Radio Girls(83)

Well, lots of good friends address each other that way. Very Jane Austen.

But she couldn’t stop herself reading, as though it were any other confusing bit of text that she wanted to understand. And there they all were, sentences no one but the recipient should see, answering many questions about Hilda but raising a dozen more. And then, at the bottom, in highly legible capital letters: “I LOVE YOU. I WANT YOU.”

She stared down at those words, which went well past Jane Austen’s milieu. There was no mistaking their meaning. There was no mistaking any of it. Vita. And Hilda. Of course, the papers loved to talk about the Bloomsbury group and their leisure activities, feeding the disgust of some, the titillation of others. Maisie, despite her education in the theater, didn’t pretend to understand it, but had always shrugged it off as not her business.

Which this wasn’t either. But Hilda and Vita. Hilda. So she did love, after all. Loved, and wanted.

Maisie flipped the page back over—it was far more comforting to see the familiar DO NOT WRITE ON THIS SIDE.

“Ah, Miss Musgrave, is Miss Matheson not in?”

Maisie yelped and spun around—Reith was looking down at her. Her hands were behind her back, still on the memo.

“No, sir. She’s lunching out.”

Please don’t let him see the “Shall!!” The “Shall!!” would be better than what was on the other side, but he couldn’t, he mustn’t, he must never think of Hilda as anything other than the brilliant if somewhat radical director of Talks.

“Ah, of course,” Reith said, scowling. “Where is Mr. Fielden?”

“Sir?” Fielden hovered at the door, radiating disapproval at Reith’s being in Hilda’s office when she wasn’t there. Maisie kept her hands on the desk, her fingers reaching as far as they dared, searching for the script to slide back over the letter without either man noticing, but Reith wasn’t turned away quite far enough. Likely he wouldn’t notice, but she wasn’t prepared to take the chance.

“Fielden, good. Tell me, this Talk on banking, who is this ‘Miss Cartwright’?”

“A banker, sir. The first woman to hold such a position, it seems. We’ve had her in to broadcast before, sir.”

“I see. And the other banker is one of the Rothschild men?”

“That is correct, sir.”

“Ah. Might I ask that you arrange for a third banker? Someone a bit more traditional?”

“Certainly!” Maisie burst out, desperate to get rid of him, ignoring Fielden’s glare. “We’ll discuss it with Miss Matheson as soon as she returns.”

“Perhaps you have someone in mind?” Fielden asked Reith. Maisie glared right back at him. This was not the time to be so protective of Hilda’s taste.

“Well, I—” Reith began, but the phone rang. Maisie didn’t dare leave her post guarding the desk. She pretended to cough violently, forcing Fielden to answer.

“Talks Department, Fielden . . . Oh yes, Miss Wo—sorry?” His voice twisted upward, turning suddenly, rarely, frightened. “But we can’t . . . No, I . . . She isn’t . . . Miss Woolf, please, if it’s a matter of the fee, I’m sure we can . . .”

Virginia Woolf! And to judge by Fielden’s wide-eyed mewling, there was a problem. Maisie’s eyes unwillingly slid to the afternoon’s schedule, where A Survey of Women in Literature with Virginia Woolf shouted at her in purple mimeographed ink. She jerked her glance away, only to see Reith eyeing it as well.

Fielden hung up. His skeleton seemed to have dropped out of his frame.

“Miss Woolf is, er, not able to broadcast as scheduled.”

That letter under Maisie’s hand grew hot. Now she understood Virginia Woolf’s chilliness toward Hilda, and Hilda’s indifference. Now she remembered that the character of Orlando was said to be based on Vita, with whom Virginia Woolf had been involved, according to gossip Maisie barely noticed. And now Vita was receiving letters from Hilda, who loved her, who wanted her.

“Women!” Reith boomed. “Completely unpredictable. And especially those Bloomsbury sorts. I suppose you have some sort of contingency plan?” Reith glared at them expectantly.

“Certainly, sir,” Fielden said, and Maisie suddenly adored his ponderous voice, where sarcasm was so hard to discern. “We keep a score of potential broadcasters at the ready, just for such events as these.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Reith said, full of condescending beneficence, and wonderful undiscernment. “You’ll convey to Miss Matheson my concern about the banking Talk?”

“She will treat it with the same consideration as all your concerns, sir,” Maisie assured him. She shut the door and turned to Fielden. “What are we going to do? We’ve got to ring her!”

“It’s the Dorchester. They don’t put calls through to patrons. That sort of thing is ‘very low behavior,’” he snapped, ripping off his glasses and rubbing his eyes.

Maisie folded her hands and paced, tracing Hilda’s thinking route. “All right,” she said. “Let’s ring five of our usual people, and if we can’t get anyone, I’ll go to the Dorchester myself and tell her. She’ll want to know.”

“You just want to go to a posh restaurant,” Fielden sneered, but fetched the bound book of names and addresses. “I suppose the Strachey woman is always keen,” he said with a gusty sigh.