“One second, just one second while I finish this thought…”
Maisie took a seat next to the desk. Finally, Georgina released the platen, rolled out the sheet of paper and added it to a manuscript alongside the typewriter.
“Maisie, how are you?” She reached out and grasped Maisie’s hand. “Come along, let’s sit by the fire.”
The two women moved to chairs set beside the blazing coal fire.
“I’m well, but more to the point, how are you?”
Drawing back her thick copper hair, Georgina wound the waves into a chignon at the nape of her neck, and secured it with a pencil. “I thought I’d never climb out of the hole I’d dug for myself, to tell you the truth. What with the terrible, terrible outcome of your investigation—and I’m not blaming you, no, I blame myself—I thought it would be best if I just went away, take a leaf out of Nick’s book and go off to America or something.”
Maisie’s expression betrayed her thoughts.
“Oh, you are just like Nolly! You’ll be delighted to hear that it’s all over with Randolph Bradley. I’ll get to that in a minute. However, you must know that Piers is expected home in just a few months. What with the verdict of manslaughter, and considering his age, and the circumstances of the crime, he’ll be home by the autumn, according to the solicitors.”
“I’m glad. Are you all coping? What about Emma and Noelle?”
Georgina sighed. “We’re making progress, patching things up, you know. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Nolly’s been a great help, an absolute brick—mind you, she always was. She’s done wonders with Piers and Emma. And with me—and she’s sorted out Harry, come to that.”
“You can tell me about Harry later. What about your sister?”
Georgina shook her head, pausing to gaze into the fire before she spoke again. “Piers was the only one who realized, really understood, that Nolly’s wall of tweedy organization was all that stood between her and the tide of sadness that came with Godfrey’s death. When she went on about him being a war hero, and so on, it was herself she was trying to convince, and I think that none of us really understood her. It was so easy to think that Nolly was all right, you know, ‘Good old Noll!’” She sighed, looking into the flames as if for answers. “But what Piers didn’t grasp was that Nolly might be better than any of us when it came to dealing with the truth, that even though she was devastated when she first saw the paintings, it was as if she knew, as if she understood right there and then why Nick had chosen to use Godfrey as a subject for the piece. You know, people think that Nick and I were close—and of course, we were, we were twins, after all—but Nolly is the eldest, and that’s almost like being another parent. She nursed Nick when he came home wounded, and even though she could moan and groan about him, about his work, she was very forgiving, when it came down to it.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“She’s both worried and delighted that Harry seems to be sorting himself out.”
“And what’s he going to do?” Maisie was warmed by the conversation and by Georgina’s unexpectedly buoyant mood.
“You’ll never believe this, but Harry has joined a shipboard band, entertaining passengers on their way from Southampton to New York.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I just hope that staff are banned from the gaming tables! Seriously, he said he’d wanted to go to New York for ages, that it’s where his kind of music was born, and that’s where he should be.”
“Following in his brother’s footsteps?”
“It’s where Nick heard the sound of his drummer, so perhaps it’ll be the same for Harry.”
“And what about you, Georgina?” Maisie gestured toward the typewriter. “You seem to have found your muse.”
“My muse is Nick. Come along, I’ll show you.” Georgina returned to her desk, followed by Maisie. She reached for a series of large black-and-white sketches that had been laid out for her to view as she worked at the typewriter.
“Oh, my…”
“Only sketches, but brilliant, aren’t they? So detailed. They’re good enough to exhibit.”
Maisie nodded, pulling a lamp across so that she could better see the work. Nick Bassington-Hope had depicted everyday life on the streets that were home to those who knew only want. Scruffy street urchins, lines of men waiting for work, women struggling to wash laundry at a cold-water street pump—the forgotten of London seen through the eyes of the artist.
“It’s as if he had taken a photograph, as if someone like Frank Hurley were behind the camera, not an artist with charcoal and paper.”
“I know.” Georgina nodded, the color rising to her cheeks.
Maisie lifted her gaze from the sketches and looked at Georgina. “What are you going to do with them?”
Georgina began to speak quickly, her excitement mounting. “After you gave me the keys to the lock-up, I went over on my own to have a look. That’s when I found these, the sketches. I just sat there and wept, not just because they’re Nick’s and I miss him terribly, but because of what they represent.” She swallowed, looking at Maisie intently. “You were right, Maisie, this is war, this is a battlefield, and I have to do something about it. But I have only one real gift, and that is my skill with words. I can draw a bit, but this is what I work with.” She pulled the pencil from the chignon and held it up to emphasize her point, her unclasped hair cascading across her shoulders. “So, here’s my plan—and let me tell you, I not only have the promise of an exhibition from Stig, but I have a contract from my publisher!” Georgina splayed the sketches across the desk. “There’s a story in each of these, a history, a person whose life others will want to read about—someone who I will make them want to read about. And I’m not going to stop there.” She was speaking faster now. “These are all of London, with some of rural poverty in Kent, but Nick hadn’t finished. I’m going to travel across Britain, from London to Birmingham, to Newcastle, Leeds, Sheffield, up to Scotland, and I’m going to tell the story of what’s happened since 1929, what’s happening now. I can’t wait for bloody Mosley to become king—or whatever it is he wants—and rise to the occasion and save everyone, for heaven’s sake!”
“Is that why you ended the liaison with Bradley?” Maisie risked the impertinent question.
Georgina shrugged. “It began to end almost as soon as it started. To tell you the truth, I hadn’t been really inspired since the war—you hit the nail on the head there, Maisie.” With her hands still resting upon her brother’s sketches, Georgina looked out the window and, it seemed, into the past. “I took such huge chances out there in the war, but—oh, it is so hard to explain—there was this thrill, this feeling here”—she touched a place just above her belt buckle—“that told me that what I was doing was right, that I might be taking a risk, might even be killed, but it was a gamble for a good reason. I would have something to show for it.” Her words began to slow, and she shrugged her shoulders. “I missed that feeling, and I think I tried to get it back by having an affair. But it was never right. You see”—she turned so that she and Maisie were face-to-face—“you see, I realized that even though there was the risk, the thrill of an affair with a married man, and an exciting married man at that—it was completely false. Completely without substance. There was no…no…no truth, no solid, meaningful reason to play with that particular fire. Do you understand?”
“I do, yes; I do understand.”
“So now, with this work, with Nick’s sketches there to challenge me, I’ve found that reason again, that old voice saying, ‘Do it, it’s worth it.’ And I can feel it inside me, that the chance, the challenge of taking off on my own is a worthwhile endeavor.”