Heritage Paper

They sit, eternally preserved in their dancing forms. Adorned in dresses of yellow and white, ranging from a cheerful little girl to an elderly woman, their porcelain sheen is enough to mesmerize. One curtsies, one sits with tea, and yet another partakes in a slow dance with an imaginary man. What manner of things are these? The Royal Daltons, treasures of the Giles family. I had often wondered about them, sitting so still and happy, allegedly at a formal ball. What is their relation to my family, and why do they sit on our shelf today? Why have they for generations, dating back to my great-grandmother’s family in Scotland?
Here we switch scenes to a young woman, perhaps eighteen years of age, lifting the front of her golden-coloured gown high enough for one in front of her to see her petticoats. But she was not concerned with petty matters of petticoats. She was sprinting through the halls of a manor gaily, followed by a red-haired nursemaid. If one was to look at this young woman closely, one would see she held a pearl necklace dangling from her left hand, though her fingers were too busy with holding her gown up to clutch it as hard as she should have. The room she had dashed from, you ask? Why, her sister’s, of course.
But what of the nursemaid? She followed our dashing(in more ways than one) heroine, a broom in one hand and the tray of fruit she was serving guests in the other. Her ginger-red hair trailed behind her as she chased the young lady, and yet, simply couldn’t keep up. Her gown, unable to be hitched up due to her burdens, slowed her down enough for the young lady she was targeting to be able to turn a corner and disappear from view.
All of this scene is well and humourous, but you must be asking yourself a question by now: Why? The answer, of course, is simple. Our friend the red-haired nursemaid was charged with seeing that our heroine refrained from taking her sister’s belongings, and likewise, her sister hers. Unfortunately, she bit off more than she could chew, to abuse a saying, with these two girls.
Since I’m tired of referring to the yellow dress-wearing girl as “our heroine”, I’ll now expose the fact that her name is Anabeth. Anabeth Dalton, to be exact. Her and her elder sister, the three-year older Jeanne, were indeed the belles of seventeenth-century Camden, England. And today was a seemingly normal day, this little theft being an occurrence far too regular for the household’s good name. A normal day, that is, until the ring upon the door sounded. Anabeth, always the cheeky one, was still in hiding from the famly nursemaid, so said nursemaid, Rosary Hartshire(affectionately called ‘Rosie’ by the two sisters) was forced to answer the door. And how surprised was she to see not the father of the house, but visitors!
Visitors were a rarity to the Dalton house, and especially visitors so strange as these. They were two men, of their early to mid-twenties, in suit coats and…Scottish kilts? It was all poor Rosie could do to not burst out in mirth at the very sight of them. She never could understand why the men of Scotland wore such silly things. They looked like skirts to her! Then again, as far as the propaganda told the English, all Scotsmen were frightening, bearded men who carried liquor with them wherever they went. These two were dashing in their own way, she supposed, though not in hers.
“Would this be the Dalton household, lass?” One spoke up, the taller of the two. His accent rung clear through the air, a certain throaty quality to it. Rosie affirmed that it was, indeed, the Daltons’, and escorted the two in. According to the two of them, they traveled all the way from Scotland at Mister Dalton’s request, though for what reason they would not say.
Dear Anabeth, black hair falling over her shoulders, peeked out from a corner at the two, nearly swooning at the shorter one and his gentle features. Though, Anabeth swooned over stable boys if they were attractive enough. One side effect of being cooped up in a manor all day and having one’s father forbid men from seeing one. Jeanne, as well, poked her head out her door, marveling at the two foreign men and pondering their intention in the Dalton manor.
Within minutes the two had introduced themselves as James and Wilson Giles, off a branch of the famous(rather, infamous) Scottish Campbell clan. Even the English heard of the Campbells. Mostly propaganda and brutal murder stories. These two, however, had never seen war of any kind, raised like noblemen, and were brothers, to tell the truth. The girls’ mother, Nicolette, ushered the men out for some tea in the garden, to their delight.
The girls followed, and following an awkward tea session where neither party could understand the other’s accent, the family’s fiddler began to play a happy tune, the hired flutist joining in. A request, a bow, a curtsy, and a dance later, both girls were in heaven, as were both men.
Unfortunately, within the week, the two young men Giles were forced to leave, having only come for business with the girls’ father and not being welcome to fraternize any more with them. To show they cared, the girls spent their pocket money, saved up for weeks, pence upon pence, on a craftsman to create porcelain figurines of they and their family. The gifts were accepted graciously, and taken home to Scotland.
Several generations later, the figurines now sit on a shelf in Hawaii, handed down from James to his son, and from his son to the next daughter, until four hundred years later. They now sit, eternally locked in their archaic dancing, clothes, and positions.
June of last year, my grandmother, the rightful owner of these dazzling figures, kept in pristine condition for many long years, passed away. A few months later my family received her will, seeing what was left to each of us. Among other things, both of my sisters and I inherited one Royal Dalton statue each. My sisters inherited Jeanne, the older sister, and Rosie, the nursemaid. I, myself, inherited Anabeth, mischevious belle of Camden, England. I’m not quite sure if her personality quite fits me, but I’m glad to have an heirloom of our family just the same. She wears a yellow dress, eternally locked in a happy sprint, a pearl necklace still clutched in her fingers.