After making a cup of tea, she took up Michael Clifton's journal again, and reread certain entries. He seemed unafraid to put his feelings down on paper, to share with no one but himself the emotions he experienced both on the battlefield and during the few short spells of leave he had in his two years in France. There were entries that made her laugh-observations of his new British friends, the way they spoke, their mannerisms; or impressions of the more senior officers. Yet his homesickness was palpable, and after a while it seemed to seep from between the lines, until his confession in the later pages:
It's cold here, a cold that goes right to your bones and eats away at them. It's not like the cold in Boston. Back home you can wrap yourself in warm clothing and fight it, and there was always a warm house to come back to-hot chocolate and marshmallows, coffee cake right out of the oven. But I want to go out west again, back to the valley. Every time I close my eyes, I see the valley. I want to feel that heat on my skin and the breeze that skims across your arms and feels like warm silk. I want to ride across the hills with the ocean in the distance. I guess I don't care about the oil anymore. I just want to build a cabin on my land and live there for as long as it takes to get this place, this mud and rain and terrible, terrible killing out of my system. I want to spend my days under one of those California oaks and know that I am far away from here. I want to go back to my beautiful valley.
Maisie could sense the ache in Michael's soul to be in a place that was his home. She thought that, young as he was, he knew that the valley had been the place where he belonged from his first view across its golden hills. And she thought that, though he had lost his life, he was blessed in such knowing-to have traveled far and found home.
At her desk the following morning, Maisie took a deep breath and picked up the telephone receiver to place a call to Chelstone Manor. It was answered by the butler, Mr. Carter, whom she had known since her first day of employ at 15 Ebury Place.
"Good morning, Mr. Carter, how are you?"
"Very well. Do I take it you would like to speak to Lady Rowan?"
"Lord Julian, actually."
"Right you are, Maisie." He cleared his throat.
"Is everything all right, Mr. Carter? You sound as if you have a sore throat."
"Fit as a fiddle." He coughed again. "I was going to say, though, we'll be calling you by another name soon, won't we?"
Maisie's stomach turned. "Might there be rumors going round about me, Mr. Carter?"
"No, not a rumor, Maisie, but-"
"I trust you know how to nip them in the bud, don't you?"
"I won't give credence to a word I hear spoken about-"
"I knew I could depend upon you. Now, may I speak to his lordship?"
"One moment. Very nice to talk to you, Maisie."
"You too, Mr. Carter. You too."
Maisie waited for a few moments, then heard the telephone receiver in the library being picked up, and the main receiver replaced.
"Maisie, how are you, my dear?"
My dear? Maisie was taken aback. Had Lord Julian ever called her "my dear" before? He was always cordial and more than helpful, but "my dear" was not an expected greeting.
"Very well, thank you, Lord Julian."
"What can I do for you?"
"I'm after information again, I'm afraid."
"Go on, I have a pen and paper at the ready."
"I'm interested in a Major Temple. He is currently at the School of Military Engineering in Chatham. I'd like to know who his commanding officer was during the war. I expect he was a first lieutenant then, or perhaps a captain. I believe he was in the artillery, but worked closely with a cartography unit, or perhaps working between several units-to tell you the truth, I am not sure, but I do want to know the chain of command above him."
"Right you are-I will see what I can do."
"Thank you, I am grateful for anything you can dig up for me."
"Anything else?"
"Um, yes. How is Maurice today?"
"Oh, dear, I was hoping you wouldn't ask, but I should have known you would want to remain apprised of his condition." He sighed. "He's not at all well. The doctor-that chap called Dene-has been to see him today, and he's comfortable. Maurice being Maurice, he's said he won't go back to the clinic, that he wants to remain at home for the time being. Of course, in my day, unless you were poor, you were treated at home, but now the doctors have more modern equipment at their disposal, don't they? So you have to go into hospital if you want that top-notch medical care with all the bells and whistles."
"Yes, you're right." Maisie thought Lord Julian was more loquacious than she had ever known him. "Would you please ensure that someone calls me if his condition deteriorates? If he gets worse, I want to be there."
Maisie could hear a voice in the background.
"Maisie, just a moment, Rowan would like a word with you."
Maisie blew out her cheeks. I bet she would.
"Maisie! How fortuitous that you've called to speak to Julian. I'm coming up to town with him tomorrow-a bit of shopping, and you know how I loathe shopping, but needs must-might you have time to join me for tea? Fortnum's, say, half past three?"
"Well, yes, that would be lovely. I'll see you there. Half past three."
"Excellent."
Though it was Lady Rowan who had first noticed her intellectual ability and love of learning, and later sponsored her education, Maisie remained somewhat intimidated by the thought of an invitation to tea the following day. She knew James had spoken to his parents and would have said something to the effect that they were walking out together-as her father might describe it-but she was sure that, underneath the warmth exuded in the telephone conversations, a dire warning was waiting for her. She had lived at Ebury Place as both a servant and, later, a guest with her own rooms, but this new development-now far from secret, as Carter's comment indicated-would test the Comptons' self-described socialist leanings.
Good morning, Billy. Did everything go smoothly when you delivered Miss Peterson into the care of her aunt and uncle?" Maisie looked up at Billy as he came into the office.
"Mornin', Miss." He rolled up his newspaper, pushed it into his jacket pocket, and sat down on the chair in front of Maisie's desk. "I told them I worked with her, and she'd been taken poorly at work, so I thought I'd better bring her back to family, being as she lived alone and didn't look like she should be on her own today, not with her being gray around the gills-which of course she was, with all the goings-on with that Mullen."
"You did well, Billy." She leaned back in her chair. "Tell me, I thought you'd already seen her once before, when you went through your list-she was in the second half of the alphabet. What made you go back?"
Billy ran his fingers through his hair, which always seemed to be in need of a comb, if not a cut. "I dunno, Miss. When I first went to see her, she didn't want to talk about it, said it was all a mistake, that her friends put her up to write a letter, and she'd never known any soldier in the war. Nigh on shut the door in my face, she did. But I did what you said I should do-I paid attention to how I felt in my middle-and I came away from that hostel feeling like I had a hive of bees in there, all buzzing around saying, 'That's the one, Billy. That's the one you're looking for.' I never said anything, just in case I was wrong, but after I'd gone through the others on your list, I went back to see her, and of course, it was the right moment for her to just spill it all out like milk from a dropped bottle. She was that scared, so she told me everything. Then I ran down the road to the telephone box to call you."
"You did very, very well, Billy." She regarded him as she spoke. "How are you feeling today?"