“Yes.”

  “I can also see you made extensive inquiries through diplomatic channels with the Maltese government to find the child’s father—a man she had never met, given the very brief liaison between the child’s mother and this man, who was a merchant seaman.”

  “Yes, that’s correct—I thought I should try to find him,” said Maisie.

  The woman looked over her glasses at the men on either side of her. “Good, we’re getting somewhere—this is progress.”

  Maisie drew a deep breath. Here we go, she thought, as it occurred to her that the questions would now come at her thick and fast—and she was ready for every single one.

  An hour and ten minutes later, she emerged from the hearing room. Frankie and Brenda stood up. Anna ran toward her.

  “Tell me . . . tell me . . . tell me,” she said. Anna tended to repeat her sentences three times when she was excited. She jumped into Maisie’s arms.

  “Not quite there yet,” said the woman who emerged from the room behind Maisie. She held out her hand toward Anna, and looked at her over her half-moon glasses. “Miss Anna Mason? We’d like you to come in and have a little chat with us.”

  “Go on, my lovely one—go with the lady,” said Maisie. “We’ll be here in this very spot waiting for you.”

  Anna left Maisie’s side, and reached for the woman’s hand. Looking back with wide eyes, she placed the first two fingers of her left hand in her mouth.

  “Oh dear,” whispered Maisie. “She does that when she’s worried.”

  “The litt’lun will do well by herself, just you see,” said Frankie.

  “I suppose all we can do is wait, can’t we?” said Brenda.

  Maisie nodded. “I feel as if I’ve been waiting years.”

  Epilogue

  The letter was delivered on Friday, October 25th. Maisie was in the kitchen buttoning Anna’s green school mackintosh when the first post arrived; they could hear the sound of envelopes being pushed through the letter box and landing on the mat.

  “Letters!” squealed Anna, as she pulled away and scurried along the hallway to fetch the mail.

  She ran back into the kitchen. “There you are,” she said, placing several envelopes on the table in front of Maisie, who picked them up and leafed through them. She stopped at the envelope bearing the return address of the Ministry of Health.

  “Oh—”

  “What is it, love?” asked Brenda, coming into the kitchen.

  Maisie held up the envelope so Brenda could see who it was from. “I’m going to the library.”

  Anna moved to follow, but Brenda held her back. “Let Auntie Maisie go on her own—it’s something to do with her work. And you’re going to be late for school—where’s your satchel?”

  Maisie reached the library, hearing her stepmother call her father up from the cellar, where he had been endeavoring to stem rainwater leaking in from outside. She closed the door behind her, and sat at the desk. She looked at the envelope, then took up a paper knife and slipped it along the fold for a clean cut. She removed the letter, unfolded it and skimmed down the page until she reached the part she was looking for.

  “. . . therefore you have been given leave to formally adopt Anna Mason, age 6.”

  Maisie closed her eyes and held the letter to her chest. Everything seemed to stop around her, with the exception of the grandfather clock, which continued its steady tick tock, tick tock, as if to remind her that the earth had not ground to a halt and that it was still necessary to breathe. At that moment the telephone began to ring. She picked up the receiver, her hand shaking as she fought back tears.

  “Maisie—Klein here.” It was the deep voice of her solicitor, Bernard Klein, the man who had navigated so many legal waters on her behalf since the day she had learned of her inheritance.

  “I just received the letter—I—I—I can’t believe it.” Maisie began to weep.

  “My dear girl—I know how this must feel. I received a copy of the same letter and I wanted to offer my most heartfelt congratulations immediately. She’s yours, Maisie. You’re a mother now, and you should celebrate. Only a couple of formalities, nothing troubling—I will complete the documentation for you to sign this week, and that’s it. Anna’s adoption papers will come through in due course.”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Klein—you’ve been an absolute tower of strength through all this.”

  “Maisie, dealing with the transfer of Maurice’s estate to you, and now the adoption of Anna, have been among the most rewarding work I’ve done since I started out on the legal path. Now then, I’ll have my clerk start on the paperwork. You must go to your daughter. You’re both safe now.”

