“I was just going to take up some warm milk for her—it’s on the side there, cooling. She’s had such a sore throat,” said Brenda.
“I’ll take it up then.” Maisie slipped off her jacket and placed it over the back of a chair. She turned toward the draining board where the red china mug filled with hot milk had been left to cool. Maisie took a spoon from the drawer, skimmed the skin from the top of the milk, and placed the mug on a saucer. “Is her honey already in, Brenda?”
“Oh yes—never forget the little one’s honey!”
Maisie smiled as she left the kitchen and made her way upstairs. The door to Anna’s room was ajar, so before stepping in, Maisie peered around. The child was awake, lying on her side and looking deep into the eyes of Emma, the orphaned Alsatian Maisie had rescued following the untimely death of the dog’s owner. Emma’s chin was resting on the counterpane while Anna was running her fingers through the dog’s ruff. But Anna was yawning, her eyelids growing heavy.
“I think it’s time for a little girl called Anna to have her milk and go to sleep,” said Maisie.
Anna turned, and held out her arms to Maisie. “Auntie Maisie, Auntie Maisie—I’ve still got measles!”
Emma wagged her tail and came to Maisie, who patted her in greeting, and pointed to the rug at the side of the bed. The dog turned and lay down, nose between paws, watching her young mistress.
“Here you are.” Maisie held her palm under the cup while Anna lifted it to her lips and drank the milk in just a few gulps. “Someone was thirsty,” said Maisie as she took the cup with one hand, and placed the fingers of the other to the child’s forehead to feel her temperature. “How are you feeling now, my love?”
Anna shrugged. “I think I’m getting better, but Auntie Brenda says I have to stay in bed for a bit longer. Emma said so too—she likes to sleep here.”
“Emma said so?”
“Yes she told me this morning that we should stay in bed another two days, to catch up on our sleep and be strong for Lady, when I can ride again.”
“Well, I think Emma’s quite right—she’s a very intelligent dog.” Maisie stood up and placed the cup on a wicker side table. “Would you like me to read a story?”
Anna nodded.
“Just for five minutes, then I’ll tuck you in. You’ve got a special visitor coming tomorrow.”
“Who?” said Anna, giggling already.
Maisie was pleased to see the girl in good heart, in spite of her appearance—dark blue smudges under her eyes, flushed cheeks and scabby spots on her face and hands.
“Your favorite young man—Tim.”
“Tim! Tim’s coming?”
“Yes, Tim’s coming tomorrow.”
The child looked at her dog, then at Maisie. “Emma says we will be ready to get up tomorrow—we’re both over the measles.”
Maisie laughed and reached for Anna, feeling the comfort of the small body pressing into hers. “I didn’t know dogs could get measles.”
“Oh they can,” said Anna. “Emma said she had measles when she was a puppy, but she’s felt a bit bad since I got them.”
Maisie looked down at the dog, who had lifted her head as if to check her young charge. “Well, let’s see how you’re both feeling tomorrow. Now, how about that story?”
Anna gave Maisie one more squeeze and then lay back. Maisie reached toward a small pile of books on the wicker table, selected one in particular, and began to read.
“They were not railway children to begin with. I don’t suppose they had ever thought about railways . . .”
Within just a few pages, Anna’s breathing had become soft. Emma stood up, stretched, turned on the rug three times and then settled down into a comfortable crescent, giving a contented low growl as she too fell asleep. Maisie replaced the book on the table, picked up the empty cup, and leaned over the child, brushed her jet-black hair from her forehead and kissed her soft skin before leaving the room.
“She go down all right?” said Brenda, standing up to go to the stove as Maisie entered the kitchen.
“She perked up a bit—especially when I told her that Tim was coming tomorrow—but I think she needs another day or two in bed. We’ll see.”
Brenda pulled a plate from the oven. “There’s some shepherd’s pie warmed up, love, and I put on a few vegetables for you while you were up there with Anna. I bet you haven’t eaten all day.”
“Oh, lovely. Thank you, Brenda—just what the doctor ordered,” said Maisie.
She took a seat as Brenda placed the plate in front of her, but as she picked up her knife and fork, she looked across at her father, who was regarding her without speaking.
“What is it, Dad?”
“Did you see your Mr. Klein?”
Maisie nodded.
“And he’s going to help find a good family for the little nipper?”
Maisie pressed her lips together as she faced her father, meeting his eyes with her own direct gaze. “Yes. Yes, he’s going to help settle her.”
The following morning, after Maisie had helped Anna bathe and then dabbed calamine lotion onto the rash that dotted her back, torso, arms and face, the child asked if she could lie on top of the bed in her best dress, if she had to remain upstairs, rather than wear her nightgown.
“Oh, love—you still have lots of spots, and they won’t get better if you wear your ordinary clothes. But what if you put on a fresh nightie and you can wear your new blue cardigan over the top?”
Anna seemed crestfallen, but Maisie knew she was a tractable child, not given to tantrums.
“That’s a good idea,” said Anna. She began to smile. “Then if I’m in bed, Tim won’t know I don’t have my proper clothes on, will he?”
“No he won’t. He’ll think you’re a big strong girl. Now then, let me see your tongue—open wide.”
