“The fact is, we moved a great deal, so I couldn’t go to the same school for very long.”
“But you did go to school?” Despite the inflection, it was much more of a statement than a question, one that expected nothing but affirmation.
The School for Scandal. The School for Wives. The School of Hard Knocks. Miss Witless’s School for the Criminally Uneducatable.
“I was predominantly educated at home,” Maisie answered, hoping she sounded starchy and governess-trained.
“Was this a general all-round education, or did you have a specialty?”
Maisie wasn’t sure what the woman meant. All she could think of was Georgina instructing her never to wear two shades of red together.
“Just general. I, er, I liked history. I’ve always liked reading. Reading everything, really.”
“Hmm. Well, I didn’t exactly expect the equivalent of Cheltenham,” Miss Shields remarked, making a note.
Cheltenham! That was one of the poshest girls’ schools in Britain. Was Savoy Hill filled with women who had gone there? Had Miss Shields?
“We need people who are sharp and well organized, Miss Musgrave. For this job, your educational background is less critical than your ability. Now, the post also demands some assistance given to the new director of Talks”—Maisie was quite sure Miss Shields swallowed a sneer—“but your main attention is to me, which is to say, Mr. Reith. I expect that’s quite clear?”
“Yes, Miss Shields.” Maisie nodded.
“Because we can’t have someone who’s got one eye somewhere else.”
“No, Miss Shields.”
“It is useful, of course, especially in Talks, if you know a great deal about the important people of the day and things taking place. Do you read the daily papers?”
Maisie used to, but the long period of irregular employment made it impossible to focus on anything other than the “Situations Available” pages. She had, however, become adept at picking up abandoned papers from collection piles and cutting out shoe linings from them. They kept her feet warm. She wondered what stories she had walked on to get here.
“I certainly do look at them, Miss Shields.”
“I see.”
Miss Shields didn’t seem likely to say more, and Maisie finished her tea, thinking she ought to ask a question.
“Would I, that is, would the person you engage be working in this room with you?” It seemed unlikely, given the room’s size, but she wanted to steel herself if she were going to be subjected to that stern gaze half the day.
“In my room? I should say not. We are pushing through a cupboard to create space.”
Maisie glanced at the door to her left.
“No,” Miss Shields corrected her. “That is Mr. Reith’s room.”
Maisie’s heart jumped. Was he in there? Had he been listening? What if he opened the door?
“This is the space we are designating,” Miss Shields said, pointing to the door on the right. “There will be space enough for a typewriter, and it will do. Much time will be spent in managing files and papers. Energy, Miss Musgrave, I need someone with energy.”
“I have energy,” Maisie assured her, wishing there were some way to prove it. Shame I can’t turn a cartwheel.
Miss Shields set down her cup and saucer, then looked at Maisie’s references again.
“What I cannot understand, Miss Musgrave, is why, if you’ve had such trouble securing regular employment, you haven’t returned once more to your people in Toronto or New York.”
Beneath the impertinence, Maisie sensed the woman was exhorting her to leave and save jobs for those who deserved them, especially as so many men were unemployed. It was a fair point, although no man would be hired as this sort of secretary. And in fact, despite the enticement of the office, Maisie planned to quit the moment she was sure her hoped-for husband was a certainty, bringing her closer to the loving family she had wanted since she knew such things existed.
She forced her shoulders back and her breath steady.
“Miss Shields, I may have been born and raised in what’s sometimes still called the New World, but my heart lies in the Old World. There’s nothing that makes me happier than walking around London. History’s lived here. So much began here, so many stories. This is still the center of the universe, and there are still . . . conventions here. I came here hoping to do my bit for Britain, and leaving was so stupid, so cowardly. I made it back and I’ve got to stay. I’ve just got to. This is home. I hope,” she tapered off—her blush was making her face hurt.