  Maisie thanked her solicitor again, replaced the telephone receiver and ran to the door, opening it and calling out, “Anna! Dad! Brenda!” only to find the three beloved members of her family standing outside the door. Anna stared up at her, two fingers in her mouth.

  “It’s all right, love—no need to shout, we can hear you,” said Frankie.

  “Maisie?” said Brenda, her voice shaking.

  Maisie nodded, for words had escaped her. She reached for Anna, who was already holding out her arms.

  “Can I call you ‘Mummy’ now?”

  “Yes, my love,” she sobbed, picking up her daughter. “Yes, you can. You can call me Mummy.”

  A celebratory Sunday lunch was planned for an assortment of guests, including Priscilla, who had been discharged from the Queen Victoria hospital in East Grinstead to recover and gain strength prior to her next operation. Douglas and all three sons came to the house, plus a friend of Tom’s who was also on a twenty-four-hour leave. Lord Julian and Lady Rowan were at lunch, as were Sandra with her husband and baby son—they had been looking at another cottage that had become available on the estate. Billy, Doreen, and their daughter, Margaret Rose, were not present—Frankie and Brenda had offered use of their bungalow to the family for as long as required, so they were in the midst of packing for the move. A group of Canadian officers completed the table, which was decorated with paper stars made by Anna. Glasses were raised, and Anna was the belle of the ball, having been taken into Tunbridge Wells to buy a new dress on Saturday morning before the shops closed. The guests lingered long into the afternoon, with Tom and his friend the first to depart, announcing that they had to get back to Hawkinge because their leave was almost up.

  Maisie stood with her godson at the front door, while his friend turned the motor car around.

  “We’re not quite out of time, Tante Maisie, but we wanted to get back because there’s a gang of us getting together at the Cat tonight—you know, the Red Lion, in Paddlesworth. We’re raising our glasses to Jim Trahey.”

  “Just a minute,” said Maisie. She ran into the house, returning with a pound note, which she pressed into his hand. “Raise one or two from me too, Tom. I liked Jim Trahey very much.”

  They both looked up at the sound of another vehicle approaching along the gravel drive toward the Dower House. A black Buick.

  “Looks like your friend is back, Tante Maisie.”

  Maisie stared at the motor car.

  “Tante Maisie? Hello!” Tom waved a hand in front of her eyes. “Well, I suppose I’ll be off now.”

  “Sorry Tom—oh dear, I am sorry.” She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “Safe landings—and don’t drink too much, will you?”

  “Ha! You can’t stand a couple of rounds for the chaps and then tell us to go easy! See you soon, Tante Maisie.” He turned to get into his friend’s motor car, waving to the man now emerging from the driver’s seat of the black vehicle. “Hello, Mr. Scott! You missed the celebration!”

  “That’s me, son—always a day late and a dollar short!” Mark Scott waved to Tom Partridge and turned to Maisie. “Hello, Maisie—I was going to call, but then I thought, ‘Heck, I can find my way down there again.’ So I managed to snag an embassy automobile. I followed the same roads from pub to pub, and here I am.”

  “Here you are,” said Maisie.

  “What’s the celebration?”

  “It’s for all of us, really—but especially for me, and for Anna.”

  Mark Scott gave a broad smile as he reached for Maisie, taking her in his arms. “Congratulations. And I know I’ve some explaining to do.”

  “Yes, you have,” she pulled back. “But I’ve an apology to make—I was short with you when we last spoke.”

  “You had every right to be.”

  “Not in wartime, Mark—there’s too much to lose. And people like us don’t have ordinary jobs, do we? I should have been more understanding.”

  “No we don’t have ordinary jobs, but one of mine has come to an end. And I want to tell you about the new one.”

  “Tell me later, Mark—come and see Anna. In fact, apart from Tom and his friend, there’s quite a few people still here, including some Canadians who look as if they would jump at the chance to give someone from the other side of the border a bit of a roasting!”

  “With good reason!” said Scott. “I can take it on the chin though.”

  Later, when all guests had left the Dower House, Anna had finally fallen asleep on the sofa in the drawing room, while Frankie and Brenda settled in to listen to the wireless. Maisie and Mark Scott took their drinks into the conservatory.

