Maisie Dobbs (11 page)

CHAPTER TEN

M
aisie had hardly been able to concentrate on anything since being discovered. She felt sure that notice to leave the employ of Lord and Lady Compton would soon follow, and was surprised that one week had gone by without any word. Then Carter summoned Maisie to his “office,” the term he sometimes used—especially in grave situations where a reprimand was to be meted out—to describe the butler’s pantry, a small room adjacent to the kitchen, where he kept meticulous records regarding the running of the house.

Maisie was in a miserable state. The embarrassment of being caught, together with the pain of anticipating her father’s dismay at her behavior, was almost too much to bear. And of course, she no longer had access to the Comptons’ library. Wringing her already work-reddened hands, Maisie knocked on the door of Mr. Carter’s office. Her nails were bitten down to the quick, and she had picked at her cuticles until her fingers were raw. It had been a nerve-wracking week.

“Enter,” said Carter, with a tone that was neither soft and welcoming nor overtly displeased. It was a tone that gave nothing away.

“Good morning, Mr. Carter.” Maisie bobbed a curtsy as she walked into the small room.“You wanted to see me, Sir?”

“Yes, Maisie. You know why I have summoned you. Lady Compton wishes to meet with you at twelve noon today. Sharp. In the library. I shall myself be in attendance, as will a colleague of both Lord and Lady Compton.

“Yes, Mr. Carter.”

Maisie could bear the wait no longer, and although fear was nipping at her throat and chest, she had to know her fate.

“Mr. Carter, Sir?”

“Yes, Maisie?” Carter regarded her over half-moon spectacles.

“Mr. Carter. Can’t you just get on with it? Give me the sack now, so that I don’t have to—”

“Maisie. No one has said anything about the sack. I am instructed only to accompany you to a meeting with Lady Rowan and Dr. Blanche. I have also been requested to take your notebooks to the library this morning at half past ten. Please bring them to me directly so that I can take them to Lady Rowan.”

“But . . .” Maisie did not understand, and although she thought that Carter did not understand either, she suspected he might have an inkling.“Mr. Carter, Sir. What’s this all about?”

Carter adjusted his tie and swept an imaginary hair from the cuff of his crisp white shirt.“Maisie, it is most unusual. However, I do not believe your employment here is at an end. In fact, rather the contrary. Now then. The notebooks. Then I believe the sideboard in the dining room is to be waxed and polished this morning, so you had better get on.”

Maisie bobbed another curtsy and turned to leave the office.

“And Maisie,” said Carter, sweeping back his well-combed gray-at-the-temples hair. “Although respect should always be accorded our employers and their guests, there’s no need to keep bobbing up and down like a sewing-machine needle when you are downstairs.”

Maisie absentmindedly bobbed again and quickly left the office. She returned fifteen minutes later with her collection of small notebooks for Carter. She was terrified of the meeting that was to take place at twelve noon, and was sure that she would spend half the time until then in the lavatory.

Carter was waiting at the foot of the first-floor stairs at five minutes to twelve when Maisie walked toward him from the landing that led to the lower stairs and the kitchen. He drew his pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket, determined to be not a moment too soon or a second too late.

“Ah, Maisie,” he said as she approached, hands clasped together in front of her white pinafore.

Carter looked the girl up and down to check for marks on the pinafore and scuffs on her shoes, for stray tendrils of hair escaping from her white cap.

“Nicely turned out. Good. Let us proceed.”

Carter checked his watch once more, turned, and led the way to the library. Maisie had a horrible taste in her mouth. What would her father say when she came home with her small canvas bag and no job? Well, perhaps it was for the best. She missed him something rotten, so perhaps it would be a very good thing. Carter knocked briskly at the door. A voice could be heard within.

“Come in.”

Maisie closed her eyes for a second, put her hands behind her back, and crossed her fingers.

