Maisie Dobbs by Jacqueline Winspear Read Free Book Online Page A

side of his face, which you would think were unbearable but seem light compared to Vincent’s.”
    Maisie looked at the woman, whose grip had relaxed as she told Vincent’s story. Celia was exhausted. Maurice had counseled her, in the early days of her apprenticeship, when she was the silent observer as he listened to a story, gently prodding with a question, a comment, a sigh, or a smile, “The story takes up space as a knot in a piece of wood. If the knot is removed, a hole remains. We must ask ourselves, how will this hole that we have opened be filled? The hole, Maisie, is our responsibility.”
    “Mrs. Davenham, you must be tired. Shall we meet again another day?” she asked.
    “Yes, Miss Blanche, do let’s meet.”
    “Perhaps we might walk in Hyde Park, or St. James’s; the lake is so lovely at this time of year.”
    The women made arrangements to meet the following week, for tea at the Ritz, then a stroll through Green Park to St. James’s. But before they parted, Maisie suggested,“Mrs. Davenham, you probably have to rush home soon, but I wonder. Liberty has some lovely new fabrics, just arrived from India. Would you come with me to look at them?”
    “Why, I’d love to.”

    L ater, when Celia Davenham reflected upon her day, she was surprised. For though she still felt sadness, the memory she reflected upon most was that of huge bolts of fabric being moved around at her behest by willing assistants who could sense in her the interest that led to a purchase. With an enthusiastic flourish, yards of vibrant purples, yellows, pinks, and reds of Indian silk were pulled out, to be rubbed between finger and thumb, and held against her face in front of the mirror. And she thought of the person she knew as Maisie Blanche, who suddenly but quietly had to take her leave, allowing her to indulge her love of texture and color for far longer than she had intended. Thus a day that had seen so many tears ended in the midst of a rainbow.

CHAPTER SIX

    M aisie made her way back to her office. It was dark by now, and although she was gasping for a cup of tea much stronger than the light Darjeeling served at Fortnum & Mason’s, she needed to work. She reflected upon the Davenham story, knowing only too well that there was a lot more to elicit. But by leaving much of the story untold, Maisie allowed the door to remain open. Instead of being exhausted by her own revelations and memories, Celia Davenham was being helped to shed her burden gradually, and Maisie was her guide.
    Jack Barker greeted Maisie outside Warren Street station, doffed his cap and bid her good evening.
    “Miss Dobbs, and a good evenin’ to you. My, you are a sight for sore eyes at the end of the day.”
    “Mr. Barker, thank you, although I am sure I’ll be better when I get a cup of tea inside me.”
    “You should get that Billy to make you a cuppa. Does too much jawing of a working day, that one. Do you know, I ’ave to tell him sometimes that I’m busy and can’t keep puttin’ the world to rights with ’im.”
    Maisie grinned, knowing by now that Jack Barker could talk the hind leg off a donkey, and that the same complaint about Jack was likely to come from Billy Beale.
    “Well, Billy’s a good ’un, isn’t he, Mr. Barker?”
    “’E is that. Amazing how fast ’e can move with that leg. You should see ’im sometimes, running ’ere and there, ‘dot and carry one’ with that leg. Poor sod. But at least we got ’im back ’ere, didn’t we?”
    Maisie agreed.“Indeed, Mr. Barker, at least he came home. I’d best be on my way, so I’ll bid you good evening. Any reason to buy the latest edition before I rush off?”
    “All bloomin’ bad if you ask me. Threadneedle Street and the City in a rare two-an’-eight. They’re talking about a slump.”
    “I’ll leave it then, Mr. Barker. Goodnight.”
    Maisie turned into Warren Street, walking behind two women students from the Slade School of Art, who were making their way back to