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Her complexion was almost as smooth and as perfect as a marble statue's. There was just a tiny brown age spot on the top of her right cheek. She wore a touch of rose-red lipstick and just a brush of rouge on her cheeks. Not a strand of her hair was out of place.
Now that there was more light in the room, I gazed about and saw the walls were paneled in rich wood. There was a small bookcase behind and to the right of the desk. But above the rear wall was a large portrait of who I thought had to be my real grandfather.
"You have your mother's face," she declared. Queenly stiff, she moved behind her impressively wide desk. "Childlike," she added, disdainfully, I thought. There was just the slightest lift in the corner of her mouth when she ended her sentences. "Sit down," she snapped. After I had done so, she crossed her arms over her small bosom and leaned back in her chair, but kept her posture so straight I thought her back was a sheet of cold steel.
"I understand your parents have been drifters all these years and your father never settled on a solid job anywhere," she declared harshly. I was surprised she had called them my parents, and had referred to
Daddy as my father.
"Worthless," she continued. "I knew it the day I set eyes on him, but my husband had a soft spot for lost souls and hired him and his ragtag wife," she said with disgust.
"Momma wasn't a ragtag wife!" I snapped back.
She didn't reply. She stared at me again, delving into the depths of my eyes as if to drink up my essence. I was beginning to get very upset with the way she glared at me, studying me as if she were searching for something in my face, looking me over with very interested gimlet eyes.
"You don't have the nicest manners," she finally replied. She had a habit of nodding after saying anything she thought was absolutely true. "Weren't you ever taught to respect your elders?"
"I respect people who respect me," I said.
"You have to earn respect. And I must say you have not yet earned it. I can see you will have to be retrained, redeveloped; in a word, brought up properly," she proclaimed with a power and an arrogance that made my head spin. As small-framed as she was, she had the strongest gaze I had ever seen a woman have, much sterner and stronger than even Mrs. Turnbell's frightening green look. These eyes were piercing, cold, so sharp they could cut and draw blood.
"Did the Longchamps ever tell you anything about this hotel or this family?" she demanded.
"No, nothing," I replied. The tears in my eyes burned, but I wouldn't let her see how painful they were or how horrible she was making me feel. "Maybe this is all a mistake," I added, even though I harbored little hope after seeing Daddy at the police station. I sensed if it were somehow a mistake, she would be able to correct it. She looked like she had the power to rearrange time.
"No, no mistake," she said, sounding almost as sad about it as I was. "I'm told you're a good student in school despite the life you've been leading. Is that so?"
"Yes."
She sat forward, resting her hands on the top of the desk. She had long thin fingers. A gold watch with a large face dangled loosely on her tiny wrist. It, too, looked like something a man would wear.
"Since the school year is just about over, we won't bother to send you back to Emerson Peabody. It's all been somewhat embarrassing for us anyway, and I don't think it would do either Philip or Clara Sue any good if you returned under these conditions. We have time to decide what to do about your schooling. The season has begun and there is much to do here," she said. I glanced at the door, wondering where my real father and mother were and why they were leaving all these decisions up to her.
I had always dreamt about meeting my grandparents, but my real grandmother didn't fit any of my visions. This wasn't the kind of grandmother who made cookies and comforted me when life was hard. This wasn't the soft and lovable grandmother of my dreams, the grandmother I had imagined would teach me things about life and love and cherish me as much as she did her own daughter, love me even more.
"You will have to learn all about the hotel, from the ground up," my grandmother lectured. "No one is permitted to be lazy here. Hard work makes good character, and I'm sure you need hard work. I have already spoken to my house manager about you, and we have let one of our chambermaids go to provide a position for you."
"Chambermaid?" That's what Momma had done here, I thought. Why did my grandmother want me to do the same thing?
"You're not a long-lost princess, you know," she said curtly. "You're to become part of this family again, even though you were part of it only for a short while, and to do so properly you will have to learn all about our business and our way of life. Each one of us works here, and you will be no exception. I expect you're a lazy thing," she continued, "considering—"
"I am not lazy. I can work just as hard as you can or anyone can," I declared.
"We'll see," she said. She nodded slightly, staring at me intently again. "I've already discussed your living arrangements with Mrs. Boston. She is in charge of our quarters. She will be here momentarily to show you your room. I will expect you to keep it neat and tidy. Just because we have a servant looking after our rooms doesn't mean we can be sloppy and disorganized."
"I've never been sloppy, and I've always helped Momma clean and organize our apartments," I said.
"Momma? Oh . . . yes . . . well, let that be the rule and not the exception." She paused, almost smiling, I thought, because of the way she lifted the corners of her mouth.
"Where are my father and mother?" I asked.
"Your mother," she said, making the word sound obscene, "is having another one of her emotional breakdowns . . . conveniently," Grandmother Cutler said. "Your father will see you shortly. He's very busy, very busy." She sighed deeply and shook her head. "This situation is not easy for any of us. And it has all occurred at the wrong time," she said, making me feel as if I were to blame for Daddy having been recognized and the police finding me. "We are right in the middle of the start of a new season. Don't expect anyone to have time to cater to you. Do your work, keep your room clean, and listen and learn. Do you have any questions?" she asked, but before I could respond, there was a knock on the door.
"Come in," she called and the door was opened by a pleasant-looking black woman. She had her hair pinned up neatly and tied in a bun. She wore a white cotton chambermaid's uniform with white stockings and black shoes. She was a small woman, barely my height.
"Oh, Mrs. Boston. This is . . ." My grandmother paused and looked at me as if I had just come in. "Yes," she said, listening to a voice only she could hear, "what about your name? It's a silly name. We'll have to call you by your real name, of course . . . Eugenia. Anyway, you were named after one of my sisters who had passed away from smallpox when she was no older than you are."
"My name is not silly, and I don't want to change it!" I cried. Her eyes shifted quickly from me to Mrs. Boston and then back to me.
