The Lily in the Snow

by Jackie French

  ‘Very much to the contrary. I am like a swallow who has at last come home. I’ve served my country. Nigel has as well. We have given all that could be expected of us. I want to live his life here, watching the children grow and the crops being harvested, pondering nothing more taxing than the choice of clover or mangelwurzels for a forage crop, and should the lower paddock be drained for potatoes.’

  And you are twenty-five years older than me, thought Sophie, and have survived a major illness. You have entered the quietening of life, just as I feel it surge within me.

  The age gap had never mattered before or, rather, her fire had been matched by his experience. But if Nigel Vaile — with visits from Miss Lily — was to have a quiet life on his estates, broken only by similarly peaceful interludes in Australia, Sophie’s life would be circumscribed in exactly the same way.

  And Nigel did not know it for, after all, it was she who had quite literally flown to him. He must believe she was content with children, a business she would oversee, an estate, a title, a husband. And why shouldn’t she be content?

  Because I would like to have convinced the Emperor of Japan to maintain an alliance with England, she thought. I’d have loved to entertain the Fathers of Federation at tea, and gauge their opinions on the Empire. I would like to . . . to ride a camel and do whatever Lily, Jones and Green did in Egypt. I want to change the world, and not just by selling it canned comestibles . . .

  Instead it was time to dress for dinner.

  Chapter 22

  A good dinner can tell you a great deal about a hostess. A poor dinner can tell you even more.

  Miss Lily, 1913

  For the first time tonight Shillings protocol was abandoned: a lady’s maid sat at the dining table, Sophie at one end, Jones at her right hand, Nigel at the head of the table, Green at his right hand and Violette next, her chair moved as far as possible from her mother’s. A formal meal would hopefully impress Violette. It would also be a way to evaluate her ability to cope in polite society.

  Miss Lily was indisposed. Sophie wondered how long Miss Lily must remain indisposed, or whether she would have decided to leave by the morning. If Violette was to become part of their household, she was sharp-eyed enough to soon suspect something wasn’t quite as it seemed — and with her they could not rely on the loyalty and discretion they enjoyed with the tenants and servants of the estate.

  Violette would be another anchor keeping Nigel Vaile permanently as the Earl of Shillings.

  Violette sipped turtle soup, small sips, the spoon proceeding away from her as she scooped up the liquid. Her manners, Sophie noted, were excellent. She had assumed Grandmère had been a villager, but despite their cottage Madame Larresse and her daughters must have been educated bourgeoisie.

  Violette wore one of Sophie’s evening dresses from the year before, a soft blue silk with white fox-fur trim swiftly shortened to the fashionable length with a deeper blue silk scarf as a belt around her hips, the dress ballooning softly over it, and a lace fichu to turn the low-necked gown into one suitable for a thirteen-year-old.

  ‘You look lovely,’ said Sophie.

  Violette smiled at her with what Sophie recognised as at least two-thirds calculating charm. ‘Thank you, my lady.’ She turned the smile to Jones. ‘It seems I am Mademoiselle Jones now, and not Shillings. A fine name, Jones. I like it better than Green.’

  The wrong kind of smile, thought Sophie, and Jones knew it. This girl had never known fatherly love.

  Hereward cleared the bowls, the angle of his nose in no way indicating that this young woman, the protégée of the earl and countess, had ever been nor could ever be ‘a young person’. Undoubtedly the servants’ hall already had almost every detail.

  Oysters Rockefeller were served. Violette carefully waited until Sophie lifted her small fork, then copied her. Not Green, Sophie noted. Violette had scarcely glanced at Green.

  Violette took another oyster as Hereward offered them again. Evidently she approved of them. ‘Where is Miss Lily?’

  ‘She is not feeling well.’

  ‘She is interesting,’ said Violette.

  She is indeed, thought Sophie.

  ‘I wish she had been my mother.’

  Green seemed to shrink. Jones remained impassive.

  ‘Have you thought what you might like to do?’ asked Sophie hurriedly.

  ‘I have decided I would like to learn to fly,’ said Violette. She let her smile linger on Nigel. ‘Your sister said that I might learn.’

