To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(43)
“But he was a . . . a bloody fool.” The older woman pressed her lips together, and looked away. “That was bad language, but I am so very angry with my own son and I’ve kept it bottled up because it’s so . . . so hard to say that about someone I loved so much but am so very . . . so very . . . disappointed in. I can’t stand myself for the thoughts that go through my head sometimes, and when you were away for all that time, all I could think of was, ‘James did that—she lost him and her child and it’s all his fault.’ And if it was his fault, then it was my fault too, because I’m his mother. I couldn’t talk to Julian about it, because the man is crushed anyway—there have been times when it has taken every fiber of our strength together to go from one day to the next, though it’s become easier. But if I had the chance to do so, I would take my son and box his ears.”
Maisie shook her head. “Oh, Rowan. James drew joy from the mystery of what each day might hold—he had come back from the dreadful years immediately after the war, and those years tormented him. That’s all we should remember—that he loved his life, that he died as a man who was loved, a man filled with the promise of fatherhood and of being involved in something so important to our country. It’s something we should hold in our hearts, Rowan.”
Lady Rowan shook her head. “I wish I could be so forgiving.”
Maisie sighed. “What might Maurice say to you, if he were here?”
Lady Rowan shifted her seat, though she allowed Maisie to continue stroking her hand. “I wish I knew,” she said, then changed her tone. “Though I will add that he wasn’t always right, you know.”
“And there you have one thing he might have said.” Maisie smiled. “He would have reminded you that we don’t always make the very best decisions. That is who we are—not perfect. Yet with our imperfections we are perfect human beings; that is who we are meant to be. James died doing something he loved, and we all adored him for his passion. He chose to be an aviator, and he chose to test a new fighter aircraft for the government—it was a fateful day and it changed all our lives. Yet it serves no one to go back and forth trying to apportion blame. Forgive yourself, Rowan. Forgive yourself and set yourself free of this blame, of regret.”
“But you lost—”
Maisie shook her head and released Lady Rowan’s hand, patting it as she did so.
“I am here today.” She reached for the ignition and started the engine again. “In Spain I was reminded of all the losses people endure. Tragedy is so personal, but it doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened before, to someone, somewhere—it’s what helps us to understand and bring solace to others, knowing something of what they feel. And look at the family I have now—you, Lord Julian, my father and Brenda, and Priscilla, Douglas and the boys.”
“And Anna,” said Lady Rowan.
Maisie felt the piercing blue eyes upon her, and another unspoken question hanging in the air. She slipped the motor car into gear. “Yes, and Anna.”
The long snaking line of people waiting to enter Westminster Abbey almost took Maisie’s breath away. Unable to park near the abbey, she pulled in as close as she could to the gates to allow Rowan to step out of the Alvis. She then drove off to look for a suitable place to leave the motor car, which she found just off Great Smith Street. She ran back to the abbey to rejoin Lady Rowan, who informed her that because she “knew people” there were already places kept for them, so they wouldn’t have to stand. But as she was about to follow her mother-in-law into the abbey, she had second thoughts.
“Rowan—I’m going to join the queue. I want to stand with the crowd. You should sit down as soon as you can—keep a seat for me, and I’ll find you.”
Lady Rowan looked at the growing line of people—there must have been thousands of men, women and children—and nodded. “The king said it should be a National Day of Prayer, that we should come together, as a people, to pray to be delivered from the approaching tyranny.” She cast her gaze back to Maisie. “Yes, join the throng, Maisie—if my hip were not nipping at me, I would too. But it’s one of those days when I must give thanks for the privilege of good connections and a reserved seat. I’ll see you inside.”
As she was moving to the end of the line, Maisie heard a voice call out.
“Oi, Miss! Oi, Miss—it’s us over here. Come on.” She looked into the line of people, and saw Billy, Doreen and Margaret Rose, all waving to her.
“You don’t mind if the lady joins us, do you, mate?” Billy turned to a man and his wife standing behind them.
“All right by me.” The man stepped back. “Come on, slip in here, love.”
“Thank you, sir—I am much obliged to you.” She turned to Billy and Doreen. “It’s lovely to see you here—all three of you.” She put a hand on Doreen’s arm to emphasize her greeting, and smiled down at their daughter. “Hello Margaret Rose—oh my goodness, you’ve grown. You’ll be as tall as Bobby soon.”
The child looked down at her feet, and ran her fingers through the halo of blond curls that fell across her forehead, a mannerism that made her appear even more like her father. And when she raised her head, her cornflower blue eyes staring at Maisie, she said, “Mum and Dad told me we had to come, because even if you didn’t believe in God, you had to give him a chance when things get very difficult. And everybody has to pull together.”