The Mapping of Love and Death

"All right, that's it. Time for grown-ups to talk now, boys." Priscilla called for Elinor, who came to take the children upstairs to bathe. James promised to come to their room as soon as they were in bed, and the boys seemed mollified by his offer as they followed their nanny.

  "You've done it now, James--they will never let you out!" Douglas Partridge reached across to pour more wine for his guests.

  "You have a lovely family." James raised a glass to Douglas and Priscilla. "My boyhood was rather unconventional for the day--mainly due to my mother, who did not subscribe to the notion that children should be seen and not heard--but I still had to endure the rigors of boarding school."

  Priscilla laughed, and Maisie joined her, having been present at the boys' former school when Priscilla decided that such an institution was not the best place for her sons.

  "We tried, James, but our boys didn't quite fit," explained Douglas. "Now they are day pupils at a school that draws from the more international families. It seems to suit them a bit better."

  "Very much so," added Priscilla. "And they have each other. Both you and Maisie are only children, aren't you? I had three smashing brothers, and Douglas has a sister and brother, so we both wanted a houseful."

  James cleared his throat. "Actually, I did have a sibling. A sister." He swirled the wine in his glass and seemed to concentrate on the whirlpool plume created by the liquid as it moved.

  Maisie and Priscilla exchanged glances. It was Maisie who spoke first.

  "You had a sister, James? I didn't know."

  He shrugged. "No, I daresay you wouldn't know. It wasn't really spoken about after she...after the loss. My mother and father were so distraught--I don't know how they managed. If it hadn't been for Maurice..." He raised his glass to his lips and finished his wine.

  Maisie nodded to Priscilla, sensing that, having begun to speak, James might either want to change the subject immediately, or continue his story. If he were relaxed enough in their company, he might go on.

  "What was her name, James?" asked Maisie.

  "Emily. Emily Grace Compton. She was eleven years old when she died." He did not look up, but remained staring at the dregs of white wine in the glass. Douglas reached forward with the bottle again, and James smiled, but Maisie could see that it was a smile with no immediate feeling, as if his face were subjected to some mild paralysis. "Thank you--just half a glass."

  Maisie, Priscilla, and Douglas allowed silence to punctuate James' slow telling of the story. At the same time, Maisie recalled Lady Rowan's anxious inquiries about the Beales, her interest in Doreen's progress, and the way she brushed off the fact that the bereaved mother had fallen behind in work--alterations and needlework--for Lady Rowan. "It's the last thing she should worry about, the clothes on my back. Oh, the poor, poor woman. She won't know where to put that terrible grief."

  "What happened, James?"

  He looked at Maisie, and brushed the fingers of his left hand through blond hair threaded with barely distinguishable gray. "We'd gone down to the woods--you know, at the bottom of the field just beyond the Dower House garden. It's a grand place for children. We used to climb trees and make camps out of fallen branches as if we were medieval bandits living in the woods. It was all very wild, but we were allowed a fairly free rein. My parents believed that too much oversight would deprive us of spirit, and already Emily was a very energetic girl. She rode her horse like the wind and was fearless when it came to jumping a hedge or fence--you should have seen her keeping up with my mother, who was a bold horsewoman in her day."

  James paused, breathing in deeply.

  "I was about nine at the time, just a couple of years younger than Emily. There used to be a place where a sort of dam had been built across the stream that runs through the wood. I think children from the village dragged some logs into position so that a makeshift swimming pool formed. There was a rope hanging from the old beech tree, so we would swing from the bank across the pool--and the water was always fresh and cool on a summer's day. The idea was to let go and splash down into the pool, which went down at least six feet in depth. So you fell in and then had to swim to the side in short order. That was the game." He took another sip of wine, his voice cracking as he spoke.

