Free Maisie Dobbs by Jacqueline Winspear Page B

traveling on your own after dark, and I know that you will refuse any offer to drive you home.”
    “Yes, Lady Rowan. I’ll stay—but just for one night. Is everything all right?”
    There was a silence on the line.
    “Lady Rowan, is everything all right?”
    “I want to talk to you about James. I thought you might have some advice for a poor misunderstood mother.”
    “Lady Rowan—”
    “Yes, I’m laying it on a bit thick. But I’m worried about him. He’s talking about going off to live on a farm in Kent. Sounds very strange to me. In fact, it sounds more than strange. Maisie, I confess, I’m frightened for James. He has been in the depths of melancholy since the war, it seems, and now this!”
    “Of course. I’ll do anything I can to help,” replied Maisie.
    “Thank you so much, my dear. What time will you be here?”
    “Will six o’clock be all right?”
    “Perfect. I’ll tell Carter. Mrs. Crawford will be delighted to see you.”
    “Until then, Lady Rowan.”
    “Take care, Maisie. And remember, I want to know everything about what you are doing.”
    “I will leave no story untold, Lady Rowan.”
    The two women laughed, bade each other good-bye, and replaced their respective telephone receivers. Without a second’s delay Maisie checked her watch. She reached into the top drawer of her desk and took out a small ledger with “Telephone” marked on the cover. Inside she made a note that the call to Lady Rowan Compton had taken four minutes. Maisie replaced the ledger and closed the drawer before walking to the window.
    Of course she would offer Lady Rowan any assistance in her power, for she was indebted to her for so much. And Maisie knew, too, how difficult the aftermath of the war had been for James—but not, perhaps, as hard as it had been for the likes of Vincent. Yet Maisie was sympathetic to his melancholy, which was as much due to a loss still mourned as to his injuries. Maisie wondered whether Lord Julian had concerns regarding the ability of his only son to take on the family’s business interests, and she was aware that Lady Rowan had often been the peacekeeper between the two. Tall, blond, blue-eyed James had always been the apple of his mother’s eye. Years ago, when his son was no longer a child, Lord Julian had been heard to say on many an occasion,“You’re spoiling that boy, Rowan.” And now the once mischievously energetic James seemed hollow and drawn. Lady Rowan had been secretly relieved when James, a flying ace, was injured—not in the air but during an explosion on the ground. She knew his wounds would heal, and that she would have him safe at home at a time when so many of her contemporaries were receiving word that their sons had been lost to war.
    Maisie turned from the window, and walked toward the door. Taking her coat and hat from the stand, she looked around the room, extinguished the light, and left her office. As she locked the door behind her, she reflected upon how strange it was that a man who had significant financial resources, time, and a beautiful house in the country would seek the peace and quiet that might dispel his dark mood by going to live on a stranger’s farm. Making her way downstairs in the half-light shed by the flickering gas lamp, Maisie felt a chill move through her body. And she knew that the sensation was not caused by the cold or the damp, but by a threat—a threat to the family of the woman she held most dear, the woman who had helped her achieve accomplishments that might otherwise have remained an unrealized dream.

SPRING 1910 – SPRING 1917

CHAPTER EIGHT

    B orn in 1863, and growing up in the middle years of Queen Victoria’s reign, Lady Rowan had delighted her father, the fourth Earl of Westavon, but had been the source of much frustration for her mother, Lady Westavon, who was known to comment that her daughter was “a lady in name only!” It was clear that, far from being content with pursuits more becoming her position