Christmas Lilies

by Jackie French

  The graceful hands still lay unmoving in her lap. So I’m to be manoeuvred through society like a can on the factory conveyor belt, thought Sophie. And I don’t despise them. Other people do, and I despise them for it. The thought shocked her. Despise Malcolm? Of course she didn’t. But this woman did not despise corned beef, nor, it seemed, did the earl.

  ‘Does my father know about the duchess and paying for the ball?’ she asked at last.

  ‘Of course, Miss Higgs.’

  ‘Why didn’t he tell me?’

  ‘That is for you to decide.’ The voice was gentle.

  Sophie said nothing. Miss Lily moved slightly into the light. ‘Tell me about your father.’

  ‘Don’t you know all about him already?’

  ‘Do not raise your hackles, like a terrier. Tell me three things about him, the first that come into your mind.’

  ‘Is this a game?’

  ‘Of a sort.’

  ‘He wears a watch chain made from linked gold nuggets. He had it especially made. He eats cheese sandwiches every day for lunch . . .’ She tried to think of a third. ‘He’s clever,’ she said at last. ‘People don’t realise it. They think he was just lucky, saw an opportunity and took it. I don’t know much about the business side — there is a closed door to business and only men are let through. But my father is fascinated by machines. He plays with model trains, but it’s too serious to be really playing. He has conveyor belts installed in his factories.’

  ‘I thought business happened behind closed doors?’

  ‘Yes. But I’ve been to his factory in Sydney.’

  ‘With his permission?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Sophie.

  ‘And your father gives you what you want. Or do you manipulate him so that you get what you want, and not necessarily what he wants to give you?’

  Sophie was silent. ‘You make it sound horrid,’ she said at last.

  ‘No. What other power do women have? It’s what women have done from time immemorial — Samson and Delilah, Caesar and Cleopatra — but men only write about the women who manipulated for evil, not for good. Do you admire your father?’

  ‘I . . . I think so. He grew up hungry. Corned beef isn’t just a business to him.’ It was the first time she had articulated it, even to herself. ‘He wants to feed the world, the hungry part of it.’ She smiled in memory. ‘Even if he didn’t notice his own workers were hungry till I pointed it out to him. He’s not good at noticing the people around him much — he gets focused on things like, well, making money, or finding the grandest house in Sydney — but he makes sure his workers aren’t hungry now. Only the rich can buy steaks, he says, but you only need a few coppers for Higgs’s Corned Beef. I think that’s why he bought Thuringa — that’s our property. Everyone else sees cattle, but my father sees potential corned-beef sandwiches.’

  Miss Lily laughed, with what sounded like true delight.

  ‘It was only a cockie farm when my father bought it.’

  Miss Lily raised the eyebrow.

  ‘Cockie farms raise more cockatoos than sheep or cattle. My father bought up other neighbouring places all around during the nineties drought, when land was cheap. The Overhills are the only other big property owners around now, though they run sheep. My father doesn’t like sheep. He says they remind him of too many men in the city.’

  The laugh became a chuckle. ‘Your voice comes truly alive when you talk about Thuringa.’

  ‘Does it? I’ve spent much of my life there. That’s where I’ll live if — when I marry Mr Overhill. Well, in another house perhaps on the Overhill property . . .’

  ‘Which your father will build for you?’

  How had Miss Lily known that she had already picked out the site on the hill, above the river, where they could watch the ibis fly down before night fell?

  The door opened. ‘Tea, Miss Lily.’

  Was there a hint of a smile on the butler’s — Jones’s — face? Sophie felt suddenly reassured. Strange as all this was — and she suspected that even someone born to the world of earls and trees whose leaves so regularly changed colour would find this strange — Miss Thwaites said that a house where the servants smiled was a good one.

  ‘Thank you, Jones.’ Miss Lily waited as the teapot — small, not even with a crest — and the hot water pot and the cups were placed on the small table next to her. The cake stand sat on its own small trolley: tiny éclairs oozing cream and chocolate on the top tier, macaroons, what looked like a cherry cake and small sandwiches with their crusts cut off lower down.