“Ah, Carter. Miss Dobbs. Maisie. Do come in.”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” said Carter. Maisie bobbed her curtsy and looked sideways at Carter. Lady Rowan beckoned Maisie to her.

“Maurice, this is the girl of whom we have been speaking.”Then, inclining her head slightly toward Maisie, she said, “I would like to introduce Dr. Maurice Blanche. He knows of our meeting in the library, and I have consulted with him regarding the situation.”

Maisie was now utterly confused. What situation? And who was this man? What was going on? Maisie nodded and curtsied to the man standing alongside Lady Rowan.

“Sir,” she said in acknowledgment.

She didn’t know what to make of this small man. He wasn’t as tall as Lady Rowan, and while he looked well fed, there was a wiryness to him. Solid, as her dad would have said. Solid. She couldn’t even guess his age, but thought he was older than her dad, but not as old as Grandad. Over fifty, perhaps sixty. He had blue-gray eyes that looked as if they were floating in water, they were that clear. And his hands—they had long fingers with wide nails. Hands that could play the piano, very exact hands that made precise movements. She saw that when he took up her notebooks from a walnut side table and flicked a page or two.

He was a plain dresser, not done up like two penn’orth of hambone like some of them that she’d seen at the house. No, this was a plain man. And he looked right through her. And because she thought that she had nothing to lose and because her dad had told her always to “stand tall,” Maisie stiffened her spine, pulled her shoulders back, and looked him straight in the eye as he had looked at her. Then he smiled.

“Miss Dobbs, Maisie. Lady Rowan has spoken with me about your encounter in the library last week.”

Here it comes, thought Maisie. She clenched her teeth.

“Now then, come with me.”

Maurice Blanche walked to the library table and sat down, then invited Maisie to sit next to him, with her notebooks in front of them.

Lady Rowan nodded at Carter, who remained by the door, as she walked to stand by the window. They watched as Blanche spoke with Maisie.

Gradually he broke down Maisie’s shyness and the formalities that separated housemaid and houseguest. Within fifteen minutes the two were in animated conversation. Maurice Blanche asked questions, Maisie answered, often with another question. Clever, thought Carter, very clever. The way that Dr. Blanche drew Maisie out, with his voice, his eyes, a finger tapped upon the page, a question punctuated by a hand placed on the chin to listen. Lady Rowan was equally riveted by the discourse, but her interest was of a more personal nature. Maisie Dobbs’s future was part of her own quest to challenge herself, and what was considered correct in a household such as hers and for a woman of her titled position.

An hour passed. An hour during which Carter was sent to bring tea for Dr. Blanche. Nothing was requested for Maisie. It would never do for a man of Carter’s position to be at the service of a maid. Yet Carter sensed that something important was happening, that this was an hour during which the established structure of life in the house was changing. And he foresaw that changes that came as a result of whatever came to pass in this room this morning would affect them all. And these were strange-enough times already, what with old King Edward just dead and King George V’s coronation around the corner.

Finally Maurice Blanche asked Maisie to close and collect her books. She did as instructed and drew away from the table to stand next to Carter, while Lady Rowan joined Maurice Blanche at the table.

“Rowan, I am more than satisfied,” said Dr. Blanche. “You may reveal our plan to Miss Dobbs and Mr. Carter. Then we shall see if Mr. Carter agrees and how we may begin.”

Lady Rowan spoke, first looking at Carter, then at Maisie. “Last week when I came upon Miss Dobbs in the library, I was struck by the breadth of her reading. We know that anyone can take down a book and read, but when I briefly looked at her notebooks I realized that there was also a depth of understanding. You are a very bright girl, Miss Dobbs.”

Lady Rowan glanced at Maurice Blanche, who nodded to her to continue.

“I know that this is most unusual. Carter has already been given an indication of my thoughts, and has concurred with my decision. Now I can be more specific. Lord Compton and I are believers in education and opportunity. However, opportunities to contribute directly are rare. Miss Dobbs, we have a proposal for you.”

