Back Grange House
Chapters (36)
  1. Title Page
  2. Epigraph
  3. VOLUME I
  4. CHAPTER ONE
  5. CHAPTER TWO
  6. CHAPTER THREE
  7. CHAPTER FOUR
  8. CHAPTER FIVE
  9. CHAPTER SIX
  10. CHAPTER SEVEN
  11. CHAPTER EIGHT
  12. CHAPTER NINE
  13. CHAPTER TEN
  14. VOLUME II
  15. CHAPTER ELEVEN
  16. CHAPTER TWELVE
  17. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  18. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  19. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  20. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  21. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  22. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  23. CHAPTER NINETEEN
  24. CHAPTER TWENTY
  25. VOLUME III
  26. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  27. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  28. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  29. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  30. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  31. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  32. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  33. AFTERWORD
  34. PRAISE FOR Grange House
  35. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  36. Copyright Page

“Forgive me, Mama,” I said quickly, hoping to mollify. “I forgot myself.”

“Indeed. Indeed you have forgotten yourself. Look at you: You have become a regular servant to the servants.”

“Mama! Miss Grange was never a servant.”

“She ran a hotel, Maisie,” Mama responded very quietly.

“Yes.” I nodded. “But it was once a great House, and her father once was Papa’s partner, and—”

“Maisie!” Her voice thinned. “Why must you invent such nonsense?”

I looked at her carefully. “I do not think it is nonsense, Mama. It is the truth, and I must grant that truth its due.” I smiled to reassure her and moved a step away. “I promise I shall see you at luncheon.”

“I rather think, Miss Thomas, that your mother might wish a bit more notice than an announcement.” I started at the sound of Mr. Cutting so close.

“An announcement?” The insufferable man stood just at my shoulder.

“In my day, no young woman would dare to speak to her own mother this way, telling her what she intended rather than asking leave—as she should.”

I looked from him to Mama, but she was staring again out the window.

“Thank you, Mr. Cutting,” I said to him stiffly. “I am glad always for a touch of historical perspective.” And I excused myself, my heart pounding, fully aware as I crossed the verandah and marched down the steps at the front of the House that Mama and Mr. Cutting still stood at the window, regarding my departing form.

How dare he speak to me so? How dare he? I made a blind turn round the corner of the House, wishing to vanish from their sight. He was a fool. A despotic fool. A ridiculous figure. Papa had never liked him. Never. My feet hurried through the dew-sopped grasses alongside the House. How dare he presume to speak as if I did not know my place beside my own mother? As if I intended her disrespect, or harm? My feet slowed, rounding the back corner. I never did wish my own mother harm. How could I? She understood so very little of what went on—certainly she had to be protected. I sought to know the full truth so that Mama need never know.