Finally Maisie spoke. “Dad, I want to explain how sorry I am that I stayed away so long, and why I didn’t come home with you after being in hospital in Toronto.” Unsure of her words, she looked up again at the horses and the plow and the farmer pressing his body forward, as if to give more power to the task. “I know it’s a while ago now, but I still can’t really explain what happened to me after James died. I was paralyzed, in a way—there was nowhere I could get comfortable, and I couldn’t face coming home. And then I went to Spain, and it seemed the best thing to do—to be of help to people was a way to banish the dreadful memories, and—”
Frankie stopped walking and laid a hand on her arm. “You’ve no need to start saying sorry to me. You were grieving, Maisie, and there’s no prescription for it, nor any right way to go about it. After your mother passed away, I was lost—and I think I forgot that you’d lost something too. And what did I do? I sent you off into service, because I didn’t know what to do with myself or you. I’ll tell you now, knowing you won’t hold it against me, but it was more to do with me being at sea with myself than with thinking it would be good for you, though it’s all turned out right for the best, hasn’t it? I’m not going to rake over old pasture, but I’ve come to an age where I’ve seen people lose the people they love, and I’ve been through it myself. There’s no proper way to go about what comes afterward. You just put one foot in front of the other and you get on with it the best you can. Trouble is, your best ain’t always the best for those who want a say in the matter. But you’ve not done poorly by anyone, Maisie. You had to look after yourself, and now you’re home. That’s what matters. We’re all coming through it in our way. Brenda and I set a lot of stock by James, and of course his mother and father loved him, but we all have our own way of going about these things, and no one can criticize anyone else for how they do it.”
“But Brenda said—”
“I was all right, Maisie. Just creaking a bit more about the knees and back, but I was all right. Brenda just wanted you home where she could take care of you, but I said to her, ‘She’ll come home when she’s good and ready—she won’t let us down.’ And you haven’t. You’re home.”
“Yes, I’m home, Dad.” She paused. “But I’ll be away for about a week or so starting next Monday. Then I’ll be back in England and not going anywhere for a long time.”
“Going on a little holiday, love?”
“Not a holiday, though it will be nice, I think—I’ve got to go to Paris to take care of some matters to do with Maurice’s estate. Nothing too taxing.” She turned to her father and linked her arm through his. “And when I get back, I’ll be with Priscilla during the weekdays until I find my own flat, and here at week’s end. I can’t miss Brenda coming up to the Dower House to cook Sunday dinner, can I?”
Frankie nodded in the direction of the plow. “Taking his time getting that done, ain’t he?”
“The soil’s probably a lot deeper than he thought.”
“Should have left it for a finer day.”
Maisie stopped, her hand in the crook of her father’s arm, and looked across the field toward the farmer, who now seemed to be having words with the plowboy. “Yes, I suppose he should.”
And as they walked on in silence, she thought about her return to London on Monday. There she would meet MacFarlane for a journey to another location—he had not revealed the proposed destination—where she would be plunged into intense preparation for what was to come. She knew that by the end of the following week she would be leaving the country with a gun in her hand, and she would know how to use it if it became necessary to protect herself or those in her charge. She would undergo a briefing and be tested time and again, and she would receive clearance to leave for Munich not only with her schoolgirl knowledge of the German language refreshed but with a deeper understanding of Leon Donat. She would know the city inside and out, her every step planned. Except, that is, for her diversion to a place known as Schwabing, which was apparently where many artists, actors, and writers lived. Elaine Otterburn had mentioned the area in a letter to her mother, and Lorraine believed she was living in the midst of the Bohemian enclave.
CHAPTER 5
“So, this is your Enfield Mark II service revolver. And as the bods at the Royal Small Arms Factory might say, it’s been improved. You will see it’s lighter, only a thirty-eight caliber, but a nippy little piece of tackle.” MacFarlane lifted the revolver, sighted a target, and fired, the bullet tearing through the center of the bull’s-eye. He held out the weapon to Maisie. “Go on, your turn.”
Maisie looked at the revolver and reached for the wooden grip. “Oh, it’s heavier than I thought.”