  ‘Did she now? Shall we talk of the possibility of flying lessons in a few months?’

  Violette’s lip trembled slightly. ‘You will not let me?’

  ‘Your parents probably will, but I think you need time to get to know them first.’

  Violette gave Jones a long look and Green a shorter one. ‘I believe my . . . mother . . . when she says she did not betray us to the Boche. I believe my papa,’ again the flash of smile for Jones, ‘when he says he did not know of me. They will give me a home and I will not kill them. But do you think I will love them, or they me?’ She shrugged, and ate another oyster. ‘I do not think so.’

  Green closed her eyes, then put down her oyster fork. Jones glanced at Green half in anger, half with irritated love, then helplessly at this daughter, as untouchable physically and emotionally as if she were in Antarctica.

  ‘You are very frank,’ said Nigel mildly.

  ‘This is a house of frankness, is it not?’

  ‘Usually,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Will Miss Lily be at breakfast tomorrow? She would agree I should learn to fly, I think.’

  ‘Lily will be leaving early tomorrow morning, if she is feeling up to it of course. She spends most of her time on the Continent these days. You were lucky to find her here at all.’

  ‘Where on the Continent?’

  ‘She travels.’

  ‘That sounds most interesting, just to travel as one wishes. There will be a telephone call for me soon. A woman who has been most kind to me.’ Violette ate her last oyster. ‘Are there more oysters?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Sophie. ‘But it is not good manners to ask. Sometimes the butler offers more, but not tonight. Other courses will be served.’

  ‘What?’ asked Violette with deep interest.

  ‘That again is something a guest does not ask, at least not at table. Who is this woman?’

  ‘A good woman, a truly kind one. Her daughter died. I think she would have liked me to stay to be her daughter. I must tell her now that I have found my mother, and another home.’

  A flash of anguish crossed Green’s face. ‘You would have liked to be her daughter?’

  Violette shrugged. ‘I am your daughter, am I not? But I must tell her I am safe, and happy.’

  ‘I’m glad you are happy,’ said Nigel.

  The smile again, a quite enchanting smile. ‘The bedroom is beautiful. Shall I have jewels, do you think?’

  ‘No,’ said Green.

  Violette ignored her.

  ‘A strand of pearls when you are twenty-one,’ said Sophie. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘You are the daughter of his lordship’s secretary,’ said Jones quietly. ‘Not his lordship. We do not dine with him when there is company, nor even every night, and usually informally in the library.’

  ‘And my mother is a servant and you are not married,’ observed Violette. ‘But may I still learn how to fly?’

  ‘Why are you so interested in flying?’ Sophie tried to change the subject.

  For the first time Violette’s face was open, her gaze unguarded. ‘Because when things are bad I have looked at birds and thought how lucky that you can fly away. And now perhaps I can fly too.’

  Hereward brought in the saddle of lamb, followed by the footmen with the roast potatoes, parsnips, Brussels sprouts, glazed carrots and Cumberland sauce. ‘There is a phone call for the . . . er . . . Miss Jones, my lady,’ he said to Sophie.

  ‘You may take it in the library,’ said Sophie
to Violette. ‘Hereward will show you the way.’

  Chapter 23

  When you rise from a chair remember, knees together always, back straight, a deep breath and inhale as you rise. That way as you grow older and your bones stiffen you will not instinctively groan as you get to your feet. Softly tweak your skirt before you rise, no matter how old you are. It is always good to remind a man what lies underneath.

  Miss Lily, 1913

  VIOLETTE

  ‘Violette, are you safe? Did you find her?’

  ‘I am safe and, yes, I found her,’ said Violette flatly.

  ‘Miss Lily Shillings?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your mother?’

  Violette hesitated. But the woman who had given birth to her had not been Lily Shillings; nor was Violette quite prepared to admit, even to Mrs Maillot, that her mother was a mere lady’s maid. ‘No, but she is a friend of my mother, and I have met my mother now.’

  ‘So Miss Lily is at Shillings now? You actually met her?’ Mrs Maillot sounded strangely insistent.

