“Some things have changed at Camden, Mrs. Brissenden,” said Miss Hartley, setting down her cup, a signal that their time together was coming to an end. “The girls now have a knitting circle at school, where they are making scarves and gloves for our soldiers, and first-aid and nursing classes have been added to the curriculum. However, I am intent upon maintaining high academic standards and do not want Camden girls to become khaki followers, especially in this town where so many men are in uniform. Our young women must matriculate with first-class results—I predict that for many of them there will be no young men to wed if this war continues as it has started, so they must be well able to stand on their own two feet!”
Kezia wanted to counter the headmistress’s opinion, but felt it best to nod her head and agree that the school’s academic record must be held before all else.
Once the informal interview had concluded, Kezia decided to walk around the town, and made her way towards Mount Pleasant, where she went into Wickhams for a new raincoat, something to wear for work on the farm that fit her. Tom’s old coat hung on her shoulders when it was wet, and there was enough heavy lifting to do without the extra weight of sodden fabric. Having made her purchase, she lingered in the ladies’ wear department, and wondered if she should buy two new dresses for school, though it was not yet a year since she had last stood in front of a class. No, even though she was in possession of funds from her precious savings, profligacy was unattractive in a married woman.
As Kezia walked along familiar streets, it was not more recent memories that came to mind, but recollections of her years as a Camden girl. She missed Thea as much as she yearned for the return of her husband, so it was as if with each step she slipped a little further into an abyss of nostalgia. Even though the streets were familiar, and it was business as usual in the shops, it seemed to Kezia that more women than she might have imagined were wearing black, while most of the men she saw were in uniform. Here and there a Belgian accent pushed into her consciousness, and she remembered reading in a local newspaper about the many refugees who had sought shelter and work in the town. At first blush the daily comings and goings had not altered, but a closer look revealed so much that was new.
Walking back towards the station, Kezia was glad she had the farm to welcome her, glad to be going home to a purpose, and satisfied with the plan to return to her teaching post. She felt a certain confidence rising within her, as if she could keep the wheels of their married life turning so that, when Tom marched home, it would be as if he had never left the farm.
Monday brought a lightness to the sky, and showers promised to recede for a while at least. Indeed, Kezia thought the sun might break through, and went about her work with a sense of renewed energy. On Saturday she had received a letter from Edmund Hawkes, who had spoken so well of her Tom that she felt a welter of kindness towards him. She wondered what might have inspired so comforting a letter; she had always known she’d married a man of good conduct, and the letter proved it. Indeed, she felt as if Tom were with her now, watching her, proud of her mettle. My Kezzie, he would say. My girl, my lovely Kezzie. And it was as if the words had been whispered in her ear, ever to be remembered.
She had taken Ada home in the gig before midday, for the girl felt headachy. Kezia put a cold damp cloth to the back of her neck, and felt her forehead. It was obvious she was too ill to go on. Kezia instructed her not to return until she felt like her old self.
Mr. Barham had just made deliveries of the buff-colored envelopes to half a dozen houses in the village, and now made his way along the road to Marshals Farm. The recipients of these envelopes—containing messages he had come to detest delivering—were to a person polite. They thanked him for the delivery as he placed the envelope in their shaking hands, before touching his cap and turning away. These were the letters sent to the next-of-kin of enlisted men. Officers’ families received such news via telegram. Often, by the time he had reached the gate, Mr. Barham had heard a wail, or a shout, or some terrible sound by which he measured the contents of the message. Wounded—Army Form B.104—80. Missing Presumed Dead. B.104.83. Or Killed In Action. B.104.82.
Now he walked slowly, his shoulders rounded under the weight of his burden, though his bag was not heavy. At last he arrived at the farm door, and lingered for a half moment, looking down at the two envelopes, one from Reverend Marchant. He lifted his hand to knock, but the door opened, and before him stood Kezia Brissenden, wearing her husband’s trousers, her husband’s shirt and pullover. She was in the process of pulling on a mackintosh quite obvious in its newness—there was not a scrap of dry mud to be seen—and she smiled when she saw him.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Barham. Not bad weather today, eh? Those clouds have become rather grey, though, so I thought I’d put my mackintosh on before I go out. Ah, you’ve letters for me?”
