When we had finished riding, Julia said: “I smell something good cooking in the kitchen.”
So we went there.
“You got mud on your boots?” demanded Mrs. Dillon.
“No we have not, Mrs. Dillion,” retorted Julia.
” Well, I’m glad of that because I don’t want none of that mud in my kitchen, Miss Julia.”
“The cakes smell good,” said Julia.
“And so they should … the goodness that’s in them.”
We all sat down at the table and looked at Mrs. Dillon ap-pealingly and with something like adoration at the batch of cakes which had just come out of the oven.
“All right then,” said Mrs. Dillon grudgingly. “But that Miss Everton wouldn’t like it. Nor Nanny neither … eating between meals indeed. You should wait for your proper tea time.”
“That’s hours away,” said Julia. “That one for me.”
“Miss Greedy-Guts, that’s what you are,” said Mrs. Dillon. “That’s the biggest.”
“A compliment to you, Mrs. Dillon,” I reminded her.
“I don’t want no compliments thank you, Lenore. I know what my cakes is … and that is good. There. One for you, Miss Julia. One for you, Miss Cassie. And one for you, Lenore.”
I noticed it then. Miss Julia. Miss Cassie … and Lenore.
I pondered on this for some time and chose the opportunity when I was sitting in the pond garden with Grand’mere. I asked why it was that I was never called Miss, but just plainly by my name like Grace or May or one of the servants.
Grand’mere was silent for a moment, then she said: ‘ ‘These servants are very … how is it… aware. That is it. They are very aware of little things … like who should be called this or that… who should have this place or that. You are my granddaughter. That is not like being the daughter of Sir Francis and Lady Sallonger. Therefore people like Mrs. Dillon … they will say … ‘Oh, no Miss for her!’ “
“You mean I am in the same group as Grace or May?”
She pursed her lips, lifted her hands and swayed from side to side. She used her hands and shoulders a great deal in conversations which was very expressive.
“We are not going to worry ourselves with the ways of such as Mrs. Dillon. We smile. We say, Oh, so it is like that, is it? Very well. What is it going to mean to me not to be called Miss. What is Miss? It is just a nothing. You are as well without the Miss.”
“Yes, but why, Grand’mere?”
“It is simple. You are not a daughter of the house, so you cannot have a Miss from Mrs. Dillon.”
“When the Dallington girls come over to tea and to play with us, they are called Miss … and they are not daughters of the house. Are we servants here, Grand’mere?”
“We serve … if that is servants. Perhaps. But we are here together … you and I… we live well. We are at peace. Why do we worry about a little Miss?”
“I only want to know, Grand’mere. What are we doing in this house which we are not of?”
She hesitated for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. “We came here when you were eight months old. Such a lovely baby you were. I thought it good for you to come here. Here we could be together … the Grand’mere and her little one. I thought we could be happy here and they promised that you should have the education … the upbringing of a daughter of the house. But we did not talk of ‘Miss.’ So that is why it is not given you. Who wants to be Miss? You do not. Come, little one. There is more to life than the little word Miss.”
“Tell me about our coming here. Why is it that I have no father… no mother?”
She sighed. “This has to come,” she said as though to herself. ‘ ‘Your mother was the most beautiful and lovely girl that ever lived. Her name was Marie Louise. She was my child, my little one, mon amour. We lived in the village of Villers-Mure. It was beautiful. The sun shone often and it was warm. Summer is summer in Villers-Mure. You wake up and you know the sun will be shining all through the day. Not as here … when it peeps out and goes away again and can’t make up its mind.”
“Do you want to be in Villers-Mure?”
She shook her head vehemently. “I want to be here. Here is where I now belong … and so do you, ma petite. This is where you will be happy … and one day you will not care whether they call you Miss or not.”
“I don’t care now, Grand’mere. I only wanted to know.”
“Villers-Mure is far away from here. It is right across the land of France and you know, do you not—for the good Miss Everton will have told you—that France is one big country … bigger than this little island. There are mountains and little towns and villages … and just over the border is Italy. The mulberries grow well there and that means … silk. These little worms who spin the silk for us love the mulberry leaves and where these grow well, there will be the silk.”
‘ ‘So you have always known about silk?”
‘ ‘Villers-Mure is the home of the silk worm … and silk was our way of living. Without silk there would be no Villers-Mure. The St. Allengeres have always lived there and may it please the good God they always will. Let me tell you. The St. Allengeres live in a beautiful place. It is rather like this house … only there is no forest , . . but mountains. It is a grand house … the home of the St. Allengeres for centuries. There are lawns and flowers and trees and a river which runs through the grounds. All around are the little houses where the workmen live with their families. There is the big manufactory. It is beautiful… white with splashes of colour about the walls for the oleanders and the bougainvilleas grow well there. There are the murer-aies—the mulberry groves—and they have the best silk worms in the world. Theirs are the finest looms … better than anything they have in India or China … which perhaps are the homes of the silk. Some of the best silk in the world comes from Villers-Mure.”
“And you lived there and you worked for these St. Allengeres?”
She nodded. “We had a pretty little house … the best of them all. Flowers covered the walls. It was beautiful; and my daughter, my Marie Louise, was very happy. She was a girl who was made for happiness. She found laughter everywhere. She was beautiful. You have her eyes. They dance; they laugh; but they were never stormy as yours can be, my little one. They were darkest blue … like yours and her hair was almost black . . blacker than yours, soft and rippling. She was a beauty. She saw no evil in anything. She was unaware … and she died.”
“How did she die?”
“She died when you were born. It happens sometimes. She should not have died. I would have cared for her as I have cared for you. I should have made the world a happy place for her. But she died … but she left me you … and that makes me happy.”
“And my father?” I asked.
She was silent. Then she said: “Sometimes these things happen. You will understand later on. Sometimes children are born … and where is the father?”
“You mean … he left her?”
She took my hand and kissed it. “She was very beautiful,” she said. “But whatever happened she left me you, my child, and that was the best gift she could have left me. In place of herself I had her child and all my joy has henceforth been in you.”
“Oh Grand’mere,” I said. “It is so sad.”
“It was summer,” she said. “She tarried too long in the sweet scented meadows. She was altogether innocent. Perhaps I should have warned her.”
“And she was deserted by my father?”
“I cannot say. I was concerned with her. I did not know that you were to come until it was almost time for your arrival. Then it happened … and she died. I remember sitting by her bed and the desolation which swept over me … until the midwife came and put you into my arms. You were my salvation. I saw then that I had lost my daughter but I had her child. Since then you have been all in all to me.”