Read An Incomplete Revenge for Free Online
Authors: Jacqueline Winspear
couldn’t see a future.” She took a breath. “Not only because I knew in my heart that something terrible would happen, but because I could feel her dissent, though her words indicated acceptance.” Maisie gathered up her coat. “I will write to Mrs. Lynch, Priscilla. And I will go to the hospital as soon as I can. But I am under no illusions as to what was said about me behind my back years ago.”
Maisie turned and left the hotel. Priscilla ordered another drink, holding the cool glass to the side of her forehead as she bit her lip and wished she had said nothing. It was unlike Maisie to be so hot-tempered, unlike her to reveal an emotion. She considered her friend’s outburst and thought that perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing, though she hoped they would be reconciled soon. “Definitely touched a nerve there,” she said to herself, as she placed her glass on the table, gathered her clutch bag, and made her way to her room.
Later, wearing a long silk robe, she sat by the window looking out onto Park Lane, and it occurred to her that she should have known something had changed. After all, that red dress was a dead giveaway. And another thing: When Maisie said that she couldn’t see a future, that she knew something terrible would happen, she had lifted her hand but did not touch her eye, as one might expect if one were to predict a reflex action. Instead, Maisie touched the middle of her forehead.
UPON RETURNING TO the office, Maisie threw her coat across her desk, dragged a cushion from the one armchair, pulled her dress up above her knees, and sat cross-legged on the floor. Calm down, calm down, calm . . . . She repeated the mantra over and over again. She was appalled at herself, disgusted by her outburst. She might occasionally speak stridently where her work was concerned, and of course there was the argument with Maurice last year, but she had never, ever, taken a comment with such passion. Clearly Priscilla did not mean to insult her. Her friend’s confidence in their friendship allowed her to speak honestly, though she knew her error and apologized immediately. Why did she affect me so? Maisie breathed deeply, keen to compose herself before taking Billy’s telephone call.
As if on cue, the telephone rang. Maisie came to her feet, brushed down her dress, and reached for the receiver.
“Billy?”
“That you, Miss?” The line crackled.
“Of course it’s me.”
“Sorry, only you didn’t say the number—took me by surprise, it did.”
“What’s happening?”
“I wish I could tell you all of it, but the cat’s been put among the pigeons down ’ere, and if this goes on—”
“If what goes on?”
“Two lads from Shoreditch—’op pickers—’ave been nicked for burglary and vandalism up at the big house on the estate. They say they were just outside the gates trying to get at conkers to get a game going, but there were broken windows and some silver’s missing so they’ve been taken into custody. All the Londoners are up in arms about it, Mr. Dickon just wants the ’ops picked, and everyone reckons it was them bleedin’ gypsies what done it, which don’t make it easy for me and Doreen.”
“I’m not following you.”
“We’d not been ’ere five minutes when Doreen passes one of the gypsy women with a little girl, right little cracker, just like our Lizzie, apart from the fact she’s got curly black ’air. So, even though Doreen can barely understand a word the woman’s saying, she stops to pass the time of day when they go to the tap for water, and she takes ahold of the baby—Boosul’s ’er name; what kind of a name is that?—and so she’s looked upon kindly by the gypsies. Nothin’ wrong with that, but now me own kind are turning, callin’ us gypsy kin.”
“Boosul means beautiful. It’s a kind of slang, a derivation of the word over the years.”
“ ’ow do you know that, Miss?”
“I’ve heard it before. What else is going on?”
“The locals
Maisie turned and left the hotel. Priscilla ordered another drink, holding the cool glass to the side of her forehead as she bit her lip and wished she had said nothing. It was unlike Maisie to be so hot-tempered, unlike her to reveal an emotion. She considered her friend’s outburst and thought that perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing, though she hoped they would be reconciled soon. “Definitely touched a nerve there,” she said to herself, as she placed her glass on the table, gathered her clutch bag, and made her way to her room.
Later, wearing a long silk robe, she sat by the window looking out onto Park Lane, and it occurred to her that she should have known something had changed. After all, that red dress was a dead giveaway. And another thing: When Maisie said that she couldn’t see a future, that she knew something terrible would happen, she had lifted her hand but did not touch her eye, as one might expect if one were to predict a reflex action. Instead, Maisie touched the middle of her forehead.
UPON RETURNING TO the office, Maisie threw her coat across her desk, dragged a cushion from the one armchair, pulled her dress up above her knees, and sat cross-legged on the floor. Calm down, calm down, calm . . . . She repeated the mantra over and over again. She was appalled at herself, disgusted by her outburst. She might occasionally speak stridently where her work was concerned, and of course there was the argument with Maurice last year, but she had never, ever, taken a comment with such passion. Clearly Priscilla did not mean to insult her. Her friend’s confidence in their friendship allowed her to speak honestly, though she knew her error and apologized immediately. Why did she affect me so? Maisie breathed deeply, keen to compose herself before taking Billy’s telephone call.
As if on cue, the telephone rang. Maisie came to her feet, brushed down her dress, and reached for the receiver.
“Billy?”
“That you, Miss?” The line crackled.
“Of course it’s me.”
“Sorry, only you didn’t say the number—took me by surprise, it did.”
“What’s happening?”
“I wish I could tell you all of it, but the cat’s been put among the pigeons down ’ere, and if this goes on—”
“If what goes on?”
“Two lads from Shoreditch—’op pickers—’ave been nicked for burglary and vandalism up at the big house on the estate. They say they were just outside the gates trying to get at conkers to get a game going, but there were broken windows and some silver’s missing so they’ve been taken into custody. All the Londoners are up in arms about it, Mr. Dickon just wants the ’ops picked, and everyone reckons it was them bleedin’ gypsies what done it, which don’t make it easy for me and Doreen.”
“I’m not following you.”
“We’d not been ’ere five minutes when Doreen passes one of the gypsy women with a little girl, right little cracker, just like our Lizzie, apart from the fact she’s got curly black ’air. So, even though Doreen can barely understand a word the woman’s saying, she stops to pass the time of day when they go to the tap for water, and she takes ahold of the baby—Boosul’s ’er name; what kind of a name is that?—and so she’s looked upon kindly by the gypsies. Nothin’ wrong with that, but now me own kind are turning, callin’ us gypsy kin.”
“Boosul means beautiful. It’s a kind of slang, a derivation of the word over the years.”
“ ’ow do you know that, Miss?”
“I’ve heard it before. What else is going on?”
“The locals