A Lesson in Secrets_ A Maisie Dobbs Novel - Jacqueline Winspear [98]
Maisie allowed a silence to descend before asking another question. “How did Greville Liddicote come into your lives?”
“My mother had a book—actually she had a couple of books—that she and my father had written together. They had a way of working that really seemed to be fruitful for them, and they took so much joy in the process. They would talk about a story idea, then my father would set to and write the first draft, after which he would give the pages to my mother; then she would go through them and write the story again—and she’d paint little pictures with her watercolors along the way. Then when my father was sent to prison, she wrote a story for us—it was called The Peaceful Little Warriors. We loved that story, and she illustrated it.” She sighed. “We needed money, so Mother thought she would try to get them published. She was naïve, Maisie. She asked her friends, one of whom vaguely knew Greville Liddicote, and that he had written some children’s books. So she wrote to him and enclosed one chapter of the first book. He came to visit and began paying attention to my mother. She was a striking woman, Maisie. Though she can barely move now, you should have seen her before this wicked disease claimed her.”
“What did your aunt and uncle think of him, calling on a married woman?”
“Liddicote was circumspect, and soon he helped us out—well, it seemed as if he was helping us out. Mother was about to give birth to Alfie, and I think, even though she was pregnant, he seemed to be drawn to her like a moth to a light—even in the worst of times, she had such laughter about her. He found us a cottage to live in, and he offered to purchase the manuscripts—five pounds each for three, which was a fortune to my mother. She was so grateful. He had already paid the rent for several months—he stayed at the house as often as he liked—and the extra money would help out even more. And, to be fair, we needed that sort of support, especially after my father was murdered.”
“Murdered?”
“Yes, he was murdered, Miss Dobbs, though the men who took his life will never stand trial, for they were protected by the war and their position. We heard the truth a few years later, when one of his fellow prisoners came to visit and told us what he understood had happened. The conscientious objectors were treated as if they were the worst of common criminals. If thirsty, they were made to drink their own urine. If hungry, they were starved. If they cried, they were kicked. A man who stands up for what he believes in instead of fighting for what someone else believes in is a threat—people cannot bear someone who has that sort of strength and fortitude.”
Alice Thurlow’s passionate description of her father took Maisie by surprise. The woman beside her bore little resemblance to the Rosemary Linden who had diligently gone about her duties at the College of St. Francis.
“And I take it that Greville Liddicote published not only The Peaceful Little Warriors, but the two other books written by your parents—and all under his own name. He took all the royalties for himself—and the renown—leaving your family with only enough to pay the rent, if you were lucky.”
“Yes. And he never came back again after the first book was published. In truth, I don’t think it was out of spite, but embarrassment. He was probably afraid that someone would find out and he would lose everything, so he didn’t even send a penny more. My mother made an attempt to press her claim after she’d realized what had happened, but due to her beliefs, she didn’t exactly fight for what was hers—and no one really wanted to listen, anyway. You see, Greville Liddicote had left my mother with a reputation—she was the wife of a conchie who had been kept by another man. But she was pressed to that point by a country that saw a true conscientious objection to the war as reason to cast a family aside with no support. It would have been so easy for my father to take the King’s shilling, to offer to drive ambulances, for example. But if he was to be true to his beliefs—and the values my mother held