  ‘Yes, I met her this afternoon.’

  ‘And your mother was there too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is her name? Does she want you to live with her? Will she care for you?’

  ‘I . . . I am not sure yet.’ Violette was in fact extremely sure that Miss Green wished to be her mother. But she was not prepared to give her name. Did she want a mother who was a maid? A father who might decide he knew what was best for her? A home, however grand, where she ranked with the servants and hangers-on, no matter what the earl’s wife said about friendship. Violette had already heard the servants whispering about Miss Green eating in the dining room, certainly a first and for her benefit, and so unlikely to be repeated.

  ‘Did your mother say why she called herself Lily Shillings?’

  Ah, that was complicated, and something Violette did not want to explain on the telephone, with many people at all the exchanges between here and London listening in. She could not mention La Dame Blanche.

  ‘She was not married, and so did not want to give her own name,’ she temporised. ‘But Miss Lily was kind when she found out.’

  ‘You have met the earl? How did he take your arrival?’

  Of course, thought Violette indulgently, Mrs Maillot would be impressed by members of the aristocracy. ‘Yes. And I met his wife. I am dining with them now.’

  ‘Oh, my. Violette . . .’ There was a strange note in Mrs Maillot’s voice. ‘Is Miss Lily dining with you too?’

  Violette considered her answer. Her mother was dining with them, but not Miss Lily Shillings. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘She is not feeling well, and she leaves for the Continent tomorrow.’

  ‘Are they close? Miss Lily Vaile and the earl?’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘I . . . I am just interested. I just wondered how they get on together.’

  ‘I do not know,’ said Violette. ‘I have not seen them together yet.’

  ‘But surely when you arrived and saw Miss Lily, the earl would have been there too. It is his household.’

  Violette shrugged. ‘Well, he was not. I did not meet him till dinner time. But they are both kind and Miss Lily’s clothes and her ladyship’s, are most beautiful. The earl says Miss Lily does not live here.’

  ‘Where is her home?’

  ‘I do not know that she has one. He says she travels. She will be leaving again if she feels well enough tomorrow.’

  ‘Where will she go?’

  ‘I did not ask,’ said Violette slowly. Why was Mrs Maillot so curious?

  ‘I’m sorry for so many questions. I . . . I just want to know how much you are truly accepted by the members of the household, that is all. Aristocrats can . . . can have their fancies, be kind and then forget those they think are their inferiors.’

  Inferiors. I am their inferior, thought Violette. It hurt. She had known she was a bastard, but had taken comfort from the knowledge she was a well-connected one. But to be the child of the maid Green, and the man Jones! Green did not even wear evening dress.

  ‘My dear, I . . . I want you to know you are always welcome here. Always. My heart is with you. You must know how much . . . how very much the last weeks have meant to me.’

  ‘To me also,’ said Violette. For it was true. Mrs Maillot was the first person who had accepted her, loved her, with no duty to do so. Miss Green might want a daughter, but she did not know her. Mrs Maillot had picked her up from the street . . .

  ‘My dear . . .’ A hesitation on the phone line. ‘Please, will you do something for me?’

  ‘But of course.’

  ‘Could you slip away now, and ask Miss Lily where she will be next? I will stay on the phone.’

  ‘But that will cost you many threepences. And Miss Lily is not my mother, as I have said . . .’

  ‘Please, my dear. Don’t let anyone see you.’

  This was . . . strange. But Mrs Maillot would have a reason, and this was obviously not the time to explain it, with others listening.

  Violette put the receiver down gently, slipped out the door, then along to the small drawing room and the stairs at the end of its corridor. She had seen the room Miss Lily went to when they had all gone to change for dinner.

  She knocked quietly. No answer. She opened the door.

  A lovely room, papered in cream silk with a faint pattern of leaves. A cream coverlet, and hanging in the dressing room the gown Miss Lily had worn this afternoon.

  Such lovely clothes. Violette could not resist opening the cupboard door.

  Evening dresses, silks and such soft satins. And carved wood boxes. Violette stilled. Jewellery?

