Elegy for Eddie (4 page)

She liked the arrangement as it stood with James; it suited her. But since he had taken up residence at 15 Ebury Place, Maisie was not quite so comfortable. It wasn’t that she didn’t know the house—indeed, at the request of Lady Rowan Compton, she had once returned to the mansion to live in rooms there for over a year before purchasing her flat. No, this was different, and while she sat in the MG as the damp evening air replaced the day’s warmth, seeping into the motor car to cling to her clothing, she realized she knew exactly why those feelings of discomfort had assailed her.

Though she had the advantage of a good education and had worked hard to earn a respected name in her profession, she came from poverty. She had been a maid in this very house. It was Lady Rowan who, in 1912, had discovered the young domestic servant reading in the library in the early hours of the morning. Recognizing the girl’s intellect, Rowan had turned to her friend, the esteemed psychologist and forensic scientist Maurice Blanche, for advice. So began the relationship—and the opportunities—that formed the woman Maisie would become. Maurice directed Maisie’s education, the intensity of her studies leading to her winning a place at Girton College in Cambridge. She suspended her education to enlist for nursing service in the war, returning later to complete her studies, and then to work with Maurice as his assistant.

Since inheriting Maurice’s fortune, it seemed to many of those who knew Maisie that she had taken on the mantle of wealth with confidence; however, it was likely only her father and, perhaps, Priscilla, who suspected that Maisie was now experiencing something of a struggle. She had purchased a few items of furniture for her previously spartan flat in Pimlico, and there had been some painting done on The Dower House—the home Maurice had purchased years before on the Chelstone Estate in Kent—but otherwise she had spent no money unless it was on others. There had been the investment in a semi-detached house in Eltham, which she now rented to Billy at a peppercorn rate—she would have loved to give him the house as a gift, but she knew much embarrassment would have been caused to the very proud man. She had helped Sandra where she could, assisting her with the cost of classes she attended in the evenings, and she had already planned to pay for her to attend Birkbeck College—her explanation being that it was in her interests to promote the education of her staff. She felt that in this one act she was repaying a debt. Lady Rowan and Maurice Blanche had paid for her first two terms at Girton, before she gave up her studies to serve as a nurse in France—though when she returned to complete her tertiary education, she had won a scholarship.

Now she was parked outside the house in which she had once been a maid, where she had first entered via the side door that led into the belowstairs scullery. And now she was walking out with the master of the house who, she knew, had come to expect her to be his consort when guests arrived for supper or when a party was held. It was as if, in her flat, she could imagine her life had not changed. She could cook supper. They would sit by the fire and talk. And in truth, if she admitted it to herself, she could control how much . . . what? She rubbed her hands across her face, tired. Yes, she could control how she felt. She could pretend that Maurice’s generosity had not made everything different. There was part of her that wanted to retain the need to exercise thrift, to consider every purchase with care. It was the part of her that did not want to let go of her beginnings as she became more established. The bequest had changed all that. She was a woman of property, of wealth, and the days of want had slipped away into the past. Maurice had trusted her to accept the legacy with integrity. She knew others considered her conduct exemplary—there had been no mad spending sprees, after all—but inside there remained an element of fear. She was afraid she might lose touch with her past, and in so doing lose herself.

Maisie walked up the front steps and rang the bell to summon the new butler, Simmonds, who, she thought, must have been lurking on the other side of the door, waiting to welcome her into the newly decorated entrance hall. The hall and broad staircase before her were now flooded with electric light that brought the old house alive; indeed, since its redecoration, Maisie thought the mansion was like an old lady who had discovered her girlhood again. She had even heard one of the maids saying that all the mansion needed was the laughter of children to add some life to the household. It was a comment that gave Maisie pause.

“Is the Viscount home yet, Simmonds?”

“No, mu’um. He telephoned with a message to say that he expects to arrive at seven o’clock. He asked that you should decide at what hour dinner will be served.”

“Let’s say eight o’clock, shall we? We’ll have drinks beforehand, at about half past seven.”