The postman felt the color drain from his face, and his voice lost its timbre even before he opened his mouth.
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Brissenden. I’ve got a letter for you—well, two letters. One’s official.”
Kezia stood with her left arm in the sleeve, and the right to her chest.
“Mrs. Brissenden?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Yes. Yes. Well, thank you, Mr. Barham.” She pulled her arms from the sleeves and dropped the new mackintosh on the doorstep. She took the two envelopes, turned, and closed the door.
Barham lingered for a second or two, trying to decide whether he should find Bert or Danny. He wondered whether Ada was in the house. Yes, of course she was, so Tom Brissenden’s wife wouldn’t be alone. Nothing worse than being on your own when bad news comes calling.
Kezia read the words “OHMS—On His Majesty’s Service” at the top of the envelope, and for a moment she could not allow her eyes to read any further. Then, like a fearful child creeping along a landing in the dark, she allowed herself to read the date. She held her breath as she hooked her finger into the flap of the envelope, tore it across, and took out the letter.
We regret to inform you that Private T. J. Brissenden was killed in action March 14th, 1915. Lord Kitchener sends his sympathy. Secretary, War Office.
There was more, but Kezia had felt her stomach loosen, and bent double across the table. No sound issued from her open mouth. No tears came, though they would, in time. Instead she remained holding on to the table, for without it she would fall. It was her father’s handwriting on the second envelope that pushed her into a chair. Yes, it would be her father’s comfort, reaching out to her from France. Each breath came deep and rasping as she took the pages out and unfolded the news. Her hands were shaking. She could not hold the paper still, and squinted as perspiration stung her eyes.
My dear beloved Kezia,
It is with a heavy heart that I write to you today, though I suspect with the battle now in progress my letter might take a few days to arrive at your door. I am afraid I have tragic news, for which you must fortify yourself.
Kezia’s eyes skimmed across the words, seeking the solace her father’s letter must contain, for surely someone had told him about Tom.
I have also written to your mother, so I am sure she will be on her way by the time you read this letter. I have instructed her to travel to the farm without delay. My dear daughter, I know there is no simple way to impart bad news, but I wanted this to come from me, your father, so that if a messenger is to be the subject of your hatred, it is I, who has had so much of your love.
It was then that Kezia saw the word she had intuited was on the page, even though she had hoped it to be different, even though she had persuaded herself it was about her husband.
Thea.
“No-no-no-no-no,” Kezia could hear herself saying, over and over and over again. “No-no-no-no . . .”
Dear Thea volunteered to drive closer to the battlefield to bring out wounded men. I had barely turned my back when I heard the explosion. I ran to her side, and I can only tell you that the Lord took her in an instant and without pain.
There were many more words of consolation from Reverend Marchant to his daughter. But Kezia could read no further. Thea. Thea. My dearest Dorrit. She was numb in every part of her body, so she stamped her feet on the hard kitchen floor and banged her fists on the table. Thea . . . Thea . . . Still she could not feel. She turned to the range, reaching with splayed fingers towards the hot plates—but pulled back just before touching the searing metal. She brought her hands together and dropped to her knees.
“Help me,” she said. “Please help me . . .”
Kezia knew, then, that she had to move. She could think of no other way to wrench control over time, to slow it down, to give herself time to think, and to restore her life’s rhythm. But what? What could she do? What could she do to set her body to work, to ground the lightning bolt that two simple envelopes contained? She wanted Tom in her kitchen. She wanted to touch Thea again, to have something of her to hold. And as she pressed her knuckles to her eyes and felt each breath, each heartbeat as it sustained her life, she remembered something she had read in the book Thea had given her. She had not been looking for anything in particular at the time, but it was while leafing through, wondering how much of the book might be useful, that she had seen the passage.
