“What does the doctor say?”
“He’s pumped her out and he reckons she’ll be all right, though she’ll be poorly for a while.”
“And what about the chocolates, are they safe?”
“Oh, safe as houses, m’um. I said straightaway, I know where those are going.”
Maisie held her breath, anticipating the reply from the always-efficient Sandra.
“I opened the door to the kitchen fire—I’d just stoked it up to start making a batch of bread—and I threw them in, I did. Can’t have chocolates that have gone bad lying around.”
“Oh, no!”
“Did I do something wrong, m’um? I do think Dr. Dene ought to know, so as he can go back to the confectioners and—”
“The box of chocolates wasn’t from Dr. Dene.”
“Oh.” Sandra began to understand. “Oh, dear me. Oh, m’um, I am sorry, I didn’t think. I should have kept them, shouldn’t I?”
Maisie knew that poor Sandra had been through enough already. “Look, Sandra, tell the doctor that you will require a complete report. Ask him what substances would have such an effect on a person. If you have any problems, please inform Lord Julian that you have spoken to me and I will need to see the doctor’s assessment regarding the cause of Teresa’s sickness.”
“Oh, m’um…”
“Lord Julian will understand—and he won’t bite you, Sandra, you know that. Just give him my message.”
“Yes, m’um.”
“And you are sure Teresa will be all right?”
“Yes, m’um, that’s what the doctor said. But I’d better go. She’s being moved to the infirmary soon and we’ve got to keep at her with the water. Doctor says she’s got to keep drinking. I tell you, m’um, we’re all at sixes and sevens.”
“I will call you tomorrow, from France.”
“From France, m’um?”
“Yes. Tell Teresa that I am thinking of her. I am so sorry.”
“Oh, it’s not your fault, m’um. Who was to know that the chocolate was off?”
Maisie ended the call and leaned against the door. Another attempt. She closed her eyes. I must be doubly vigilant. She thought of Teresa. And not only for myself. Finally, pulling back the concertina doors, Maisie stepped into the dimly lit corridor. Maurice Blanche was standing just a few yards away.
“Maurice! I thought you were going to enjoy a pipe before we left the hotel.”
Blanche took out his pocket watch, checked the time, and snapped the silver cover. “We had better be off, Maisie. Our ferry will be leaving soon. Come along.”
Maisie tensed again. From the moment they stepped into the taxi-cab, visions of the past haunted her once more. She had not crossed the English Channel since her days as a nurse, clustered together with her fellow members of the Voluntary Aid Detachment. She remembered hearing the ba-boom of cannonade in the distance, the pitching and tossing of the vessel, and the terrible sickness that gripped her from the moment she boarded. And she remembered the rain that soaked through her cape and the damp, the seeping, smelling damp that remained with her every day of her service in France, a damp she could still feel, even on the warmest summer’s day. As the taxi-cab made its way to the port, Maisie turned to Maurice and recounted the conversation with Sandra, watching him frown, nodding as she spoke. She felt warmed by the exchange, for it seemed like old times. His concern revealed his regard for her and for her work. Was her doubt a sign of her own distress? She thought of the accident on Tottenham Court Road, of the hand that had reached out to push her in front of the train, and, now, of a gift of chocolate laced with poison. No. Someone was out to kill her.
They were shown to the first-class lounge and chose to sit in a far corner, alone. Maisie simply hoped for a millpond sea, a calm crossing into the past, for the present was becoming as dangerous as anything she had ever known.
