Piers Bassington-Hope looked down at his feet, stood up and walked to the window, stopping alongside his wife’s artwork, where he picked up a charcoal and added to her piece, then crushed it between his thumb and fingers. For her part, Georgina studied her hands, and glanced at Maisie, who had made no move to comfort the woman, whose shoulders moved as she sobbed into the smock. After some moments, moments during which Georgina’s father had opened the French doors and walked outside, Maisie reached across, taking the older woman’s hands in both of her own, as Emma had held Maisie’s hands when they were introduced.
“Tell me about your son, Emma.”
The woman was quiet for a while, then sniffed and shook her head, though she was looking directly at Maisie. “This is quite unusual for me, you know. I have barely met you, yet already I feel as if I am here with someone I have known for a long time.”
Maisie said nothing, waiting, still with her fingers cocooning the woman’s hands.
“I’ve been lost, quite lost, since the accident. Nick was so much more like me, you see. Georgina’s like her father—he writes, you know, and he’s also accomplished in other ways: designing furniture, drawing and composing music. That’s where Harry gets it from, I would think. But Nick was an artist through and through. I saw that even in boyhood. His work was so sophisticated for a child, his sense of perspective, the level of observation, acute. I remember thinking that not only could the boy draw a man working in a field, but he seemed to draw the very thoughts the man held within him. It was as if he could tell the complete story of the field, of each bird, of the horse, the plow. I could show you his boyhood drawings and paintings, and you would see—his heart and soul were poured into every line of charcoal on the paper, every sweep with sable and color. Nick was his work.” She choked on a sob, then leaned forward toward her knees, her forehead now touching Maisie’s hands as they continued to clasp her own. So earnest was her grasp that Maisie herself felt drawn to lean forward, to acknowledge the mother’s trust in allowing her tears to fall, and to gentle her by resting her cheek against the back of the grieving woman’s head. They remained so for some moments, until Maisie felt the dreadful keening subside, whereupon she sat up, but did not move her hands. Some moments later, when Emma Bassington-Hope raised her head, Maisie drew back her hands and looked into the woman’s eyes.
“Goodness me, I…I…do excuse me, I…”
Maisie spoke, her voice soft. “Say nothing, there’s no need.” She paused. “Would you like to show me some of Nick’s work, tell me more about him?”
IT WAS PERHAPS an hour later that Georgina’s mother and Maisie returned to the drawing room. During that time, Maisie had received a tour of the house, seen that every room was decorated in a different color and style and had concluded that this family seemed to typify everything she had associated with the word bohemian. The Bassington-Hope parents had clearly adopted a way of life that would have shocked the elders of their time, but they were not alone in their day in seeking an authenticity through which to explore their creative sensibilities. They had been fortunate to inherit land and property, resources that enabled them to pass on the indulgence to their children, who had no reason to believe that any door was closed to them, though Maisie was now intrigued to see if such an assumption was shared by the eldest child.
More of Nick Bassington-Hope’s work was on display around the house, though Emma pointed out that Nolly had sold a few pieces, gifts to his parents, even before Nick’s death. It was an action that, apparently, had caused Nick to argue with Nolly and had later incurred Georgina’s wrath. The parents had acquiesced at the time, realizing that the family trust was presently looking more than a little underfunded. During their conversation, Maisie became even more curious about Harry, as his name was seldom mentioned.
Maisie and Emma returned to the settee, where the demonstrative woman had taken Maisie’s hands in her own once again. She was talking about Nick’s wartime service, explaining how he had felt the need to “do his bit” for King and country, and had joined the Artists’ Rifles at the outset of war in 1914.
“I think it was having been in Belgium before the war, he felt that he should. Of course, we were completely against it—after all, Nick was a sensitive boy.” She smiled. “Now if they had given a rifle to Nolly or Georgie, I might not have worried so much, but then Georgie went in, anyway, and rather got herself in trouble with the authorities. And as for Nolly—”
“‘As for Nolly’ what?” The door slammed, and a tall, fortyish woman wearing a tweed walking skirt, brown leather shoes and a brown woolen jacket strode into the room. Pulling a beret from her head and running her fingers through mousey-brown hair cut in a sharp bob, she cursed the snow that had begun to fall again and glared at Maisie as she helped herself to tea and a scone. With features more pointed than Georgina’s, Noelle Bassington-Hope appeared terse and inflexible, and it occurred to Maisie that worry and tension had taken a toll on her looks.
“Go on, Mother, confess all, ‘as for Nolly’—what?”
“Oh, don’t be boring, Nolly. Miss Dobbs is our guest.” Georgina fumed at Nolly as she and her father had entered the drawing room through the French doors, just in time to hear the elder sibling demand an explanation of the overheard conversation.
Maisie held out a hand to Noelle, though she realized that she did not know Noelle’s married surname. “Mrs….”
“Grant. You must be Georgie’s inquiry agent, not that there’s anything to inquire into.” She took a bite from her scone, set the plate back on the table and held out her hand. Her actions were revealing: the nonchalant insult, executed with a certain flippancy, though Maisie understood her manner to reveal a lack of confidence, and something else, a sensation she had encountered already today. She’s afraid of me.
“A pleasure, Mrs. Grant.” Maisie paused. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
“Hmmph!” Noelle sat down next to her mother, in the place just vacated by Maisie. “I’m surprised a woman of your intelligence would get involved in this sort of thing—after all, our family was bereaved by an accident. Mind you, the things that women of supposed intelligence are wont to get up to always did flummox me, eh Georgie?” She looked across at her sister, who had claimed her seat once more, though her father was now holding out his hand for Maisie to be seated, while reaching for a sturdy wooden chair that was not simply varnished but painted in a wine color, with gold stars embellishing the seat.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Noll.” The younger sister rolled her eyes.
Though a family row might well have revealed much to her, Maisie did not want to become embroiled in sibling arguments. She stood up, claiming her shoulder bag. “Mrs. Grant, I realize that Georgina’s decision to enlist my services must have come as a complete shock to you—after all, your family is so recently bereaved, and of course you have broad responsibilities as a justice of the peace here and also in managing your parents’ estate. I would very much like to speak with you, especially as, in your role as a JP, you are familiar with the need for detail—is that not so?”
“Well…I…when you put it like that, I suppose…”
“Good.” Maisie held out her hand toward the garden, where one could just about make out the path against the dusk. “Let’s go for a stroll. It’s not as cold as it was and it’s only just started to snow lightly. I would value your opinion on a few matters.”
“Righty-o.” Noelle Grant set down her cup and plate, clearly warming to Maisie’s compliments. “I’ll whistle for the dogs and off we’ll go. Just a tick while I grab a scarf and gloves.” She stopped by the window as she looked out. “We’ll go out by the back door—I’ll find you some gum boots and an old jacket; you’ll need them.”