“Oh, just going into some offices and looking at files,” Hilda said, shrugging.
“That sounds like something a secretary could do. Isn’t it?”
“Miss Musgrave, I know you’re quite a young woman, but that sort of work is a bit out of your line.”
“Maybe not. Miss Jenkins, the teacher at my secretarial school, said all offices are arranged more or less alike. Know the system, and you can find whatever you need, on your first day. Then you look competent and you don’t have to ask too many irksome questions.”
“It’s far more complicated than that. There’s a great deal you’d have to learn. We don’t know how long it would take.”
“Can we try?”
Hilda took another long drag on her cigarette. “All right.” She smiled. “We can try.”
Maisie supposed she ought to be leery, or frightened. Instead, she was exhilarated. She did, however, hate keeping it all from Phyllida. Hilda’s warnings hung heavy on her, and Phyllida, though she was good at keeping secrets, would be even more enraged about the Fascists than Maisie and would have a harder time controlling it. There was some irony, Maisie thought, in withholding information for safety’s sake, but until they knew more, it felt the wisest move.
There was no keeping it from Phyllida, though, when a letter arrived for Maisie postmarked from Germany. Maisie had the wild thought that someone had found her out and was warning her off. Excited, she ripped open the letter. And shrieked. It was from Simon.
My dearest Maisie,
Can it really be three months since we spoke? I am sorrier than I can possibly say, especially as I was so boorish with you. And for no reason other than my concerns for family affairs and, I daresay, my own absurd ego. Only I do think of you, your cleverness and your devotion to the BBC. I do know you are determined to help make it something important, and this says more of you than I think you even know. My darling, I hope someday you’ll want to extend that same energy to me. I confess I’ve thought a few times over these dreary weeks of what you and I could do, were our energies combined. Conquer the world, I should think! Truly, you are so much more than I know you’ve imagined. But know that I have seen it and that I cherish it. I hope to be home soon and beg your forgiveness properly for all my stupidity and silence and begin to do the real work of winning your most invaluable heart.
That heart had become a jazz quartet in her rib cage.
“You’ll be careful though, won’t you?” Phyllida asked. “Don’t give away your heart without getting another in return.”
“Well, I never.” Maisie laughed. “Phyllida Fenwick is becoming romantic.”
“No,” Phyllida said, shaking her head and refusing to smile. “Not in the slightest.”
“It’s just one letter,” Maisie said. “We’ll see if he writes again.”
She had noticed Hilda, in those rare spare minutes, using Talks and BBC memos to scribble more and more letters, all to Vita. She wanted to warn her, lest someone else see, too. But to warn her would be to mention it, which she couldn’t do.
The love that dare not speak its name indeed. Good grief.
But it wasn’t just that. Maisie was starting to understand very well that the heart just had to go where it wanted to go. She hoped Hilda was happy. She didn’t know anyone who deserved it more.
SIXTEEN
“Ladies! The election is the thirtieth of May. Are you registered to vote?”
“We most certainly are,” Phyllida told their questioner, though with more politeness than the last one who accosted them on their stroll through Hyde Park, as this man’s red boutonniere spoke him for Labour.
“Good on you! Embracing your hard-fought right, as you should. And only one party is determined to uphold the freedom and independence of all young women, be they single or married—”
“Labour, yes, though in fact the Liberals claim to be our champions as well. And the Conservatives, too, though I sense they wish to be seen as protectors.”
“But you wish your interests protected, not your person, of which you can tend yourself, I think,” the party man said.
“Oh! You are good!” Phyllida complimented him. “Give us a pamphlet, then, and we’ll read it over with care.”
Phyllida pawed through it as she and Maisie ambled on down the path.
“Really, Phyllida, that’s got to be the fifteenth pamphlet you’ve taken.”
“Yes, I’m hoping to paper a wall with them soon.”
It was hard not to be excited. All the newspapers, noticeboards, and public walls were emblazoned with the upcoming election and aimed particularly at this enormous new crop of voters, courteous of their intelligence and thoughtfulness and pleased for their independence of mind and spirit—and determined to win them to a particular party and hold them there forever.
Maisie and Phyllida claimed a free bench by the lake, with a good view of boys staging a race between paper sailboats.