  "On this day, we'd gone down to the wood--I can still remember the smell of wild garlic underfoot wafting up around our ankles as we ran to the pool. I went first, then Emily. Time and again we ran to the swing and jumped in--we were soaking wet, but it was such fun." He paused and placed his hand on his chest. "The trouble is, I still can't quite say what happened next. I have gone over it again and again and again in my mind, and I just don't know. I can only say what I think happened." He closed his eyes. "It was my turn, but Emily was out of the water just after me and we raced each other to the bank and grabbed the rope at the same time, both of us hurtling across. We were flying through the air, giggling and whooping...then I heard a crack that seemed to ricochet through the trees, and before we knew what was happening, we were falling into the water, and the giant limb from which the swing had been hanging came down upon us." He seemed to wince as if in pain, and as his chest rose and fell against his hand, Maisie could see that the memory of being unable to breathe was still imprisoned within each cell of his body.

  "I was pressed down into the water, and I remember Emily's hand at my neck, grasping for my collar. When I tried to turn, to pull her with me, I could see she was trapped. I was coughing, trying to get out of the water, trying to get some purchase on the river mud underfoot, but the branches were clutching at me, as if the tree were alive. I could hear screaming, and realized it was me. Then I must have passed out, because the next thing I knew my father's voice came into my consciousness. Mrs. Crawford was holding me, and there were a couple of grooms from the stables on the bank trying to pull the limb out. I looked up and saw my father in the water, lifting the tree, and my mother had launched herself in to help him. I watched them try to move the branches while my mother went down into the water in a bid to free Emily. They dragged her to the bank together, and they tried so hard to save her, to no avail. I was helpless. Utterly helpless. My sister had saved my life, and I could do nothing for her. I was no better than useless."

  Maisie remembered Maurice's counsel that when a person has made a confession, it is important to accord that person the gift of silence, if only for a moment. After a suitable hiatus, Maisie leaned forward. "You loved your sister, James, and you did your utmost to help her. You did all that you could. And you were a child."

  Douglas laid a hand on James' shoulder, allowing him to feel the weight of support, then reached for his cane and pushed back from the table. "We need something a little stronger than that bottle of Montrachet, I think."

  "I say, I must apologize, going on like that."

  "James, we're friends here," said Priscilla. "I've known Maisie since Girton, and we have seen each other through thick and thin--with rather more of the thin, I must say. The circumstance of your sister's death is the stuff of nightmares in every family, and clearly it is something that will never be banished from your memory. So, even if we weren't before, we are now friends, James, because you have trusted us." She looked at Maisie as if for approval, and Maisie, her eyes red-rimmed with unshed tears, nodded at Priscilla.

  It seemed that as soon as Douglas had set a snifter of brandy in front of James, Elinor came to inform the company that the boys wanted to show James their drawings and model aeroplanes. Priscilla waited until he left the room before turning to Maisie.

  "Did you know any of that?"

  She shook her head. "It must be the best-kept secret at Chelstone--no one has ever mentioned it to me, and certainly Lady Rowan has never spoken of it. It explains a lot, though."

  "Such as?"

  Maisie tapped the side of her coffee cup with a silver spoon. "Maurice always said that carrying a heavy burden will cause a person to stoop and stagger, even though their bearing might suggest otherwise."

  "I think I see what you mea
n." Priscilla paused, taking a breath as if to ask a question. "Mais--oh, nothing, really."

  "What were you going to say?"

  "She wants to know whether you and James Compton are courting," interjected Douglas, who reached across to ruffle his wife's hair in an affectionate manner. "But she thought she might have gone too far with her inquisitiveness."

  "Fine ally you are in a time of need!" joked Priscilla, taking Douglas' hand.

  "And the answer is no--he's just a friend, and anyway, I don't think the likes of James Compton would be seriously considering me for courtship."

  "Could you be languishing in your sackcloth and ashes, Maisie?"

  "No, Pris. It's just how I view the situation."

  "The view from your mountain might be wrong."

  At that moment James Compton returned to the room, and smiled at Maisie before turning to Priscilla. "I'm not sure how much your toads will sleep tonight. I left them planning acts of airborne derring-do."

