“Yes, she seems to be.”
“Have you spent much time with her, Mr. Waite?”
Joseph Waite shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“I know this is a difficult time for you, Mr. Waite—”
“You think this is difficult? I lost my son, you know.”
Maisie allowed a moment for Joseph Waite’s still pent-up anger to settle, and watched as the tension he felt coursed through him. Unmoved, she was determined to continue.
“Mr. Waite, why did you instruct your staff to tell me you were not at home when I came here for our previous appointment?”
Joseph Waite twisted the diamond ring on his little finger, the ring that had caught the sun so easily as he reached out to feed doves at his windowsill.
“I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Maisie settled into the chair, a move that caused Joseph Waite to look up.
“Yes, Mr. Waite, you know very well what I’m talking about. So please answer my question.”
“I don’t have to take this! Just give me your account and—”
“With respect, Mr. Waite, I risked my life in this house, so I will be heard.”
Waite was silent, his face flushed.
“The truth is that you kept your daughter in this house because you feared for her life. Your grief and anger over what she had done when she was but a foolish young girl festered, but your love for her caused you to keep her close.”
“Hmmmph!.” Waite looked away.
“You thought that if she lived alone, she would be in danger.” Maisie paused. “So you insisted that she, a grown woman, live at home. You didn’t even trust a potential husband to keep her safe, did you? Yet, though she was under your roof, you could not forgive her.”
Waite was restless and again fidgeted in his chair. “You don’t know what you’ re talking about. You have no idea what it’s like—”
“You gave Mrs. Willis a job as soon as her family went to war. You felt her predicament so keenly that you asked her to come to your home to work as your housekeeper. You paid for Will’s care, so that she would never have to worry. And you watched her bitterness grow. But you thought that as long as she, too, was under your roof, you would be in control. When Rosamund and Philippa were murdered, you suspected Mrs. Willis, but you didn’t do anything about it. Was it because you felt as angry and aggrieved toward them as she did?”
Waite placed his head in his hands, but still he did not speak. Maisie continued.
“When Charlotte disappeared you wanted her back, for you believed that Mrs. Willis would not strike at her in your home. It was only close to the end that you became unsure. Though the three deaths were terrible, you did not grieve for those families. Your all-consuming rage at what the women had done was still as sharp as a knife in your side. But if Charlotte was taken from you, too . . .”
Waite shook his head. “I couldn’t go to the police. I had no evidence. How could I point the finger at a woman who was broken already, whose family had given their all for my business and for their country.”
“That decision, Mr. Waite, is subject to debate. You’d visited each woman a few years after the war, to give them a piece of your mind. But it didn’t afford you much relief. Anger still gnawed at you, along with the terrible grief at losing Joe.”
“Your final account please, Miss Dobbs. Then leave.”
Maisie did not move. “What are you going to do about Charlotte, Mr. Waite?”
“It’ll all work out.”
“It hasn’t worked out in fifteen years, and it won’t work out now unless both you—particularly you—and Charlotte embrace a different idea of what is possible.”
“What do you mean? You come here with your fancy ideas—”
“What I mean is this: Resentment must give way to possibility, anger to acceptance, grief to compassion, disdain to respect—on both sides. I mean change, Mr. Waite. Change. You’ve remained a successful businessman by embracing change, by mastering it, even when circumstances were against you. You should know exactly what I mean.”
Waite opened his mouth as if to argue, but then fell silent, staring into the coals. Several minutes passed before he spoke again. “I respect you, Miss Dobbs, that’s why I came to you. I don’t believe in buying a dog and barking myself. I pay for the best, and I expect the best. So say your piece.”
Maisie nodded and leaned forward, forcing Waite to look at her. “Talk with Charlotte, not at her. Ask her how she sees the past, how she feels about losing Joe. Tell her how you feel, not only about your son, but about her. Don’t expect to do it all at once. Go for a walk every day in that big garden of yours where the grass is never disturbed by a footprint, talk a little every day, and be honest with each other.”
“I don’t know about all this talking business.”
“That’s quite evident, Mr. Waite.” Maisie continued while she had his ear, “And give her a job. Ask Charlotte to work for you. She needs a purpose, Mr. Waite. She needs to stand tall, to do something, to gain some self-respect.”
“What can she do? She’s never done—”
“She’s never had the chance. Which is why neither of you know what she is capable of accomplishing, of becoming. The truth is that from the time she was a girl you knew which of your two children had it in them to succeed you, didn’t you? Joe was a lovely young man, as everyone who knew him agrees, but he didn’t quite have what it takes to be the leader your company needs, did he? And though you love Charlotte, you wanted Joe to be the leader so much that you stifled her spirit and she floundered.”
“I don’t know . . .” Waite struggled. “It’s too late now.”
“No, it isn’t. Experiment, Mr. Waite. If one of your grocery items doesn’t sell in the front of the shop, you put it in another place, don’t you? Try that with Charlotte. Try her in the offices, try her out on the shop floor, have her check quality. Start her at the bottom, where she can show her worth to the staff as much as to you—and to herself.”
“I suppose I could.”
“But if you really want to blaze a trail, Mr. Waite, you’ll put her where she can do some good.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Joseph Waite is known for philanthropy. You give away surplus food to the poor, so why not put Charlotte to work on distribution? Make your contributions into a job and allow her work her way up. Let her prove her mettle, and give her a means to earn respect.”
Joseph Waite nodded his head thoughtfully, and Maisie knew that the canny businessman was three steps ahead already, was envisioning capitalizing on her advice in ways that even she could not imagine. She fell silent. Joseph Waite looked at her directly. “Thank you for bringing Charlotte home. And for being frank. We might not always like what we hear but, where I’m from, folk value honest talk, plainly spoken.”
“Good.” Maisie stood up, reached into her document case and pulled out a manila envelope. “My final account, Mr. Waite.”
Over the summer months, Maisie traveled to Chelstone each weekend, to spend time with Frankie and to see how Billy had progressed. A generous bonus from Joseph Waite allowed her the financial leeway to enjoy her father’s company for longer periods of time. In addition, Waite retained Maisie’s services for her continuing counsel in rebuilding the relationship between Charlotte and himself.
For his part, Billy regained strength and movement in both legs, each week meeting with the practitioner who instructed him in exercises and movements to counteract the lingering effects of battlefield injury.
“What ’e says, Miss, is that I’m increasing my core.”
“Your core?” Maisie watched Billy brush out the mane of Lady Rowan’s latest purchase, a bay mare with an enviable track record, now out to grass and ready for breeding.
“Yep, me core. Makes me sound like a Cox’s Orange Pippin, don’t it?” Billy curried the horse’s mane, continuing with his work as he spoke. “There are all these different exercises, some to stretch me legs, some me arms, and me middle, and some of ’em are really small movements right ’ere.” Billy pointed to his stomach with the curry comb. “Which is me core.”