by Unknown
Maisie, for her part, felt no fatigue at the end of a long day. She began her chores in the household at her usual early hour, starting with the lighting of fires, the cleaning of rooms, and the polishing of heavy mahogany furniture. The job of cleaning cutlery fell to the junior footman, though when she handled the solid silver knives and forks, perhaps when cleaning the dining room after dinner guests had departed to the drawing room, she looked with care at the inscription. Each piece of fine cutlery bore the Compton crest, a great hunting dog and a stag together with the words "Let There Be No Ill Will." Maisie pondered the crest as she collected the soiled silverware. The hunter and the hunted, the suggestion of forgiveness between the victor and the victim, and the fact that both stood tall and proud. In fact, Maisie had taken to pondering just about everything that happened in the course of a day, seeing coincidences and patterns in the life around her.
Mrs. Crawford put Maisie's behavior down to her work with Maurice Blanche, an assumption that was, of course, correct.
"I dunno, when I was a girl learning meant your reading, your writing, and your 'rithmetic. None of this lark, this philosophy nonsense"
Mrs. Crawford pointed a floury finger at Maisie, who had just returned from the weekly visit to the library. She was placing books, those for Mrs. Crawford and Mr. Carter, as well as her own, carefully in a kitchen cupboard, so they would not become soiled by the business of the kitchen. Later she would take her selection to her room for more late-night reading. Cook had immediately noted the girth of Maisie's books, and could not resist comment-to which Carter felt bound to respond.
"I am sure that Mr. Blanche knows more about the education of a young person for today's world than either you or I, Cook. But I must say, Maisie, that is rather a large tome, is it not?"
Carter, decanting a fine port, did not stop his task to wait for an answer, but cast his eyes over his spectacles in Maisie's direction.
"Maisie-are you listening to Mr. Carter?"
Carter exchanged glances with Mrs. Crawford, and both rolled their eyes in a compact that hid their true feelings. They were very proud of Maisie Dobbs, and laid some claim in their hearts to the discovery of her intellectual gifts.
"Sorry, Mr. Carter. Were you speaking to me?" She had to remove her little finger from her mouth to speak. Maisie had hurried back from the library to allow an extra few moments to dip into one of her books.
"Yes, Mr. Carter was speaking to you, Maisie-and if I see that finger in your mouth again, I swear I'll paint your nails with carbolic. It's a wonder you've got hands left, they way you chew on those fingers"
"Sorry, Mrs. Crawford. Begging your pardon, Mr. Carter? I'll get going again now I just thought I'd take a quick peek"
Carter studied the kitchen clock. "You can have five minutes. Cook and I were commenting on the width of that book. It's a fair size. Is Dr. Blanche working you too hard, Maisie?"
"It's Kierkegaard. Mr. Blanche says I should read this because heKierkegaard-has had a considerable influence on modern thought. And no, don't worry, I can keep up with everything."
Cook and Carter exchanged glances once again, neither wanting to show ignorance about some newfangled thing that sounded to both of them like "kick the guard"
In the meantime Maisie took a notebook from her apron pocket and began to write down her questions and observations for Maurice Blanche. As Carter had suspected, she had already started reading the book on her way back from the library, and was sufficiently into it to be completely absorbed. Once finished, she replaced the notebook in her pocket, glanced at the heavy oak clock with the pearl white face and bold black numbers that was visible from any angle in the kitchen, and stood up from the table.
"I just need to put my book away, then I'll get on with making up the stove before I do the polishing."
Maisie moved quickly from the room, remembering the house rule that those from "below stairs" never ever ran, but when speed was of the essence, a brisk walk was permissible.
"I don't know how she still manages to see her poor father, what with her work down here, and all that book learning. I will say this for her, she's got some spirit, has that girl." Mrs. Crawford swept her forearm across her brow and continued with the pastry making. Carter had completed the task of decanting the port and was now uncorking brandy, to be carefully poured into a fine cut-crystal decanter. He made no reply to Mrs. Crawford's comments, which rather annoyed the woman, as she was given to strong opinions and the need to defend and discuss them.