  “You know you can’t drive back to London now, don’t you?” said Maisie.

  “That’s okay, your conservatory is as good a place as any for me to put my head down.”

  “You’re welcome to join us in the cellar—I’ll be taking Anna down in a little while.”

  “Your daughter.”

  “Yes—my daughter.”

  Mark Scott cleared his throat. “I don’t know why people do that when they’re about to tell a story. I guess the words get caught up in your gullet and you can’t help coughing. Anyway, here goes—I can tell you about my work now.”

  “It certainly wasn’t helping me find Catherine Saxon’s killer, was it?”

  “No, but that poor girl’s death came along at the right time, though that sounds like a terrible thing to say. Has it all worked out okay with the two grandmothers? I heard you’ve been doing a bit of amateur diplomacy yourself.”

  “It appears to be going well—and without doubt, Beryl Tucker discovered her backbone. It transpired that not only had the Welbeck Street property been part of a legacy in her favor, but the house in Haywards Heath was also hers, and as much as her husband considered it all down to him to make the decisions, her late uncle’s trust was watertight, so Jonathan Tucker ultimately had no power because the uncle had taken a dislike to him when he was courting Beryl—everything is firmly in her name. Beryl has now instructed her husband to go to his club and remain there—she’s definitely become the mouse that roared. She invited Amelia Saxon to stay at the house in Haywards Heath, and they worked out a plan for Charlie. The nanny is still employed, and the little boy will be enrolled in school locally when he comes of an age. I believe Mrs. Tucker and Charlie will be spending summers in America with Amelia, who maintains she’ll ‘take care of the senator!’ And the grandmothers have also discussed Jenny Barrington, and how they can ensure she remains part of Charlie’s life, if and when she is released. It’s rather hard for Amelia, but they both know it’s the right thing to do.”

  “Grannies to the rescue.”

  “You could say that—but now, Mark, tell me what’s been going on.”

  Mark Scott took a last sip of whisky, and poured another. “My work will remain a secret in government files for at least fifty years, then I doubt anyone will notice because I’ll be long gone and I won’t be mentioned by name anyway. The government line is that I came to London officially as another embassy worker bee with the job of writing reports on the security of American citizens in Europe—to most of the staff there, I was a Bureau of Investigation man being redeployed.”

  “I’m surprised no one guessed there was more to your role—being a worker bee wouldn’t keep you occupied, would it?”

  “Not by a long shot, although security in general became part of my eventual official account. For months now I have been reporting directly to the president of the United States on the activities of our ambassador to London, Joseph Kennedy. My work ended a few days ago when Kennedy boarded an aircraft home, and I would be surprised if he ever set foot on British soil again.” Scott cleared his throat again. “Joseph Kennedy was always an isolationist, and he was an appeaser. Not only that, his rhetoric in support of Adolf Hitler, and suggestion that Britain capitulate to the Nazis, did not reflect the impression President Roosevelt wanted to give to the British—that we may not be over here, but our hearts are with you and we’ll do what we can while retaining our neutrality. The work of broadcasters like Murrow’s Boys and your Mr. J. B. Priestley have led the American people to realize that Britain is on its uppers, and that you’re the last country holding the line against the Nazis—and your people are dying while keeping their chins up. And that photograph in Life, the one by your Cecil Beaton of the little girl bombed out of her house, sitting in her hospital bed with her head bandaged clutching her raggedy toy—that has been seen on all the newsstands at home and it’s gone straight to the hearts of Americans nationwide. But back to Kennedy—and there’s a long list of diplomatic infractions, even within his own departments. He upset the State Department, and he interfered with their efforts to get American citizens home by trying to send them out of England first, when our folks in France, Germany, Austria and all over Europe have been in much greater danger. And some of our Americans over here didn’t want to go back—they wanted to see it through in London, or they went to the country. Then he commandeered valuable space on US registered ships to get stock from some liquor company he had financial interests in out of Britain, so he wouldn’t lose any money.”