The gloom cast over a family by the death of a dear one leaves the bereaved relatives without much heart for forms and ceremonies.
Hadn’t she always brought ceremony to her days with Tom? Hadn’t she brought rhythm and song to the loves of her life, when she set the table with linen and silver, and a towel on the draining board, and lavender soap? And hadn’t she and Thea enjoyed their ceremonies? The cake on the table, the picking out of walnuts and cups of tea in Thea’s lodging, or Kezia’s room?
Had she been observed, some might have noted that Kezia Brissenden was in the midst of experiencing a profound shock. But there again, another would have said that, no, this woman is not at all perturbed. See how she puts on her mackintosh. Look how she pulls on her boots and strides along the path to the chicken house. With little hesitation Kezia selected an older hen, one she knew to be a poor layer. She took up the bird and with a deft movement snapped its neck. On her way back to the house, she stopped only long enough in the kitchen garden to pick whatever herbs she could find. March in England was never a good month for herbs.
Kezia walked back to the kitchen and placed the bird in the sink. She removed her boots and set them together by the back door, and then she put on an apron. She plucked the chicken in the sink, as she had been taught by Ada, and pulled the innards out with her bare hands. She stopped for a few seconds to look at the new eggs forming inside the chicken, a row of soft yellow eggs-to-be, each at a different stage of growth, from tiny rounds to one white larger oblong that the hen might have laid, come evening. Having prepared the bird, Kezia set herself to chopping herbs. She brought an onion from the larder, as well as plums she’d bottled the summer before. She made up the fire, drawing the blaze high as if to fuel a locomotive. She felt the roar of logs and coal, and began pulling pans and dishes this way and that, simmering, sautéing, stirring, and checking for tenderness.
She looked up at the clock on the mantelpiece above the stove, and knew the men would be leaving the farm soon, that it would not be long before she heard the rhythmic soft thud of boots marching along the lane from the oast house. Bert and Danny would look through the kitchen window and wave to her—please don’t let them knock at the door—and be on their way. She could not speak to them now. I will tell them on the morrow. Yes, she would tell them after she had screamed up into the rafters, after she had cried her tears and wailed into the night. She would tell the men, and then she would tell Mabel and Ted and Mrs. Joe. Mabel would nip at her, would be inconsolable, turning her head into the corner of her stable until Bert came. Ted would nuzzle her and move away from Mabel, and Mrs. Joe would hang her head and want to be held. Kezia knew she would walk to the cattle shed, then to the hives, where worker bees clustered around their queen, vibrating to keep her warm. She would walk through orchards and hop gardens, from Pickwick Field to Barnaby and Twist, and across to Dickens’ two cities; she would step out across the freshly turned field that was once Micawber Wood, and she would tell the farm that the master was dead, and brave, dear Dorrit had perished.
She listened for the footfall of her men to diminish in the distance, then looked out of the window once more, waiting for Frederick to take up his place by the gate. She was doing this, preparing the meal and setting the table, because Tom and Thea—and especially the sister of her heart, her brave, beloved Thea—would say it was the right thing to do. This was her ritual to honor a time before the war.
Kezia turned her attention to the table, remembering—but not quite—something else she had seen in the book Thea gave her. She went to the shelf next to the fireplace and took down The Woman’s Book from its place next to her mother-in-law’s recipe books, and began turning the pages until she found the paragraph she was seeking. And she so wanted to laugh when she imagined Thea reading the instructions aloud—mimicking Camden’s Miss Hartley perhaps, while rolling her eyes as if she was above such housewifery:
No matter how simple a meal may be, it should be put neatly on the table and made attractive to the eye. There are certain table requirements which are within the reach of the very humblest; they may not be essentials, but they are beyond doubt among the ameliorating influences of life, which help to cultivate the mind and improve the manners.