  "As long as it doesn't involve a chandelier," said Priscilla, rolling her eyes.

  "I think I'm ready, James," said Maisie.

  The four bid their farewells, with gratitude expressed for a welcome supper and good company, and as Maisie and James walked down the steps towards his motor car, Priscilla called out, "Do try to avoid the ground, Maisie. That thing on your cheek is hardly something you can cover up with a puff of powder."

  As they walked to the motor car, Maisie thought that Priscilla was wrong. The wounds of the past could always be camouflaged. Erasing them to extinguish all trace was the greater challenge.

  When they arrived in Pimlico, James parked the motor car and escorted her to the door.

  "So, this is where you live. Quite modern, isn't it?"

  "Yes, I was lucky. The builder went out of business, so the bank decided to sell the flats individually. And property seemed as good a place as any for my nest egg."

  "Very wise. And a good time to buy." James smiled at Maisie. An onlooker might have thought that neither of them knew quite what to say next, but after a lapse of a few seconds, James continued. "I'll see you on Saturday, then. At least I know where to come to pick you up now."

  Maisie nodded. "I'm looking forward to the day, though I know I'll be worrying about Maurice."

  "Yes, I think we all will. Anyway, I'd better be getting back to the club. And do let me know if you change your mind."

  "Of course. And thank you so much for taking me to see him. I just hope he gets over this spell of ill health." She looked down at her door keys and turned them in her hand. "I--I just can't imagine what I'd do if--"

  James reached towards her and pulled her to him. He said nothing at first, allowing her to weep into his shoulder. As her tears abated, he reached into his pocket for a clean white handkerchief, then lifted her face and dried her tears.

  "Everything will be all right, Maisie. I'm aware you've been through a lot in the past few years, but Maurice is a resilient chap, he bounces back. You know that."

  "I think this is different."

  "Wait and see. There." He pressed the handkerchief into her hand. "Will you be all right?"

  She nodded and smiled as she looked up at him. James kissed her on each cheek; then, just at the point when she thought he would turn to leave, he took her in his arms once again and kissed her on the lips. She did not draw back.

  So, like I said, the American bloke, from the embassy, name of John Langley, said he'd be in touch with you before the end of the week, which I suppose means by Friday for the likes of these diplomatic types."

  "What? Sorry, Billy, what did you say?"

  "Is everything all right, Miss?"

  "Yes. Yes, of course. Why?"

  Billy shrugged. "Nothing, really. You just seemed miles away, that's all, and I wondered if you were all right. You had that nasty fall, and a rotten time of it yesterday, what with having to rush down to Tunbridge Wells with that James Compton--and I bet he drives like a madman as well."

  Maisie shook her head. "No, not at all. He was quite, well, careful."

  "Hmmm. Always thought of him as a bit of a fast one. A bit of a jack-the-lad."

  Maisie said nothing, but remained deep in thought. Had Billy known of the romantic encounter with James Compton, he might have attributed her distraction to the fledgling courtship. He would not have known that, after James had left her flat, Maisie had once again turned to the letters from the English nurse to Michael Clifton. It was when she read the penultimate letter that she drew back to absorb its meaning.

  Dearest Michael,

  I have never been terribly good with my good-byes, so forgive the stilted nature of this letter. I think it's best that I come straight to the point, rather than linger with explanations or fumble with my words.

  For various reasons that do not bear recounting, I have decided that our courtship, or whatever you might call it when you hardly see a person, must come to an end. This war has made all thoughts of the future almost worthless. Neither of us knows what might happen tomorrow, next week, or next month, so it's probably best if we cease all communication. If you like, I can have those items you gave to me for safekeeping sent back to you. Please let me know what you would like me to do. Rest assured, I will take good care of them until I receive word from you.

  I hope you understand, dear Michael. I see nothing but the wounded and dying each day. Perhaps that's why I cannot see a future for us.

