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The Stepsister's Tale
Tracy Barrett


What really happened after the clock struck midnight?Jane Montjoy is tired of being a lady. She's tired of pretending to live up to the standards of her mother's noble family–especially now that the family's wealth is gone and their stately mansion has fallen to ruin. It's hard enough that she must tend to the animals and find a way to feed her mother and her little sister each day. Jane's burden only gets worse after her mother returns from a trip to town with a new stepfather and stepsister in tow. Despite the family's struggle to prepare for the long winter ahead, Jane's stepfather remains determined to give his beautiful but spoiled child her every desire.When her stepfather suddenly dies, leaving nothing but debts and a bereaved daughter behind, it seems to Jane that her family is destined for eternal unhappiness. But a mysterious boy from the woods and an invitation to a royal ball are certain to change her fate….From the handsome prince to the evil stepsister, nothing is quite as it seems in Tracy Barrett's stunning retelling of the classic Cinderella tale.







What really happened after the clock struck midnight?

Jane Montjoy is tired of being a lady. She’s tired of pretending to live up to the standards of her mother’s noble family—especially now that the family’s wealth is gone and their stately mansion has fallen to ruin. It’s hard enough that she must tend to the animals and find a way to feed her mother and her little sister each day. Jane’s burden only gets worse after her mother returns from a trip to town with a new stepfather and stepsister in tow. Despite the family’s struggle to prepare for the long winter ahead, Jane’s stepfather remains determined to give his beautiful but spoiled child her every desire.

When her stepfather suddenly dies, leaving nothing but debts and a bereaved daughter behind, it seems to Jane that her family is destined for eternal unhappiness. But a mysterious boy from the woods and an invitation to a royal ball are certain to change her fate.…

From the handsome prince to the evil stepsister, nothing is quite as it seems in Tracy Barrett’s stunning retelling of the classic Cinderella tale.


The Stepsister’s Tale

Tracy Barrett




www.miraink.co.uk (http://www.miraink.co.uk)


For everyone who struggles with building a family

made up of new members, new configurations, and new relationships


Contents

Prologue (#u3ab6069d-b0ef-589e-9a2b-6ffaebf30f92)

Chapter 1 (#u9782ccc4-c53a-5cdc-b65b-dd7509335499)

Chapter 2 (#u62a468c6-5a80-5178-9dda-ec9a9320a001)

Chapter 3 (#uca848f4c-dc01-56ab-b777-cc4f0e3ae633)

Chapter 4 (#u6dd59778-09f1-5113-bb88-3f0788230253)

Chapter 5 (#ub636670f-05f4-57ab-a274-46c2eb5e7906)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)

Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue (#u7bd853b0-545a-5b30-be18-6249a4e20660)

The house—it was too small to be called a palace—sat at the top of a hill, overlooking thick woods and a river. At a distance, it appeared to be the same as when Mamma was a girl: stately, welcoming, a place of parties and balls, where visitors came to spend long weeks, where Mamma and Papa had danced until dawn the night of their wedding. But once a traveler drew near, changes appeared. Holes gaped in the roof; some of the windows lacked glass, and most were bare of the curtains that would have softened their black emptiness. The few remaining shutters dangled unevenly and banged when a high wind blew.

Inside, the grand stairway swept up in huge curves, gaps and broken boards making the going treacherous. Once upstairs, a curious visitor who tapped the breastplate of the suit of armor would raise twittering from the nests in the beams high above. The corridors were streaked with white bird droppings and were so dark that you never saw the faces in the portraits that hung crookedly on the walls, their frames riddled with wormholes, until you were almost upon them. And even then, they didn’t look back. Within their grimy outlines the faces of beautiful ladies and handsome gentlemen stared out blindly but still proudly at the few who passed by in the dim halls.

And for many years, only two people had walked through those dark corridors: descendants of the proud women and men depicted in the portraits, the last of their line—Lady Margaret’s daughters, Jane and Maude Montjoy.


Chapter 1 (#u7bd853b0-545a-5b30-be18-6249a4e20660)

Jane stopped at the gate, which was half-overgrown with shrubs and vines, and put down her basket. She balanced on one foot and scratched her calf with the toes of the other. She could tell that Mamma hadn’t come back yet. The house looked dead, just a lot of wood and stone. It was only when Mamma was home that it looked alive.

She sighed and lifted her basket. It was light enough—berries were getting scarce, and the weather was too dry for mushrooms, except in the deepest part of the woods, where she didn’t dare to venture. She had found only a handful of sticks suitable for firewood.

The drive curved around to the wide stone steps leading up to the massive front door. Jane took a shortcut across the brown grass, glad that Mamma wasn’t there to see her. Only stable boys tread paths, she always scolded. Once, when Jane was particularly tired, she had reminded Mamma that there weren’t stable boys at Halsey Hall anymore. Mamma’s look of bewildered hurt and betrayal had stabbed like an icicle at Jane’s heart, and she never again mentioned the lack of stable boys—or of a proper stable—and never again walked across the grass while Mamma was home.

She climbed the uneven steps and leaned her weight into the door, which opened reluctantly. “Maudie?” she called. She heard scuttling to her left, where the North Parlor and the ballroom lay abandoned. She sighed again. Her sister was no doubt hiding a new treasure—perhaps some small gift from Hugh or his mother, Hannah Herb-Woman, or a brightly colored stone or snakeskin. Jane waited a few minutes and then opened the door, a little too noisily, so that Maude would have a chance to pretend she had merely wandered into the vacant part of the house for no reason.

Jane crossed the North Parlor and looked through the doorway—empty now of its door—into the ballroom. Maude seemed small in that vast space, her footsteps echoing as she crossed the scuffed and dusty floor that Jane dimly remembered gleaming, long ago. Now the grand room was a home for bats and mice, whose smelly nests cluttered the corners. The musician’s gallery above them was empty save for a few broken chairs where the black-coated cellists and flutists and trumpeters used to make music that moved dancers’ feet around the floor.

Maude’s shabby dress, so faded that it was impossible to tell its original color, was too tight on her. Her hair hung in lank strands; one of the reasons Mamma had gone to the city was to buy soap so they could wash more often. By the way her sister was studiously avoiding looking into a dark corner behind her, Jane guessed that this was where she had stashed her treasure.

“Mamma still isn’t back,” Maude said.