  Scott sighed. “Ambassador Joseph Kennedy had it all in the palm of his hand when he came over here—his family were treated like movie stars, and it would have been so easy for him to make Anglo-American relations shine as never before. But he threw it all away—and then he fell before he was pushed, though there was pressure at his back. Next time around—and it won’t be too long—the president will be sending a statesman over here to be our ambassador, and he won’t be a guy known for his sleight of hand in business!”

  It was a long time before either Maisie or Mark Scott spoke. It was Maisie who broke the silence.

  “It’s all falling into place—Billy seeing you in South Kensington, and those absences. And why you couldn’t tell me the reason for your return to Washington.” She pulled a blanket from the back of the sofa, wrapping it around her shoulders. “So, what’s next for you, Mark?”

  Scott reached for her hand. “I get to stay here. I don’t have a fancy title or anything right now, but I’ll be a special political attaché at the embassy, preparing for the new ambassador’s arrival, keeping tabs on what’s going on in Britain—reporting back to DC with the things I’m allowed to know, and finding out about the things your people would rather I didn’t know. And I’ll be continuing to work in London until at least the end of the war—however long that will be.” He shrugged. “And seeing as I’m not getting any younger, though I hate to admit it, this might be my last posting before they put me out to grass.” He reached for Maisie’s hand, brought it to his lips and kissed her scars. “And I have to say, Maisie, I really like the grass here.”

  “I’m glad you’re back, Mark.”

  “I’d hoped I’d get a bit more than that.”

  “Give me time.”

  “Okay, but—”

  “Shhhh!” Maisie put her finger to her lips. Leaving the sofa, she stepped across to the windows and looked out beyond the sweeping view across Wealden countryside. “That’s the air raid warning—they’re coming over again.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Mark Scott ran to the drawing room and lifted the sleeping Anna from the sofa, as Frankie opened the cellar door and Brenda collected a basket from the kitchen. Maisie watched as the man she had come to love rested her daughter on a mattress, and tucked a blanket in around her. He helped Brenda get settled, and Frankie to stem rainwater that had found another way to enter the cellar.

  “Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Scott?” asked Brenda, pulling a flask from the basket.

  “Oh no, thank you, Mrs. Dobbs. I think I’ll go upstairs—I’m not a cellar kind of guy,” said Scott.

  “I’ll be back in a minute, Brenda, Dad,” said Maisie, following Scott to the conservatory.

  Maisie and Mark Scott watched the V formation of German bombers flanked by Luftwaffe fighter pilots in the distance, crossing the land in the direction of London. Over their heads a squadron of RAF aircraft were on their way to greet them. And once again old Mr. Avis could be seen shaking his fist and shouting at the sky, before aiming his rifle toward the bombers.

  “You know, you’ve gotta love you Brits,” said Scott, turning to Maisie.

  You burned the city of London in our houses and we felt the flames that burned it. You laid the dead of London at our doors and we knew that the dead were our dead—were mankind’s dead. Without rhetoric, without dramatics, without more emotion than needed be . . . you have destroyed the superstition that what is done beyond 3000 miles of water is not really done at all.

  Poet Archibald MacLeish, from a tribute to Edward R. Murrow

  Author’s Note

  The “Blitz” is the name given to the period of intense bombing on London and other British cities that began on September 7th 1940, and continued until May 10th, 1941. For those unfamiliar with this part of British history, it is important to note that Britain suffered Luftwaffe bombing from the early summer of 1940 until the end of the war—in later years heavy bombs, together with incendiary devices and V1 and V2 rockets were used by the Germans. What distinguishes the period known as “the Blitz” is the very intense nature of the attack, the sheer number of bombers flanked by fighter aircraft, and the formation employed. Aerial combat known as blitzkrieg—the German word for “lightning”—was the brainchild of Hermann Goering, head of Hitler’s Luftwaffe. It had been successfully tested during the Spanish Civil War on behalf of General Franco, and subsequently destroyed resistance to Nazi invasion in Poland, Belgium, the Netherlands and France. While the Blitz was in progress, people often referred to “another blitz” or “last night’s blitzes”—because there was obviously no prior knowledge of when the intensive bombing campaign might end, although some overseas journalists, in particular, referred to “the Blitz last night” (with a capital B) for example. During this time, Britain was also bombing German cities.