  Yours, fondly,

  "Tennie"

  THIRTEEN

  Having left her motor car parked outside her flat in Pimlico that morning, Maisie traveled by trolley bus and the underground for most of the journey to the Mayfair mansion where Lady Petronella Casterman lived with her son, Christopher. Priscilla had informed her--with information from her friend Julia Maynard--that the son was about sixteen years of age, and was known as "Tuffie" to members of the family. The two daughters were now married, with the eldest due to give birth to Lady Petronella's first grandchild in the not-too-distant future, to the delight of the grandmother-to-be.

  Though on the outside the mansion seemed much like any other in the area--an imposing white stucco exterior; large windows on each of three floors, with smaller top-floor windows for the servants' accommodation; and a grand entrance with Grecian-inspired columns on either side of the front door--as soon as she stepped into the light-filled entrance hall, it was clear that Lady Petronella had indulged in extensive alterations to the interior of the house. Upon entry the home inspired good cheer and optimism, its walls painted the shade of a bride's satin wedding gown, and the doors a lighter but complementary hue. It seemed that even on a bleak day, light would filter past the swags of golden fabric that adorned the windows, to be transmuted so that one might believe the sun to be shining. There was no grand collection of paintings of now-dead ancestors, though in the drawing room Maisie's attention was drawn to a family portrait of Lady Petronella and her daughters, with Tuffie sitting on his mother's knee, a toy train in one hand and the thumb of his other hand in his mouth. Another large yet simple charcoal sketch revealed Giles Casterman to have been a man of fine features, with slightly hooded eyes and a wry smile that suggested he and the artist had just shared a joke.

  As Maisie was looking at a series of silver-framed family photographs set on the grand piano by the window, the door opened and Lady Petronella entered the room.

  "Miss Dobbs. How lovely to meet you."

  Maisie turned at the woman's entrance and stepped in her direction. Not all women, especially those of a certain age, expected to shake hands in greeting with another female, especially one they presumed to be of a lower station--and a working woman was often thought of as such--but the aristocratic widow showed no such sensibility and held out her hand to take Maisie's in a firm grasp.

  "Thank you so much for agreeing to see me, Lady Petronella, and for taking the time to place a telephone call to my office."

  "Not at all. If someone wants to see you, you might as well get it ove
r and done with and help them if you can." She held out her hand towards a chintz-covered sofa, and as they were seated, Maisie took stock of her hostess.

  Lady Petronella was of average height, perhaps a couple of inches shorter than Maisie, but in the way she held herself, she seemed taller. She had retained the leanness of girlhood, her clothes were fashionable without revealing a woman loath to give up her youth, and her rich black hair--the color possibly enhanced with a tint--was cut in a soft, wavy bob. She wore little makeup, which drew attention to still-flawless skin, and had a ready smile and eyes that seemed to sparkle upon meeting her guest for the first time. Maisie thought she was the kind of woman that one could not help but like upon meeting.

  "Would you care for some tea, Miss Dobbs? Our cook has just made delicious macaroons--they're my son's favorite, and she spoils him terribly."

  Maisie smiled. She remembered Mrs. Crawford making ginger biscuits for James when he returned to Ebury Place, and the playful teasing between the two when he sneaked into her domain to steal the hot-from-the-oven treat.

  "Yes, a cup of tea and a macaroon would be lovely--thank you."

  Lady Petronella summoned the butler and asked for tea and macaroons to be brought to the drawing room, and then turned to Maisie. "Now then, Miss Dobbs, perhaps you could tell me why you've been anxious to see me. I understand you're interested in my work during the war."

  Maisie nodded. "Yes, that's right. I'm trying to locate an English nurse who became...let us say, she became romantically involved with an American man. I should add that he enlisted in 1914, and was a military cartographer with the Royal Engineers. He was able to enlist in our army because his father was born a British subject, and of course his expertise in his field made him a valuable recruit."

  "Yes, yes, I can imagine." Lady Petronella looked up as the butler returned with tea, and did not continue speaking until the table in front of their chairs was set for the repast. "Milk and sugar?" asked Maisie's hostess, before she poured tea.