“I know.” When Mamma went to the little village down the hill she would return the same evening, but several times a year she made the longer trip to the city to barter cheese and eggs for soap and flour and the other things they couldn’t grow or make on their own, and she stayed overnight before returning home. But she had never been away this long before.

Ladies do not farm, Mamma always said when they asked why they couldn’t grow wheat and barley. If a lady wishes to have a pretty pastime, keeping chickens and making cheese are suitable. She may tend a flower bed, and she may gather berries and nuts. She may embroider and make lace. She may exchange what she does not need with other gentlewomen who have an excess of what they themselves produce. But that is all. We are ladies, and ladies do not do heavy work.

Yes, Mamma, they always answered, and then they would go out to chop wood or shovel out the stable or do their best to repair the chicken coop. Yes, Mamma, as dutifully and politely as if they really were the ladies that Mamma said they were.

Jane and Maude went through the main hall with its magnificent staircase and into the South Parlor, now not only a parlor but their sitting room, kitchen, and dining room, as well. Jane surveyed the room with satisfaction. As soon as Mamma had left, the sisters fell to work, cleaning and straightening, taking rugs outside to beat dirt from them, pulling and shoving the heavy chairs into the sun to bake out the mildew in their cushions. Now, clean curtains hung over sparkling windows, a small stack of firewood lay on the hearth, finally emptied of ash and cinders, and scraps of cloth covered the worn spots on the chairs that they had carefully positioned over the worst holes and stains in the carpet.

When Mamma came back, she wouldn’t say how nice everything looked. She always acted as though invisible servants took care of things and never acknowledged that her own daughters, the last of the Halsey line, blistered their hands and reddened their eyes by firelight to keep things decent.

They had watched her disappear down the long drive that summer day, sitting erect on old Saladin, who’d been loaded down with packs full of cheese and butter. It had been—how long ago? Jane counted on her fingers. Two days to clean the South Parlor, another to muck out the stable, a fourth when Maude hunted herbs while Jane worked on the heap of mending and darning in the work basket, and today. Five days. Jane tried to ignore the wiggle of fear in her belly.

To conceal her worry, she asked, “Did you find any eggs? I’m starving!”

“Four,” Maude said. “We can have two each.”

“And I found some wood. Let’s make supper now, shall we?”

Soon, the water in the little pot hanging over the hearth was boiling, and Maude gently slipped the brown eggs into it.

Jane sat while her sister tended the fire. Once, supper had meant a roasted duck or the leg of a pig, with vegetables and soft bread, and if they had been good, a sweet afterward. But there were no more cooks in the house, and the kitchen, with its fireplace of a size to roast a whole boar and mixing bowls large enough to bathe a baby in, had long been cold. Jane barely remembered how it had looked with servants bustling about, their cheeks red from the fire, their faces shiny with sweat. Rich smells of roasting meats and yeasty breads and bubbling sauces would intoxicate her. Cook would find something sweet for Jane, always with a second helping to carry back up to Maude, who’d been too little to come down the stairs. Now, the heavy iron spoons and spits and ladles rusted under layers of cobwebs, and the bitter smell of old ashes hung in the damp air.

“Janie?” Maude was standing over her, holding out a bowl with two steaming eggs in it.

It didn’t take long to eat their meal. Maude licked her bowl but Jane pretended not to see this lapse in manners; her sister had seemed even hungrier than usual lately, ever since she had starting outgrowing her clothes, seemingly overnight. But neither of them had been getting enough to eat for months, and what little they had was monotonously the same. Maybe Mamma would surprise them with bakery-made sweets when she came back, or a ham, or even something exotic, like grapes or oranges.

Jane left Maude to wash up with almost the last of the soap and went to do the evening milking. When she returned, Maude was squatting at the hearth, poking the fire with a long stick. She looked up as her sister came in, her brows drawn together in worry. “When is Mamma coming home, Janie?”

Jane was about to snap, “How should I know?” but she softened when she saw Maude’s lower lip trembling. She forced herself to speak carelessly. “Soon. She must have had business in town.”

“What business, Janie?”

Rather than answering, Jane said, “It’s still light out. Do you want to go on an explore?”

Maude leaped to her feet. “Now?”

The last time they had ventured up the stairs, Jane had stepped on a board that split under her foot, and although she had clutched wildly at the banister, she’d crashed heavily to the stone floor. She had lain there, dazed, for a few moments, and when she’d raised her head, Maude was peering at her, her eyes wide. Jane had forced herself to sit up and brush her dress off calmly. She’d said, “The step above it looks good—let’s see if you can stretch your legs far enough to reach over the hole.” They had made it to the second story safely, and Jane had carefully hidden the purple bruise on her hip and her sore shoulder from Mamma after she’d come home.

This time they arrived upstairs without incident, placing their feet carefully at the edges of the steps and holding tight to the banister. They walked hand in hand down the long corridor. When she was very small, Maude used to shrink from the portraits lining the walls. “It’s only Great-Great-Grandmamma Esther,” Jane would reassure her, speaking of the painting of the stiff-looking little girl clutching an equally stiff-looking kitten. “They say that her mother was descended from the fairy-folk.” Or, “only Great-Grandpapa Edwin,” of the strong-jawed young man in evening clothes, holding a book and staring down his long nose at his descendants standing in the dust. “He was the one who had our hunting lodge built.”

Jane would recite each room’s story to her sister, who always listened in solemn silence. “This was Grandmamma’s chamber,” Jane would say. “She was very particular about her bed and couldn’t sleep without three pillows, stuffed with the down of white geese.” Through the dim light they would look respectfully at the bed. They knew that if they touched the pillows, still heaped up as though waiting for Grandmamma, their hands would go through the rotten silk cases and they would find the famous goose down full of bugs.

“Her bed curtains were of the finest damask,” Jane would continue. “Damask was the only cloth beautiful enough for her taste and still heavy enough to keep out light and sound.” The weight of the heavy, dark red cloth had made most of it pull through the shiny curtain rings—brass, Jane said, although Maude insisted they were gold—and it dangled in uneven loops around the dark, deeply carved bedposts.

Mamma’s room, with its delicate furniture and dingy wallpaper that had once been bright with rosebuds, was the best. The girls took turns choosing what to look at first. It might be the cupboard where the ball gowns still hung, holes in most of them, the musty odor making Maude sneeze. Jane had once suggested cutting up one of the dresses and re-piecing it to make a dress for herself or her sister; Mamma had been so shocked at the idea of using a silk gown for everyday use that Jane never mentioned it again. Or they might turn to one of the drawers where the delicate undergarments and stockings and handkerchiefs retained something of their satiny sheen, or the heavy jewelry box on the dresser.