"I wonder, Mr. Carter, what will happen when Maisie has a young man. I wonder, you know, what will happen to her. Fish can't survive long out of water, you know"
Mrs. Crawford stopped rolling the pastry and looked at Carter, who remained silent. "I said, Mr. Carter-"
"Cook-Mrs. Crawford-I know what you said. I would suggest that the education of Miss Dobbs is in good hands. I would also suggest that Miss Dobbs is a very determined young woman who will be more successful than most when it comes to surviving outside her established boundaries. Now then, it is not for us to question the decisions of our employers. We can do only what is required of us in the circumstances, don't you think?"
Mrs. Crawford, who had been filling a pastry-lined dish with freshsliced apple, added cinnamon and clove with rather more than her usual flourish, replied with a certain asperity, "Right you are, Mr. Carter," before turning her back on him to check the oven.
@ aisie's education was indeed going well. Maurice Blanche had encouraged an easy camaraderie while maintaining the certain distance required by his position, and by Maisie's. Within eighteen months of embarking upon the demanding timetable set by Blanche, Maisie was studying at a level of which a master at one of the prestigious private schools of the day would have been proud.
For her part Maisie knew only that the work challenged and excited her. When Maurice handed her a new text, she felt a thrill of anticipation. Would the book be brand new, unread, with pages untouched by another? If so, then Maurice would request a precis of the content, and her assessment of the text.
"Four pages of quarto, if you please. And a word of advice. This man has opinions. Opinions, as we have discussed, are not fact. But of course, as we know, Maisie, they may be the source of truth. I will be speaking with you about the truth demonstrated in this thesis, Maisie, so be prepared!"
Of course, the text may have already been read and in that case, each page would bear penciled notation in Maurice Blanche's small, fine handwriting with its slight slant to the right. A single page of questions would be tucked inside, between the back page and the cover. Maisie knew that each question must be answered.
"I never want to learn that you `don't know,' Maisie, I want to know what you think the answer is to the question. And once more, a word of advice: Stay with the question. The more it troubles you, the more it has to teach you. In time, Maisie, you will find that the larger questions in life share such behavior"
(thad been almost two years since Maisies mother passed away, and still Frankie Dobbs grieved. He swore that it was Maisie who kept him going, for Frankie Dobbs lived for Sundays, and always the ritual was the same.
Although it was not a market day, Frankie would be at the stable with Persephone from an early hour, not as early as on a weekday, but early all the same. He talked softly to his mare, brushing her coat until she shone, caring for mane and tail, and checking hooves that had to pull a heavy load over a considerable distance each day. There was a warm, oaty sweetness to the stable, and here Frankie, often so ungainly when walking down the street or in company, was completely at ease. It was usually as Frankie was halfway through the Sunday morning round of chores that Maisie could be heard walking up the cobblestones toward the stable.
"Dad, I'm here," Maisie called out to him before looking over the half-door and waving. Always she brought something for Frankie from Mrs. Crawford, perhaps a pork pie wrapped in fine white muslin and brown paper, freshly baked bread still warm to the touch, or a steamed ap
ple pudding that needed only "A bit o' warming up over the stove," according to the cook.
Maisie quickly pulled off her coat and rolled up her sleeves. Father and daughter worked together to finish the morning's labor, their talk made easier by their movement. They shared confidences easily as their hands were busy with job of work.
"So, your learning's coming along, is it, Girl?"
"Yes, Dad. Dr. Blanche is looking ahead, he says. Reckons I could be ready for scholarship and entrance exams next year."
"Entrance for what?" asked Frankie, as he moved toward the pump to refill his bucket with water to rinse Persephone's leather reins and traces, which he had just lathered with saddle soap.
"Well, um, university. Dr. Blanche says I can do it. Her ladyship is very keen for me to apply to Cambridge, to Girton College. Says it's the place for an individualist."
