Maisie had not seen John Otterburn’s daughter since that fateful morning when Elaine had failed to report for her promised duty at an airfield in Canada, ready to fly an experimental aircraft. Now Maisie would have to face the woman she blamed for her husband’s death—and do her best to bring her home. She felt her knees weaken as she slowed to a walk. The line of children was almost across the street, but one of them tripped over his untied shoelaces and crashed to the ground, crying out in pain. Maisie watched as the passenger door of the taxi was flung open, and Elaine Otterburn clambered out to go to the child’s aid, kneeling on the ground to press a white handkerchief to a scraped knee. Maisie was close enough to hear her now as she soothed the boy, her arm around his shoulders.
“Weine nicht, Kleine. Weine nicht. Lass mich dir helfen, mit meiner magie Taschentuch.” Don’t cry, little one. Don’t cry. Let me help you with my magic handkerchief.
Maisie was almost alongside the taxi now. A teacher approached and scolded the child for holding up the line, throwing Elaine Otterburn a look that Maisie thought would wither a rose still in bud. She handed back the handkerchief with a curt word of thanks before hauling the child off by the arm. Elaine turned, tears in her eyes. As she stepped back into the taxicab, Maisie gripped the handle of the opposite passenger door, opened it, and stepped in. Elaine was about to scream when she realized who was sitting next to her.
“Let’s go to your flat, Elaine,” said Maisie. “I’ve come to talk to you about going home.”
Elaine Otterburn shook her head, as if trying to disguise her shock at seeing Maisie. “I can’t go home, and you have no business asking me. You don’t understand.”
“Then you’re going to have to do your best to explain.”
Maisie looked at Elaine Otterburn’s hands clutching the blood-stained handkerchief, and a welter of conflicting emotions washed over her. What words of advice would Maurice give her? She knew that he would urge compassion. May I know what it is to feel the weight on another’s shoulders. May I know forgiveness in my heart. May I be given strength to extend my hand across the divide to pull another from the abyss, though that person has wounded me. Maisie knew the abyss; she knew what it was to walk the perimeter of darkness. Though she could never have predicted that she would do such a thing, she reached out and took Elaine Otterburn’s hand, and feeling the younger woman clasp hers in return.
“You don’t know what you’re getting into, Maisie. This is not what it seems. I am not what I seem.” Elaine turned to her with kohl-stained eyes. “Believe me, you should not have come.”
I am not what I seem. In the months following her husband’s death and the loss of her unborn child, Maisie had felt in limbo. It was as if, having been denied a place in heaven alongside her fledgling family, there would be no place for her on earth, no comfort, and nowhere to rest. She went first to America, staying at the home of a friend from the war years, Dr. Charles Hayden, his wife, Pauline, and their two daughters. The family had welcomed her; Hayden, especially, understood that Maisie had suffered a deep psychological shock. But in time she left, making her way back to India, to the place where she had found a measure of solace, of peace and hope years before—to the place where she had at last decided to accept James’ proposal of marriage.
There were those who wanted to know what had happened in the time between leaving America and taking up residence in a bungalow amid the tea gardens of an estate in Darjeeling. It was as if her family, her husband’s family, and her friend Priscilla needed to color the blank spaces in their knowledge of her. But she had nothing to tell them; in her grief, she was between worlds. She could not even remember ports along the way, or the exact route she’d traveled. It was now a blur. She had engaged in conversations—none lengthy, and all in the interests of maintaining politeness—eaten meals, leafed through newspapers and books; she had even written letters. Yet none of this could she remember. Then it was time to come home, summoned by her stepmother, who was concerned about the effects of Maisie’s absence on her aging father. But as she neared England fear had encroached upon Maisie’s soul, and she realized she was not ready to face the places where she and James had courted, where they had become friends first and then lovers. Both of their homes held cherished memories—of laughter, of companionable moments, of passion and plans. And she knew that others would want to tell her stories about James; of his boyhood and growing years, his struggle to leave the war behind, his success as a man of commerce. Each memory and every story would feel like a knife through her heart—for James was gone, and she was alone.