Everything of value had been sold long ago, but the glass beads and rings and brooches that Mamma had worn to costume parties still glittered coldly on black velvet. The girls would take them out reverently, holding them up to their chests or ears or fingers, never daring to put them on, asking each other, “How do I look? Which one suits me best?”

Today it was the turn of Papa’s bedchamber. Their bare feet did not tap on the stone floor, the way Mamma’s shoes used to, and the boom of Papa’s boots was hard to remember. Jane pushed open the oaken door, showing the faded carpet and the broken riding crop that Papa had flung down years ago.

Maude took a step inside, then halted. “Why don’t we look at one of the guest rooms instead?”

“It’s not their turn. We have to do things the right way. We’re Halseys.” She imitated Mamma’s tone, and Maude snickered, and they entered. Papa had sold almost everything, even his guns and the signet ring he had inherited from his own father. Jane had rarely entered the room in the old days, and even now she found it uncomfortable to venture past the door. What drew their eyes in that dim chamber was the portrait of Mamma as a young woman, above the fireplace. The fresh eagerness of her smile, the energy of her step as if the painter had called out to her to come to him, the way her hand clutched her hat with the long sweep of a feather curving up toward her face—these gave her an interest that was deeper than beauty.

“She was happy,” Maude said, as she always did. It was a strange thought.

“She was about to marry the handsomest man in the kingdom.”

“And welcome him into the oldest family and the finest house in the kingdom.”

They fell silent, each wondering if anybody—much less the handsomest man in the kingdom—would ever want to marry them. Neither thought they looked pretty the way the dainty ladies in the portraits lining the hall, with their pursed lips, pale glossy ringlets, and glowing fair skin, were pretty. They both resembled Mamma, with their dark hair, determined chins, and long hands and feet. But in the portrait, Mamma’s hair was smooth and shiny, and her slender fingers elegantly held up the skirt of a gown that gleamed clean and unmended, while their own hair twisted in an unruly fashion around their heads and their work-roughened hands rested on faded dresses that were patched and worn, and that always seemed too small.

Rose had resembled Papa, Mamma said once, surprising them with this rare mention of Jane’s twin. Rose had had Papa’s big eyes and fine features. But Rose was dead, and baby Robert, too, so Papa’s looks had been lost. Lost, along with the gold and jewels and parties whose music and gay laughter Jane vaguely remembered—everything that had gone away when Papa had gone away.

When word came that he had died, poor and alone in a miserable room in an inn, surrounded by empty bottles, they were surprised—not that he was dead, but that he had so recently been alive, because for a long time he had been dead to them.

Maude said that all she remembered of Papa was a large, noisy presence, strong arms that would lift her up and then a scratchy face rubbing against her cheek and neck until she screamed and he laughed and put her down, all accompanied by a strong smell that she later learned was liquor. Jane remembered a deep voice shouting late in the night and their mother crying, and their father disappearing for days at a time, until that last disappearance when he’d never returned at all. They both knew without ever saying it that they must behave well and do everything Mamma said, so that she would not cry again. Or—and the thought was so bitter that Jane tried to push it away—so that she would not leave them like Papa.

Jane led the way back down the corridor, the eyes in the portraits boring holes in her back. She always felt that they would be different on the way back—Great-Grandpapa Edwin would be smiling, or the kitten would have squirmed out of Great-Great-Grandmamma Esther’s arms. And as she climbed down the stairs, holding her skirts up with one hand and grasping the rail with the other, she heard the ancestors whispering behind her.

You are a Halsey. You are the last of your line, you and your sister. You have much to live up to. Never disgrace the Halsey name. On and on they whispered as Jane hurried, risking a dangerous tumble, and the voices didn’t cease until she stood once more in the South Parlor, surrounded by their own familiar clothes and furniture and cooking things, and Maude made rose hip tea, to help them recover from the climb.


Chapter 2 (#u7bd853b0-545a-5b30-be18-6249a4e20660)

Jane opened her eyes first to a dim and misty sunrise, then to bright hope, and finally to bitter disappointment. Mamma had not returned in the night.

She walked through the haze to the barn, where Baby and the goats waited impatiently. She milked them and took the pails to the dairy, where Maude was churning butter. It was pleasantly cool in the little stone house, which was perched over an underground spring that carried snow melt from the distant mountains. Yesterday’s cheese was progressing nicely, so Jane broke up the curds. Six days, she thought. It’s been almost a week since Mamma left. Maybe I should—

Betsy’s sharp bark interrupted her thoughts, and her heart lightened. Maude ran to the door of the dairy and exclaimed, “It’s not Mamma! It’s a carriage!” Jane joined her, and they leaned out to see.

A shiny carriage, pulled by two chestnut horses, came up the drive. The fine animals looked strong, yet they were leaning hard into their traces. The carriage must be carrying something heavy, Jane realized. As it rounded the last curve, an enormous gray horse tied to the back came into sight, head down, hooves dragging. “It’s Saladin!” she said.

Surely all the eggs and cheese and butter in the world weren’t enough to trade for a carriage and two beautiful horses. Maybe someone who owed Papa a gambling debt had decided to ease his conscience by giving them to Mamma. Maybe Mamma had fallen sick and a kind stranger had brought her home. Or maybe—Jane felt a chill—maybe Mamma had died, and the owner of the carriage was returning Sal to them. She took Maude’s hand to comfort her and was herself comforted by its warmth. Together they walked to the drive, where the carriage was making the final turn.

The driver pulled on the reins. The horses stood with their heads down, their sides heaving. The carriage door opened, and Jane, dreading to see a messenger who would deliver bad news, felt her heart skip a beat. But out stepped Mamma, road dust caking the folds of her dress, her face drawn with weariness, but smiling. She opened her arms wide. The girls ran to her, Jane weak-kneed with relief, Maude showing only joy.

“Hello, my chickens!” Mamma said. “Wait till you see the surprise I brought with me!”

“We can see it,” Jane said.

“Where have you been for so long?” Maude demanded.

“Oh, the surprise isn’t the carriage,” Mamma said. “I mean, yes, that is our carriage now, but that’s not the surprise. The surprise is what’s in it.”