"Did she now? Cambridge. Well, there's posh for you, my girl!" Frankie laughed but then looked seriously at Maisie. "As long as you don't push yourself, Love. And Cambridge is a long way off, isn't it? Where would you live? And what about mixing with the type of folk at a place like that"
"I dunno, Dad. I have to live at the college, I think. There are all sorts of rules about that, you know And I will meet people. I'll be just fine, Dad. Girton is a women's college away in a village, after all."
"Yes, but those other young women have more money than you do, and they've got more, you know, connections, like."
Maisie looked up from brushing Persephone. Even though Frankie had already brushed the horse from head to tail, Maisie loved to feel the warm animal close to her, and knew the horse appreciated her efforts.
"Dad, I'm not a child any more. I'm fifteen now And I've seen more than a lot of girls my age. Dr. Blanche knows what he is doing."
"Yes, love, I'm sure he does. Clever man, that one. I just worry about you"
Frankie rubbed the cleaned leather with a dry cloth, and hung reins and traces from a hook on the low ceiling. Later, after Maisie's return to Belgravia, Frankie would come back to the stable to feed Persephone, then take down the dry reins, bridle, and traces, and rub warmed neatsfoot oil into the leather.
"Don't worry about me, Dad. I'm doing very well, you know. Now then, where shall we go for our walk? I've got some nice sandwiches and a couple of bottles of ginger beer for us"
v hree days after her visit with Frankie, Maisie walked briskly toward the library for her early-evening lesson. She saw Maurice Blanche on alternate Wednesday evenings, meeting promptly at half past five in the library, for three hours, until Dr. Blanche left to join the Comptons for an informal supper in the dining room. She studied alone until he had finished supper, when both he and Lady Rowan Joined Maisie in the library to review her work. Lady Rowan was well pleased with the education of Maisie Dobbs, asking questions and suggesting new areas of study. But this evening a new possibility was discussed.
"Maisie, I think it is time for us to embark on some fieldwork."
Maisie looked first at Blanche, then at Lady Rowan. Botany. It had to be botany.
"Lady Rowan has spoken with Mr. Carter, and next week, on Wednesday, we will be taking an excursion. In fact, I have several such outings planned, and on those afternoons we must meet a little earlier than usual."
"What sort of outings? Where are we going?"
"Various places," said Blanche, "Of historical, social, or economic interest"
Little more was said, but in the following weeks Maisie was taken by Blanche to meet people with whom she would spend time alone in conversation. At first Maurice would remain with her, but as time went on, he would quietly leave the room to allow for conversation between Maisie and his friend, for each person who met with Maisie was considered a "friend" by Maurice Blanche. As far as Maisie was concerned, some of them were a strange lot altogether, and she wasn't sure what Frankie Dobbs would have to say about it all.
"Today we will be meeting with my dear friend Dr. Basil Khan," Maurice Blanche informed Maisie as they journeyed to Hampstead by taxi-cab. "An extraordinary scholar, born in Ceylon, into a veryhigh-caste family. His first name was given as a mark of respect to one of his father's former colleagues, an Englishman. Khan, as he prefers to be known, is completely blind. He lost his sight in an unfortunate accident, but as these things do, it became the foundation for his life's work"
"What's his life's work?"
"Khan, as you will see, is a man of great wisdom, of insight. His work uses that insight. He grants audiences to politicians, people of commerce, men of the cloth. He came to England as a young man, sent by his parents to see ophthalmic specialists, to no avail. While in England he gained his doctorate in philosophy at Oxford. Then he returned to Ceylon, and later traveled throughout the Indian subcontinent, himself seeking the counsel of wise men. To do this he had to give up the life he had once enjoyed in London and Oxford, which he had ceased to enjoy. Now he resides in Hampstead"
"So why am I to see him?"
"Maisie, we are visiting for him to see you. And for you to learn that seeing is not necessarily something one does with the eyes."