  Miss Lily poured the tea. The cups were thin, a parchment colour that seemed more to do with age than the potter’s skill. ‘Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Yes, please. Two sugars.’ Sophie looked longingly at the cake stand.

  ‘Please help yourself.’

  Sophie shook her head regretfully. ‘No, thank you.’

  Another smile. ‘Your Miss Thwaites has told you that it is bad manners to be hungry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She is wrong. The only time you do not eat is in the presence of Her Majesty. You do not eat unless she eats. Sadly, she eats little. At court functions, knowledgeable dowagers secrete sandwiches in hidden pockets to see them through the night. Eat. The sandwiches are egg and cress. I recommend the cherry cake.’

  Sophie took a sandwich, nibbled it, sipped her tea, then put it down.

  ‘You are fond of your Miss Thwaites? The trick to eating and talking, by the way, is to take small bites, often. Never swallow before you answer. You will look like a turkey. Use your tongue to swiftly tuck the food into the gap between your teeth and your cheek. It only works if the amount is small. Try it, then answer my question. Do you like Miss Thwaites?’

  Sophie nibbled, tucked. ‘Yes. I love her too,’ she added, even if it was not done to love a governess.

  ‘Excellent tucking. Practise everything till you do not have to think about it at all. Interesting. Liking is often more telling than loving. You can love from duty, but not like someone at all. You like both your father and the woman who has been, I suppose, a mother to you. Usually at your age a girl likes one parent, distrusts or is frustrated by the other . . . And your father let you come to England. Which means that he loves you enough to part with you.’ A small smile lit the shadowed face. ‘Or possibly he hoped that the newness of the old world might absorb your energies.’ She shook her head. ‘These self-made men. They expect their sons to inherit their energy then complain when their daughters inherit it instead. Do they really think that if they had been born in skirts they would have been happy with mah jong parties? You look surprised,’ she added.

  ‘I’ve never known anyone who talked like you. Is this what society is like in England?’

  ‘Good gracious, no, child. Until you are married you’ll be expected to say little more than “Yes” or “No” or “How interesting”. Mostly the latter. Except with your friends, of course. But if you marry well — which is not quite what you think it is — you will find that a married woman’s friendships can lead to a deeply fulfilling life. Are you good at friendship?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t think I have ever really had a friend.’

  ‘Yet you know that you haven’t. So, Miss Higgs, you have at least the rudiments of an acceptable education — you notice I say an acceptable, and not a good one. You can speak French, presumably with an atrocious accent.’

  ‘How do you —?’

  ‘Because you will have been taught by an Englishwoman, not a French one. But your own accent is almost acceptable. I believe you have the capacity to learn enough to pass in good society by the next season. Why do you think your father has sent you to England? Does he wish you to be a conventional and appropriate wife to your Mr Overhill too?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Is Mr Overhill a fortune hunter?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘You answered that far too quickly, Miss Higgs. You have already considered it as a possi
bility. Or is your father doting enough to send you here simply because it is what you want?’

  ‘No. I think he . . . he doesn’t really know what to do with me. All my life he’s selected Suitable Friends for me,’ she noticed Miss Lily’s smile at the evident capitals, ‘but I do unsuitable things.’

  ‘That is not a reassuring remark to make to someone who is about to launch your London season.’

  Sophie found herself grinning, despite the authority of the ancient walls and portraits. ‘Not too unsuitable. I was the one who made him give his workers lunch at the factory.’

  ‘How noble of you, Miss Higgs.

  Sophie flushed. ‘It wasn’t. It didn’t cost me anything.’

  ‘A few pounds less for your inheritance?’

  ‘Not even that. My father says it’s made the workers more productive.’

  ‘Oh, my dear.’ Miss Lily dabbed her mouth with her napkin, possibly to stifle a laugh. ‘I wish our vicar could hear that. So your father has sent you here to keep you away from his factories?’