“Visitors?” Maude squeaked. Jane shrank back. Why would Mamma do this to them? What would they say to visitors? How could they receive them in their ragged dresses and bare feet and uncombed hair? She licked her finger and rubbed at her face, trying to remove the smudges that she knew she must have gotten in the barn.

“Not visitors,” Mamma said. “Something better. Something you have been wanting for a long time.” What had they been wanting? Before they could guess, Mamma told them. “A new papa, and a new little sister.”

“Oh!” breathed Maude. “A baby!” There hadn’t been a baby in the house for so long, not since Robert.

“Not exactly a baby.” Mamma looked toward the carriage. A tall, balding man stepped out of it and then turned and reached back inside, speaking in a low, coaxing tone. He was answered by a torrent of words that the girls couldn’t make out, although their meaning was clear: whoever was in the carriage was unhappy.

Mamma laid her hand on the man’s arm. “Let me try, Harry.” The man stepped back, and Mamma reached in the open door. “Come, Isabella. Come see your new home.” She stood for a moment and then moved away, helping someone out and then down the two steps.

Jane caught her breath. The small girl looked unlike anyone she had ever seen before. Her hair was of that pale brown called ash-blond, and it hung to her waist in shiny waves. Her oval face was a clear, delicate white, and she had pale pink cheeks and dainty red lips. Her sky-blue dress stopped just below her knees, showing snow-white stockings and tiny white shoes. Her hair was held back by a blue ribbon that had to be silk. She was the most beautiful thing Jane had ever seen, standing perfectly still in front of the dry stone fountain in the curve of the gravel drive. Maude whispered to Jane, “Is she real?”

“Of course she’s real, silly,” Jane whispered back. She had a sudden flash of a memory—of Papa’s mother, Grandmother Montjoy, who had died when Jane was four. Grandmother’s face had been white and wrinkled, her staring eyes unfocused, and she’d mumbled as she reached out a shriveled finger and gently stroked something—a porcelain fairy, Jane remembered, with dark gold curls and blue wings.

The man, whose thin hair was a duller version of the girl’s and whose sweat-streaked skin might once have been as perfect as hers, bent over and whispered in her ear. She crossed her arms and turned her head away from him, her lower lip sticking out and trembling.

Mamma called, “Girls, come here.” Maude looked at Jane, who could read her own reluctance mirrored in her sister’s eyes. They didn’t dare disobey, and after another moment’s hesitation, Jane walked to the carriage. Maude followed a step behind.

“Harry,” Mamma said, “these are your new daughters. This is Jane, the elder, and behind her is Maude.”

“I am happy to meet you,” the man said. He didn’t sound happy.

“Where are your curtseys, girls?” Mamma asked sharply. Startled, Jane tucked one foot behind the other and made an awkward bob. Maude did the same. It had been so long since either of them had had to perform a curtsey—Jane couldn’t remember, in fact, the last time they had met someone new—that she knew they looked ridiculous. Especially with dirty, bare feet and knots in their hair. Especially in front of that fairy princess.

The fairy princess burst out laughing, and Jane felt herself flush. “What was that?” the girl asked. “Is that how people curtsey in the country?” Maude looked as though the child had slapped her.

“Perhaps you could help them learn to do it better,” Mamma suggested. “Would you like to show them how a curtsey is done in town?”

I don’t want her to show me anything, Jane thought.

The girl picked up her skirt in the tips of her fingers, and placing her right foot behind her left, she sank down nearly to the ground, then rose smoothly, lining her two tiny feet up next to each other again. Jane suddenly felt too tall, and lumpy. Her dress had grown so tight over her chest that her breasts were flattened against her ribs, and she’d had to let out the skirt of her dress to accommodate suddenly round hips. This girl was so slender that even her small curves were graceful.

Maude reached out and touched a tawny curl that dangled past the girl’s shoulder. “You’re beautiful,” she breathed.

The girl didn’t answer, and Maude, looking embarrassed, dropped her hand.

“Take the horses into the barn and wipe them down well,” the man said to the coachman. “When I am satisfied that you have done your work properly, I will pay you.” The man, who had unharnessed the horses, made a quick bow and led them around in a tight circle and down to the barn.

Mamma held out her hand to the girl. “Come, Isabella. Have some supper and then go to bed. You’ll feel happier after you sleep. In the morning, Jane and Maude will show you all around. There might be some new puppies in the barn—are there, girls?”

“Yes, Mamma.” Maude was eager to catch Mamma up on everything that had happened in her absence. “She had eight right after you left, and only one died. There are three boys and four girls, two brown, three brown and white, two—”

“Father,” Isabella said.

“Yes, darling,” he said promptly.

“I don’t want to see puppies in the barn.”

“Then you won’t have to. There are rats in barns, anyway. Come in and have some supper now, and then I’ll put you to bed.”

“I can put her to bed,” Mamma said. “I’m her mother now.”

“Stepmother,” Isabella said. “And I want my father to put me to bed.” She clung to the man’s hand.

He looked down at her. “Of course, sweetheart. Of course.” He picked her up and carried her over the broken front steps. He stumbled over a crack and muttered something, and then set the child down at the door, which he pushed open. They followed him as his booted footsteps rang in the front hall. The sound, so familiar yet almost forgotten, made Jane’s stomach lurch.

The man came to an abrupt halt as two mice scurried into their hole in a door frame, disgust clear on his face. “My God, Margaret,” he said. His daughter pressed against his side, and he put his arm around her.

Jane knew the front hall was big—Hannah Herb-Woman’s entire hut could fit in it with room to spare—but to her it had always been just the place you had to go through to get to the living quarters. Its marble floor gleamed only when one of the girls polished an area to play a game on it, and now that these strangers were staring, she realized how dingy the stone was. The velvet drapes framing the tall doorways were tattered, and the gold tassels that fringed their edges were faded and dull. The decaying staircase loomed above them, the flaking gilt of the scrolls and curlicues along its sides glinting even in the dim light that came through the open door. The light also caught the strands of a spider web that stretched from a banister to the remains of the chandelier high on the ceiling. When Jane saw the girl wrinkling her nose, she, too, caught the odor of mold and rot.

The man glanced at Mamma. “I told you it was in need of some repair,” she said. Jane detected an uneasy note in her voice.

“I know, but I had no idea....” He shook his head. “It hasn’t been that long—only a few years.”

“The decay had started even when I was a child. My parents managed to hide the extent of it.”

