In This Grave Hour (Maisie Dobbs #13)
Jacqueline Winspear
Prologue
London, Sunday, September 3rd, 1939
Maisie Dobbs left her garden flat in Holland Park, taking care to lock the door to her private entrance as she departed. She carried no handbag, no money, but had drawn a cardigan around her shoulders and carried a rolled umbrella, just in case. There had been a run of hot summer days punctuated by intermittent storms and pouring rain, leaving the air thick and clammy with the promise of more changeable weather, as clouds of luminous white and thunderous graphite lumbered across the sky above. They reminded Maisie of elephants on the march across a parched plain, and in that moment she wished she were far away in a place where such beasts roamed.
Her journey was short—just a five-minute walk along a leafy street towards a Georgian mansion of several stories: the home of her oldest friend, Priscilla Partridge, along with her husband, Douglas, and their three sons. The youngest, Tarquin, had been sent to Maisie’s flat earlier with a message for her to hurry, so they could listen to the wireless together—as family, united, at the worst of times. For without doubt, Maisie was considered family as far as Priscilla, her husband, and their boys were concerned.
Despite the warmth of the day, Maisie felt chilled in her light summer dress. She slipped her arms into the sleeves of her cardigan as she walked, transferring the umbrella from one hand to the other, conscious of every movement.
Where was she the last time? Had she been so young, so distracted by her new life at Girton College, that she could not remember where she was and what she had been doing when the news came? She stopped for a moment. It had been another long, hot summer then—the perfect English summer, they’d said—and she wondered if, indeed, weather had something to do with the outcome, pressing down on people, firing the tempers of powerful men until they reached a point of no return, spilling over to upend the world.
The mansion’s front door was open before she set foot on the bottom step.
“Tante Maisie, come, you’ll miss it.” Thomas, now eighteen years of age, stood tall, his hair just a shade lighter than his mother’s coppery brown. He was smiling as he beckoned Maisie to hurry, then held out his hand to take hers. “The wireless is on in the drawing room, and everyone’s waiting.”
Maisie nodded. It seemed to her that each day Priscilla’s boys gained inches in height and increased their already boundless energy. And though he was the eldest, Thomas could still engage in rambunctious play with his brothers. They’d always reminded Maisie of a basket of puppies on those occasions when she saw them in the garden, teasing one another, tugging on each other’s hair or the scruff of the neck. But Thomas was also a man. Today, of all days, his passing boyhood filled her with dread.
“Maisie—come on!” Priscilla hurried into the entrance hall, brandishing a cigarette in a long holder. She reached out and linked her arm through Maisie’s. “Let’s get settled.”
As they stepped into the drawing room, Douglas Partridge managed a brief smile and a nod as he approached. “Maisie. Good, you’re here.” He drew back after touching his cheek to hers, and held her gaze for a second. Each saw the pain in the other, and the effort to press back the past. She nodded her understanding. Memories seemed to collide with the present as they joined Priscilla and the boys, along with the household staff—a cook, housekeeper, and Elinor, the family’s long-serving nanny, no longer needed but much loved.
“I thought we should all be together,” said Priscilla as the housekeeper moved to pour more tea. The wireless crackled, and the company grew silent. Priscilla shook her head—no, no more tea—and motioned for the housekeeper to take a seat, but she remained standing, a hand on the table as if to keep herself steady.
Douglas reached towards the set to adjust the volume.
“Here we go,” he said.
Maisie noticed Douglas glance at his watch—he wore it on his right wrist, given the loss of his left arm during the Great War—and was aware that she and Priscilla had cast their eyes towards the clock on the mantelpiece at exactly the same moment, and Timothy had leaned across, lifted his older brother’s wrist and looked at the dial on his watch, touching it as if to embed the moment in his memory. It was eleven-fourteen on the morning of September 3rd, 1939.
The wireless crackled again: static signaling the coming storms. At a quarter past eleven, the voice they had gathered to hear—the clipped tones of Neville Chamberlain, the Prime Minister—shattered their now silent waiting.