THE FERRY DEPARTED promptly, for the Flèche d’Or train service to Paris would leave Calais at ten past two on the dot. Maisie remained in the lounge for just a few moments, then decided that her already unsettled stomach would benefit from a walk on deck. Perhaps it was best to spend the entire passage looking out at the horizon, a level point to concentrate her thoughts. Though there was much to occupy her—Teresa, Ralph Lawton, Peter Evernden, the fact that she really didn’t want to go to Biarritz—she found it was the voices from the past that accompanied her across the Channel. The noisy chatter of Iris, the nurse with whom she had served at the casualty clearing station; the calming deckhand who had pressed hot cocoa and cake into her red raw hands and told her to drink and eat to stop the queasiness. In 1916 her ship was no ferry, but a requisitioned freighter taking supplies and horses over to France, the animals lined on the deck and tacked up ready to be mounted as soon as they docked in Le Havre. But the destination wasn’t Le Havre this time, wasn’t a port teeming with battalions of troops from across the globe, young men to replace those who had died in their tens of thousands in France and Belgium. Yet there was a reminder of the war, as Maisie bought a cup of tea and proceeded along the deck to a quiet place where she could lean and look out across the whitecaps toward France. Many of those on the ferry were making their pilgrimage to the last resting place of a loved one. Maisie watched as two women walked along in front of her, each wearing a linen poppy on a lapel, a poppy they would leave behind to say, I have come. I have not forgotten. Were they mother and daughter-in-law, perhaps? If Simon had died, would Maisie have made such a journey with Margaret Lynch, his mother? And would Margaret have one day touched her on the arm and said, “Life must go on, Maisie dear. He’s passed now, and you are of the living.”
Maisie sipped her tea and turned again to the gray-green sea, to the prow of the ship rising and falling and the bow wave crashing across the foredeck. Could she ever properly explain how time had passed, how she had buried her love for Simon for years and pressed on with her work, her mind settled if not soothed by the demands of being assistant to Maurice Blanche? And now, what would Margaret Lynch say to her, if she allowed their paths to cross? Would she say, “Ah, you came, after all this time, you came. But he is lost, so go now. You have made your peace, move on.” Maisie knew Simon’s mother was happy to know that she visited him, that even though she went only once a month, he would not be forgotten when she herself was gone.
Maisie finished her tea and walked along the deck, pulling her mackintosh collar up around her neck and her hat more firmly down on her head. The dark clouds overhead were a portent of the weather that would accompany them on their journey, and Maisie smiled. It was a smile of irony, for the weather exactly mirrored her recollections of the war. Though there had been fine days, days that were hot, days when the flies tormented the dying and living alike, there always seemed to be a darkness when Maisie recalled that time in her life. And now she was facing it all over again, looking back at the past to understand the present. How she felt for Agnes Lawton, for the ache that had grown out of all control, for the grief that consumed her mind, leading her to the doors of those who would exploit her. What was it about Hartnell that caused Maisie to reflect upon her time and time again? She had played games with the mind of a sick woman. How dare she! Maisie hit her hand against the guardrail, causing several people to look her way and then back at one another. Amid the excitement of late holidaymakers there was always a contingent of mourners, the sad and bereaved, so her impulsive action was quickly ignored.
Then there was Avril Jarvis. What new information had Billy acquired? Would he have anything that might help in her quest to lessen the sentence against the child? And what of the girl herself? Maisie knew immediately that Jarvis was no ordinary streetwalker but one whose gifts sustained her in unimaginable circumstances. Such gifts must not be squandered.
“Ah, there you are!”
Maisie turned. “Maurice. Are you refreshed?”
Blanche rested his forearms on the guardrail. “Indeed. The value of taking a short nap is underestimated, Maisie. You would do we
ll to acquire the skill, though I believe that such an inclination is the preserve of those of us in our more mature years.”
Maisie smiled and reached inside her mackintosh to check the time. “Not long now.” She turned toward the prow. “Yes, look, there’s the port. About twenty minutes, do you think?”
Maurice squinted as he looked forward. “Yes. About twenty minutes.” He turned to Maisie. “Now then, what have you been thinking about, my friend?”
Maisie leaned on the guardrail again and exhaled. “Oh, you know, the crossings I made when I was a nurse.”
“You were only a child at the time.”
“I was old enough, Maurice. Many of the boys were younger than I, and we were all old enough to die.” She was aware that her tone was short.
Maurice nodded. “Yes, of course.” He paused. “And you have no doubt been replaying those journeys in your mind. The scenes you encountered then are before you now even as we speak, are they not?”
