A Lesson in Secrets_ A Maisie Dobbs Novel - Jacqueline Winspear [49]
“Marriage agrees with you, Pris.”
“I have a fine spouse, my three toads—who of course are in the doghouse again, but I love them for it. And I have a good life, which is nothing to be sniffed at.”
“But I don’t know if it’s me, that sort of life. And for a start, James hasn’t asked.”
“Probably too bloody scared to ask, if you want my opinion.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, a man asks a woman to marry him when he’s pretty sure she’ll say yes. Getting a no isn’t exactly an edifying experience, is it?”
Maisie looked out of the window. “Well, anyway . . . ”
“I know that well anyway.” Priscilla mimicked Maisie’s voice. “It’s the phrase that says, ‘I really don’t want to talk about it anymore.’ Well, anyway, Maisie—I do! Now then, the question is, do you want to marry him, regardless of whether he has asked you?”
“I don’t know.”
“What, exactly, don’t you know?”
“Whether I could relinquish my work. Frankly, I don’t think I could.”
“Oh, I hate all this old-fashioned twaddle, you know, that a woman has to do this or that when she’s married.” She turned to Maisie. “Strike out, for heaven’s sake! After all, dear old Maurice left you with more than simply his estate. His greatest bequest was a good deal of freedom, don’t you think? You now have the wherewithal to please yourself, and to hell with what anyone thinks.” She paused. “You’ve got to snap out of it, Maisie—being concerned about what others think of you. It’s a bit late now, anyway, to be worrying about that sort of thing, what with your business and the fact that James is a very frequent visitor to your flat.” She inhaled from the cigarette holder, as if for effect. “I bet his shaving mug is a fixture in your bathroom, for a start. But of course, the real question is more fundamental, isn’t it, my friend? The real question is, do you truly love the man?”
Maisie snapped awake as the whistle blew to signal arrival in Ipswich, the county town of Suffolk. The afternoon was sunny and warm as she walked towards the address she had been given for the records office. She knew that a county records office was sometimes lacking in information, and that parish records often held more of the sort of detail she was looking for. But parish records were all very well if you knew in which parish to start your search—otherwise it could be a time-consuming exercise, with no joy at the end.
The clerk assisting her was a man who looked to be in his fifties, and who gave the impression of knowing a great many people in the county.
“Linden . . . Linden. Rosemary, you say? Not a great number of Lindens about, to my knowledge. Approximately twenty-eight years of age? Well, if her birth was registered, then we should know about it, though do bear in mind that not all parents—especially those in agricultural areas—are given to taking the time to register a child. Often there’s the wait to see if the child lives past its first month, then if it does, they might then register the birth—that’s if they can lose a day’s pay to come into town. Anyway, let me see if I can find anything.”
Maisie waited for some time, watching the late-afternoon sun waft across the room, highlighting dust motes and flies that buzzed back and forth from window to window.
“Here’s a few Lindens for you, but no Rosemary, I’m afraid.” He held out a piece of paper. “You’ll see we’ve got a Cyril and his wife, Mary; a Stephen and Julia and four children; a Rupert and Jane, plus two, and an Emily—elderly, widowed. There were also three deceaseds: James Christopher—eight months; Margaret, spinster; and Rose, another widow.”
“Do you have addresses?”
“I have last-knowns, though they can change, what with people being out of work, short of money to pay the rent; people have to move to find a decent day’s wage, and there’s the old people who’re having to depend on charity.”
Maisie nodded and thanked the man, looking at the clock on the wall as she departed the office. It was now half past four.