“I don’t understand—what do you mean?”
“Oh, you two were off across the square, going out to have lunch somewhere, and I was leaving to see one of our new clients. Up comes Mr. Miles from his downstairs flat, and says, ‘Miss Dobbs seems to have a nice gentleman.’ Of course, I told him Mr. Stratton was only a friend, someone you’d worked with. And then he asked what he did, and so I told him Mr. Stratton used to be with the police, before he left to become a teacher, but has to come into London for war work now. I think Mr. Miles was a bit downcast, you know, as if you were walking out with Mr. Stratton and he was sad about it.”
“Hmmm, I think you’re seeing things, Billy,” said Maisie.
“P’raphs he’ll come up and invite you down for a cuppa.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that, really I don’t.”
Later, in the office as she packed papers she might need during her absence, Maisie walked across to the window to look down at the garden Walter Miles had created. She found it calming to stand there. Perhaps it took a botanist to have such luck in a postage-stamp yard where sunlight only seemed to flash through at certain times of day.
Chapter 15
“I felt quite bad about going to Ramsgate, to tell you the truth,” said Priscilla, flicking ash from her cigarette out of the open passenger side window. “I mean, there I was, jumping up and down, talking to anyone who looked official, trying to find out if they knew where my son was. And they had enough on their hands dealing with the men coming off the boats, without a lunatic mother screaming at them.” She coughed and patted her chest. “I don’t know whether that’s the gasper I’m puffing away on, or all this fresh air. Lovely to have a motor car with a roof you can put down though—I adored driving with the wind in my hair when we lived in Biarritz.” She paused. “Sometimes I wish we’d have bloody well stayed there, because now I have a son in the air force and another who thinks he’s Lord Horatio bloody Nelson.”
“It’s best you’re not in Biarritz, Pris—not with what’s happened in France. And you know it.” Maisie shifted gears as she slowed to drive through Chelstone.
“I absolutely adore this village, Maisie. Perhaps I should sell the family home and buy something here—it would make sense, because we hardly ever use the house now, and I’ve only kept it, really, for the memories. But I think Kent would be so much more convenient, after all, we would be in the country, yet there’s the train or the coach to go back and forth from London.” At that moment, a trio of RAF Spitfires flew overhead. “Then of course, I remember that Kent has taken the brunt of invasions for centuries, and I don’t particularly want to be on the front line,” she added, shielding her eyes with a hand to follow the aircraft until they disappeared into the clouds. “Wouldn’t it be simply the strangest thing if one of those boys were my son, flying off to France?” She turned to Maisie, then raised a palm to blow a kiss in the direction of the aircraft.
“Nearly there,” said Maisie. “Brenda will have baked a bounty of cakes, I’m sure.”
“Thank heavens for your chickens and their eggs!” said Priscilla.
Maisie pulled into the lane leading to the back of the Dower House, parking the Alvis under a tree.
“Tomorrow will be the last time I can drive—it has to go into the garage until after the war now. I can’t push my luck with the special allowance anymore.”
“Ours has gone into storage too—going to Ramsgate was its swan song until this war is finished,” said Priscilla. “And there’s your greeting party,” she added, pointing to the back door of the Dower House.
Frankie Dobbs stood on the threshold, holding Anna’s hand. The child was in her pajamas, her feet drumming the ground, running on the spot as she waved to Maisie.
Maisie stepped from the motor car as Frankie relinquished his hold on Anna’s hand. The little girl ran to Maisie, Emma ambling from behind Frankie to remain close to her mistress.
“You’re home, you’re home, you’re home!”
“And you’ve forgotten your slippers, your slippers, your slippers, young lady,” said Maisie, lifting the child and holding her on her hip. “My, for a little girl who’s had the measles, you’re getting heavy! And what time is this? It’s past time for a measled girl to be in her bed!”
“Hello, Auntie Priscilla,” said Anna, as Maisie let her slither to the ground.
“Hello, Anna,” said Priscilla, leaning forward and tapping her own nose and cheeks. “One there, one there, and one on the other side.”
Anna giggled and kissed Priscilla on both cheeks and her nose, as instructed, then reached for Maisie’s hand.
“Tim’s coming back tomorrow,” she said, leading Maisie and Priscilla into the kitchen. The women exchanged glances.
“Hello, love,” said Frankie, kissing his daughter. “She’s gone on and on about Tim coming home all day.” He looked at Priscilla, who had moved to kiss him in greeting. “Sorry, Mrs. Partridge—I told her to keep her dreams a secret, because I wouldn’t want you to be upset. But Anna’s been waiting for Maisie and you to get here—she was so excited she couldn’t rest.”
“What will upset me is you not calling me ‘Priscilla’—how many years have I known you now, Mr. Dobbs?” She paused and pulled a face. “Oh dear, I don’t practice what I preach, do I?”
At that moment, Brenda entered the kitchen. “Hello, Mrs. Partridge—I’ve made up the guest room for you and Mr. Partridge, and we’ll put Tarquin in the conservatory when he gets here—Tim always loves sleeping there.”
“That’s perfect, Mrs. Dobbs—thank you so very much.” Priscilla turned to Maisie. “And I suppose you’re still bedding down in the library.”
“It’s very comfortable, and if I can’t sleep, there’s plenty of reading material to get on with.” She reached for Anna’s hand. “Now, while you all catch up with your news, I’m taking Anna upstairs. It’s time she was in bed again—we don’t want all the excitement to set her back.”
Maisie was stretched out on top of the covers reading a story, with Anna in bed resting against the crook of her arm, when Brenda entered with a mug of warm milk.
“Looks like she’s not far off sleep now,” said Brenda.
“Almost in the land of nod, aren’t you,” said Maisie, sweeping a tendril of black hair across Anna’s forehead, away from her eyes. “Come on, time for your milk.”
As Anna reached for the mug and began to sip, Maisie continued to support the child, who was leaning against her.
“Heard from your Mr. Klein, Maisie?” asked Brenda, standing by the door.
“Yes, I saw him this week. It was a short meeting, not very long at all.”
“And?”
Maisie shrugged, not looking at Brenda, paying attention to Anna as she finished her milk. “Just a few little things to get over.”
“Oh,” said Brenda. “We’ll talk about it later.”
“Yes,” said Maisie.
Brenda left the room as Anna took a final sip and handed the mug to Maisie.
“A widow is a lady whose husband has died, isn’t she?” said Anna.
“Yes, that’s right.” Maisie stood up and set the mug on the side table. She had answered the question as if it were the most ordinary inquiry. “Now then, snuggle down and close your eyes ready for the sandman.”
“I know your husband died,” whispered Anna.
“Yes, you probably heard someone mention it,” said Maisie. “It’s not a secret, but I don’t talk about it much.”
“Lady Rowan came over to read to me when I first had measles. I heard her talking to Auntie Brenda downstairs. She said it doesn’t help that you’re a widow.”
“Probably because sometimes being a widow makes other people sad,” said Maisie.
“Who’s Mr. Klein?” asked Anna, resting her head on the pillow.
“He’s what they call a solicitor. A man who draws up papers to do with the law.”
“Did he draw up papers for you because you’re a widow?”
“Yes, he helped me with all sort of things,” said Maisie