their early years in France—carrying a tray with tea, toast, and a boiled egg, her hands steadying the silver platter as she closed the door with her foot. “The egg is soft, the toast is hot and crisp, the tea strong, and as you may have guessed—I didn’t do a bloody thing! Thanks must go to Cook.”
“Sorry—I slept late,” said Maisie.
“I’m giving you a bit of a lie-in. Having that checkup yesterday would have taken it out of you. But at least you had a clean bill of health, and all seems to have healed. Tea?”
Maisie sat up. “Lovely.” She raked a hand through her short-cropped hair.
“I think you ought to see my hairdresser—though heaven knows, you didn’t leave yourself with much for him to work with, did you? Whatever possessed you to cut your own hair, and with a blunt knife by the look of it? I nearly went through that stone floor when I saw you shorn of your locks.”
“My hair was getting on my nerves, and keeping it short made sense—something less to organize.”
“Right-ho. I’m going to make an appointment for you in any case—one thing less for you to organize. Now then, onto juicier things.” Perching on the side of the bed and resting the tray on the eiderdown, Priscilla poured tea. “I have to tell you the latest about the Otterburns.”
Maisie took the cup. “Priscilla, I don’t want to know anything about the Otterburns.”
“Sorry. I don’t blame you for feeling as you do about John Otterburn, but—anyway, this is about Elaine. I just heard the news from Patsy Chambers—I thought you would be interested.”
“Ugh. When did you begin hobnobbing with Patsy Chambers?”
“She has her uses. But I must tell you—Elaine Otterburn, delivered of her child just a few months ago, has upped and gone off.”