Maisie blushed and looked at her shoes as Lady Rowan continued.

“Under the direction of Dr. Blanche you will continue your studies here. Dr. Blanche is a busy man, but he will meet with you once every fortnight in the library. Your studies, and the tutorials with Dr. Blanche, must, however, be on your own time and must not interfere in any way with your work in the house. What do you say to that, Maisie?”

Maisie was shocked, but after taking a moment to consider, she flashed the smile that seemed to be working its way back into her life. “Thank you, Ma’am. Sir—Dr. Blanche—thank you.”

“Miss Dobbs,” said Maurice Blanche, “hold your thanks for the time being. You may not take kindly to me when you have seen my plans for your education.”

“You’d’ve thought they would’ve just sent you to one of those fancy schools, on the QT, like. Or even paid for your uniform and all that, for the school where you won the scholarship. They’re not short of a few bob, are they?”

Maisie nodded.

“But you know what I reckon, Mais? To be perf-hectly honest with you. I reckon they knew you would ’ave a rotten time there. What with all them toffs. It would get you down, it would. Reckon that’s what it is.”

Without waiting for a response, and using her hairbrush as a pointer for emphasis, Enid continued. “And what you’ve got to remember, Dobbsie, is that there’s them upstairs, and there’s us downstairs. There’s no middle, never was. So the likes of you and me can’t just move up a bit, if that’s what you think. We’ve got to jump, Dobbsie, and bloody ’igh to boot!”

Maisie knew that there was more than a grain of truth in her words. But if Her Ladyship wanted a cause, someone with whom to play ‘Lady Bountiful,’ she didn’t mind being on the receiving end if it meant getting on with her education.

Maisie changed the subject. “So, where were you tonight, Enid?” she asked.

“Never you mind. You can keep that there clever mind of yours on your own business now, and don’t you be thinking about mine.”

Maisie closed her eyes, then quickly fell asleep. She dreamt of long corridors of books, of Dr. Blanche at the library table, and of Enid. And even with the excitement of her lessons with Dr. Blanche, it was the dream about Enid that remained with her throughout the next day, and for some days to come. And she tried not to think about the dream and Enid, because every time she did, she shivered along the full length of her spine.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

L
ord Julian Compton knew of his wife’s “project” and gave the education of Maisie Dobbs his blessing, although secretly he believed that the exercise would soon falter and any ambitions shown by young Miss Dobbs would be extinguished under the strain of trying to be two very different people, to say nothing of being a girl on the cusp of womanhood. He was intrigued by Maurice Blanche and his interest in Maisie’s education, and it was this involvement, rather than his wife’s philanthropic gestures, that led him to allow that the project might, in fact, have some merit. He held Maurice Blanche in high esteem, and was even in some awe of the man.

Maisie, for her part, felt no fatigue at the end of a long day. She began her chores in the household at her usual early hour, starting with the lighting of fires, the cleaning of rooms, and the polishing of heavy mahogany furniture. The job of cleaning cutlery fell to the junior footman, though when she handled the solid silver knives and forks, perhaps when cleaning the dining room after dinner guests had departed to the drawing room, she looked with care at the inscription. Each piece of fine cutlery bore the Compton crest, a great hunting dog and a stag together with the words “Let There Be No Ill Will.” Maisie pondered the crest as she collected the soiled silverware. The hunter and the hunted, the suggestion of forgiveness between the victor and the victim, and the fact that both stood tall and proud. In fact, Maisie had taken to pondering just about everything that happened in the course of a day, seeing coincidences and patterns in the life around her.

Mrs. Crawford put Maisie’s behavior down to her work with Maurice Blanche, an assumption that was, of course, correct.

“I dunno, when I was a girl learning meant your reading, your writing, and your ’rithmetic. None of this lark, this philosophy nonsense.”

