A Lesson in Secrets_ A Maisie Dobbs Novel - Jacqueline Winspear [68]
I’ve asked for tea—I am sure you’d like a cup, having come all the way from Cambridge to see me.” Jennifer Penhaligon’s smile was warm, seemingly in contrast to movements that were quick and precise, and with a sharper tongue, might seem almost confrontational. She was of medium height, in her seventies, and the shine in her eyes seemed to indicate a still-sparkling intellect. Her silver-gray hair was cut in a fashionable short bob, and she wore a light linen skirt and blouse under her black gown. A gold wristwatch with a delicate safety chain slid down her wrist as she reached for Maisie’s letter; her only other jewelry was a pair of pearl earrings, and a wedding ring that seemed to have worked a groove into her finger. Her nails were short—Maisie had discovered that long nails were neither practical nor appropriate for a teacher using chalk on a blackboard—and skin that might once have been fair was marked by liver spots, indicating, Maisie thought, that Jennifer Penhaligon loved to garden when not at her desk.
“Thank you—I do believe I drink far too much tea, but another cup is always welcome.”
“Well, let’s get down to business—”
A young woman came in with a tea tray, and there was a hiatus in the conversation while she poured cups for the professor and Maisie. When she left the room, Penhaligon sipped from her cup of tea, set the cup down, clasped her hands in front of her, and looked at Maisie.
“As I was saying, let’s get down to business. You said in your letter that you were writing an account of the College of St. Francis, in memory of Greville Liddicote—and you intend to include some sort of biography on each of the senior staff.”
“Yes, I thought it would be an important addition to the history of the college.”
“And you’re interested in Francesca Thomas?”
“Yes, Dr. Thomas is one of our most admired staff members at the college.”
“I can imagine. I remember Miss Thomas very well indeed. First-class languages, excellent student—diligent, and thoughtful. Passionate, is how I would describe her.”
“In what way, would you say, was she passionate?”
“About the things she believed in. Of course, such ideals sound like empty words—freedom, for example, to think, to have a voice—but she had done her reading, her research, and she knew exactly what she meant when she backed up her ideals with solid thought and good, good writing. Very able, when it came to expressing herself on paper, which is not always the case with those who are born overseas and for whom English is not their first language. Mind you, had she not been so gifted, she would not have been accepted here at Somerville.”
“I see, and she was here for three years?”
“Yes, and went straight to London in 1914, to take up a job.”
“In London? I’m surprised.”
“Don’t be—with her exposure to languages and so on, she was ideal for her role.”
“What sort of work was it?”
“Something or other in the War Office, or one of the other services where they needed bright young women with linguistic abilities—I’m not really sure, to tell you the truth. She came back to see me once after she’d left, and she said she couldn’t really speak about her job—hush-hush, apparently. But if you remember, everything was hush-hush in the war. You would have thought there were German spies in every tea shop.”
“And you didn’t see her again until—when?”
“Oh, I haven’t seen her since that last visit. I had an idea she’d gone overseas—and you say she earned her doctorate somewhere in Europe? Doesn’t surprise me at all, you know, very bright girl, determined. Did she never marry?’
“I don’t know,” said Maisie. “I know she lives alone in Cambridge, so if she was married once, she isn’t now.”
“Yes, one doesn’t like to ask, but it’s easy to assume that a young husband or fiancé was lost—there are so many widows, aren’t there?” Jennifer Penhaligon