The Mapping of Love and Death (13 page)

Upon revisiting the site of the casualty clearing station where she had worked, now a cemetery for those who died when the unit came under enemy fire, Maisie had suffered a breakdown. It was Maurice who had looked after her until she regained consciousness, and Maurice who had brought much-needed healing when he directed her to face her past so she could move beyond the memories and the years of suffering. “Wound agape,” he had said, “is when we find healing in the blood of the wound itself.” And she understood, then, that to rise above the pain that still inflamed her heart, she had to face the dragons of her war, or she would forever be at their mercy. Now, in this clinic where Maurice was clinging to life, it was as if every lesson, every memory of him, was being brought back to her to see again in her mind’s eye. He had offered balm for so many of her wounds, and for that she loved him as if she were his own.

Maisie rose from the chair, leaned across the bed, and kissed Maurice’s forehead. She waited only a few seconds more before leaving the room and joining Andrew Dene and James Compton.

“Thank you, Andrew. I’m glad you’re here. I’m relieved to know you’re in charge of his care.”

“It was in his instructions, actually. His doctor told me that he has everything planned for the future, right down to who should be summoned at whatever stage of his illness. And I was to be brought in if he was transferred to the clinic.”

“Just like Maurice. Always one step ahead of everyone else.” James took a calling card from his pocket and handed it to Dene, then shook
hands with him. “I meant no offense when I asked about the consultant, and I hope you don’t take it as such. We all love him so very much, don’t we? Anyway, if you need anything—and I mean anything—with regard to his well-being, be in touch with me straightaway at this number.”

Dene nodded. “Will do—thank you.” He turned to Maisie, leaned forward, and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll see you again soon, Maisie. And don’t worry, I will keep you posted. He should be going home on Saturday or Sunday, and if there’s any change, I will telephone you.”

Maisie nodded her thanks, at once unable to speak.

“And before you go, let me give you some ointment for that graze. It’ll heal faster, and you don’t want a scar, do you?’

Dene led the way to the consulting room, and as they walked along the corridor, James Compton put his arm around Maisie’s shoulder, as if to protect her. Later, she would try to give words to the effect that the gesture had upon her, and had to admit that it made her feel as if she was protected, and safe.

M
aisie placed telephone calls to her father and Priscilla prior to leaving the clinic, and when she informed her friend of the reason she was unable to come to tea, Priscilla insisted that she and James drive from the clinic straight to the house in Kensington for an early supper. “We’ll be sitting down with those toads, but as I always warn you, that’s how we do things in this house in all but the most illustrious company. In any case, as soon as they know that James was an aviator in the war, they will be all over him like a sprawling vine—your eldest godson has aeroplanes on the brain, and is already saying that he wants to be a fearless flier when he grows up. I swear that one of them, and probably my budding airman, will send me back to daytime drink!”

Having had her cheek tended by Andrew Dene, Maisie left the clinic with a heavy heart, and for a time she and James Compton sat in silence on the drive back to London. Yet it was a comfortable silence, soothing her as much as the journey itself.

They were close to Sevenoaks when Maisie spoke. “It was good of you to take me to the clinic, James. I do hope it doesn’t seem like too much of a wasted journey because Maurice was asleep.”

“Absolutely not. And remember, I was under my mother’s orders to chauffeur you to Tunbridge Wells, so there’s no blame on your part. It was important that we went—for me as much as you, Maisie.” James slid the motor into a higher gear as they went up River Hill. “Dene reckons Maurice will be able to go home on Saturday afternoon, so I imagine you’ll want to come straight to Chelstone after we’ve been to Brooklands—and if you don’t want to go to the racing, do say. You won’t be letting me down.” He turned and half smiled. “But perhaps the day out might help take your mind off things.”

Maisie felt unsure at first, for she could not imagine her mind being on anything but Maurice. Yet on the other hand, the thought of hours filled with mounting concern at home was not an attractive proposition. She turned to James. “Yes, let’s go. You’re right—if I’m at Brooklands, I won’t have time to worry. But I would very much like to return to Chelstone as soon as the meet is over, to see Maurice as soon as he’s settled. Andrew said he’d telephone tomorrow and Friday to keep me apprised of his progress.”