  She lifted the lid of the largest.

  No jewels. A wig, blonde, with faint grey streaks.

  Was Miss Lily bald? Or had her hair thinned, like Grandmère’s? But why was she not wearing it then, if she was not here in her room? Impulsively Violette returned to the bedroom. She lifted the coverlet to see if the sheets were still warm. That would tell her how recently Miss Lily had lain here.

  The bed was not made up.

  This was peculiar.

  Quickly she hunted for papers, letters, in the drawers, even under the bed, in case there might be a case. But there was none. No papers, not even a writing desk, nothing but underwear, and that not the thin silk she had expected, but slightly padded.

  Was that the fashion now that flat chests were no longer admired?

  But she could not linger here. A servant might arrive to make up the bed, or Miss Lily might return from . . . Violette tried to think of a reason why a woman who needed a wig might leave her room without it, where servants could bring a bath, or remove her chamber pot.

  And Mrs Maillot was waiting on the phone. Violette slipped the door open, and checked the passageway was empty. But the servants, too, would be down in their hall tonight. No one saw her as she made her way back to the telephone.

  ‘Hello?’ She was proud she knew the correct way to speak on a phone. ‘Mrs Maillot? Miss Lily is not in her room. There are no letters there, no papers at all. Just her clothes. Perhaps she has left already,’ she offered. She knew that wealthy women had clothes ‘sent on’.

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘There were no sheets on her bed. But no, she cannot have left. Her wig was still in her dressing room.’

  ‘A wig?’ asked Mrs Maillot carefully.

  Violette laughed. ‘I think Miss Lily perhaps is vain. Her chemise is padded even, to increase her bosom! But maybe it’s several wigs. She is so rich, after all. I will ask his lordship if Miss Lily is still here, and where she will be next.’

  ‘No!’ said Mrs Maillot sharply. ‘There is no need. It was just curiosity,’ she added, her voice back to its quiet, motherly tones. ‘You know how I love the society pages. It is so wonderful you have met an earl and a countess! But you must go back to dinner. It would be impolite to stay away too long. I will telephone again tomorrow night,’
said Mrs Maillot. ‘And always, always you are welcome here. Sleep well, my dear.’

  ‘And you.’

  Violette replaced the phone in its receiver. She gazed around the library quietly, deep in thought, till Hereward coughed at the doorway. ‘I will show you to the dining room, Miss, er, Jones.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Thank you.’

  Chapter 24

  It is a human instinct to try to take away pain. You will learn that usually this is not possible. It is better to acknowledge that it is there, to comfort but not try to deny the anguish.

  Miss Lily, 1913

  SOPHIE

  ‘Talk,’ said Sophie. She and Green were in her bedroom. Green shook her head as she hung up Sophie’s dress, then reached for the nightdress on the warming rack by the fire. Sophie lifted her arms to be fitted. She could dress herself perfectly well — a talent many of her wealth never acquired — but this was what Green expected to do, had done for her since she became her maid after the war.

  But did Green still wish to do it?

  Green pulled the warming pan out of the bed and set it on the hearth. ‘Everything has been said.’

  ‘I really meant to ask how are you feeling, but that is stupid. I can’t possibly understand what you are feeling, even if you describe it at length. But if you’d like to cry, I’m here.’

  Green sat suddenly on the edge of the bed. She began to shake as Sophie held her. At last she sobbed.

  Sophie let her cry. Nigel must have heard or else he would be there by now. Hopefully he was having a quiet talk with Jones.

  ‘He blames me,’ said Green at last.

  ‘Jones?’

  ‘Yes. Huw bloody Jones. I would have told him! I was ready to take her to England.’ I was just waiting until the arrangements were made. One more day and we’d have been gone.’ Green scrubbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. She had worn a Sunday dress at table — not an evening dress, but not her uniform either. Now, characteristically, she was dressed as a maid again. ‘There would be a fishing boat, probably, and then a larger boat a little way out at sea. Huw was due leave, though we didn’t know exactly when. I would have been waiting for him, and Angélique would have been too.’