Maisie looked into the child’s mouth to check the back of her throat, searching for the inflammation that accompanied measles.
“That looks a lot better. Do you want to come down for your breakfast? You’ll have to go back up again—if you rest you’ll get better faster.”
“Can I choose my egg?”
“Not today, pet—I’ll go out and find you a nice brown one. Then I must go over to the manor, to see Lord Julian.”
Anna smiled. “Before I got the measles, he told me I could call him ‘Uncle Julian.’”
“He did?” said Maisie, trying not to betray her surprise.
Anna nodded. “He came to watch me riding Lady, and he said I was showing great promise.”
“And that is high praise indeed, young lady. Now then, let’s go downstairs.”
After breakfast, as Maisie predicted, Anna had become sleepy, though her color seemed to have become more natural. As soon as she was settled in her bedroom once again, Maisie placed a telephone call to Priscilla, who confirmed that Tim would arrive at Chelstone station at twenty past twelve.
“His cheek knows no bounds, Maisie. I heard him say to Tarquin—deliberately in earshot, I might add—‘Keep your head down Tarq—she’ll need a target if I’m not here.’”
“And what did you say?” asked Maisie, expecting Priscilla’s retort to be as filled with sarcasm as her son’s.
“I told him that Tarquin and I would be going to the cinema.”
“Because you know how much Tim enjoys the pictures—Priscilla, you two goad each other as if you were siblings, not mother and son.”
“I know—I should grow up. I suppose if I am to be honest, there’s something in me that enjoys the sparring, and at least I’m keeping him on his toes.”
“Or the other way around.” Maisie sighed. “Anyway, I’ll be at the station to collect him.”
“He’ll come home a lot calmer—he always does when he’s been to Chelstone. Right, I’d best be getting on—and find where ‘Tarq’ has got to with his head down.”
Simmonds, the butler—who had once worked for James and Maisie when they lived at the Ebury Place mansion—had seen M
aisie walking across the lawns in the direction of the manor house, and had already opened the door to greet her.
“Good morning, Your Ladyship—how are you, and more importantly, how is dear Anna faring?”
Maisie smiled, warmed by the affection with which the child was held. Anna had come to them as an evacuee, and was later orphaned when her grandmother—her only living relative, as far as anyone knew—died in a London hospital.
“She’s on the mend, thank you, Simmonds. She’s very excited because Tim’s arriving today.”
“Oh good—another young person about the house is always welcome. And Lord Julian enjoys his company too—the boy seems to hang on stories of Lord Julian’s years in the navy, which of course His Lordship loves to tell.”
“Speaking of whom—is he here, Simmonds? I’d like to see him, if possible.”
“Right you are—I believe he’s in the library, but if you would oblige me by waiting just a moment, I’ll have a look. He hates to be caught with his eyes closed.”
“Good idea. And I’ll nip into the kitchen to see Cook—she promised some more leftover chicken to make broth for Anna.”
Without doubt, Lord Julian had aged since the death of his son, though his upright bearing never seemed to change. Indeed, at the memorial service for James—held in the City at Temple Church—both Lord Julian and Lady Rowan seemed a head taller, with shoulders drawn back, as if to represent the very strength and standing of their son. Maisie remembered trying to concentrate on James alive, James laughing, James running along a beach with a kite, and not the desperate yearning for her husband and their unborn child she had lost on a fine day in rural Ontario. Grief had been an oppressive weight that seemed to bear down upon her—until she regained some crucial part of her character while volunteering for nursing work in Spain. It was as if she had come home to herself, and was given leave to open her arms to all that might be possible in the future.
“Maisie, lovely to see you, my dear,” said Lord Julian, coming to his feet. He had been sitting in a leather chair alongside the window. A book was open on a side table, its place kept by a weighted marker laid across the pages. He held out both hands, which she took in hers, and he leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “And how is our young horsewoman?” he inquired.
“It’s lovely to see you too, Julian. Anna is recovering well, and anxious to be out on Lady again. I think we might have to tie her to the bed.”
“As soon as she finds her legs again, she should be out there—fresh air, the responsibility for a pony, nothing better for a child.” He extended his hand toward another leather chair close to his own. “Now then, sit down and tell me how I can be of assistance to you—I’m sure you didn’t come to tell me about Anna’s recovery, though I’m glad to hear it.”
Maisie smoothed the back of her linen skirt and sat down, leaning toward Lord Julian as he too was seated. “I’m curious about how the Bank of England goes about its business—not here in London, but now it’s located in Hampshire for the duration. Have they moved their printing?”
Lord Julian sighed. “As you are aware, I am on the boards of various banks, so much of what I know is highly confidential. In a time of war the supply and movement of money becomes even more crucial than ever. Money is a powerful tool, and wars are about powerful men and how they use the tools at their disposal. The military is involved, in a number of ways.”
Maisie raised her eyebrows. “How? I never thought the generals would have communication with the bankers.”
“The prime minister—and thank goodness, we now have a man who is up to the job of war—is the linchpin. He is the man in the middle, drawing to him everything he needs to secure the country to the best of the country’s ability to protect itself and its people.”