James nodded, and for a moment Maisie thought he might ask about her courtship with Andrew Dene.

“We’re making good time. We’ll be in Kensington before you know it—and Maisie, I know that your friend Priscilla has extended the invitation for me to come to supper, but if it’s awkward for you—”

“Oh, please—do come. Priscilla loves meeting new people, and her boys will be thrilled to come face-to-face with a man who flew aeroplanes in the war. You’ll be grilled about your exploits, and by the time they go to school tomorrow morning, they will have elevated you to being personally responsible for taking down the Red Baron.”

“Oh yes, James Compton, aviator extraordinaire, who sustained his war wounds while on the ground.”

“You came under enemy attack.”

“I would have felt better about it if I’d have been up in the air at the time.”

“Well, your mother was delighted that you came home wounded, and not at death’s door, doubly so when you were transferred to a desk job. She thought she would lose you.”

“It’s a bit hard to face someone like Douglas Partridge, a man who was felled by his wounds, who cannot walk without a cane, and who has had an arm amputated. And whose writing—his pacifism—makes him a force to be reckoned with.”

Maisie turned to face James. “You’ve read his articles?”

“Of course. The man is brilliant. To tell you the truth, I am looking forward to meeting him. Why?”

“Nothing. I suppose I was just a little surprised, James.”

They were silent again, and in that time, Maisie felt James’ discomfort, as if there were more he wanted to say. On her part, there was also a lack of ease, as she considered that she had held on to impressions of James gained in earlier days, when she was a girl and he was the young man for whom Enid—the outspoken housemaid who had taken Maisie under her wing when she first came to work at the Ebury Place mansion—had set her hat. Enid, who would forever be twenty years of age.

Maisie was so wrapped in her thoughts that she was startled when James spoke again.

“Look, about that day at Khan’s house.”

She raised her hand. “You don’t need to say anything, James. I have known Khan for a long time. Whatever the purpose of your visit, it’s no business of mine. Your reasons for being there are your own, so there is no need to explain anything to me.”

“Thank you. Yes—yes, you’re right. Perhaps another time.”

“Another time. Of course.”

M
aisie could see that Priscilla’s sons had been coiled like springs, the three of them waiting on the staircase for the much-anticipated guests to arrive. After running to Maisie to welcome her, they turned their attention to James and, she thought, all but saluted him.

Priscilla came out to meet her guests, and was introduced to James. Maisie could see that he had merited her friend’s broadest smile.

“I hope you don’t mind, but they have been champing at the bit, lurking on that staircase to get a bird’s-eye view of you as soon as you crossed the threshold. I know this is not how young English boys should behave, but, well, they’ve been used to a different kind of life. Now then, let’s repair to the drawing room for a glass of something interesting, eh.” Priscilla led the way and gestured her guests to follow. “Douglas, they’re here!” she called out to her husband, then leaned towards Maisie. “By the way, your assistant called at the house earlier. I have a message for you.” She took a folded envelope from the slanted pocket set at the side of her wide palazzo pants. “Let’s get settled, then you can huddle by yourself in the corner for a moment or two to read. If you need to use the telephone, nip up to use the one in my sitting room, for some privacy.” She turned back to James and, taking his arm, introduced him to her husband. “Darling, here’s Maisie’s friend, James Compton. Do engage him while you can before your sons drag him off to their lair.”

As soon as she was furnished with a drink—Priscilla had ensured that a bottle of champagne was chilled ready for their arrival—Maisie made her way to the French windows overlooking the courtyard and garden beyond and took out Billy’s note, written in his distinctive primary-school hand.

T
he usually boisterous Partridge boys were on their best behavior throughout the meal, though Maisie suspected the show of exemplary manners was mainly to ingratiate themselves with the much-anticipated guest, and to persuade him to look at their aeroplane drawings and models. The youngest, Tarquin, soon began to give in to tired
ness, and rubbed his eyes as he became rather grumpy with his older brothers.

“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.”