Maisie Dobbs by Jacqueline Winspear Read Free Book Online

other hand and, shaking, lifted it to her lips to sip the still-hot tea. The two women sat in silence for several more minutes until Maisie spoke again.
    “Tell me about Vincent, Mrs. Davenham.”
    Celia Davenham placed the fine bone china cup in its saucer, took a deep breath, and began to tell her story.
    “I fell in love with Vincent—oh, dear me—it must have been when I was about twelve. I was just a girl. He came to the house with my brother George. It was my brother Malcolm who died. George was the oldest. Vincent was one of those people who could make anyone laugh—even my parents, who were very stiff indeed. It was as if the sun shone upon Vincent and everyone felt compelled to look at him, just to warm themselves.”
    “Yes, I have known such people. I expect he was quite the charmer,” said Maisie.
    “Oh yes, quite the charmer. But he didn’t realize it. He just went through his life bringing out the best in people. So, he was definitely officer caliber. His men would have followed him to death’s door.”
    “And no doubt beyond.”
    “Yes. And beyond. Apparently when he wrote to the parents or wives of men who had fallen, he always mentioned some small detail about them—a joke they had told, an act of courage, a special effort made. He didn’t just say,‘I’m sorry to tell you this, but . . . .’He cared.”
    Celia took up her cup again, keeping one hand on Maisie’s. Maisie, for her part, made no move to withdraw, realizing the strength her touch gave the other woman. She moved only to pour more tea and to bring her own cup to her lips.
    Occasionally she would look out of the window, and as dusk drew in saw the reflection of Celia Davenham in the windowpane as she told her story. In this way Maisie observed her as an onlooker might, rather than as a confidante. As Celia spoke, releasing the weight of hoarded memory, she seemed to gain strength. She sat straighter. Celia was an attractive woman, and in the reflected scene, Maisie saw the faces of other people in the tearoom occasionally looking toward them, drawn to a conversation they could not overhear but could not help observe.
    Maisie knew well, more than the onlookers, that they were drawn by the power of revelation. They were witnesses to the unfolding of Celia Davenham’s story, to the unburdening of her soul, though they might not be aware of it. And she knew that once outside, wrapping a scarf around a neck to shield it from the biting wind, or holding on to a hat, a woman might say to her companion, “Did you see that woman, by the window, the well-dressed one?” and her companion would nod and they would speak for a while of what might have been said by the woman near the window to the woman who allowed her hand to be held so tightly. And the picture of Celia Davenham squaring her shoulders to tell her story would come back to them on occasion, especially when they were sad and looking for the answer to a question of the heart.
    Celia Davenham paused, as if to summon the fortitude to continue. Maisie waited, then asked,“Tell me what happened to Vincent.”
    “It was at Passchendaele.”
    “Ah yes. I know. . . .”
    “Yes, I think we all know now. So many—”
    “—and Vincent?”
    “Yes, although some might believe him to be lucky. He came home.”
    Celia stopped again, closed her eyes, then continued. “I try, sometimes, to remember his face before. When it was complete. But I can’t. I feel awful, that I can only remember the scars. I try at night to close my eyes and see him, but I can’t. I can see George, of course; his injuries weren’t so bad. But I can’t think of exactly how he was before the war either.”
    “Yes, it must be very hard.”
    “There was something about Vincent, his enthusiasm for life, that turned into something else, as if it had another side. His company came under intense enemy fire. Vincent was hit in the face by shrapnel. It is a miracle he lived. George lost an ear and has scars on the