"I know we've both loved before, Maisie. I am not a monk, nor have I wanted for the company of women. But will you take a chance on me? And please, be honest with me."
Maisie knew she must be honest, for in opening his soul to her, James had touched her heart.
"James, I want to be by myself to think things over. Let's go for a walk tomorrow morning-you can call for me at my father's house after breakfast, if that's all right. I want to really think about what you're saying, and what it will mean for me. You see…" She faltered, not sure of her ground. "You see, I am not as brave as Enid, you know. I never was. And I do care what people think, what they say, when it's about me. I've worked hard, James, and I don't want there to be any misunderstanding, especially-and I have to say this-with your mother, who has been one of my most ardent supporters over the years."
"Enid was a long time ago, Maisie. I was no more than a boy when we fell in love, and I am now a man in middle age. I have come to terms with all that happened between us, and the others since then. But I understand your reticence. I'm just glad it's not on account of me, of everything I've just told you."
Maisie shook her head. "Oh, no, James. Far, far from it."
"And don't worry about my mother. I think she would be delighted to know that we were seeing more of each other. She is enormously proud of you."
"That's not the same as seeing us walking out together."
"I know, but-"
Maisie rested her hand on his. "Let's talk again in the morning, James. It's been a lovely day, hasn't it? Now I want to go back to Chelstone to see Maurice."
Maisie could hear the dog barking as she walked along the path leading to her father's cottage, and before she could reach for the handle, the door opened and she was greeted by both Frankie Dobbs and Jook, the gypsy dog Maisie had brought home the previous year.
"There you are! I knew James Compton was bringing you home, so I've been worried. They say he drives like a madman."
Maisie kissed her father on the cheek and bent down to make a fuss of Jook.
"Don't believe everything you hear, Dad. He was the perfect gentleman and a capable driver-probably doesn't drive as fast as me, and definitely not as fast as Lady Rowan."
"That's all right, then. Come on, I've got a nice soup going in the kitchen."
Later, Maisie and her father sat at the kitchen table, soup plates filled with piping hot broth in front of them, along with slices of fresh crusty bread cut into deep "doorstep" slices. They talked of the estate's news, then of Maurice, who had returned in an ambulance just a few hours earlier.
"I'll go up to see him tomorrow morning," said Maisie, buttering a slice of bread.
"I wouldn't go too early, being as he's only just come home," said Frankie.
Maisie shook her head. "No, it won't be. I'm going for a walk with James." She looked up at her father.
Frankie sighed, rested his spoon in the bowl, and sat back in his chair. "I've never been one to interfere, Maisie, you know that. You're as old now as your mother, God rest her soul, when she was going back and forth to the hospital. And you're a grown woman, not a girl. But-"
"But?"
"Hear me out, Maisie." He leaned forward. "But are you sure walking out with that James Compton is the right thing to do? I mean, there's been talk, you know."
Maisie felt color rush to her cheeks. "Dad, if I had listened to talk, I might still be shoveling coal in the morning in a grand house in London."
"Now then-everyone in that house was proud of you, of what you've made of yourself."
"So why are they talking now?"
"Because no one wants to see you hurt. Not with Simon gone last year."
Neither spoke for some moments, then Maisie broke the silence.
"Simon had been gone for years, Dad. Years. And I will be all right-I won't make an idiot of myself. But I enjoy his company, Dad. He's a good man."
"I hope he is, Maisie."
Later, in her small bedroom with the low beams and diamond-paned casement windows, Maisie lay in bed and considered James Compton. She was no expert in love, and she knew she had floundered when it came to personal relationships with men. After Simon was wounded in 1917, returning home to live in a hospital for men whose minds had been sacrificed to war, she had not even looked at a man until she returned to Girton College to complete her education. Then there had been occasional evenings out, the odd accepted invitation to lunch or even a party. There had been a time when she'd had what Priscilla might have called a "fling," but she had neither confided in her friend nor considered the matter again. There was nothing to touch her heart anyway, just a passing comfort; and such moments of warmth, even if temporary, were balm for the wounds in her heart. But she was different now. She had grown up, and she knew she was, as James had said, "all there again." And she liked being with someone who knew how that felt.
It was late morning by the time Maisie left the cottage by the back door and walked up to The Dower House to see Maurice. Mrs. Bromley had brought a note earlier, suggesting that before lunch would be the best time to visit.
"Maurice." Maisie went to her old mentor's bedside, took his hand, and kissed his forehead. "You have worried us all."
She tried not to reveal how his pallor concerned her still, how the hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes told all she needed to know about his state of health. But he seemed to have more energy than during their last visit, though she knew he would tire soon.
"Andrew told me that you came to the clinic-such a long way to see an old man not at all present with the world."
"You were ill, Maurice, and your respiration was compromised by fluid in your lungs. How are you feeling now?"
"Well enough. Andrew would not have allowed me to return to my home had he not been satisfied regarding my condition."
"Oh yes he would-if you'd bullied him."
"You underestimate Andrew Dene."
"No, I don't-but he was your pupil too, and would let you have the last word."
"I am well enough, Maisie. Now, come on, sit down next to me. First, tell me about your work, about progress on the case of the young mapmaker."
She shook her head. "I'm waiting, Maurice."
"Waiting?"
"For some of the dust to clear." She recounted the events of the past week, taking care to give as much detail as possible.
Maurice was silent, nodding his head, and then closed his eyes for a moment before speaking again.
"So what are you waiting for, my dear, if you know who must be brought to book for the death of Michael Clifton, and for the attack on his parents?"
"I'm not quite ready. I have a feeling we will locate the woman with whom Michael was involved very soon. And I'm waiting for more proof. I have to be sure."
"And then?"
Maisie looked down at her hands, and rubbed the back of one hand with the palm of the other. "I don't know…there are people to consider, people whose lives will be changed. I'd like to see if I can avoid too much damage."
"I suspected that might be the case." Maurice sighed, then went on. "Of course, such an impact might be the best thing. The truth always finds a way, Maisie, in some manner or form. You cannot deliberately change the course of the river without causing a flood or drought somewhere else."
"But everything changes when you unearth the past," said Maisie.
"That's not necessarily a bad thing, is it? You bring old events and choices to the surface, and you change the vista-but spring will come, the soil will seed itself, that flood or drought will abate, and life goes on in that new landscape."
Maisie nodded, but said nothing, so Maurice continued.
"The past was unearthed when Michael Clifton's remains were brought up from the battlefield where his life was taken."