one, despite the fact that Maisie was now a woman of considerable wealth following the death of her longtime mentor, Dr. Maurice Blanche. Maisie had a successful business, and had worked hard to establish herself as a professional woman—she did not relish relinquishing that independence to become a society matron. James Compton had promised her that he would not expect such an outcome, though it was already clear he was not happy with the risks inherent in her work. But more than anything, Maisie had established within herself a strength, a sense of her own worth, and an independence. At the same time, though she had long recovered from the wounds of war—wounds of both body and mind—there were times when the ice still felt thin beneath her feet, and she retained a fear that she might crash through into the cold waters of her most terrible memories if events conspired to make her fall. She feared that in marrying she might give up that essential part of herself, the resilience that kept her skating above the ice. Fortunately, Maisie was not the only woman of her day who had chosen a looser relationship than marriage might have offered, and she knew that, for now, James Compton’s love for her and his fear of losing her outweighed his need to be married—and more important, to produce an heir to the Compton estate.
“Miss Dobbs, welcome home.” The butler, Simmonds, held out his hand for Maisie’s coat, which she slipped from her shoulders. He handed the coat to the maid as he continued to address Maisie. “Viscount Compton has telephoned to say he may be a little late, and would you please dine without him this evening.”
“Oh, I see—yes, I think he had some visitors from abroad at the offices today. I daresay he’s taken them to his club.” She pulled off her gloves and unpinned her hat, which the maid reached out to take from her; the presence of a maid assigned to her service was something that still occasionally took Maisie by surprise. She handed the hat and gloves to the young woman. “Thank you, Madeleine.” She turned back to the butler. “In that case, I think I’ll just have something on a tray in the library. Soup with some bread and cheese would be just the ticket.”
“Cook has prepared your favorite, Miss Dobbs—oxtail soup.”
“Thank you, Simmonds. In about half an hour.”
“Very good, Miss Dobbs.” He gave a short bow.
Maisie made her way upstairs, pleased that the staff had finally become used to the fact that she abhorred being referred to as “mu’um” or some other strangled form of “madam.” She had uttered the word often when she herself was a member of the belowstairs staff in this same grand mansion, and did not care to be addressed in such a fashion.
James had taken her to task, pointing out that she was making the staff feel uncomfortable, but Priscilla had told her that she shouldn’t worry about it, observing, “You know your trouble, Maisie—you care too much.”
After supper, she set her tray to one side, then moved to an armchair close to the open French windows that led into the gardens. Michaelmas daisies danced in the cool air, contrasting with the burnished colors of autumn leaves waiting to loosen and fall, and their green neighbors yet to change. And she wondered about Usha Pramal, a young Indian woman, far from home, yet always smiling. She wondered about her independence of spirit, and how that might have upset those who knew her as a girl—a girl who, like Maisie, had lost her mother at an early age. She closed her eyes and brought to mind the scene described by Sandra, at the lecture she attended in Camberwell. It wasn’t the image of colorful silks draped across Usha’s dark skin that drew her attention, but rather Sandra’s description of the lecturer’s reaction to the woman’s touch when the lecture had ended, as if a precious element remained on his skin.
Yes, she would see the man as soon as she could, she would find out what it was he felt in his hand. She wasn’t sure why, but she thought his might be valuable information, an insight to what it was that Usha Pramal carried inside her, and perhaps something of her essence.
She’s a Camberwell Beauty, if ever I saw one. Maisie reflected upon Sandra’s recollection of her friend’s description of the murdered Indian woman. She walked over to the stacks of books