was a good man, of that she was in no doubt. She loved him as much as she could—she believed—love anyone. She knew that the past year had rocked her foundation; as time went on, the good fortune bestowed upon her by Maurice’s will had not made the ground beneath her feet seem any more firm; on the contrary, she discovered that the responsibility had made her question who she was. In her plans to travel, was she hoping to find her essential self hidden in the unknown as if it were buried treasure? And when she came home, would she be ready, at last, to embrace the life she had come to know with James?
These thoughts led her once again to John Otterburn, and the case that had caused her to question the integrity of her moral compass, to lose her true north, which was a belief that all would be well and good if she acted with compassion and a sense of the right thing to do. She felt as if she had been David against Otterburn’s Goliath, but holding no sling and stone with which to slay the giant—yet at the same time, this particular behemoth was intent upon protecting Britain and her people; he saw himself as the answer to a prayer not yet spoken by the common man. Therefore, she had come to the conclusion that she could no longer continue to put herself forward as a woman of good conduct in her business, when she had been complicit—in her estimation—in keeping secret the role played by John Otterburn in what amounted to murder, even though her voice had been a small one.
Could she blame James for agreeing to ally himself with Otterburn and become part of his plans? James loved his country, had fought for his country, and would lay down his life to protect the land he cherished. He was a man of good intentions, of integrity, and for that she had utmost respect, and yes, love.
It was in the midst of these considerations that James returned home. Soon there was a knock on the door adjoining their rooms. Maisie had pulled her armchair close to the window and was looking out.
“Maisie. We’re both home at a reasonable hour—that makes a change.” He came to her side, kneeling down before her. “What’s wrong, my love? You seem so very sad.”
Maisie wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Oh, nothing, James. Just thinking about nothing in particular. Probably my father, really.”
“You’re not losing him, Maisie—he’s getting married, though I think that’s enough to inspire thoughts of the past and of your mother, perhaps. You and your father have only had each other for so long.” He smiled, holding her hand. “Well, and you’ve got me, I suppose.”
She nodded. “Yes, you’re right—it’s probably down to too much excitement these past few days.”
“And you’re looking very tired, my love. Perhaps we should go away for a Friday to Monday, somewhere different—what about Paris?” said James.
“I have an important case on, you know. I can’t just swan off, not yet.”
They were quiet for some moments, when James spoke again. “Look, there’s something I want to say to you, but there never seems to be the right time. I find I dither back and forth.”
Maisie nodded. “Yes. I know.”
“It’s this, Maisie. We agreed to just go along as if all was well, as if we both found our life here suitable, acceptable. But I have realized, time and again, that I don’t find things at all agreeable.” James continued without further pause; Maisie looked at him, though she did not speak to counter his words. “So, here’s what I’ve been thinking,” he said, looking down at her hand nestled in his. “I have made no secret of the fact that I want to marry you, to have and to hold you for the rest of both our lives. I want to make a life with you, and even hope for children. That is the measure of my intentions. Now, I know you want to go abroad, to follow in Maurice’s footsteps—and even to find part of him again. I understand all that, Maisie—in fact, I think I understand more than you might give me credit for. And you have every right to do as you wish. I know very well that you are searching for answers to questions I cannot help you with. So be it. But I want you to know that I need an