“Father!” burst out the girl. “You said we were going to have supper!”

“Yes, darling.” He instantly turned to her. “Yes, of course. Where...?” He looked around.

“Oh, we don’t use much of the house,” Mamma answered vaguely. She gestured at the South Parlor. “This is where we spend most of our time. I’m afraid it’s not very presentable.” Not presentable? But they had been so proud of how they had cleaned it.

They all followed her in. Harry wrinkled his nose as he looked around. “The first thing we’ll do is get the kitchen back in working order. I won’t be comfortable in a room with the smell of cooking in it.”

“We haven’t cooked a thing all day,” Jane said indignantly. They had eaten nothing but cheese and some nuts that Maude had found.

“Girls—” Mamma began, and hearing the exhaustion in her voice, Jane leaped forward.

“Sit down, Mamma,” she said. “I’ll find something.” Maude was already heading out to the dairy, so Jane went to the pantry. She glanced at the bare shelves, hoping against all logic that somehow more food would have appeared there. Of course it hadn’t. The shelves were waiting for whatever Mamma had brought home from the market; that’s why she had gone to town. Or was it? Jane wondered, suddenly suspicious. Had Mamma really gone to meet that man?

Nonsense. They were almost out of everything. Jane poked around in one nearly empty bin and then another. Turnips, onions—no, she didn’t think Mamma wanted her to take the time to cook anything. Apples—yes, that would do for a quick supper. She filled her apron, choosing the reddest ones. Into her pocket pouch she put almost the last of the biscuits, the twice-cooked bread that lasted a long time in the cool pantry. She sat on the floor and rubbed the apples to wipe off the dust and to bring out their shine. When they were as rosy as Isabella’s lips, she gathered them up and went back to the South Parlor, passing through the long-unused dining hall, where marks on the floor showed where the long table had once stood.

Isabella was sitting on her father’s lap on the big chair, her feet on the armrest. She squirmed, and her shoes made streaks on the cloth. Jane looked at Mamma, but Mamma appeared not to notice, and Jane put the food down and went to join Maude outside.

The sun was low, and the evening noises were starting. Crickets and tree frogs screeched out their songs, and a light breeze rustled through the trees beyond the henhouse, lifting a little of the heat from the late-summer day.

Maude showed Jane six new-laid eggs in her basket. “One for each of us and two for the man. He’s big and probably eats a lot,” Maude explained. She had placed them carefully in the basket, nestled in straw to keep them from breaking.

Jane picked the few remaining berries from a bush near the kitchen door. Walking carefully, she entered the South Parlor just as Maude was placing the egg basket on the scarred wooden table they used for everything from sewing to cooking to eating. Mamma had lit the lantern.

“Look what I have, Mamma,” Jane said. “We can eat these after the eggs.” She carefully pulled the berries out of her pockets, heaping them on the table.

“Lovely, dear,” Mamma said. “Where—”

But Isabella interrupted her. “I can’t eat those,” she said to her father. “She touched them with her dirty hands!”

“So wash them,” Jane said, as she would to Maude. Her fingers were a little grimy, she supposed, but none of it was nasty—just good, clean dirt from pushing branches aside and picking fallen berries up off the ground.

“There appears to be no water,” Mamma said as though to no one.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jane thought. Of course there isn’t. There are no servants to fetch it.

The man spoke to Isabella. “Don’t worry, darling. We’ll wash the berries, won’t we, Margaret?”

Mamma’s lips were pressed together. Jane looked at the man. Didn’t he know that this meant he should stop now, before Mamma got angry? But Mamma just said, “There is nothing wrong with the berries. Isabella may wash them if she really wants to, or she can have apples and a boiled egg. That should be sufficient. A light supper is all a lady requires.”

“I want berries,” Isabella said. Mamma pressed her lips together even tighter, and Jane waited for the storm. But it didn’t come. Instead, Mamma reached into the back of the cupboard and pulled out a small white bowl painted with tiny flowers, one of the few pieces that had been saved from her beautiful china. They had not been able to sell this one because of a tiny crack.

They needed water to cook the eggs, anyway, so Jane went outside to the pump. They had used up the rainwater stored in the cisterns weeks before. While she was working the pump handle she thought how ridiculous it was to pretend they were still the Halseys of long ago, with servants to fetch heavy pails of water and to wash things that didn’t need it. When she came back, the man took the jug and hastily poured a little water into the bowl holding the berries, splashing some on the table. “She really isn’t used to country ways, Margaret,” he said apologetically. “In the city—”

“I understand, Harry,” Mamma said.

Jane could tell by the way Maude was looking at her that her sister shared her shock. Mamma would never have allowed one of them to tell an adult what to do, and she would have sent her to bed without any supper if she wasn’t satisfied with what there was to eat.

When the water in the pot hanging over the fire steamed, Jane placed the eggs in it. They knocked about pleasantly. When they were done, Maude scooped them out. Jane cracked her egg quickly, blowing on her fingers after each touch. Soon the soft white and golden yolk were spreading on her plate, to be eaten while hot and delicious.

Isabella made no attempt to peel hers. Instead, her father did it, his big hands clumsy. He sucked on a reddened forefinger while his daughter daintily spooned up her egg. Jane watched, fascinated, as the girl wiped her mouth after each bite. Isabella caught Jane staring at her and glowered. Jane dropped her gaze and crumbled some biscuit into the smear of yellow that remained on her plate, and then spooned it up.

“Father, look what she’s doing,” Isabella said with a giggle.

“Hush, darling,” he said. “That’s how they eat in the country.”

“In the country?” Jane asked. “Don’t they eat eggs where you come from?” The girl and the man exchanged a glance, but neither answered. Jane felt she was doing something wrong, but what?

They ate the apples, Harry peeling and slicing Isabella’s and his own, and then Mamma took Harry to see the gardens. Isabella perched on the edge of the big chair, whose brown velvet was almost rubbed away. Her toes barely reached the floor as she sat silently, her hands crossed in her lap, her eyes fixed on a spot a few feet ahead of her. Maude asked her abruptly, “How old are you?”

“Thirteen.” Isabella didn’t look up.

“What?” Maude asked. “That’s older than I am! You can’t be thirteen.”

Isabella raised those extraordinary eyes to her. They glittered like the green ice on top of the pond in the winter. “Why can’t I?”

“Because...” Maude gestured at her. “Because you’re so small!”

“I’m not small,” Isabella said. “You’re big.”