“Yes.” Maisie did not look at Maurice but at the horizon again.
“And that will continue to happen as this journey progresses. However, Maisie, I have this to say.”
“Go on.” She turned again to Blanche.
“You should allow yourself to indulge in this remembrance. When you face the past, all you will see is that which has gone before. So I have some advice: Let this be your turning point. Have done with it, and turn to face the future. Only then will the future rise up to meet you. Only then will the distress pass.”
Maisie swallowed and made ready to reply, and as she did so it was as if her mother were at her side, for her voice was so clear. Your father’s right, Maisie. Slay those dragons.
Maurice inclined his head, but this time he did not smile. Maisie touched his arm and returned to the lounge. Collecting her leather luggage and document case, she recognized the feeling that enveloped her. She had been just eighteen then, ready to disembark, to join the throng en route for Rouen, where they would receive orders. Seasickness had gripped her throughout that first crossing, but in the moment just before she stepped onto French soil, she had reminded herself that she was here to serve with strength and compassion, calling upon everything she had learned at the London Hospital and under the tutelage of Maurice Blanche. Now, on this journey, she was in her salad days no longer and she had much, much more to draw upon. She left the lounge quickly to join Maurice and the Flèche d’Or, which would have them in Paris by thirty-five minutes past five.
SIXTEEN
There was little conversation during the journey into Paris. For Maisie, there was only a window to the past as towns, fields, and villages swept by. Was this how France had looked before the war, before the landscape was changed beyond all recognition, before she herself was changed forever? What fears and resentments remained beneath the surface, as communities were rebuilt to mirror the homes, churches, and shops razed to the ground amid constant shelling? Many of the old foundations had survived bombardment and were now used as templates for the massive reconstruction still in progress. How strange it was that the country was like a human being, a different self on the outside but with the old memories, deeply held, buried under the new.
Down through France they traveled, lulled by the clickety-clack, clickety-clack of wheel against track. The place-names of battles past echoed in Maisie’s mind. First Bethune and Lens; then, to the east, Vimy and Arras; now through the Somme Valley, the once-terrible Somme Valley; then on to Amiens. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack. How many are still here, buried, in this place, ten thousand? Twenty thousand? Perhaps one hundred thousand lay at rest beneath fields ready for harvest, healthy crops now growing where millions died. And what about Peter Evernden, where does he lie?
They arrived in Paris, where Maurice had reserved rooms at a small exclusive hotel close to the Seine, the Hotel Richmonde. Maisie had no real need to linger in Paris, though in his journal Ralph Lawton spoke of leave spent there with his “dear friend.” Was that person Jeremy Hazleton? Could there have been another he would not name? A café was mentioned, and a hotel. She would visit both tomorrow.
Following a light supper during which she and Maurice went over plans for the following day, Maisie returned to her room. She would leave for Reims on Sunday. Until then, in addition to her work, she would also indulge Maurice, who wished to spend time in the company of old friends and invited Maisie to join him with the comment, “You have been starved of such intellectual encounter for some time, Maisie. It will do you good, and you will be able to test your retention of the French language.”
The plans settled, there was little to say. Maisie wondered whether she should apologize for her shortness on the channel crossing. She had been aware of resentment building and knew that soon it would surely come to the surface.
ONCE IN HER room, Maisie bathed and then sat on the floor in her dressing gown with her legs crossed. As she sat in silence, unaware of noises from the street outside, still bustling with night owls intent upon remaining awake until dawn, the image in her mind was of those early days of the war, days when she was full of her move to Girton and to a life she had hardly dared imagine. Then that first journey back to Chelstone for Christmas, 1914. Maisie saw again the mass of khaki on the station platforms, standing aside as troop trains went through, and the endless farewells, the stubborn smiles of those who dearly hoped to see a son, brother, or sweetheart again. Hadn’t they said it would all be over by now, those politicians, those men who knew? And then her excitement at seeing her father. And Maurice. Maurice had been in London and, it was said, overseas, perhaps France, perhaps Holland. No one really knew, and he said nothing when she went to visit him, simply smiled as she recounted stories of Girton.