Mrs. Crawford pointed a floury finger at Maisie, who had just returned from the weekly visit to the library. She was placing books, those for Mrs. Crawford and Mr. Carter, as well as her own, carefully in a kitchen cupboard, so they would not become soiled by the business of the kitchen. Later she would take her selection to her room for more late-night reading. Cook had immediately noted the girth of Maisie’s books, and could not resist comment—to which Carter felt bound to respond.

“I am sure that Mr. Blanche knows more about the education of a young person for today’s world than either you or I, Cook. But I must say, Maisie, that is rather a large tome, is it not?”

Carter, decanting a fine port, did not stop his task to wait for an answer, but cast his eyes over his spectacles in Maisie’s direction.

“Maisie—are you listening to Mr. Carter?”

Carter exchanged glances with Mrs. Crawford, and both rolled their eyes in a compact that hid their true feelings. They were very proud of Maisie Dobbs, and laid some claim in their hearts to the discovery of her intellectual gifts.

“Sorry, Mr. Carter. Were you speaking to me?” She had to remove her little finger from her mouth to speak. Maisie had hurried back from the library to allow an extra few moments to dip into one of her books.

“Yes, Mr. Carter was speaking to you, Maisie—and if I see that finger in your mouth again, I swear I’ll paint your nails with carbolic. It’s a wonder you’ve got hands left, they way you chew on those fingers.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Crawford. Begging your pardon, Mr. Carter? I’ll get going again now. I just thought I’d take a quick peek.”

Carter studied the kitchen clock. “You can have five minutes. Cook and I were commenting on the width of that book. It’s a fair size. Is Dr. Blanche working you too hard, Maisie?”

“It’s Kierkegaard. Mr. Blanche says I should read this because he— Kierkegaard—has had a considerable influence on modern thought. And no, don’t worry, I can keep up with everything.”

Cook and Carter exchanged glances once again, neither wanting to show ignorance about some newfangled thing that sounded to both of them like “kick the guard.”

In the meantime Maisie took a notebook from her apron pocket and began to write down her questions and observations for Maurice Blanche. As Carter had suspected, she had already started reading the book on her way back from the library, and was sufficiently into it to be completely absorbed. Once finished, she replaced the notebook in her pocket, glanced at the heavy oak clock with the pearl white face and bold black numbers that was visible from any angle in the kitchen, and stood up from the table.

“I just need to put my book away, then I’ll get on with making up the stove before I do the polishing.”

Maisie moved quickly from the room, remembering the house rule that those from “below stairs” never ever ran, but when speed was of the essence, a brisk walk was permissible.

“I don’t know how she still manages to see her poor father, what with her work down here, and all that book learning. I will say this for her, she’s got some spirit, has that girl.” Mrs. Crawford swept her forearm across her brow and continued with the pastry making. Carter had completed the task of decanting the port and was now uncorking brandy, to be carefully poured into a fine cut-crystal decanter. He made no reply to Mrs. Crawford’s comments, which rather annoyed the woman, as she was given to strong opinions and the need to defend and discuss them.

“I wonder, Mr. Carter, what will happen when Maisie has a young man. I wonder, you know, what will happen to her. Fish can’t survive long out of water, you know.”

Mrs. Crawford stopped rolling the pastry and looked at Carter, who remained silent. “I said, Mr. Carter—”

“Cook—Mrs. Crawford—I know what you said. I would suggest that the education of Miss Dobbs is in good hands. I would also suggest that Miss Dobbs is a very determined young woman who will be more successful than most when it comes to surviving outside her established boundaries. Now then, it is not for us to question the decisions of our employers. We can do only what is required of us in the circumstances, don’t you think?”

Mrs. Crawford, who had been filling a pastry-lined dish with fresh-sliced apple, added cinnamon and clove with rather more than her usual flourish, replied with a certain asperity, “Right you are, Mr. Carter,” before turning her back on him to check the oven.

