Free The Baker’s Daughter by D. E. Stevenson Page A

Sugar, for instance, was no mere comestible, used to make puddings and cakes or to sweeten a man’s tea, for Mr. Bulloch knew the history of sugar and how, long before Christ was born, the sugarcane was known and valued in the East—in Persia and Egypt and Bengal. He knew how it had been introduced into southern Europe, and later, as an experiment, to South America and the Indies; he knew what the plant looked like growing in the fields—the tall straight cane, with its graceful fronds, and the flowering stem bearing its feathery flowers—and how it was tended by brown men and black, the juice extracted and prepared for use. He could see in his mind’s eye the packing sheds—long, low buildings, shaded by tropical trees—and the gaily colored clothing of the natives as they went about their work, packing the very cases that now stood in the storehouse behind his shop.
    All this passed through Mr. Bulloch’s mind when Sue, in her soft low voice, remarked prosaically, “A quarter stone of granulated and a pound of the best cube.”
    But sugar was not the only commodity that had history and tradition; tea and coffee, ginger and spices—in fact, everything in the place—possessed a history and was interesting in its own way. Even the comparatively recent “canning industry” had its own particular thrill, for how amazing and wonderful it was to think of men picking peaches in Africa or California and sealing them in tins so that folk in the bleak winter of Beilford could share the prodigality of their warmer clime!
    The big tubs of golden butter, which stood in the corner by the window, brought Denmark with its tall, fair people and its green meadowlands before Mr. Bulloch’s eyes, and the round red cheeses evoked visions of the Netherlands, visions of canals, with slow-moving barges, of windmills and fields, of tulips and sleek, fat cows. Mr. Bulloch had seen most of these places with his own eyes when he was young, for he had had a passion for wandering over the world and his father had encouraged him to travel. He had combined business with pleasure and had built up useful connections for the firm with all sorts of strange people in all sorts of strange lands.
    Sue, though less knowledgeable than her grandfather and less romantically minded, had a great affection for the shop and was extremely interested in its contents. She looked around the well-stocked shelves and felt a sudden surge of greed—what marvelous, what succulent dishes she could make for Mr. Darnay if she had the run of this place! The list of groceries with which she had armed herself seemed meager and inadequate indeed, but she pulled herself together and decided that necessities came first.
    â€œThis isn’t your best rice, Grandfather,” she said, taking up a handful and letting the pearly grains trickle through her fingers.
    â€œIt’s not,” he agreed, laughing delightedly at her cleverness. “Are ye wanting the best rice, Sue? Can he afford to pay for it?”
    The question pulled her up short, and she hesitated a moment, for she had not the smallest idea of Darnay’s financial status. It was Mrs. Darnay who had the money—Ovette had told her so—and Mrs. Darnay had gone.
    â€œI was only teasing,” Mr. Bulloch declared. “The bill’s always been paid—a bit late at times, but that’s carelessness and not the want of money. The Darnays are the kind of folk who have always had money to spare, and it’s that kind ye find being casual about their bills. Ye don’t need to worry, Sue.”
    â€œNo, I’m not worrying.”
    â€œDoes he get big money for his pictures?” Mr. Bulloch inquired, pausing in the act of weighing out two pounds of his best rice. “Some artists do, but maybe ye’ll not know what he gets.”
    â€œHe used to get big money,” Sue replied—she was wandering around the shelves now,