“Tell me about your friends, Maisie,” he said, “for I hope you have made a friend or two.” Maurice had worried that Maisie’s standing might have prevented her from seeking close associations.
“Priscilla Evernden is my best friend. Oh, she’s very funny at times, really doesn’t care for her studies, and spends most of her time planning her next outing. She’s a little older than I.”
“I see.” Maurice relit his pipe and smiled. He was pleased.
“When I scold her about her studies, she simply says the boys, her brothers, keep their parents happy with their accomplishments, especially Peter. He’s the eldest, about twenty-five or -six, I think.”
“Are they overseas?”
“Yes, they’ve all enlisted. Priscilla says Peter will do best of all over there, because he’s such a whiz with languages.”
Maurice smiled. He was fluent in six languages in addition to his native French. “That’s rare for an Englishman.”
Maisie had been unaware that her excitement was building as she spoke of her friend and her rough-and-tumble yet very wealthy household. “Well, Priscilla says it’s a gift and no one knows where he gets it from. He doesn’t even know himself. Apparently it was while they were on a holiday in Switzerland when he was about twelve; suddenly Peter began speaking in French and then German to other people in the hotel, and the whole family looked at him aghast.”
Maurice paid close attention as Maisie continued.
“He wondered what it was all about and told Priscilla he thought everyone could understand other languages just like that.” Maisie snapped her fingers. “I wish I could.”
As the scene replayed in her head, Maisie watched again, this time from a distance of sixteen years, as Maurice picked up his pen and wrote something on a sheet of paper. She had glanced only briefly before launching into the next part of her story and barely wondered at the time why Maurice had written PETER EVERNDEN in capital letters. Then he had looked at her and smiled.
“You’re doing very well, my dear. I am proud of you.”
MAISIE WOKE EARLY on Saturday, dressed quickly, and left the hotel. It was a fine morning with only a few clouds, but a chilly breeze reminded her that the cold nip of autumn was not that far away. Wandering along the busy street, she watc
hed as awnings came down and shops opened for business, many owners completing the morning ritual of washing the pavement. She slowed as the shopkeeper in front of her made a final swab back and forth, twisted the mop to squeeze out excess water, picked up the bucket, and threw the water across the pavement.
“Ah, pardon, mademoiselle. Excusez-moi, s’il vous plaît.”
She had forgotten quite how to say “Not to worry. It’s all right,” so instead she lifted her hand and smiled. The shopkeeper touched his temple with a forefinger, smiled in return, and went back into the shop.
Street cafés were bustling already, with conversation in English and French crackling back and forth and a medley of accents revealing visitors as well as an expatriate community from America, Britain, Spain, Italy, and Africa. Maisie looked at her watch. She would join Maurice for breakfast at nine, so there was time for a cup of coffee before she made her way back to the hotel.
“Café au lait, s’il vous plaît.”
The waiter gave a sharp bow and disappeared into the café, stopping en route to pick up a tip, which he inspected first, shaking his head before placing the money in the front pocket of his long white apron.
Maisie sat back in her seat, observing the café’s patrons around her. Many were clearly regulars of some tenure, such as the man wearing tweed trousers and jacket that did not match, a monocle pressed against his eye as he unfolded a newspaper, which he read while waiting for coffee and a croissant he had no need to order, for his choice of breakfast never changed. Then there were the two well-dressed women, fashionably attired in late-summer wear of linen and silk. Coco Chanel had made sun-kissed skin a desirable accessory only a year earlier, and these women had clearly taken heed, their faces, hands, and slender ankles suggesting a summer spent on the Riviera. Maisie inspected her own pale hands as she took a mirror from her handbag, snapped back the pewter lid, and looked at her reflection. She pinched her cheeks, then looked up to see the women watching her. They turned quickly, each lifting a cup to her lips. Maisie’s attention was drawn away from the women by a group of Americans nearby. Voices were raised, members of the set shifting in their seats, men and women eager to both hear and voice opinions.