“But...” Maude started, and then fell silent. She looked at Jane, indignation plain on her face.

“Maude is tall.” Jane came to her sister’s defense. “Tall like Mamma. So am I. And you’re short. Your hands and feet look like they belong to a baby.” Their mother said that their long fingers and toes were an aristocratic trait, and besides, they would grow into them, but Jane didn’t believe her. Secretly, Jane admired the girl’s small feet and hands and her slender limbs, unlike her own arms and legs, which were unladylike and muscular. The girl crossed her arms over her chest, tucking her hands into her armpits, and looked away. Jane shrugged.

They heard footsteps, and then outside the parlor, the man laughed and Mamma said, “Oh, of course I remember that party, Harry! That was the one where that fat girl—what was her name?” They came in together, still laughing.

“Alexandra,” Harry said. “She fell in the pond—”

“And when she came out she said she had seen a water-sprite—”

“And nobody could stop Daniel from jumping in and looking for it—”

They broke off when they saw the girls staring at them. “Serve the berries, Maude,” Mamma instructed. Maude spooned some into each bowl. Jane could tell that she was counting them and stifled a smile. Maude loved anything sweet and would make sure that no one got more than she did. Maude passed the painted bowl to Isabella, who daintily dug in her spoon and lifted it to her lips. She swallowed a mouthful and then took another. Jane relaxed enough to take a bite.

A high-pitched scream made everyone jump. Isabella was on her feet, her face purple-red and distorted.

“What is it? What happened?” Harry shouted, kneeling in front of his daughter. Isabella either could not or would not talk, but kept screaming, and then spat something on the floor. A dead bee.

“Oh, my Lord!” Harry gasped. Isabella’s lower lip was already starting to swell.

“Is the stinger out?” Maude asked.

Harry repeated, “Oh, my Lord—my little sweetheart—Ella, Ella, my poor darling.”

Maude pushed herself between them. “Let me make sure the stinger is out.” She lifted Isabella’s chin, but the girl’s hand flew out and slapped Maude’s away. Jane stood stunned as Isabella buried her face in her father’s shirtfront, and his arms wrapped tightly around her. Harry gathered up his screaming child and sat down on the big chair, rocking and soothing her. The screams turned to sobs, and the sobs went on and on.

When the fox cub had bitten Maude’s thumb almost through, she had not made nearly as much noise as this. When Jane had broken her collarbone, she had allowed Hannah Herb-Woman to set it without a single cry.

Mamma said quietly, “Eat, girls.”

It was hard to swallow even the sweet berries with all that crying filling the room. But when Jane tried to put down her spoon, Mamma looked at her the way a herd dog looks at a sheep that is moving away from the flock, and she forced herself to finish.

The sobs finally dwindled into whimpers, and Harry stood up, cradling his daughter. “Margaret,” he said, “where does Ella sleep?”

“The girls’ room is through there.” Mamma moved toward the door to the hallway. “Jane has a big bed and Isabella can share it with her.”

“No, that’s all right,” Jane said hastily. “Isabella can have her own bed. Maude will share with me. Won’t you, Maude?”

“Oh, yes,” Maude said.

“No,” Isabella said. They all looked at her.

“What is it, darling?” her father asked.

“I won’t share a room.” Her words were thick. “I have never shared a room, and I won’t share one now with someone who deliberately—” and her voice became ragged “—who deliberately put a bee in my berries.”

“What?” Maude said. “You think that I—”

“I saw you.” Isabella started to cry again, sobs shaking her thin chest. “I saw you poking in the berries. You put that bee in there so it would sting me.”

Jane half rose from her seat as Maude’s mouth gaped open. “She didn’t!” Jane almost shouted. “She wouldn’t! You know she wouldn’t, Mamma!”

“Of course she didn’t,” Mamma said. “Isabella is tired, and her mouth hurts. She doesn’t mean it, do you, Isabella?” The girl didn’t answer. Mamma squatted next to her. “Look at me,” she instructed. Isabella didn’t move.

“Young lady,” Mamma said in the tone that neither Jane nor Maude had ever ignored, “in this house the children do as the adults say. And I am telling you to look at me.”

“Margaret—” Harry started, but Mamma must have turned that herd-dog look on him, too, because he settled back. After a moment, Isabella raised her eyes to Mamma’s.

“You will answer politely when you are spoken to,” Mamma said. “We are making allowances tonight because you are tired and your mouth hurts. In the future, I expect you to behave like a young lady.” She stood up. “Now, Harry, Isabella has the choice of sleeping in the girls’ room with them, or in here by herself. She will tell us her decision when supper has been tidied up.”

Maude and Jane put the dishes in water to soak, and then Jane went out to coax the goats and Baby back into the barn. When she returned, Maude made tea and served it to Mamma and the man. Isabella didn’t even look up when Maude offered her a cup, so Maude shrugged and drank it herself. When Jane hung the dishcloths near the fire she sneaked a peek at the big chair, where the man was still soothing the girl. She heard a murmur from Harry and a word or two from Isabella in a quavering voice, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying.

Mamma wiped her hands on her apron and turned to Harry. “Well?”

“Isabella will sleep in here.”

“Good,” Jane said to Maude, and hoped that Mamma hadn’t heard.

“Very well,” Mamma answered. “Girls, take Isabella to the necessary room.”

In silence, Jane and Maude left for the privy in the yard behind the kitchen. Isabella followed, keeping several paces behind. They went and returned without exchanging a word.

In their absence, the pillows from the big chair had been put on the floor and a cloth had been smoothed over them. “This is your bed,” Mamma said.

Jane and Maude stood awkwardly. The last thing every day, they sat and talked, and Mamma told them tales of parties and young men, of hunts and horses, of balls at the palace in the days when the old king was a prince, of fairies and sprites and the people of the woods. Obviously that could not happen tonight. They kissed Mamma, then stood in front of Harry and hesitated. Did one kiss stepfathers? Fortunately he made no move to kiss them, merely saying, “Good night, girls. We’ll get better acquainted tomorrow.” They murmured “Good night” and escaped to their room, closing the door behind them. They undressed in the dark, said hasty prayers, and slid into bed.

A half-moon shone through their window. Jane heard Maude moving restlessly. Finally, Maude whispered, “Jane?”

“What?”

“Can I come into bed with you?”

The bedclothes rustled as Jane made room, and Maude slid next to her sister. As she drifted into sleep, Jane heard singing in the distance. She listened as a new voice joined in and another fell silent.

