"Dobbsie, I do believe you are becoming a normal young woman!"
"Nonsense. I've always been normal," said Maisie, continuing to read Simon's letter.
"No, you haven't. I can tell. Taken life far too seriously, you have."
Iris reached for her cape and shivered. "And you can't do that in these times, Maisie. Take your work seriously, yes. But the rest of it, it'll drive you mad."
Iris carefully positioned her cap so that the red cross was in the center of her crown, and the point of the linen square was centered at the back of her head, just grazing the area between her shoulder blades.
"Ready, then?"
"Yes, I'm ready."
"Good. Let's get to work."
The weeks seemed to drag on, yet when Maisie looked back at the time between the arrival of her leave papers and the moment when which she walked onto the boat for the crossing back to Folkestone, it seemed that time had flown. As she stowed her bags, sought out hot cocoa and cake, Maisie almost dreaded the start of her leave, for by this time next week, she would be back in France. It would be over.
The crossing was calmer than last time, and though the sea was not quite like a millpond, the boat did not seem to pitch and toss as violently as before, and the tops of waves did not suddenly rear up and cover the deck. The nausea of her previous journey was not repeated to the same extent, yet a band of pressure around her forehead caused her to lean against the rail, counting off the quarter hours until land came in sight. She breathed in, waiting for sea saltiness to give way to the clear air of the county of Kent.
Oh, how she ached to see her father, to be drawn into the warm, steamy atmosphere of Mrs. Crawford's kitchen. In France she had dreamed of Kent, of apple orchards in full blossom, primroses and bluebells carpeting the woodland, and the soft countryside stretching out before her.
She longed to be home. She could hardly wait to see Simon.
Maisie disembarked, walking down the gangway and toward the port buildings. As she came through into the main waiting area, she saw her father, cap in hand, anxiously searching the sea of faces for her. Pushing her way through people jostling for extra height to see over the heads of others to the line of weary passengers, Maisie pulled at her father's arm.
"Dad! What are you doing here?"
"Darlin' girl. Couldn't wait for you to get to Chelstone, could I? So, I took the day off, like, and came down to meet you off the boat. Gawd, this ain't 'alf a busy old place! Come on, let me get that bag of yours, and let's get out of this lot. Never could stand a crowd, even at the market."
Maisie laughed and, still holding tightly to his arm, followed as he pushed his way through the surging throng making their way to the station.
The journey to Chelstone took another two hours, first by train to Tonbridge, then by the small branch line down to Chelstone. In a field across from the station, Persephone was grazing, her cart resting just inside the gate.
"Just a minute, love. Won't take me long to get old Persephone ready for you. Stationmaster let me leave the old girl here. I know it's not a fancy motorcar, but I thought you'd appreciate a ride home on the old cart with Persephone."
"That I do, Dad."
They rode in silence for a while, Frankie Dobbs with his arm around his daughter's shoulder.
"'Ard to know what to say to you, love. Bet you don't really want to talk about it, do you?"
"No. Not now, Dad. I'm not home for long. I'll be back there soon enough."
"And how long will I see you for?"
Frankie looked sideways at Maisie.
"Well, I'll be seeing a friend while I'm on leave. But we've got all day tomorrow."
"Is that all I get? Blimey, this Captain Lynch must be an interestin' fella."
Maisie swung round to her father.
"How do you know--?"
"Now then, now then. Just you 'old your 'orses, young lady. You're still my girl, and that's a fact."
Frankie grinned at Maisie. "There's a letter waiting indoors for you. Just sent to Miss Dobbs at Chelstone Manor. Got 'is name printed on the back of the envelope. Very posh. Knows your old Dad's the groom, does 'e?"
"Yes. He does, Dad. He knows who you are and who I am."
"Good. That's all right then. Look forward to meeting the man."
"Well, I don't know . . . ."
Frankie put his arm around Maisie again, and in the security of her father's embrace and his love for her, she slept as she had not been able to sleep since she left for France.
"Well, I never. Look at you. All skin and bone, Maisie, all skin and bone."
Mrs. Crawford drew Maisie to her, then pushed away to inspect her from head to toe.
"A good dinner, that's what you need, my girl. Thank heavens we are all down here now, have been ever since her ladyship said it was too dangerous in London, what with the Zeppelin raids. Anyway, at least I can get a good dinner down you. That's what you need--a good dinner."
Maisie had hardly stepped from Frankie Dobbs's cart before the "welcome homes" began. And it seemed that one welcome was followed by another. She had been immediately summoned to the drawing room to meet with Lady Rowan. Already the short leave was turning into a whirlwind, but the next day Maisie spent time only with her father, alone.
Frankie Dobbs and Maisie groomed the horses together, walked across farmland, and speculated on the apple crop that would surely be the result of such fine hearty white blossom. And sitting alone in the gardens at Chelstone, Maisie wondered about the war, and how it was that such blooms could give joy to the soul, when one only had to stand on cliffs overlooking the Channel to hear the boom of cannons on the battlefields of France.
On the second day of her leave, Maisie was to see Simon in London, a meeting arranged in letters passed between their respective medical stations in France. She would meet his parents at the family's London home during their first day together. They both knew better than to have Simon suggest she stay at the house, as an overnight invitation would come only after a more formal luncheon meeting, the invitation for which had arrived from Mrs. Lynch, and along with Simon's letter, had awaited Maisie's return to Chelstone. Simon wrote that he couldn't wait to see her.
Frankie Dobbs took Maisie to the station, and they stood awkwardly on the platform to wait for the local train, which would connect with the London train at Tonbridge.
"Now, you make sure you don't overdo it. That Crawford woman was right. Skin and bone you are. You're like your mother, a tall drink of water in a dress."
"I'll eat them out of house and home, Dad."
"And you mind yourself, Maisie. I've not met this young man, but seeing as you've been invited by his people, I'm sure he's a fine person. And a doctor. But you mind yourself, Maisie."
"Dad, I'll be back on the train this evening--"
"Maisie. It's in 'ere that I'm talking about."
Frankie Dobbs pressed his hand to the place that still held grief for his departed wife.
"I'm talking about your 'eart, Maisie. Mind out for your 'eart."
The sun was shining by the time the engine met the end-of-the-line buffers at Charing Cross station. Maisie checked her face in the shell-shaped mirror on the bulkhead between the carriages. She had never been one to fuss over her appearance, but this was different. This was important.
Once again butterflies were holding court in her stomach, and once again she was filled with the joyous anticipation of seeing Simon Lynch. She opened the heavy wooden door and stepped down onto the platform.
"Maisie!"
"Simon!"
The young officer swept Maisie up into his arms and unashamedly kissed her, much to the delight of people rushing to catch trains, or anxiously waiting for loved ones on the platform. There was usually little cause for humor or delight at a wartime railway station, filled as they often were with war wounded, anxious farewells, and the bittersweet greetings of those who would have such a short time together.