The visit to Khan was illuminating for Maisie. His apartments in a grand house were furnished in a simple manner: plain wooden furniture, curtains without pattern or texture, candlelight, and a strange smell that made her cough at first.
"You will get used to it, Maisie. Khan uses incense to bring a fragrant atmosphere to the house"
At first Maisie was timid when led into a large room with only cushions on the floor and an old man sitting with legs crossed. He was positioned by the long French window as if contemplating the view, so that as Maisie and Maurice Blanche walked toward him, Khan was framed by shafts of light, and appeared to have been borne into the room by some mystical means of transportation. Without turning, Khan gestured toward Maisie with his hand.
"Come, child, come sit with me. We have much to speak of."
To her surprise Maurice Blanche motioned Maisie to step forward, and moved toward Khan himself. He leaned down toward Khan, took the old man's bony brown hands in his own, and kissed his lined and furrowed forehead. Khan smiled and nodded, then turned to Maisie.
"Tell me what it is you know, child."
"Um . . . "
Both Khan and Maurice laughed, and the old man with long gray hair and almost colorless eyes smiled kindly at Maisie.
"Yes, a good start. A very good start. Let us talk of knowing"
So Maisie Dobbs-daughter of a costermonger from Lambeth, just south of the water that divided London's rich and poor-began to learn in the way that Maurice had intended, from the centuries of wisdom accumulated by Khan.
With Khan she learned to sit in deliberate silence, and learned too that the stilled mind would give insight beyond the teaching of books and hours of instruction, and that such counsel would support all other learning. When she first sat with Khan, she asked what it was she was to do as she sat with legs crossed on the cushion in front of him. The old man lifted his face to the window, then turned his clear white eyes toward her and said simply, "Pay attention"
Maisie took the practice of sitting with Khan seriously and to heart, with an instinctive knowledge that this work would serve her well. In just a few short years, the lessons learned in the hours with Khan would bring her calm amid the shellfire, the terrible injuries, and the cries of wounded men. But for now, Maurice Blanche told Maisie, it was no small coincidence that she often knew what a person was going to say before he or she spoke, or that she seemed to intuit an event before it had occurred.
CHAPTER TWELVE
aisle, you'll ruin your eyes if you read by that good-for-nothing light in the corner-and look at that time, you've to be up in three hours!"
"So have you, Enid, and you aren't anywhere near asleep yet"
"Don't you be worrying about me. I've told you that"
Maisie slipped a page of notes into the book to mark the place, closed the book, and placed it to one side on her small table. She looked
directly at Enid.
"And don't you look at me with those eyes either, young Maisie Dobbs. Gives me the willies, it does"
"You are being careful, aren't you, Enid?"
"'Course I am. I told you not to worry."
Khan might be teaching her many things about the human mind, but as far as Maisie was concerned, it didn't take much in the way of foresight to see that Enid was going to get into some trouble before long. In truth it was a surprise that the older girl was not only still as slim as a whip but was still employed at the house in Belgravia at all. But Enid, who was now almost eighteen, was loved by everyone downstairs. Her efforts at correct enunciation still fell short, and sometimes Maisie thought she sounded more like a music hall act than a maid in service. But she, too, had come to love Enid, for her laughter, for the unsought advice she gave so freely, and most of all for her unselfish support of Maisie.
Enid slipped a thick cotton nightdress over her head, pulled on woolen socks, and proceeded carefully to fold her clothes into the chest of drawers by the wall. Shadows cast by the oil lamp flickered on the sloping ceiling of the top-floor bedroom as Enid brushed out her thick hair with a hardy bristle brush.
"One hundred strokes for a good thick head of hair-have I told you that, Mais?"
"Yes, many a time."
Maisie ensured that her books and papers were carefully put away, and clambered into bed.
"Brrrr. It's cold in here."
Enid took an old silk scarf that had been hanging over the cast-iron bedpost, wrapped it around the head of her brush, and began brushing the silk over her hair to bring it to a lustrous shine.