  ‘I didn’t think of that,’ said Sophie slowly. ‘That might be part of it. But mostly he doesn’t want me to marry Malcolm — Mr Overhill. Mr Overhill wants my father to sell the factories.’

  ‘I profoundly hope he doesn’t. My cousin receives an excellent income from his investment in those factories. Perhaps your father hopes you will marry an Englishman with a hankering to own corned-beef factories and move to Australia.’ Miss Lily smiled. ‘Perhaps he simply loves you, Miss Higgs.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Lily.’

  ‘Excellent, Miss Higgs. You sounded almost deferential then.’

  She sipped her tea, watching Sophie over the rim of her cup. Sophie hesitated, then took a slice of cherry cake. It was the best she’d ever had, thick and moist, with the cherries precisely suspended. Its solidity said: ‘I am the inheritor of hundreds of years of cake-baking.’

  ‘Miss Higgs, I am going to be frank, which is not a custom you should emulate in society. You may not be comfortable with the other girls who are going to stay here. You might even prefer to attend a finishing school. Ridiculous phrase, isn’t it? As if your life will be over once you have achieved a husband.’

  Sophie flushed. ‘Because of the corned beef?’

  ‘If you see yourself as a product of corned beef, others will too. No, not because of the corned beef. Because your interests and theirs will not be the same.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Very well. Answer a few simple questions for me. What do you feel about female suffrage?’

  ‘It’s a good thing, of course. We’ve had the vote in federal elections since 1902 and in some state elections before that . . .’

  ‘Not in England. You didn’t know that? Universal suffrage? Nearly half the men in Britain do not have the vote either, unlike in the colonies. You didn’t know that either? What are your feelings about Home Rule for Ireland? Anti-establishmentarianism? The chances of the Liberal Party at the next general election? Would Serbian independence increase or decrease the stability of the Austro-Hungarian Empire?’

  ‘I —’

  ‘You neither know nor care. Your ambitions are focused on Australia, and your role in its society. There is nothing wrong with that, Miss Higgs. But the girls who will be staying here are interested in a wider world.’

  ‘And yet you asked me to stay?’

  Miss Lily laughed. It was a charming laugh, but again, genuine. ‘You are trying to get me to say that I like you. Very well. I do. I also believe that Miss Sophie Higgs will find the wider world far more fascinating than she does Mr Overhill, or even corned beef. So, will you do me the honour of accepting my hospitality? You need only say, “Thank you, Miss Lily”,’ she added.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Lily.’

  ‘Very good, Miss Higgs. There is one other condition. It is deeply important, so do not agree without forethought. Do you promise never to mention my name except to those who know me once you are back in the world outside? To never mention these months with me, not even to your father, your Miss Thwaites or your eventual husband?’

  ‘Why? I mean, why, Miss Lily? I know I am not supposed to ask questions,’ she added. ‘But how can I decide unless I do?’

  ‘I didn’t say you were not to ask questions here, merely that when you are acting the role of correct debutante — and in your case it will most definitely be an act — you will not question. There will be . . . matters . . . discussed here that women are not supposed to know about, much less discuss. And no, I will not tell you more until I know you. Nonetheless, I would like your promise now, as well as your promise that if you are . . . bored . . . and decide to leave, you will still keep your stay here secret.’

  ‘But lots of people know I am staying at Shillings. Mrs Philpott alone must have told half of Sydney.’

  ‘That was not what I asked. The world may know that you are welcome at the home of Nigel Vaile, Earl of Shillings. But the time with me belongs only to those of us who will be here.’

  The fire snickered. This was . . . odd. Yet Miss Thwaites, too, had indicated that men did not like women who understood too much of the world beyond their homes.

  ‘I agree,’ said Sophie.

  Her hostess smiled. ‘Of course you do. Well, we shall see. Now Jones will show you to your room,’ she added. ‘Your maid has already unpacked for you. Her name is Doris Green, but you will call her Doris, not Green, to avoid confusion with her older sister, who is my own maid. Doris is the daughter of a farmer on the estate. This is her first position, but she has been well trained by her sister. I trust you will be kind to her.’