“Very good—”

“Simmonds, please, do call me Miss Dobbs. I know this isn’t what you’re used to, but I’ve asked before and I really do not care to be addressed as ‘ma’am’ or ‘madam’ or ‘mu’um.’ ”

“Right you are . . . Miss Dobbs. I shall remind the staff.”

“Thank you. Now, I think I will go to my room.”

“I’ve asked Millicent to run a bath for you, Miss Dobbs.”

“How thoughtful,” said Maisie. “Especially after a long day.”

“Indeed.” The butler gave a short bow.

She wanted to tell him there was no need to bow before her, but that would have meant more embarrassment. “Well then, I’ll go up,” she said, and walked towards the staircase.

James had insisted upon Maisie having her own rooms at Ebury Place, though when she stayed at the mansion, they lived as man and wife; his own rooms were adjacent and accessible through a dressing room. As far as the new staff was concerned, Maisie was mistress of the house, and though the more junior members had no idea that Maisie had first come to the property as a servant herself, she suspected it would only be a matter of time before that snippet of intelligence worked its way up from Chelstone Manor, the Compton estate in Kent.

She breathed a sigh of relief upon reaching her rooms—which had been decorated in colors reminiscent of The Dower House.

“I wish this wasn’t so complicated,” she said aloud, as she half-threw her briefcase onto the bureau in the corner.

“I beg your pardon, mu’um?”

“Oh, sorry, Millicent. I didn’t realize you were there.”

“Just adding a bit of lavender oil to your bath, mu’um.”

“Millicent—”

“I know, sorry—Miss Dobbs.”

“Thank you—and thank you for the lavender oil; your thoughtfulness is much appreciated. That will be all for now, Millicent.”

As Maisie soaked in the hot bathwater, she leaned back and allowed her thoughts to skim across the events of the day, as if she were watching a picture show. In her mind’s eye she reconsidered the expressions of those she had spoken to. The men, a little embarrassed when asking for help from a woman they’d known as a child. There was the fragile bereaved mother, herself no more than a girl when she’d given birth to her son, and who had been aged beyond her years by work, worry, and now grief. She thought she would try to take Jennie aside to ask some questions, and she thought again about Eddie. Tweaking the tap with her toe for more hot water—the new boiler in the cellars under the house had worked like a charm, so in winter the radiators were always hot when they were supposed to be hot, and the water was piping whenever one wanted a good long bath, whatever the time of year—Maisie felt an ache. She had felt the same pain when she was a child, watching him walking along the road, or when he came to the house to mix a poultice for Frankie’s horse. “I don’t know what he does that’s different, but when that boy makes a poultice, it does the trick in half the time,” her father had said.

She suspected Eddie must have suffered the sting of loneliness, a sense of separation that lifted only when he was with horses. Was his death simply a matter of a terrible accident? Or was there something more to be uncovered? She knew from experience that following even the most innocent passing, something always came to light that was not known before. Thus she would have to tread with care, for she knew that in her desire to be of service to men she considered to be the giants of her childhood, it would be easy to interpret the inexplicable as something more insidious.

She remembered once asking her father how it could be that Eddie’s presence calmed an intemperate horse.

“Well, Maisie, there’s them who reckon it’s on account of him being born in the stables, and his mother having to take him to work with her when he was just a baby. It was as if he knew he’d have to be quiet around them right from the beginning, or she would’ve lost her job. But later on, I thought about it and I reckoned it was to do with the horses themselves. You see, they don’t think about yesterday, or what’s happening tomorrow, they just want to know what happens right now and if they’ll be safe, looked after. And Eddie was like that too—he’d forgotten a lot of yesterday by the time today rolled around, and he didn’t take on tomorrow before it got here, so they were the same—they took it all as it came, and when he was with them, they knew his mind wasn’t anywhere else. I’ve always thought that calms a horse, if they know you’re right there with them.”

Despite Eddie’s shyness, he’d always had a hail-fellow-well-met attitude about him; he trusted people. Indeed, it was as if to mistrust would take more from him than he could give; so he carried with him an innocence, a simplicity found in young children. If he had changed in the past month, then something had happened to damage that innocence, and along with it the gift of being able to meet the next moment as if the last had not happened.