For her part Maisie knew only that the work challenged and excited her. When Maurice handed her a new text, she felt a thrill of anticipation. Would the book be brand new, unread, with pages untouched by another? If so, then Maurice would request a précis of the content, and her assessment of the text.

“Four pages of quarto, if you please. And a word of advice. This man has opinions. Opinions, as we have discussed, are not fact. But of course, as we know, Maisie, they may be the source of truth. I will be speaking with you about the truth demonstrated in this thesis, Maisie, so be prepared!”

Of course, the text may have already been read and in that case, each page would bear penciled notation in Maurice Blanche’s small, fine handwriting with its slight slant to the right. A single page of questions would be tucked inside, between the back page and the cover. Maisie knew that each question must be answered.

“I never want to learn that you ‘don’t know,’ Maisie, I want to know what you
think
the answer is to the question. And once more, a word of advice: Stay with the question. The more it troubles you, the more it has to teach you. In time, Maisie, you will find that the larger questions in life share such behavior.”

I
t had been almost two years since Maisie’s mother passed away, and still Frankie Dobbs grieved. He swore that it was Maisie who kept him going, for Frankie Dobbs lived for Sundays, and always the ritual was the same.

Although it was not a market day, Frankie would be at the stable with Persephone from an early hour, not as early as on a weekday, but early all the same. He talked softly to his mare, brushing her coat until she shone, caring for mane and tail, and checking hooves that had to pull a heavy load over a considerable distance each day. There was a warm, oaty sweetness to the stable, and here Frankie, often so ungainly when walking down the street or in company, was completely at ease. It was usually as Frankie was halfway through the Sunday morning round of chores that Maisie could be heard walking up the cobblestones toward the stable.

“Dad, I’m here,” Maisie called out to him before looking over the half-door and waving. Always she brought something for Frankie from Mrs. Crawford, perhaps a pork pie wrapped in fine white muslin and brown paper, freshly baked bread still warm to the touch, or a steamed apple pudding that needed only “A bit o’ warming up over the stove,” according to the cook.

Maisie quickly pulled off her coat and rolled up her sleeves. Father and daughter worked together to finish the morning’s labor, their talk made easier by their movement. They shared confidences easily as their hands were busy with job of work.

“So, your learning’s coming along, is it, Girl?”

“Yes, Dad. Dr. Blanche is looking ahead, he says. Reckons I could be ready for scholarship and entrance exams next year.”

“Entrance for what?” asked Frankie, as he moved toward the pump to refill his bucket with water to rinse Persephone’s leather reins and traces, which he had just lathered with saddle soap.

“Well, um, university. Dr. Blanche says I can do it. Her ladyship is very keen for me to apply to Cambridge, to Girton College. Says it’s the place for an individualist.”

“Did she now? Cambridge. Well, there’s posh for you, my girl!” Frankie laughed but then looked seriously at Maisie. “As long as you don’t push yourself, Love. And Cambridge is a long way off, isn’t it? Where would you live? And what about mixing with the type of folk at a place like that”

“I dunno, Dad. I have to live at the college, I think. There are all sorts of rules about that, you know. And I will meet people. I’ll be just fine, Dad. Girton is a women’s college away in a village, after all.”

“Yes, but those other young women have more money than you do, and they’ve got more, you know, connections, like.”

Maisie looked up from brushing Persephone. Even though Frankie had already brushed the horse from head to tail, Maisie loved to feel the warm animal close to her, and knew the horse appreciated her efforts.

“Dad, I’m not a child any more. I’m fifteen now. And I’ve seen more than a lot of girls my age. Dr. Blanche knows what he is doing.”

“Yes, love, I’m sure he does. Clever man, that one. I just worry about you.”

Frankie rubbed the cleaned leather with a dry cloth, and hung reins and traces from a hook on the low ceiling. Later, after Maisie’s return to Belgravia, Frankie would come back to the stable to feed Persephone, then take down the dry reins, bridle, and traces, and rub warmed neatsfoot oil into the leather.