Kezia returned the book to its place and, still smiling as if Thea were with her, brought out her fine linen cloth, her wedding silver and white wedding napkins. She carried a vase of flowers from the parlor and set it on the table, then put plates in the warming oven and opened the kitchen door. Frederick was waiting by the gate, his hair slicked back by a fine late-afternoon drizzle.
“Frederick! Frederick, come here, please,” she called.
The German looked around, as if there were another of the same name behind him. He glanced along the road—he would not want to miss Constable Ashling, though there were times when he’d had to wait long enough for the policeman—then walked to the farmhouse door and bowed.
Kezia smiled. “Come in, Frederick. Sit down.”
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Brissenden?”
“Come into the kitchen, Frederick, and sit down, please. At the table—sit there.” Kezia pointed to the chair that was usually hers. “I know you don’t get enough to eat, do you?”
The fragrant aromas of rosemary and plum, of onion and roast chicken, filled the kitchen. Kezia watched as Frederick breathed in deeply, then turned to her with tears in his eyes.
“Are you sure, Mrs. Brissenden?”
“Of course. You’ve time. I will talk to the constable when he comes. There will be no argument. And you can take some more when you go. I’ll fill a bowl for you. Now then, wash your hands first. There’s soap and a clean towel for you on the draining board.”
Kezia watched as Frederick took up the soap and scrubbed his hands, using his thumbnails to scrape deep into his skin before rinsing. She watched as he picked up the white linen towel, bringing it to his nose as if to savor the moment.
The German boy took his seat, and Kezia returned to the stove, where she spooned chicken with plum and herb stuffing, three vegetables, and sherry-laced gravy onto her best china. She came back to the table and set one plate in front of Frederick and one in front of Tom’s seat at the head of the table. Then she pulled out Tom’s chair and sat down, though she did not touch the knife and fork. Instead, she folded her arms on the table to watch.
“Eat, Frederick,” said Kezia Brissenden. “Please. I want you to eat.”
Author’s Note
The Woman’s Book (subtitled “Contains Everything a Woman Ought to Know”), edited by Florence B. Jack, was first published in London in 1911. It not only covered household management but also had comprehensive sections on cookery, children, home doctor, business, dress, society, careers, and citizenship.
> Acknowledgments
The collection of early twentieth-century women’s journals and magazines (or “books” as they were called by women of the era) held by the Women’s Library—now located at the London School of Economics—proved to be an invaluable resource, along with the archive of documents pertaining to the suffrage movement in early twentieth-century Britain. Thanks must go to the very professional and always helpful staff at the library.
I am so very fortunate to have a wonderful editor in Jennifer Barth at HarperCollins—thank you, Jennifer, for your enthusiasm from the moment you saw my brief description of The Care and Management of Lies, and for your wise counsel, always. Thanks must also go to the amazing Katherine Beitner, to Stephanie Cooper, and to Josh Marwell and his first-class team of publishing pros at HarperCollins. To the enormously accomplished Andrew Davidson, and creative wizard Archie Ferguson—thank you for the brilliant (in my humble opinion) covers for my novels.
To be blessed with an agent who believes in your work, who is honest and supportive beyond measure, must be the dream of every author—if that is so, then I am filled with gratitude to have literary agent Amy Rennert at my right hand. Thank you, Amy, for really believing in The Care and Management of Lies, and for helping make my dream come true.
And last, but never least, to John Morell—thank you for reminding me to celebrate each milestone on the road to publication day.
About the Author
Jacqueline Winspear is the author of the New York Times best sellers Leaving Everything Most Loved, Elegy for Eddie, A Lesson in Secrets, The Mapping of Love and Death, Among the Mad, and An Incomplete Revenge, as well as four other national best-selling Maisie Dobbs novels. She has received numerous honors for her work, including the Agatha, Alex, and Macavity Awards for the first book in the series, Maisie Dobbs, which was also nominated for the Edgar Award for Best Novel and was a New York Times Notable Book. Originally from the United Kingdom, she now lives in California.