“And what might the generals want from the bankers, and how is the PM a conduit between the two?”
Lord Julian looked at his hands, closed his eyes for a second and then returned his attention to Maisie.
“The Bank of England has to consider many factors in a time of war, not least the fact that the risk of forgery increases dramatically—not necessarily from local sources, but the threat of the Germans flooding the country with counterfeit money and bringing chaos to the economy is not to be underestimated. Interestingly enough, at the same time, money does not circulate in the same way—rather it is like blood around a body, and if the pressure on the system is high, blood moves a lot faster. We tend to see an increase in circulation, which means that—quite literally—paper money wears out faster, so you have to have more in hand to replace notes that have reached the end of their useful life. Of course, there are people who slow down in terms of spending, and they save their money—not always in the bank either. A tin box under the bed is often thought safer—if you have to run, you can run with your money. But on the other side of the coin there can be a tendency toward profligacy—if we’re all going to die, we can’t take it with us when we go.”
“I confess, I had never considered any of this.”
“No reason why you should, my dear. For most people, money is for saving, spending or worrying about—too much, too little, never enough—money as the devil’s tool.” He reached for a silver letter opener, and began tapping it against his palm. “But with the threat of invasion—and it has never been more likely—the banks have quite literally been destroying money, though at the same time notes in different denominations have been deposited with clearing banks around the country.”
“So that’s why, as you said, the printing, supply and movement of money is even more crucial now than in peacetime.”
“Yes, that’s the extent of it.” He put down the letter opener. “And the Bank of England has moved some staff down to a location in Hampshire, given the risk of bombing across London. I can only tell you that money transported between Hampshire and London is an operation executed under a blanket of extreme security.”
“And what about the proximity of the coast, and navy in Southampton and Portsmouth—to say nothing of the air force and army in the area.”
“Our forces are in position due to the threat that has come from across the Channel since before Roman times—even the Vikings came around to the south coast!”
Maisie nodded, thoughtful. “The War Office and Threadneedle Street are therefore close.”
“Very.” Lord Julian looked toward the door, as if he expected someone to be there, listening. He lowered his voice; Maisie had to lean forward to hear. “The Bank of England liaises with the War Office to ensure that any special notes required for military purposes are supplied in a timely fashion and—again—under conditions of absolute secrecy.” He paused, and looked out of the window, raising his hand as he smiled into the distance. “There’s Rowan—I must be quick. She knows you’re here now, so she will be bursting into the room in a few moments.” Another second’s pause. “There has to be a supply for operations such as sabotage, intelligence, and for our airmen who may find themselves in enemy territory after being shot down. They must have local currency with them, and we also have to pay the troops from our colonies—in which case it behooves us to have currency issued by British Military Authority, and in some instances those words are printed onto the currency. You will find there are notes available in sterling denominations that will never be available to the British spending public.”
Maisie leaned back. “I had no idea.”
“Nor should you have an idea—it’s a matter of the security of our sovereign land.”
“I have too many questions for the moments we have left to ourselves.” She bit her bottom lip. “But regarding another matter, I have the serial number here, of a type of paint used to render airfield buildings safe from fire. Could you find out more about it?” Maisie took the note from her pocket and passed it to Lord Julian. “If possible, I’d like to know whether it’s passed any tests for safety. And who manufactures it—where it’s from.”
“I will see what I can find out, Mai—”
/> “There you are! Darling Maisie, where have you been?” Lady Rowan Compton had not knocked before entering, and walked with as much speed as she could muster, now that the arthritis in her hip was becoming more troublesome. She was accompanied by a spaniel and a Labrador retriever, both dogs bounding into the room in a direct line for Lord Julian.
“Rather busy this week, Rowan. You’re looking well—is your hip feeling better?”
“Oh, let’s not get boring and start talking about health.”
Lord Julian moved to stand to allow his wife to take his seat, but Maisie came to her feet.
“No, please—Rowan, I am just about to leave, so please take this chair.”
Lady Rowan sat down with a loud sigh, and rested her cane alongside the chair. “Growing old is not for the faint-hearted, Maisie. Mark my words.” She rested her hand on her chest and caught her breath. “I wanted to ask you if you would come up to town with me tomorrow morning—for the service at Westminster. George can drive us up.”
“Of course—Tim will be here to keep Anna amused, and while she’s asleep, my father will keep him busy. And I can drive you up to town, if you like. I left the Alvis here and I will need it during the coming week—you might have to come back on the train though, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Not at all. And George will pick me up at Tonbridge so I don’t have to shilly-shally around waiting for the branch line train down to Chelstone. I quite enjoy the train, so it will all be perfect! I’ll be ready to leave first thing tomorrow morning.”
Maisie waited on the platform, stepping back as the train from Tonbridge pulled into the small branch line station. Doors began opening and a handful of people stepped out of the train, as others waited to board. She looked both ways along the platform, to no avail. Tim was not among the passengers now holding out their tickets as they walked toward the stationmaster, who greeted everyone by name. Steam punched out from the locomotive, and as the guard stepped forward with his flag, raising his arm and blowing his whistle to signal the train’s departure, Maisie turned to leave the station.