  The words of the groom came back to Sophie again. ‘It is a kind family.’

  Yet this was all far more than a Miss Sophie Higgs, daughter of corned beef, had any right to expect. Far too much . . .

  A thought flashed through her mind and she blurted out: ‘You’re not my mother?’

  Instantly she wished the words unspoken. How could she have claimed an earl’s cousin as her mother, have thought her father would be part of a charade?

  There was unmistakable kindness in Miss Lily’s eyes now. She knows my mother disappeared, thought Sophie.

  ‘No, Miss Higgs. I am not related to you in any way.’

  Sophie stood. ‘I hope I will be worthy of your kindness.’

  Miss Lily sank back, into the shadows. ‘I am sure you will.’

  It was only much later that Sophie realised her hostess had shown no surprise at the question.

  Chapter 12

  Do you know the greatest privilege of all? It is being able to change your mind. Most poor creatures in this world must accept the life they are given. You need both money and the sense of privilege money gives to find that you can say, ‘No, I think I’ll go this way instead.’

  Miss Lily, 1913

  Miss Lily liked her.

  Sophie followed Jones up the stairs, though somehow he was behind her and leading at the same time. Was only an earl’s butler, she pondered, capable of that?

  Miss Lily liked her.

  Of all the emotions she was feeling, the joy and triumph were the strongest, but there were others too: excitement; exultation that this time Sophie herself had proved to be more important than the fortune from corned beef.

  Miss Lily liked her.

  She wished she could tell Malcolm, Miss Thwaites or even some of the Suitable Friends.

  She also wished she hadn’t left so much of the cherry cake behind. She was suddenly starving. She hoped it wasn’t long till dinner. She glanced at her watch. Five-thirty. Another hour, then.

  The hall upstairs was lined with dark wood, with a faint scent of mouse and rose. The hall runner was what the mother of one of the Suitable Friends called Persian carpet, but this looked more Chinese, with faint dragons winding their way along the hall.

  ‘Your room is here, Miss Higgs. The other young ladies will have the rooms further along. The apartments through the end door are Miss Lily’s. She
prefers that her young guests stay on this side of the hall.’

  ‘Thank you, Jones. Er . . . where is the bathroom?’

  ‘Doris will bring you hot water, miss, and everything else you require.’ No bathroom, she thought. No water closet on this floor either, by the sound of it. She hated using chamber pots. Poor Doris, having to empty it.

  Jones opened the door to the bedroom, then stood back. ‘I will ask Doris to attend you, Miss Higgs. Will there be anything more?’ He gave a polite cough. ‘A little more tea, perhaps?’

  ‘Please,’ she said gratefully, hoping there would be food with it.

  The door closed behind him. She looked around the room.

  It was large, the same size as her room at home, but there the resemblance ended. The walls were covered in what looked like striped silk — she reached out and touched it. It was. There was a giant fireplace, with coals as well as flames. The fire had been warming the room since early morning, then. She was certain the sheets would be aired and warmed too.

  Two armchairs and a window seat upholstered in patterned silk looked gently faded. She looked more closely and grinned. Tiny monkeys played among the greenery. It was a touch of whimsy and ridiculousness, something that Miss Thwaites would never have thought of, that Mrs Overhill might be shocked by. Just simply fun.

  The bed was narrow. She felt vague disappointment it wasn’t a four-poster. And, yes, there was a chamber pot under the bed, with a hinged top —

  The door opened. Sophie jumped. She wasn’t used to the way servants just came into a room here in England. Annie back home would have tapped on the door and called out first: ‘You decent, lovey?’

  The girl who entered was about Sophie’s age, dressed in black, with a white apron and a small white cap. Her chin seemed to have been nibbled off at birth, making her look like a rabbit. ‘Hot water, Miss Higgs?’

  ‘Thank you. You must be Doris.’

  Doris gave a bob. ‘Robert is bringing up your luggage, miss. Would you like me to unpack for you now or later?’