Maisie nodded, acknowledging the practicality of Noelle’s approach. “So, nothing much was taken?”
“Well, Georgie was in no fit condition to see the cottage, let alone think of what should be removed. I couldn’t just crumble like that, but Georgina fell to pieces.” She looked at Maisie directly. “Not what one would expect from the valiant reporter, is it?”
“The cottage was left as you found it, then?”
“For the most part. Piers looked around more than I, to tell you the truth. Nick was actually quite a tidy person, liked a certain order. Of course, the army does that for you. Godfrey was the same, though I only saw him on one leave before he was killed, but I noticed it, that order, so to speak.”
Maisie saw that when she spoke of her husband, Noelle’s jaw tightened. She placed her cup on the tray and waited for Noelle to continue.
“Piers began to go through some of the sketchbooks, but found it too hard, though he did take a couple or three with him.”
“Your father took Nick’s sketchbooks?”
The woman nodded. “Yes, though I couldn’t tell you where he’s put them, probably in the studio.” She paused. “Is it important?”
Maisie shrugged, an air of nonchalance belying her instinct. “No, I doubt it, though it would be interesting to see them. I have leafed through the remaining sketchbooks, so I would be curious to see the work that your father considered worthy of keeping. Your brother’s art is compelling, to say the least.”
Noelle gave a half laugh. “As you know, I’m not an artist, though one cannot live under the Bassington-Hope roof and be completely untouched. Yes, as you’ve seen, my brother touched a fuse every time he lifted his brush or wielded a charcoal. If you saw his work, you saw what he was thinking, how he saw the world. He wasn’t afraid.”
“I know. But were there others who were afraid?”
“Good question, Miss Dobbs. Yes, others were afraid.” She paused again, taking a biscuit from the tray and breaking it in pieces, which she fed to the Labrador one by one before turning back to Maisie. “Look, I know Georgina has told you that I’m a tweedy old widow before my time, but I am not without eyes. I have seen people come to shows where Nick’s work was exhibited, only to reveal absolute relief not to see their own faces somewhere on a canvas. As I said before, I thought he took chances, really he did. You never knew when someone might get bloody-minded about it. On the other hand, look at those landscapes, the mural work. I admired him enormously—and make no mistake, Miss Dobbs, I admire my sister as well. Georgina is terribly brave, though we don’t always agree. But she should never have come to you, there is nothing suspicious about Nick’s death and this dredging up of the past can only prevent us from coming to terms with the fact that he’s gone.”
“Yes, of course, but—”
“Oh, look, here’s Piers.” Noelle went quickly to the doors that led into the garden and opened them for her father to enter. Maisie realized that when she had seen Piers and Noelle on her previous visit, Georgina and Emma were there. She had not seen the patriarch alone with his eldest daughter before, and was immediately struck by the concern and affection demonstrated between them. In the moments that followed, as the dog barked a greeting, and Noelle took her father’s coat and handed him a much-worn cardigan that had been draped across the corner of a chair, she understood the place that each held in the other’s world. Maisie remembered, years ago, a book. Why had she read that book? Perhaps it was given to her by Maurice, or had she taken it up herself, drawn, perhaps by the author’s reputation? What was it? The Rainbow, yes, that was it, the novel by D. H. Lawrence. There was one image that remained with her, had caused her to think about her own life and wonder, How might it have been if…yes, it was The Rainbow. Hadn’t the father, Will Brangwen, taken the eldest child, Ursula, as his own when more children were born? And hadn’t the girl sought out Will to be both mother and father to her? Was that what she saw now, in Piers and Noelle? When the twins were born, Emma Bassington-Hope had perhaps immersed herself in the new babies, leaving Noelle to turn to her father for comfort. Piers loved all his children, of that there was no doubt, but it was Noelle, sensible Noelle, whom he had taken under his wing.
Was it her father who comforted her when she learned of her widowhood? Maisie imagined his suffering as he held the grief-stricken young bride, the daughter whose hand he had placed in the hand of the kindly Godfrey Grant, the words “Who giveth this woman?” echoing in his ears. Had Piers stepped forward as her protector, even as she pushed despair to one side to care for the injured Nick when he came home from France? And now Noelle had taken on the responsibility for her aging parents, knowing that there would never be another marriage, there would never be children and that if she was to be of account in her own eyes, she must make something of herself in her community.
“Lovely to see you again, Maisie, my dear. Emma has stopped in the studio, a pressing need to immerse herself in her work.” Piers turned to Noelle as she passed a cup of tea to him with one hand, while shooing a warmth-seeking Labrador away to the corner with the other. “Thank you, Nolly.”
“I hope you don’t mind me dropping in to see you, I was passing through town,” Maisie explained.
Piers leaned back. “Remember, our children’s friends are always welcome, Maisie, though I do wish Georgie hadn’t got you involved in questioning Nick’s accident.”
“That’s what I said.” Noelle offered cake to Piers, who raised an eyebrow as if taking forbidden fruit and helped himself to a slice. She placed a plate on his knee, along with a table-napkin. “Though I am sure Maisie has come to the same conclusion as the police, that Nick’s death was an accident. But if Georgie’s got more money than sense…”
Maisie turned to Piers. “I understand that you have some sketchbooks that belonged to Nick. Noelle said you took two or three from his cottage. I’m fascinated by his work, I’d love to see them.”
“I—I—good heavens, I have no idea where I put them.” Having finished his cake, Piers reached forward to set his plate on the tray, his hand shaking. “That’s the trouble with age, one forgets.” He smiled at Maisie, but the restful ambiance of the drawing room had altered. Piers became unsettled and Noelle sat forward, the language of her body indicating concern for her father.
Maisie softened her tone. “Well, I would love to see them, when you find them. I have come to hold your son’s work in some regard—that’s one advantage of my profession, I am able to learn so much about subjects I have never before encountered. I confess, before meeting Georgina again, my knowledge of the art world was limited, to say the least.”
Noelle stood up, so Maisie reached for her shoulder bag. “I really must be on my way. My father is expecting me this evening, and I’m sure he has cooked me a wonderful supper.”
“You know, you must forgive me for not inquiring before, but is your father alone, Maisie?” Leaning on the arm of the settee, Piers rose to his feet.
“Yes. My mother died when I was a girl, so there’s only the two of us.”
“I’m sorry.” He smiled, reaching for her hand. “That’s the trouble with us Bassington-Hopes, we’re so involved with ourselves, we forget to ask about our guests.”
Maisie smiled, returning the affectionate squeezing of her hand. “It was a long time ago, though we still miss her very much.”
She bid farewell to Piers and Noelle, asking to be remembered to Emma as she left the house. The MG spluttered to life, and as she drove away, she glanced in the mirror to see father and daughter standing together for one final wave. Then Noelle put her arm around her father’s shoulders, smiled up at him and they turned into the house.