D
arling, are you there?”

“Just a minute.” Maisie stepped out of the bathtub, toweled her body, and slipped into a deep-blue dressing gown.

“Hello, darling. I’ve missed you.” James stood in the doorway, then came to take her in his arms. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve had one of those days.”

“Me too. I told Simmonds that we’d dine about eight and have drinks about half past seven—how does that sound?”

“Nothing too formal, I hope.”

“If you didn’t want formal, James, you shouldn’t have taken on staff and a butler.”

“I know—I didn’t realize how much I was getting used to quiet suppers at your flat or a visit to Bertorelli’s.”

It was over a supper of roast lamb with mint sauce, Jersey Royal potatoes, and green beans, that Maisie asked James about John Otterburn.

“Otterburn? Of course I know him. I don’t see him regularly, but we keep in touch. In fact, funny you should mention him—look here, an invitation arrived today. The Otterburns are having a supper do at their London house. I was going to send apologies, but, well, would you like to go?”

James knew Maisie did not care for suppers with London “society,” though at the same time, she had been trying to get used to the fact that such occasions were an important part of his business calendar.

“Yes, I think I would like to go. Who else might be there?”

“Not sure, probably a government minister or two, some authors, newspapermen. You never know with Otterburn. He likes to put the cat among the pigeons sometimes.”

“Do you like him?”

“I do quite like him, actually. He’s a formidable businessman and he has a real knack of being in the right place at the right time—good at procuring businesses, people, and things to make the people and the businesses work very well together.”

“Did he inherit his company?”

“His father was a newspaperman who went on to buy the local paper in the town where they lived, somewhere just outside Toronto, I think. John inherited as a young man, then he made the paper turn a profit in a very short time—and sold up in pretty short order. He took the proceeds and came here, to London, though his first newspaper purchase was in the West Country. Then he sort of moved around like one of those newfangled Hoovers that the staff are using—he vacuumed up newspaper after newspaper, then sold some to get a toehold in London. There was no stopping him then, so his interests encompass the whole business of newspapers, a book publisher, and raw paper production. The Compton Corporation has contracts with Otterburn to supply timber by-products for paper manufacture. The interesting thing is, he still refers to himself as a newspaperman.”

Maisie nodded, brought her knife and fork together and picked up her wineglass. “So, taking into account the many pies in which he has a finger, would it follow that he has some strong associations with politicians and the like? You said there might be a few government types at the party.”

James nodded and reached to pour more wine for Maisie, but she shook her head. He topped up his own glass—the staff had been dismissed so that the couple could eat supper in peace.

“He generally rides every morning in Hyde Park, and I would say that twice each week there’s some important city man or politician riding out with him. Some men talk on the golf course—Otterburn’s a horseman.”

“Is he really?” Maisie leaned forward.

“Yes, in fact I heard Winston Churchill was seen out with him early one morning last week, cantering across the park as the fog was beginning to lift, like a couple of cavalrymen.”

“Churchill? I thought he was persona non grata in London these days—didn’t your friend Nancy Astor say, ‘
Churchill is finished
’?”

“She’s never been my friend, though I still get invitations to those dreadful soirees of hers—you almost have to sneak in your own wine under your jacket, and heaven knows why she invites me. My mother knew her at one point, but frankly she couldn’t stand the woman. Never mind Churchill being finished, there are many saying that Nancy has well and truly had her day.” James paused. “Why the interest in Otterburn?”

Maisie shrugged. “Not sure yet, although someone I knew when I was a child was recently killed in one of his factories—Bookhams, the paper factory in Lambeth.”

“And don’t tell me, you’re looking into it, just in case the circumstances are suspicious. And are they?”

Maisie took a last sip of her wine. “Perhaps.” She smiled. “I don’t know whether you’ve room after the lamb, but I’ve heard your new cook has prepared a sort of meringuey pudding with raspberry sauce. Very popular in Paris these days, so I’ve been told.”