over.
Chapter Six
I n her room that evening, with the windows open and the fragrance of night-scented stock rising up from the garden below, Maisie curled her legs under her as she relaxed into the armchair. Her landlady had left a sandwich covered with an extra plate in the kitchen; and with a cup of tea set on a table alongside her, she flipped open Francesca Thomas’ personal file.
Thomas was now forty-one years of age, and, although born in Switzerland, she was educated at Oxford University and the Sorbonne, in Paris. There was no mention of her marital situation, so one could only assume she was a spinster. There was no notation as to where she had received her doctorate, only that her teaching career—which had begun in 1925—had taken her from France to Germany, then on to the College of St. Francis, where just a year earlier she had become the first woman to join the staff. According to the file, she had published papers on French literature as well as on subjects such as “The Philosopher and Modern Society.” Her two letters of reference had come from the Sorbonne and from Oxford, the latter provided by Professor Jennifer Penhaligon at Somerville College.
Maisie sighed. “Nothing much to pick at there,” she said aloud to the empty room, though she made a notation to contact Professor Penhaligon.
Setting the pages to one side, she flipped open the folder for Delphine Lang, who, it transpired, was twenty-six years of age. Following education at Roedean— No surprise , thought Maisie—Delphine Lang attended university in London, but in short order went on to Heidelberg to continue her education. Delphine probably didn’t need to work—there was a note in Liddicote’s hand to the effect that her father was a wealthy man—so the fact that she had sought out a profession was to her credit. Maisie was aware that her own generation of women had set an example to those who followed, and more women were choosing education and a job—with the former available only to those who could afford it.
Without doubt, Delphine Lang was well educated, and her references were “First Rate!” as Greville Liddicote had noted on the corner of her original inquiry letter. But her contract, which had begun in January, was for only one year and expired at the end of 1932—unless the contract was renewed, Delphine Lang would be out of a job in three months.
At that point, Maisie realized that she had not even been asked to sign a contract. She wondered if that might affect her position, now that Liddicote was no longer principal—after all, surely the British Secret Service could not force the college to keep her on? It was late when she put the folders aside and began to review her lesson for the next morning. Her teaching schedule ended after the first period on Friday morning, allowing her to return to London, if she wished—something she had planned to do at the end of each week.
It was past midnight when she made ready for bed, sitting first in quiet meditation for some moments, her legs crossed, her eyelids not quite touching, her breath slowing to still her mind. She had wondered about her relationship with James Compton, and, as it deepened and as time went on—if it went on for them—how he might respond to her claiming a quiet time in the late evening. Though he did not share her need for this period of silence, he knew Khan—Maurice’s friend who had taught Maisie that “seeing is not necessarily something that we do with our eyes alone”—and thus far he had taken care to allow her the moments in solitude each evening when they were together.
With her thoughts on James, she picked up the framed photograph she’d placed on her bedside table. The photograph had been taken during a summer visit to Priscilla’s country home. James—tall, fair, and of athletic build—was standing with his arms around Maisie, pulling her close to him. She smiled as she touched the image of him laughing; his wounding
Chapter Six
I n her room that evening, with the windows open and the fragrance of night-scented stock rising up from the garden below, Maisie curled her legs under her as she relaxed into the armchair. Her landlady had left a sandwich covered with an extra plate in the kitchen; and with a cup of tea set on a table alongside her, she flipped open Francesca Thomas’ personal file.
Thomas was now forty-one years of age, and, although born in Switzerland, she was educated at Oxford University and the Sorbonne, in Paris. There was no mention of her marital situation, so one could only assume she was a spinster. There was no notation as to where she had received her doctorate, only that her teaching career—which had begun in 1925—had taken her from France to Germany, then on to the College of St. Francis, where just a year earlier she had become the first woman to join the staff. According to the file, she had published papers on French literature as well as on subjects such as “The Philosopher and Modern Society.” Her two letters of reference had come from the Sorbonne and from Oxford, the latter provided by Professor Jennifer Penhaligon at Somerville College.
Maisie sighed. “Nothing much to pick at there,” she said aloud to the empty room, though she made a notation to contact Professor Penhaligon.
Setting the pages to one side, she flipped open the folder for Delphine Lang, who, it transpired, was twenty-six years of age. Following education at Roedean— No surprise , thought Maisie—Delphine Lang attended university in London, but in short order went on to Heidelberg to continue her education. Delphine probably didn’t need to work—there was a note in Liddicote’s hand to the effect that her father was a wealthy man—so the fact that she had sought out a profession was to her credit. Maisie was aware that her own generation of women had set an example to those who followed, and more women were choosing education and a job—with the former available only to those who could afford it.
Without doubt, Delphine Lang was well educated, and her references were “First Rate!” as Greville Liddicote had noted on the corner of her original inquiry letter. But her contract, which had begun in January, was for only one year and expired at the end of 1932—unless the contract was renewed, Delphine Lang would be out of a job in three months.
At that point, Maisie realized that she had not even been asked to sign a contract. She wondered if that might affect her position, now that Liddicote was no longer principal—after all, surely the British Secret Service could not force the college to keep her on? It was late when she put the folders aside and began to review her lesson for the next morning. Her teaching schedule ended after the first period on Friday morning, allowing her to return to London, if she wished—something she had planned to do at the end of each week.
It was past midnight when she made ready for bed, sitting first in quiet meditation for some moments, her legs crossed, her eyelids not quite touching, her breath slowing to still her mind. She had wondered about her relationship with James Compton, and, as it deepened and as time went on—if it went on for them—how he might respond to her claiming a quiet time in the late evening. Though he did not share her need for this period of silence, he knew Khan—Maurice’s friend who had taught Maisie that “seeing is not necessarily something that we do with our eyes alone”—and thus far he had taken care to allow her the moments in solitude each evening when they were together.
With her thoughts on James, she picked up the framed photograph she’d placed on her bedside table. The photograph had been taken during a summer visit to Priscilla’s country home. James—tall, fair, and of athletic build—was standing with his arms around Maisie, pulling her close to him. She smiled as she touched the image of him laughing; his wounding
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