Maisie was getting dressed. It was Rosh Hashanah, when the Book of Life was open, and at this time of year she always wondered what was being written for her. She never actually prayed, but she did sort of hope, in a solemn kind of way, that something good was going on her page of the Book.
April had gone to make tea in the communal kitchen, but now she came back, bursting into the room with a newspaper in her hand. “It’s you, Maisie, it’s you!” she said.
“What?”
“In the Lloyd’s Weekly News. Listen to this. ‘Miss Maisie Robinson, formerly Miriam Rabinowicz. If Miss Robinson will contact Messrs. Goldman and Jay, Solicitors, at Gray’s Inn, she will learn something to her advantage.’ It must be you!”
Maisie’s heart beat faster, but she made her expression stern and her voice cold. “It’s Hugh,” she said. “I’ll not go.”
April looked disappointed. “You might have inherited money from a long-lost relation.”
“I might be the Queen of Mongolia, but I’ll not walk all the way to Gray’s Inn on the off-chance.” She was managing to sound flippant, but her heart ached. She thought about Hugh every day and every night, and she was miserable. She hardly knew him, but it was impossible to forget him.
Nevertheless she was determined to try. She knew he had been searching for her. He had been at the Argyll Rooms every night, he had badgered Sammles the stable owner, and he had inquired for her at half the cheap lodging houses in London. Then the inquiries had ceased, and Maisie assumed he had given up. Now it seemed he had merely changed his tactics, and was trying to reach her with newspaper advertisements. It was very hard to continue to avoid him when he was searching so persistently for her and she wanted so badly to see him again. But she had made her decision. She loved him too much to ruin him.
She put her arms into her corset. “Help me with my stays,” she said to April.
April began pulling the laces. “I’ve never had my name in the paper,” she said enviously. “You have twice, now, if you count ‘The Lioness’ as a name.”
“And how much good has it done me? By God, I’m getting fat.”
April tied the laces and helped her into her gown. They were going out tonight. April had a new lover, a middle-aged magazine editor with a wife and six children in Clapham. This evening he and a friend were taking April and Maisie to a music hall.
Between now and then they would walk along Bond Street and stare into the windows of fashionable shops. They would not buy anything. In order to hide from Hugh, Maisie had been obliged to give up working for Sammles — much to Sammles’s regret, for she had sold five horses and a pony-and-trap — and the money she had saved was rapidly running out. But they had to go out, regardless of the weather: it was too depressing to stay in the room.
Maisie’s gown was tight across her breasts and she winced as April did it up. April gave her a curious look and said: “Are your nipples sore?”
“Yes, they are — I wonder why?”
“Maisie,” said April in a worried tone, “when did you last have the curse?”
“I never keep count.” Maisie thought for a moment, and a chill descended on her. “Oh, dear God,” she said.
“When?”
“I think it was before we went to the races at Goodwood. Do you think I’m pregnant?”
“Your waist is bigger and your nipples hurt and you haven’t had the curse for two months — yes, you’re pregnant,” April said in an exasperated voice. “I can’t believe you’ve been so stupid. Who was it?”
“Hugh, of course. But we only did it once. How can you get pregnant from one fuck?”
“You always get pregnant from one fuck.”
“Oh, my God.” Maisie felt as if she had been hit by a train. Shocked, bewildered and frightened, she sat down on the bed and began to cry. “What am I going to do?” she said helplessly.
“We could go to that lawyer’s office, for a start.”
Suddenly everything was different.
At first Maisie was scared and angry. Then she realized that she was now obliged to get in touch with Hugh, for the sake of the child inside her. And when she admitted this to herself she felt more glad than frightened. She was longing to see him again. She had convinced herself that it would be wrong to. But the baby made everything different. Now it was her duty to contact Hugh, and the prospect made her weak with relief.
All the same she was nervous as she and April climbed the steep staircase to the lawyer’s rooms at Gray’s Inn. The advertisement might not have been placed by Hugh. It would hardly be surprising if he had given up the search for her. She had been as discouraging as a girl could, and no man would carry the torch forever. The advertisement might be something to do with her parents, if they were still alive. Perhaps things had begun to go well for them at last, and they had the money to search for her. She was not sure how she felt about that. There had been many times when she had longed to see Mama and Papa again, but she was afraid they would be ashamed of her way of life.
They reached the top of the stairs and entered the outer office. The lawyer’s clerk was a young man wearing a mustard-colored waistcoat and a condescending smile. The girls were wet and bedraggled, but all the same he was disposed to flirt. “Ladies!” he said. “How could two such goddesses have need of the services of Messrs. Goldman and Jay? What could I possibly do for you?”
April rose to the occasion. “You could take off that waistcoat, it’s hurting my eyes,” she said.
Maisie had no patience with gallantry today. “My name is Maisie Robinson,” she said.
“Aha! The advertisement. By a happy chance, the gentleman in question is with Mr. Jay at this very minute.”
Maisie felt faint with trepidation. “Tell me something,” she said hesitantly. “The gentleman in question … Is he by any chance Mr. Hugh Pilaster?” She looked pleadingly at the clerk.
He failed to notice her look and replied in his ebullient tone: “Good Lord, no!”
Maisie’s hopes collapsed again. She sat down on a hard wooden bench by the door, fighting back tears. “Not him,” she said.
“No,” said the clerk. “As a matter of fact, I know Hugh Pilaster — we were at school together in Folkestone. He’s gone to America.”
Maisie rocked back as if she had been punched. “America?” she whispered.
“Boston, Massachusetts. Took ship a couple of weeks ago. You know him, then?”
Maisie ignored the question. Her heart felt like a stone, heavy and cold. Gone to America. And she had his child inside her. She was too horrified to cry.
April said aggressively: “Who is it, then?”
The clerk began to feel out of his depth. He lost his superior air and said nervously: “I’d better let him tell you himself. Excuse me for a moment.” He disappeared through an inner door.
Maisie stared blankly at the boxes of papers stacked against the wall, reading the titles marked on the sides: Blenkinsop Estate, Regina versus Wiltshire Flour Millers, Great Southern Railway, Mrs. Stanley Evans (deceased). Everything that happened in this office was a tragedy for someone, she reflected: death, bankruptcy, divorce, prosecution.
When the door opened again, a different man came out, a man of striking appearance. Not much older than Maisie, he had the face of a biblical prophet, with dark eyes staring out from under black eyebrows, a big nose with flaring nostrils, and a bushy beard. He looked familiar, and after a moment she decided he reminded her a little of her father, although Papa had never looked so fierce.
“Maisie?” he said. “Maisie Robinson?”
His clothes were a little odd, as if they had been bought in a foreign country, and his accent was American. “Yes, I’m Maisie Robinson,” she said. “Who the devil are you?”
“Don’t you recognize me?”
Suddenly she remembered a wire-thin boy, ragged and barefoot, with the first shadow of a moustache on his lip and a do-or-die look in his eye. “Oh, my God!” she yelped. “Danny!” For a moment she forgot her troubles as she ran to his arms. “Danny, is it really you?”
He hugged her so hard it hurt. “Sure it’s me,” he said.
“Who?” April was saying. “Who is he?”
“My brother!” Maisie said. “The one that ran away to America! He came back!”