Radio Girls(4)

Maisie struggled to remember how to breathe. That grin. Those freckles.

“Well, I . . . sort of . . . I mean, I lived . . . grew up . . . in New York, but . . .”

Rusty, remembering himself, intervened. “Ever so sorry, Mr. Underwood, sir, but I must deliver the miss to Miss Shields for an interview.”

“Oh!” The young man looked stunned. “I rather thought you must be a Matheson acquisition.”

“Not likely,” someone said, and sniggered. A chorus of whispers ensued.

“Well, enjoy Miss Shields, then,” Mr. Underwood encouraged. Sapphire eyes smiled, charmer to her snake, but his tone suggested enjoyment was futile.

Maisie wished the blush burning her face and neck was hot enough to turn the floor liquid and let her sink into nothingness. She trotted robotically behind Rusty, taking no notice of the number of stairs, only waking up when they reached a hushed corridor, more polished and solemn than the lower floors, with every door closed.

Rusty strode up to one of the doors, gave it a respectful knock, then edged it open.

“Miss Shields, Miss Musgrave for you, miss,” Rusty announced in his best impression of refinement.

“Thank you, Rusty,” came a ringing voice. Maisie forced herself into the office, hoping her blush had dissipated. Miss Shields looked down her nose at Maisie, her handsome features unblemished by such frivolities as a smile. She wore a brown tweed suit whose simple lines spoke the epitome of quiet good taste. A gold watch was pinned to the lapel, reminding Maisie of the Sisters in the hospital, except their watches didn’t feature a spray of tiny rubies and a diamond.

“Do sit down, Miss Musgrave,” came the invitation, polite enough. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

Maisie hesitated. She never turned down refreshment on principle, and all the chill November had to offer had seeped through her worn shoes. On the other hand, she was shaking enough to possibly upset that tea all over her thighs. But this was not the sort of woman who brooked refusals, so Maisie nodded and smiled.

“Yes, please, thank you. Very much.”

Miss Shields gave Rusty the order. Maisie waited awkwardly, feeling rather than seeing the room, hot little pinpricks of excitement dancing up her limbs, forming pools of sweat under her arms. Quite a thing, sitting in an office all your own. Miss Shields’s chair had curved arms and swiveled. Maisie longed for every bit of it, and wondered how fast the chair spun around.

“Would you like milk? Sugar?” Miss Shields asked.

“Yes, please, both, thank you,” said Maisie, wishing the bounty extended to a tea cake or even just a cookie (or “biscuit,” as she’d taught herself to say). She didn’t remember what it was like not to be hungry in the long hours before supper.

“Yes, you Americans do like your tea sweet,” Miss Shields observed, pleased with her knowledge as she handed Maisie a cup and saucer with bluebirds flying around the rim.

“Oh, I’m Canadian,” Maisie stammered, and went into her usual apologetic patter. “Half-British, as my father was British. My mother is Canadian and I was born there. Then my mother and I went to New York, where she was an ac—where she had work. I mostly lived there but spent summers in Toronto until I joined the VAD in 1916 and was assigned to the hospital in Brighton.”

She trailed off. Her biography was such a terribly unimpressive hodgepodge. She handed Miss Shields her two letters of reference and managed only one sip of tea before they were read through and set aside.

“Where was your father born?”

“Oh. I . . . I don’t . . .” She couldn’t see how the question was relevant, but glanced down at her shoes and settled on “Oxford,” as that sounded gorgeously respectable. Very not Georgina.

“I suppose his name was Musgrave.”

“Edwin Musgrave,” Maisie specified, which was true as far as she knew. The familiar pang tapped her behind the breastbone, and she suppressed a sigh. The father she apparently—and unluckily—resembled almost exactly. Whom she still hoped to find someday. Had he taken one look at his infant daughter and walked away, or did she have memories of him locked away somewhere, if only she knew where to search?

“And do you know where he was educated?”

“Where he . . . ? No, I . . . I’m sorry . . . I—I don’t.” She forced herself to keep looking into this woman’s cold eyes.

“I see. Well, we’ve grown quite busy of late, and I need someone who will provide a bit of extra assistance when the typing pool is at full pressure. I am the personal secretary to Mr. Reith.”

She pronounced his name with the sort of fervor Lola reserved for Rudolph Valentino.

“The director-general, yes,” Maisie put in, attempting to demonstrate that she had made an attempt to learn something of this place.

“Mr. Reith expects everything done well and on time. He expects a serious and dedicated staff. We are growing, gaining in importance. Everything we do must reflect and enhance that. I require an assistant who can manage a number of tasks at once and yet be ready to add something more when called upon. You having been a nurse, that is—”

She narrowed her eyes at Maisie.

“You must have been quite young when you joined.”

Maisie never knew how to respond to that observation. Surely someone must appreciate her patriotism and initiative—or at least her need to escape—in having procured a fake birth certificate so as to be eighteen when she first came to England, instead of several months shy of her fourteenth birthday. But she had never yet found anyone to whom she dared mention it.