Still Maisie said nothing, instead keeping her attention focused on the man in front of her. She was not without emotion, cradling in her heart a melancholy that it had come to this. But she knew well that another sensation lingered inside her: the bittersweet ache of relief. And she was sadder for knowing it.
“So, before I say anything else, I want to know, Maisie, if there’s any hope for me—for us, as a couple—if I proposed?”
She said nothing for some seconds. Even though she had practiced this conversation at night, tossing and turning, wondering how she might reveal herself and be understood, she felt incompetent with words where personal matters were concerned. Her voice was soft, measured. “Andrew, you are, and have been, a wonderful companion. I enjoy your company, so how could I ever fail to be charmed by your presence?” She paused. “But the truth of the matter is that…oh, this is so hard to explain.” Dene opened his mouth to speak, but Maisie shook her head. “No, please let me try, Andrew—I must try to say what I mean, so that you understand.” She closed her eyes as she searched for words. “After my…my breakdown last year—for that is what it was, I know that now—I have struggled to see the path ahead. I know both you and Maurice said I should rest longer, but it’s not my habit; I feel that I have some…some sort of mastery over circumstance when I am working. That command—oh, that’s not the right word.” She bit her lip. “That order makes me feel safe, gives me battlements and a moat. And the truth is, Andrew, my business takes all the stamina I have at the moment—and you deserve more.” She cleared her throat. “I have found myself fearing that as time goes on there would be pressures upon us to conform to the accepted role of a doctor and his wife, and that would mean I would have to choose. So, I have chosen now, Andrew. Now, instead of later.” Maisie paused. “I have seen how the joys of our courtship have been compromised by my responsibilities to the people who come to me for help, and my choice has often been the source of great angst for us both. Even though you have been in London every fortnight, and I have journeyed to Hastings in between…it hasn’t been conducive to a happy courtship, has it?”
Dene inspected the palms of his fine hands, the long fingers stretched out before him. “Don’t mind me saying so, Maisie, it’s all very well you saying that, but you could have been more honest from the start. You must have known all this, and that I wasn’t prepared to sort of drift along—in fact, I came here to end our…our…courtship. At least I’m the one with the courage to face the—”
With tears blurring her vision, Maisie interrupted Dene, having not expected the angry response. “I believe I have been responsible toward you, and respectful, I—”
“You haven’t been honest with yourself—until now, I suppose. I’m sure you never intended to prolong the courtship, and in the meantime, I might have met someone else, been able to get on with my life. In fact, I have met someone, only I wanted to find out where we stand.”
“Well, Andrew, you should do as you please. I believe I have been sincere in my dealings with you, and—”
“Dealings? Sincere? Maisie, you surprise me, really you do. I have been a handy diversion for you, a weekend here, a dinner there, walks when you want them and the ball in your court.”
Maisie stood up, shaken. “Andrew, I think it’s time for you to go. I wish we could part on better terms, but in light of this conversation, I fear that isn’t going to happen.”
Andrew Dene, now on his feet, responded in a tone laced with sarcasm. “So be it, Miss Dobbs, psychologist and investigator.” He sighed, adding, “I’m sorry, that wasn’t called for.”
Maisie nodded, and without saying more she led the way to the box room, gathered Dene’s coat and opened it for him. “Drive carefully, Andrew. It’s an icy night out there.”
“I’m in hospital digs tonight, I’ll be all right.”
“Good luck, Andrew.”
“You, too, Maisie.” Dene turned, and walked away.
MAISIE WENT DIRECTLY to her bedroom, switched on the light and opened the wardrobe. At this point she did not want to think about Dene or consider the consequences of the end of their courtship. Having pulled out several items of clothing, she slumped on the edge of the bed, clutching her blue cashmere cardigan and stole. She pressed the soft fabric to her cheek and wept. In spite of the sense of relief, she already felt the cool breeze of loneliness cross her heart. Knowing Andrew had been a barrier between herself and an isolation that seemed to so readily envelop her, but to use him as a buffer between herself and the ache for close companionship was not fair. He was a lively suitor who had clearly adored her, but she did not have confidence enough to relinquish her work. And, she reminded herself, it would have come to that.
Turning back the bedclothes, Maisie curled up and pulled the eiderdown around her body, yearning for a few moments of comfort before she had to face the evening ahead. She shivered, though it was not cold in the room. As her tears gradually abated, she confessed to herself that there was something else, a truth she may never have considered had she not met the Bassington-Hopes—and it had given her a clue to that quality she was seeking in life that she could not define, the illusive unknown that she knew she would never find with Andrew Dene as her partner. She realized that she had come to love color, both in the landscape of character and quite literally—on fabric, canvas, clay or a room. Andrew was fun, buoyant, but the world she had entered by dint of working for Georgina was bursting with something fresh: There was a potency, a fire that made her feel as if she were cracking open her cocoon and waiting, waiting for her wings to dry before taking flight. And how could her wounded spirit be born aloft if she tethered herself now? That was at the heart of her discontent. There was something in those words…. She clambered from the bed and searched for the book again, to the place she had marked. “He would create proudly out of the freedom and power of his soul….” Could she do that with her life? And if she could, would she come tumbling down to earth like Icarus? What was it Priscilla had said to her last year? “You’ve always kept to the safe places!” Now she was among people for whom such a conservative approach was anathema. Maisie felt her head spin with thoughts that plunged her from excitement to despair as she castigated herself for such self-absorption, when the troubles faced by the Beale family and thousands like them were so desperate. And the very thought of Priscilla brought sadness anew, for she missed the honesty and depth of their friendship. Visiting her in France last year had brought a realization that she ached for the proximity of a close friendship.
After her breakdown, she had felt a return to the aloneness that had shrouded her when her mother died. Being with Andrew had helped her throw a line out into the future, an anchor she would use to pull herself away from the war, away from the loss of Simon, the terrible images that haunted her—and into the present so that life could go on. But now she was tentatively lifting the anchor, ready to cast off toward the light emanating from Georgina, her family and friends. She shivered again, cold to the core, remembering the doubt and Lady Rowan’s warning. Could she be more like Georgina than she thought, if she took energy, took life, from those who lived in a world of color, of words, of artistry? Might she become the sort of person that Lady Rowan described, someone who used people?
Maisie leaned back, exhausted. Maurice had instructed her to not take on anything too taxing, given the fragility of her recovery. Though he was in favor of a move to a flat of her own, he had suggested that it might not be the right time, that she should avail herself of the opportunity to live at the Comptons’ Belgravia mansion for at least another three or four months. But she had forged ahead, wanting to take advantage of a well-priced property, and—she knew this—she harbored a desire to underline her singularity, her ability to continue as she had begun, standing firmly on her own two feet. Even though those same two feet had crumpled under her not so long ago.