The Stepsister's Tale
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Isabella suddenly gave a large hiccupping sob that must have startled the man, for he rocked back on his heels and stopped what he had been doing, the handkerchief dangling from his hand. “Ella?” he asked, almost fearfully. “Ella, darling—”
She had bent her head and stood twisting the hem of her gleaming dress in her fingertips. She murmured something.
“What is it, my own?”
She raised her head, and Jane was shocked at the misery in her pale face. “Father, please take me home.”
“Ella—” he began, but she rushed on.
“They hate me. She only likes her own girls, and they don’t like anyone but themselves. It smells bad in that house, and there are mice and bats and spiders. You said I would have servants and fine clothes and my own bedroom with my own fireplace....” She turned her head from her father, but Jane could tell by her shaking back and hunched shoulders that she was crying silently. After a moment, the girl said in a voice thick with tears, “I was trying to be nice. I tried to tell them how much prettier they were now that they were bathed, but they didn’t want to talk to me. And Mother’s comb truly was stuck in a knot. I didn’t mean to hurt her—I was just trying to take the comb out without breaking it.” Jane swallowed a lump of guilt. Had she misunderstood what had happened?
“Ella,” the man said again, his voice shaking. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, my darling, but I had no idea. She told me that the house was in disrepair, but I thought she was so accustomed to fine things that a little mold or a broken stair rail would strike her as disrepair. I didn’t know it was this bad.”
Isabella took a deep breath and straightened. “There aren’t any servants. They do all the work themselves, and they want me to do it, too. They act like I’m stupid because I don’t know how.” Jane stifled a cry of protest. They acted like she was stupid? But it was Isabella who treated them like ignorant country girls!
“They don’t really work,” the man answered, but Jane heard his uncertainty. “A little fine needlework, keeping poultry, making cheese—she told me that these were their occupations, and those are all suitable ways for a lady to keep herself amused.”
“No, father,” Isabella said. “No, it’s not just a little fine needlework and keeping poultry. They make stockings, and they sew everything they wear. They cook and clean the house. They must also chop the wood and do the laundry, because who else is there?”
“Well, Ella.” He stopped. Jane wondered if his face mirrored the discomfort in his voice. “Well, Ella, I’m having a bit of difficulty getting the bank to release my funds. They don’t want to send gold over such a long distance until the king recovers from his illness and puts more guards on the road. I’m working on it,” he said hastily, as she seemed about to speak again, “and soon we’ll have maids and cooks and footmen. Won’t that be nice?” He stood and took her hand. They started toward the door, and Jane fled back through the empty dining room to the South Parlor. She wiped the table and set out the bowls for the midday meal, trying to act as though she had been there ever since the incident with the comb.
The man and the girl passed through the parlor, still talking to each other, and took no notice of her. As soon as they were out of sight, Jane sat down in the big chair, her thoughts flying in and out of her head as she tried to sort them. Had Isabella really been trying to be friendly? And had she meant it when she said that she and Maude were pretty—or at least prettier—when they were clean and neat?
Clean and neat, perhaps, but hardly the ladies Mamma kept insisting they were. Jane winced at the recollection of Isabella’s biting words, even though the girl had merely repeated what Jane herself had recognized long ago: she and Maude weren’t ladies who were so bored with their lives of ease that they played at being dairymaid and hen girl and needlewoman. She and Maude were dairymaids and hen girls and needlewomen, and they were also wood choppers and floor sweepers and cooks. It was a triumph, in a way, that an outsider had seen so quickly what Jane had been aware of but that Mamma had been denying for years.
Jane didn’t feel triumphant, though. She felt sick and so weary that she didn’t ever want to get up.
She had to, though. She hoisted herself out of the chair and went to look out the big door. In the drive, the man was still holding his daughter’s hand. “I’m taking Ella to the village,” he was saying to Mamma. “She needs something to divert her.”
Don’t say anything, Jane pleaded silently. Just let them go.
Mamma lowered her gaze without answering him. Harry led his daughter into the barn, and in a few minutes he emerged, leading the chestnut horses, now harnessed to the carriage. They tossed their heads and lifted their legs high. He helped Isabella inside and climbed awkwardly into the driver’s seat. The horses set out at a brisk pace as he sawed ineffectually at the reins. When the carriage was gone, Mamma said, “They’ll be back this evening.” Then she looked down the drive again.
Maude reappeared, scuffing her feet in the dust as she came up the drive. She didn’t say where she had been, and Mamma didn’t ask.
