in the war had led to a deep depression, and he had eventually been sent to Canada by his parents, ostensibly to oversee the family’s business interests, but in truth to find the peace of mind he craved. Maisie had known James for many years, but it was only in the recent spring that they had grown closer, a development that proved something of a surprise for them both.
James had taken over as head of the Compton Corporation in London upon his father’s retirement at the beginning of the year, but it became clear that a visit to the Canadian office at some point in the summer would be necessary, so he had left at the end of July, with a return not expected before October. Maisie realized how much she missed James: missed the comfort of his arms around her, her hand in his. She missed the twin aspects of his character she enjoyed—an ability to accept whatever the day had to offer, along with a need for his own quiet interludes, when he rode out on one of his hunters across the lands of the Chelstone estate. She understood only too well that he had struggled to find such lightness in life. But as much as they both enjoyed being at Chelstone Manor, their visits were not without a certain awkwardness. Though an independent woman, Maisie did not want her father to know that when James Compton breakfasted at The Dower House it was because he had remained in her company since dinner. This had led to poor acting; James had commented to her on one occasion, “Maisie, I’m beginning to feel like a third-tier actor in an Oscar Wilde stage farce, pretending I’ve just walked in the door—as if I’d crossed the lawns in my dressing gown to say, ‘Good morning, Miss Dobbs, might I scrounge a bit of toast and egg?’ ” Imagining such a scene, Maisie found she could not stop laughing. And that was something else she liked about James Compton—they laughed together, with an awareness that there was between them a joy that neither had experienced since the war. Theirs was a laughter fueled not by pressure from others, nor by alcohol or the whims of a partying crowd, but by a certain optimism that, even in the midst of the difficult times in which they lived, they had grasped a sense of possibility before it slipped through their fingers.
Maisie replaced the photograph and, once in bed, opened the book Tinsley had brought to her office. He’d slipped a note inside the front cover, more information on the novel. She ran her fingers across the embossed cover once again and considered the picture of the young children surrounding a soldier, with the crosses in the background. It reminded Maisie of a woodcut, framed as it was by a trellis with ivy growing in and out of the diagonal lines, a Celtic knot at each corner. She began to read Tinsley’s note:
The Peaceful Little Warriors by Greville Liddicote
A tale of orphaned children who go to live in the woods, taken care of by animals, birds, fairies, and wood nymphs. They decide to go to London to see their King, to try to stop the war. The King and his Council laugh, so the children march to the battlefields to stand between the great armies, where they lay their woodland flowers at the feet of the soldiers. The war is stopped when the solders set down their arms, and the children of the world come from their towns and villages to bring their fathers home again. Reminiscent of the story of The Pied Piper, but with children taking the adults away.
Miss Dobbs, you will see that the book is written very much in the Victorian tradition (there was a resurrection of fairy stories during the late Queen’s reign). In this tale, wood nymphs and fairies and “otherworldly” beings have been used to bring comfort to children, who in turn bring sense to the world. A traditional story, with an untraditional subject. It was very clever at the time, of course; the cover of the book is both familiar, and a gauntlet thrown down to the war’s supporters. For those who buy a book based on the
James had taken over as head of the Compton Corporation in London upon his father’s retirement at the beginning of the year, but it became clear that a visit to the Canadian office at some point in the summer would be necessary, so he had left at the end of July, with a return not expected before October. Maisie realized how much she missed James: missed the comfort of his arms around her, her hand in his. She missed the twin aspects of his character she enjoyed—an ability to accept whatever the day had to offer, along with a need for his own quiet interludes, when he rode out on one of his hunters across the lands of the Chelstone estate. She understood only too well that he had struggled to find such lightness in life. But as much as they both enjoyed being at Chelstone Manor, their visits were not without a certain awkwardness. Though an independent woman, Maisie did not want her father to know that when James Compton breakfasted at The Dower House it was because he had remained in her company since dinner. This had led to poor acting; James had commented to her on one occasion, “Maisie, I’m beginning to feel like a third-tier actor in an Oscar Wilde stage farce, pretending I’ve just walked in the door—as if I’d crossed the lawns in my dressing gown to say, ‘Good morning, Miss Dobbs, might I scrounge a bit of toast and egg?’ ” Imagining such a scene, Maisie found she could not stop laughing. And that was something else she liked about James Compton—they laughed together, with an awareness that there was between them a joy that neither had experienced since the war. Theirs was a laughter fueled not by pressure from others, nor by alcohol or the whims of a partying crowd, but by a certain optimism that, even in the midst of the difficult times in which they lived, they had grasped a sense of possibility before it slipped through their fingers.
Maisie replaced the photograph and, once in bed, opened the book Tinsley had brought to her office. He’d slipped a note inside the front cover, more information on the novel. She ran her fingers across the embossed cover once again and considered the picture of the young children surrounding a soldier, with the crosses in the background. It reminded Maisie of a woodcut, framed as it was by a trellis with ivy growing in and out of the diagonal lines, a Celtic knot at each corner. She began to read Tinsley’s note:
The Peaceful Little Warriors by Greville Liddicote
A tale of orphaned children who go to live in the woods, taken care of by animals, birds, fairies, and wood nymphs. They decide to go to London to see their King, to try to stop the war. The King and his Council laugh, so the children march to the battlefields to stand between the great armies, where they lay their woodland flowers at the feet of the soldiers. The war is stopped when the solders set down their arms, and the children of the world come from their towns and villages to bring their fathers home again. Reminiscent of the story of The Pied Piper, but with children taking the adults away.
Miss Dobbs, you will see that the book is written very much in the Victorian tradition (there was a resurrection of fairy stories during the late Queen’s reign). In this tale, wood nymphs and fairies and “otherworldly” beings have been used to bring comfort to children, who in turn bring sense to the world. A traditional story, with an untraditional subject. It was very clever at the time, of course; the cover of the book is both familiar, and a gauntlet thrown down to the war’s supporters. For those who buy a book based on the
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