“I believe you can bring her home to her child. I beg of you, please—”
“Stop!” Maisie rubbed her forehead and once more turned to face John Otterburn. “Stop.” She walked toward the door, but halted. Without turning her head, she spoke again. “I have no sympathy for you, your wife, or your dilettante daughter. But I ache for her baby.” She felt pressure on her chest. “If I discover her whereabouts—oh, and that is a huge ‘if’—then I will endeavor to see her. But only once. No more. And I will not beg. I will not force her. I will make one request, and that’s it. I have more important work to do—as you probably know.” She took a deep breath, as if to garner strength. “Send any information you have regarding her whereabouts to me, care of Mrs. Partridge. And that will be it.”
“Thank you. On behalf of my wife and myself—thank you.”
Maisie turned the door handle and left the flat without looking back.
Where should she go now? She had no home in London, no place that was hers. There was no anchor. Her father and stepmother lived in their own bungalow on the edge of the village of Chelstone, and although Priscilla was always saying, “Our home is your home, Maisie,” she felt at sea, adrift. She continued to use her maiden name because it held her tight, whereas her title by marriage, and James’ name, Compton, only served to make her widowhood feel even more acute. She was a married woman without a husband. And yet in Spain she had come to terms with her loss. In the daily grinding work of tending the wounded of a terrible civil war, in the simplicity of her life there—a nun’s cell, a bed with straw mattress, a small rug, and a window to look at the sky when there was time to gaze—she had rediscovered the raw material of her character.
In November 1937 she had left the convent, now a small field hospital. She had funded an ambulance, and there was no want of medical supplies. She had done all she could for the people of the village, and for the men who fought on behalf of Spain’s working citizenry.
Sister Teresa had lifted her hand to Maisie’s cheek as the motor car idled with Raoul, Maisie’s driver, at the wheel, ready to take her back to Gibraltar, where, together with Priscilla, she would board a ship bound for Southampton.
“We will miss you, Maisie. Come back one day—come back when there is no more bloodshed. It is time for you to go home now. You will be safe, for you are very tightly held.”
Where do I belong? As Maisie emerged from the Underground and made her way toward Pimlico, she could not banish the thought. It was as if, having traveled for so long, she had changed shape and no longer fit in anywhere. It occurred to her that perhaps her financial independence hindered her ability to settle. After all, if the options were simple, so was the matter of choice. A nun’s cell, a bed, a mattress of straw, and a window to the sky. Perhaps that was why it had been easier to remain in a place of danger than to sail for England, where there was so much more to fear. The past, her happiness with James—memories brushed against her skin like gossamer shadows, alive but not alive, ghosts standing sentinel, watching as she went about her daily round.
She sat on the wall outside the flat she owned, now rented by her former assistant, a young woman she had encouraged to move beyond the bounds of domestic service to greater success in her education and work. Sandra was also a widow.
“Miss Dobbs . . . I mean, Mrs. Compton . . . your ladyship . . . oh dear, I’m getting it wrong. Are you all right?” Sandra Tapley approached Maisie. “Have you been waiting here long? Oh my goodness, you look all in—come on, let’s get you a cup of tea.”
Maisie looked up to see a quite different young woman from the one she’d once employed to help with administration in her business. Sandra seemed to carry herself with more confidence—gone was the slouch of despair that seemed to press down on her as if it were a weight on her back. Maisie wondered if her own posture had changed as grief settled into the fibers of her body.
She stood taller, mindful of her bearing and how she would feel if she allowed her frame to reflect her emotions. “I was out on a few errands, and I thought I would drop by. I’m sorry, Sandra—I should have telephoned.”
“Not at all—you never need to telephone, miss. . . . After all, this is your home—”
“The first thing we have to get sorted out is that you can call me ‘Maisie.’”