Maisie sipped her sherry and was about to comment when Priscilla looked over at her, grinning. “In the meantime, before we decide whether to up sticks and scurry back to Biarritz, I am going to enjoy seeing more of you, for a start. I think I might have to take you in hand, Maisie.”
“And I think I’m doing quite well, thank you.”
“What about Simon?”
Maisie was quiet. “He’s gone, Pris. And now, even more than before, I believe cremation was the best thing. Margaret made a wise decision, though difficult. It’s over. He’s free at last.”
“And you?”
“I don’t know. I can’t say. It was as if he were imprisoned in a room where we could see him but not speak to him, as if we were caught in a vacuum of silence even if we screamed.”
“But you’ve never screamed.”
“Have you?”
“At the top of my lungs, across the Atlantic Ocean, every day for months after the war, after my brothers and parents died. I screamed all the time.”
“Oh.”
The women sat in silence, comfortable in their friendship. Then Priscilla braced her shoulders and reached toward Maisie.
“I almost forgot. I have something for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes. The furniture we chose to bring with us was delivered last week—what a performance, I shall be hard pushed to take it back with me—and I have a piece I think you’ll love. I want you to have it as a belated housewarming gift. I’ll have it sent to your flat next week.”
“What is it?”
“Come and have a look.”
Maisie followed Priscilla to the corner of the room, where an upright gramophone stood in the corner. The cabinet was of rich mahogany, inlaid with maple.
“Douglas has bought a new one, and this one is going begging.” She bent over it. “See, you lift the lid here, and there’s where you place the gramophone record. You wind it up with the handle at the side and then pull up the arm like this. And there’s a cupboard below where you’ll keep your gramophone records.”
“I don’t have any gramophone records.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve thought of that.” She pulled out a record and placed it on the turntable, then held up the horn, ready to set the needle in the groove. “This man is one of Douglas’s favorites. His music has been all over Paris, and he’s in great demand in the bals musettes, you know, the small dance clubs. He’s a gypsy—one of les Manouches, the travelers who live in caravans just outside Paris—and his music is quite wild and clever. I’m sure you’ll love it.”
And as the music surged into the room, Maisie smiled. “Yes, you’re right, I love it.”
MAISIE HAD DELAYED the journey to Kent until after her weaving class on Saturday. Once more, her spirits were lifted by the colors and textures around her, by swags of dyed wool that hung from the laundry racks, by the presence of Marta Jones, who had told her, in confidence, that she was considering reclaiming her family’s original name.
“I think it will release something, some passion, something here.” Whispering, she pressed her hand against her chest, then took up Maisie’s bobbin to correct an error in her weaving.
“And what is your name?”
“Marta Juroszek.” She smiled as she pronounced the word, rolling her tongue around the syllables as if tasting a new sweet pudding for the first time. “Yes, I am Marta Juroszek.”
And though Maisie was concerned for her teacher—the country seemed in no mood to demonstrate tolerance for those of distant cultures—she saw a sense of belonging claim her.
“It’s a good name, Marta, a strong name. And it’s yours.”
A SURPRISE WAS in store for Maisie as she left Marta’s studio. Leaning against the wall inside the entrance to the building, a visitor waited for her.
“Beattie, what on earth are you doing here?”
“Your assistant told me where to find you. He said you would be finished by twelve.”
“Come on, let’s walk to my motor car. Why are you in London?”
“I’ve been here for a couple of days. I’m going back to Maidstone today.”
Maisie pointed to the MG and opened the doors. Once they were both seated, she turned to Beattie.
“Do you want a lift to Charing Cross?”
“Thank you.”
“So, do you have that job yet?”
Beattie shook her head. “No, still at the newspaper, I’m afraid.”
“Then what have you been doing in London—hot on a scoop?”
“Not quite. I’ve been seeing a few publishers.”
Maisie changed gear to pass a horse and cart. “Go on.”
She shrugged. “I knew I couldn’t write the story—the one you told me about Heronsdene—for the newspaper. It was as if I had a lot of fabric and no sewing machine or pattern. So I racked my brains until they hurt, and I decided what to do.”
“And what’s that?”
“I decided that this newspaper woman would become an authoress. I took the story and wrote it as a novel—embellishing it a bit, you understand.”
“And will it be published?”
“I went through several typewriter ribbons and eight fingernails to provide manuscripts for three publishers, and—you will never guess what—I think one of them will buy it!”
“Congratulations, Beattie, that’s wonderful—and it might help you get a job on a bigger newspaper.”
She shook her head. “I’m not so sure about that.”
“Don’t rule it out. And you can always write more novels. I’m sure your work has provided you with more than enough fabric.” Maisie smiled at her passenger. “Here you are. Charing Cross.”
Beattie thanked Maisie for the lift and for keeping her promise. As the newspaperwoman closed the passenger door and walked away, Maisie wound down her window and called out to her.
“What will you call the book, so I know what to look for?”
Beattie Drummond cupped her hand around her mouth and shouted her answer above the throng of passengers going in and out of the station, then she turned away and ran for her train, the book’s title caught up in the melee. The only word Maisie heard was revenge.
HERONSDENE WAS QUIET as she drove through the village and parked the MG. She stepped out of the motor car, changed her shoes for a pair of Wellington boots, pulled out her umbrella in case it rained, and set off on a walk across the hop-gardens and up to the clearing. A moment later she saw the lurcher, standing by the entrance to the farm, watching her every move.
“Jook, what are you doing here?”
The dog loped toward Maisie, her head low, her tail tucked under, brushing close as if to feel the warmth of a human being.
“You should have gone with your people.” Maisie looked up and around her. The dog must have recognized the distinctive rumble of her motor car and followed her from the village. “Do you want to come with me, then?”
The dog’s ears flattened back, so Maisie leaned down, stroked her neck, and set off across the hop-gardens, which were muddy now, the spent bines heaped in brown, brackenish piles ready to be burned. She cut through the wood, across the field where the gypsies had grazed their horses, and up the hill toward the clearing. Everything around her was silent, with the bright silver sky a portent for stormy weather.
Blackened soil marked the place where Beulah’s vardo had burned, and with it evidence of her sojourn on earth. All that remained was that which was carried in the heart. Maisie touched the ground, while the lurcher sniffed, pawed the soil, and then began to slink away to the clearing as if called. Maisie followed, almost expecting to hear the gypsies, but it was silent, with only the wind sifting through the branches and light reflecting off the bark of silver beech trees and muted by giant oaks. Walking to the center of the circle where the gypsies’ fire had once crackled with life, Maisie remembered the night she danced with the women, the color and energy of their celebration reverberating through her bones, along with the sound of Webb’s violin as his bow scorched back and forth across the strings, teasing out sounds she had never heard and might never hear again. Soon, the lurcher touched her hand with its nose, as if knowing there was nothing more to be said or done in this place.