Harry and Isabella did not return in time for supper, and they still had not come when Jane lit the lamps in the South Parlor. They sat on the rug, one girl leaning on either side of Mamma, as she told them stories of parties she had gone to when she was young. The ladies all in silk, their dresses so long and their movements so graceful that they looked as if they were floating as they danced. The tall men in their elegant black clothes, their hair sleek, their hands sheathed in white gloves.
Jane allowed her mind to wander. Maybe she was wrong about never being able to meet a suitable man. If Harry’s money restored the house, Mamma could give a party, the way she had said. Maybe some young man would see her and lead her into the dance, his warm hand holding hers, his arms around her as they joined the others. Maybe he would have so much money he wouldn’t care that she had none, and he would carry her away from here, to a place where she wouldn’t have to worry about feeding and clothing and caring for herself and her mother and sister, a place where she could relax and be happy.
Don’t be stupid, she scolded herself. That kind of thing doesn’t happen in real life.
Now that supper was over, they allowed the fire to die down. That big ember in the middle looked like the castle, as Jane imagined it, with its fantastic spires and towers stretching up to the sky. The other coals looked like the forest, where the rarely-seen people of the woods lived. That little lump could be the hut where Hannah Herb-Woman lived with her husband and their son, Hugh. The larger ember to the right could be their own house, glowing and shifting in the red-gold light of the dying fire.
Suddenly the ember flared into flame, and the little copy of their house crumbled into ash. Jane sat up. She was half asleep, and Maude was yawning. She knew that Mamma was about to tell them to go to bed, but she didn’t want the cozy evening to end. Neither did Maude, apparently, because before Mamma could say anything, she asked, “Did you have a dance at the party that Harry talked about?”
“Which party was that?” Mamma looked puzzled.
Maude glanced at Jane, who suddenly realized what her sister was going to say. She shook her head, but Maude ignored her. “The one where he said your engagement to Papa was announced.”
Mamma was silent for so long that Jane hoped she hadn’t heard, but then she said quietly, “Yes, it was a lovely party.” She smoothed the ragged skirt over her knees and stared into the flames. “We danced.... Papa was a wonderful dancer, and he was so handsome and he always made me laugh.” A smile came and went fleetingly over her face, making her eyes look even sadder. Jane slipped her hand into Mamma’s and squeezed. Mamma squeezed back. “We were very happy, and I thought it would last ever after.”
She sighed and let go of Jane’s hand, and then said, “I don’t think they’re coming back until tomorrow, after all. Go to sleep, girls.”
“Aren’t you going to bed, too, Mamma?” Maude’s words were almost swallowed up in a giant yawn.
“In a little while,” she answered. But when Jane got up a few hours later to visit the privy, she saw Mamma sitting in the big chair, wrapped in a shawl, her head turned toward the door.
They did not return that night.
Chapter 5
Breakfast was silent. As soon as Mamma left the room, Maude said, “Maybe they went back where they came from and we’ll never have to see them again.” Jane didn’t answer.
Shortly before noon, Betsy’s bark drew them outside. They stood on the steps as the carriage drew into the drive, the horses pulling it more easily than they had that first day, when it had been loaded with heavy crates. A small copy of the carriage was tied behind. It was painted deep yellow and white, and harnessed to it was a little brown pony, her head bobbing up and down as she trotted to keep up. Seated on the driver’s seat was Isabella, proudly clutching the reins, a coach whip in a holder next to her.
“She pulls your hair out, and he buys her a pony and carriage,” Jane said.
“It’s all right, Janie,” Maude said quietly, and looked at the ground.
The two carriages pulled up in front of the house. Ella stood, still holding the reins, not looking at the girls. She wore a coral-colored dress, and on her feet were the most astonishing shoes Jane had ever seen. They were covered in a mosaic of tiny pieces of glass. They sparkled and shone so that Isabella seemed to be wearing diamonds on her dainty feet. Isabella saw the girls’ stare and lifted one foot up, its toe pointed. “Papa had them specially made just for me.” She turned her foot slowly. “There’s not another pair like them in the entire kingdom. Isn’t that right, Papa?”
“That’s correct, Ella, dear.” His voice was thick with love as he untied her miniature carriage. “As there is no other like you in the entire world.” Well, thank goodness for that, anyway, Jane thought.
“Help your sister,” Mamma said.
“She’s not my sister,” Jane said.
“Jane,” Mamma said, and startled at the sadness of her tone, Jane went to hold the reins. Harry swung his daughter out of the carriage without acknowledging her. She grimaced at Maude, who giggled. Harry and Isabella went inside, leaving Jane and Maude to stable the pony and the big horse.