“The fairy singers are back,” she whispered to Maude, but her sister grunted without replying, so Jane lay still while the sounds faded, as they always did. She didn’t believe what Mamma told her—that it was just the wind. She wished the haunting melody would continue all night, reassuring her that she was not the only thing awake in the world.

After what seemed like hours, Jane was sleeping as soundly as her sister.


Chapter 3 (#u7bd853b0-545a-5b30-be18-6249a4e20660)

Jane woke to the sound of someone moving in the South Parlor and stretched happily. Mamma was home—but then she bumped into the sleeping Maude, and the memories of last night flooded back.

Jane’s dress lay crumpled on the floor. She pulled it on and stared down at herself. The dress was stained and wrinkled and a rip was starting under one armpit. She hadn’t noticed before how grimy it was. She tried to comb her hair with her fingers, but they stuck in a knot, so she gave up.

In the South Parlor, Mamma was drinking a cup of tea. “Good morning,” Jane said, and stepped around the sleeping Isabella, who looked even more angelic than when she was awake. Rummaging in the chest, Jane found her best dress, the blue one with dingy lace around the neck and cuffs. Normally, she wore it only when the priest came to St. Cuthbert’s, the village church, on his irregular rounds. It was getting small, but at least it was clean and not too much mended.

“What are you doing with your Sunday dress?” Mamma asked. Wordlessly, Jane pointed at the worn elbows on the one she was wearing. She poked her finger through a hole near the hem and waggled it at Mamma. “A true lady always looks well, no matter what she wears,” Mamma said, as Jane had been afraid she would.

Jane sighed and put the blue dress back. It didn’t really matter, she supposed. Her best dress would still look like rags next to Isabella’s clothes. Even the girl’s nightgown was fastened at the neck with a shiny pink ribbon. “In any case,” Mamma went on, “we won’t be going to church again until next spring. Father Albert is getting too old to come all the way out here in bad weather, and autumn storms will be starting before long.” After the hot and dry summer, when the crops withered in the fields and rabbits and deer left their forest homes and appeared in the drive in search of water, the thought of a cool rain shower didn’t seem like bad weather.

Jane picked up a basket of grain in the pantry and stepped outside. She strolled through the bare patch between the house and the barn, tossing the feed by handfuls to the chickens. The early-morning dust was cool and dry under her toes. She threw some grain in front of the hen with the sore foot, who pecked it up quickly before her swifter sisters could steal it. Mamma appeared in the doorway, looking off to the horizon—to prevent herself, Jane thought, from seeing her daughter working like a farm girl.

“Mamma?”

“What is it?”

“Who is that man?” She didn’t know if Mamma would answer; Mamma so rarely talked about anything personal.

“Your stepfather, dear.”

You know that’s not what I’m asking, Jane thought, but what she said was, “I mean, how do you know him?”

“Harry was a friend of Papa’s. His father was a wealthy trader. When Harry was a young man, he met Isabella’s mother on a journey across the border. He married her and stayed in her country for several years. I met her once, when they came to the city for Harry’s mother’s funeral,” she said in a low tone, as though talking to herself. Jane moved closer to hear. “She was a lovely thing. I never saw a man so besotted.” She shook her head and paused. “Isabella was very young at that time, but already she resembled her mother greatly. Harry moved back here with Isabella after his wife died, and I’ve seen him several times in the city since then.”

The hens scratched in the dirt, seeking the last kernels.

“Why did you marry him?” Tears stung Jane’s eyes. “Things were fine until now, with just you and me and Maude.”

“Jane! How dare you question me—how dare you?”

“Sorry,” Jane muttered. She kicked at the dirt, revealing a bug that a chicken instantly pounced on. She knew she should stop, but she couldn’t help herself. “Do you love him, Mamma? Do you love him the way you...” The way you loved Papa, she wanted to say, but she didn’t dare.

Mamma didn’t answer. She looked at Jane with an expression that was hard to read. Sorrow? Irritation? Finally, she said, “There are many ways to love, and no way to explain them to someone who hasn’t felt them. There’s one’s first love, and there’s the love you feel for your children. Wait until you have your own children, Jane, and you’ll know why I would do anything—anything to keep you girls safe and happy.”

“But—”

“No, let me finish. I will say this once, and then you will never ask me again. Harry loves his daughter as I love you, and we love each other the way old friends do. He has no more family. He wants his daughter to have a respected name, and I want you girls to be out in society. He has...” She hesitated. Say it, Mamma, Jane thought. Say he has money. But money was one of the subjects that Mamma considered indelicate. They watched the hens gather the chicks under their wings as a hawk flew overhead. “We should have more help in the house—”

More help? Jane thought sourly.

“—and you should be going to parties and meeting young men and...” Mamma sighed.

“We don’t need him, Mamma,” Jane said. “You have Maude and me, and Hannah Herb-Woman.” Still, the idea of meeting young men interested her more than she liked to admit. How could she ever meet someone, living far away from town and never going anywhere except church? She had never been invited to a party, and the thought of guests seeing their decayed ballroom was ridiculous. And even if she did meet someone, any man who lived up to Mamma’s standards would never be interested in a tall, gawky girl with work-hardened arms and a face darkened by the sun, especially one with no dowry and no fortune to inherit. But of course she couldn’t say that to Mamma.

“Hannah and her family are good and honest neighbors, but they are not our friends, Jane. They are not of our station. You know that.”

It irritated Jane when Mamma talked about their “station” as though nothing had changed since her own girlhood. “We see the villagers every month in church.” Sometimes it seemed like they knew too many people, not too few. In the summer, they saw someone almost every week. Jane couldn’t imagine wanting more company than that.

Mamma shook her head. “Those are not the kind of people I grew up with, and not the kind of people I want you to grow up with.”

“The people you grew up with aren’t here anymore. They all moved to the city.” It was an old argument, and one that Mamma always refused to answer. Jane went on stubbornly. “And if they were here, I wouldn’t want to grow up with them. I like Hugh and Hannah and the people in the village.” What had been so wonderful about the past, to make Mamma cling to it so?

“You should be going to parties and meeting young men and—” Mamma said again.