When they finally went in the house, Mamma was slicing cheese. She appeared calm, but Jane saw that her hands were trembling. The man, seated at the table with Isabella, rubbed his hands together. “Sorry we couldn’t send word that we were delayed,” he said to Mamma, as though nothing unpleasant had happened.
“Yes, I was concerned.” She poured his tea. She, too, sounded calm. Why didn’t she say something to Harry about his daughter’s behavior? Why did she pretend that she wasn’t angry? Jane thought she would explode from frustration.
“We had to wait for Ella’s carriage to dry.” He smiled fondly at the girl as she nibbled on the corner of her bread. “It was white when we bought it, and nothing would satisfy her but to have it painted the color of the pumpkins by the road—”
“Stop it, Father.” Isabella flushed. “I keep telling you, it’s not the color of a pumpkin. It’s gold like the prince’s carriage.”
“All right, then, it’s gold.” Harry was still smiling at Isabella. “Have some cheese, darling.” The girl ate her bread and cheese without looking at anyone, ignoring her father’s attempts at conversation. When they had finished, he stood up. “I have business to do,” he announced importantly. “Have to see about getting that roof fixed.”
Mamma nodded. “Ask the priest first. He’ll know who needs work.”
Harry sighed heavily. “Margaret,” he said, in a patient tone that made Jane wince, “running the household is your business. This is man’s business.” Mamma’s face turned red. She didn’t answer, and after kissing the top of Isabella’s golden head, the man left. His daughter trailed after him. Jane peeked through the door and saw her, looking even smaller than she really was in the huge empty front hall, standing at the door and staring out at the empty drive.
Jane returned to the South Parlor and scrubbed the remains of their breakfast off the worn wooden table. “What did he mean, ‘man’s business’?” Maude asked. “This is our house, isn’t it, Mamma?” Mamma didn’t answer. Maude and Jane washed the dishes with the last of the soap. Maude opened her mouth to speak, and Jane knew that she was going to ask whether Mamma had brought any more back with her. She shot her sister a warning glance, and Maude subsided.
Isabella came back as Jane and Maude were getting ready for their morning chores. She didn’t look at them, but a line on her cheek sparkled where a tear slid down it. Jane sat down to pull on her boots and heard Maude say, “You can’t wear that dress or your new shoes to do chores.” Jane couldn’t resist looking up to see Isabella’s reaction.
After what seemed like a long time, the girl squeaked, “Me? Do chores?”
“You can choose,” Maude said. “You can help me find eggs or go to the barn with Jane and milk the cow and the goats.”
“I’m not—” Isabella began.
“You have to,” Jane interrupted. “We all have to work, or there’s nothing to eat.” Mamma acted as though she hadn’t heard, but she pressed her lips together tightly. Isabella glanced at Mamma, but even she seemed to know that no help would be coming from there. With a frown that somehow made her look even prettier, she stalked out.
Jane was soon instructing Isabella in the art of milking. “First, you wash your hands.” She worked the pump handle up and down. Isabella complied but didn’t look at her. Fine, thought Jane. You don’t have to talk. She rinsed her own hands and wrung out a cloth in the cool water before the stream from the pump subsided. She sat down on her milking stool and wiped Baby’s pink udder. The cow, a wisp of straw hanging from her mouth, swung her huge head around to look at Isabella. The girl yelped and jumped back.
“Baby won’t hurt you,” Jane said. “See, you have to make sure everything is clean so the milk stays fresh.”
“How do you know she won’t hurt me?” Isabella asked. “And why do you call such a big cow ‘Baby’?”
“She wasn’t big when she was born,” Jane said. “That’s when Maude named her.” Jane rhythmically wiped, wiped, wiped the udder, long past the need to clean and dry it, as she remembered that day. It was shortly after they had gotten word that Papa would never be coming home again. Mamma had taken to her bed, and as soon as she recovered, she’d dismissed the milkmaids and cowherds and sold all the horses but Saladin, and all the cows except Duchess. A few days later, Duchess had started having her calf. Somehow Jane had been able to tell something was wrong, so she’d run for Hannah Herb-Woman, who’d rolled up her sleeves and got down on her knees, and she and Jane had wrestled the little creature out. Despite careful doctoring by Hannah, Duchess had died, and Jane had raised Baby on a bottle.
And now look at the size of her, Jane thought, briefly resting her head against the familiar hard, warm flank. Mamma acted as though someone else had saved the calf’s life on the bloody wet straw in the stable. Not Jane Montjoy, daughter of Lady Margaret Montjoy, mistress of Halsey Hall, the finest house in the kingdom.
Jane roused herself. “When everything’s clean, you squeeze like this.”
Isabella upset the cow so that she would hardly let down her milk, despite Jane’s coaxing and gentle touch. She finally told the girl to go, and once the disturbing presence was no longer there, Baby relaxed. Jane would just have to stop trying to make Isabella do her share. It isn’t worth the effort, she thought. She filled half a bucket with Betsy’s warm milk and then moved on to the goats. When she finished, she left the buckets to cool in the dairy, and then looked for eggs in the grass. Maude was protective about the chicken coop, claiming that when anyone else but she went in there the chickens would get upset and not lay. Jane suspected that the real reason was that Maude hid some of her treasures in there. She found two eggs under a bush and added them to Maude’s basket when she emerged from the coop, and they walked back to the house together.
A group of men from the village stood in the drive with a mule cart full of tools and lumber. The girls caught little snatches of their conversation with Harry—“Too far gone” and “We might put a support under here” and “The outer wood is sound, but what is underneath has rotted.”
Among the men stood a few boys, awkwardly holding tools that looked too big for them. Jane nudged Maude and pointed at Hannah Herb-Woman’s son, Hugh. His red hair made him visible even from where they stood. Maude waved at him, but he pretended not to notice. Some rough-looking men and boys wearing ragged clothes and heavy boots hung on the edge of the crowd, not mingling with the others. Several were familiar to Jane from the rare services at St. Cuthbert’s Church. One man had a large wooden mallet hanging from his belt. Another, the tallest and broadest, rested a wood ax on his shoulder. He stood with his hand protectively on the shoulder of a boy who appeared to be about Jane’s age, with curls so long that they almost covered his eyes. The boy’s mouth was turned down at the corners, although whether this was some trick of his features or a scowl, Jane could not tell. He must have felt her eyes on him, because he turned and glared at her. Jane flinched. What was he so angry about?
“From the woods,” Maude whispered, pointing at them. Jane snatched her sister’s hand down. Maude leaned close to Jane. “What are they doing here?”
“They must be desperately hungry,” Jane whispered back. “Mamma said that they only come out of the woods when they’re starving.” The hot, dry summer had made game scarce, and she knew herself how scarce berries and mushrooms were.
“Why?” Maude asked. “Aren’t they glad to be working for us? Mamma says the servants were always so happy, when we had them.”
“Hush!” Jane was in an agony that her sister would be overheard. She didn’t know how the people of the woods felt about the Halseys, but she didn’t believe they were like the happy maids and nannies and footmen and butlers that Mamma talked about. She even thought, uncomfortably, that perhaps those same servants hadn’t been as contented as Mamma always said.
Maude tugged at her sleeve. “If they fix the house, do you think we’ll give parties like the ones Mamma talks about?” Jane felt a ripple of excitement at the thought, followed by dread. They didn’t even know how to curtsey, much less dance. How would they talk to people they didn’t know?
The men swarmed up ladders and over the roof, and tiles crashed down to the ground. They shattered as they fell from the great height, leaving scraps of dark gray slate everywhere, so the girls retreated into the house. Isabella was sitting in the big chair, drumming her little fingers on its arm. Her father was seated opposite her, leaning forward and speaking in a low and pleading tone. “Just until tomorrow, darling. You can take the carriage out all day tomorrow, if you like. The pony’s too tired.”
“Please, Papa,” Isabella wheedled. “I want to take it out today. It’s so noisy here—I’m sure it’s giving you a headache. I want to take my carriage to the river where it’s quiet.”
Mamma came into the room, wiping her hands on her apron. The smell of slightly soured milk accompanied her, as it always did when she had been in the dairy. Isabella wrinkled her nose. Jane could tell that Mamma had noticed the grimace, but she said nothing about it, instead addressing the man. “The work is progressing nicely. There must be a dozen men. At this rate, they will have a little money to spend in the village on Saturday.”
“I won’t pay them until they’ve finished,” Harry said. “You must be firm with workmen. If you’re not, they take advantage of you. Leave it to me, Margaret.” And he added in a lower tone, “It’s my money, after all.” Mamma turned away.
Maude pulled Jane into the hallway. “Why does he care when they’re paid?” she whispered. “They’ll finish the roof. Mamma wouldn’t have hired someone who would cheat us. Harry can buy Isabella a golden carriage and shoes made of glass. Why won’t he pay the roofers?”
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