“And getting married,” Jane finished for her. Mamma nodded. Of course she and Maude had to get married one day. Mamma said it was because that was what a lady did; Jane knew that they had no other way to live. Maude had begged to be allowed to learn healing and herb lore from Hannah. Hannah had been willing, as she no longer had a daughter to whom she could pass on her knowledge. Jane could sew better than any seamstress in the village—as well as some in the city, she thought, after seeing their work on city-made gowns that ladies wore to church. But Mamma would not hear of either one of them working for pay.

“And I want you to have a father. You and Maude did not have much luck with your real father, and Harry is so gentle. He does not drink, either.” Mamma’s voice was bitter.

Jane thought, We don’t need a father.

“And you two must set an example—” Mamma ignored the exasperated sound that Jane could not help making “—and be good, obedient girls.”

“Yes, Mamma.” Jane tried not to let her irritation show again. Wasn’t she getting too old to need her mother to tell her to be a good, obedient girl? She had already turned fifteen; Mamma had been married at sixteen.

A few chickens followed them hopefully to the back door, where Isabella stood, her bare feet poking out from under her white nightdress. She looked no more than ten years old, with her golden hair loose about her shoulders. “Where is my father?”

“Good morning, Isabella,” Mamma said, and she nudged Jane, who repeated reluctantly, “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Isabella said, with an obvious effort, and then she asked again, “Where is my father?”

“Your father is still asleep,” Mamma answered. “You may wake him, if you like.”

It was late, and the cow and goats would be uncomfortably full of milk. Jane hurried to the barn, which was familiar and calming after the strange, awkward-feeling parlor with those two new people inside it. Even when the house had fallen into disrepair, they had kept the barn sound and dry. Here the wood was solid, and instead of odors of mold and decay, she was bathed in the warm, living smells of healthy animals and clean hay.

The big door was open to the fenced-in field, letting in the morning sunlight and the rapidly warming air. A few flies buzzed, and the spiders crouched in their webs, ready to run out and wrap up anything that flew into their traps.

Baby shifted her heavy weight from one foot to another and swished her tail against her rump. The two new horses poked their brown noses through the bars of their stall, and she gave each a rub. “At least you’re friendly.” She laughed when they tossed their heads as though nodding in agreement.

She always tended to Sal first. The old gray hunter didn’t look like much now, but in his day he had been famous. “Like Lady Margaret taking a fence on Saladin,” people in the village still said, when they meant that someone had done something in a particularly fine way. His back was swayed now, and his eyes were dim, but when the girls blew one of the rusted hunting horns that hung in the nearly empty tack room, his neck would arch and he would paw the ground, and they could see a shadow of what he had once been.

“Good boy.” She rubbed Sal’s hard forehead between the ears as he ate. An impatient moo broke in on her thoughts, and she pulled the milking stool and bucket over to Baby.

Betsy and her puppies must have just woken up, and the fat little bodies squirmed over one another to get their breakfast. Betsy saw Jane looking at her and thumped her tail. Jane poured a little milk in the bowl that one of the puppies was blindly trying to climb out of, and Betsy lapped it up. Jane milked the goats next and then fed all the livestock. While they ate she mucked out the stalls and scattered a handful of straw over the floor. She drove Baby and the goats out to the pasture.

She was about to go back to the house when she thought she saw something flicker in the woods. She stood still and shaded her eyes against the early-morning sun. Yes—there it was again. Something pale flashed behind the trees and then disappeared. Fairies? No, they wouldn’t dare come so near the barn. Fairies and witches and all their kind were terrified of iron, and there were rivets and old horseshoes and nails all over the barn. Outlaws? She had heard of them living among the trees. She strained her ears and thought she heard a little ripple of laughter and then a few notes from farther off. The notes were repeated, and then echoed closer by. She turned and ran back to the house.

In the South Parlor Maude had put out their least-stained tablecloth and least-chipped dishes. A tall vase of bright blue flowers stood in the middle of the table. No one else was there.

“Maude!” Her sister looked up from the fire she was tending. Jane told her what she had seen and heard.

“It was probably just one of the people of the woods,” Maude said, but Jane heard the uncertainty in her voice. There was nothing that would bring one of the wild folk close to their house—she and Maude had gleaned all the nuts and berries and most of the edible roots, as far into the forest as they dared to go.

“I heard singing,” Jane said, but before she could continue, Harry came in, stretching and yawning.

He called back over his shoulder, “Come, Ella dear. Breakfast time.”

After a moment, she appeared. This time she was wearing a yellow frock, with ribbons threaded through the lace at her neck and wrists. Her long pale hair was held back by a matching ribbon.

Without looking at Mamma or the girls, Isabella sat down at the table and placed her hands in her lap. Mamma took the eggs out of the water with a wooden spoon and placed them in a blue bowl on the table. Mamma looked at Harry.

He cleared his throat. “Ella, dear, what do you say to your mother?”

She looked up at him and then at Mamma. “I say to my stepmother that I had eggs for supper last night, and I would like something different for breakfast today.”

Mamma crossed her arms. “There is nothing else yet. When we’re finished with breakfast, we will all unpack the carriage and find what else there is.”

The girl’s eyes were shining with tears. She stood and flung herself on Harry. “Take me home, Father,” she sobbed. “They hate me here.”

“Darling,” Harry soothed his daughter, stroking her hair. “This is your home now.”

She raised her swollen eyes to him. “This is not my home. You can’t make me stay here! You can’t make me live with this—with this wicked stepmother, and these two ugly stepsisters.”


Chapter 4 (#u7bd853b0-545a-5b30-be18-6249a4e20660)

Jane felt as if Isabella had kicked her. “Mamma is not wicked!” she said. “She’s been kind to you. Kinder than you deserve!”

“Child—” Mamma began, but then she glanced at Harry and stopped. Go on, Jane thought. Tell her not to talk about us like that. But Mamma said only, “Breakfast is on the table,” in an odd, tight voice.

“A lady doesn’t show her feelings,” one of Mamma’s favorite sayings, rang in Jane’s head. She had never seen the wisdom of it, but she couldn’t risk upsetting her mother further. A thin white line ringed Mamma’s mouth, and a vein beat visibly in her temple. “I’m not hungry,” Jane said.

“Sit,” Mamma snapped, and Jane sat down and picked up her spoon. Maude was already halfway through her egg.

The meal was silent, except for Harry’s quiet coaxing of Isabella. While the sisters cleared the table, Mamma showed the man the rest of the house. Jane listened as their footsteps echoed, listened to their low murmurs. They were in the kitchen, then the pantry, then back out into the hallway, past the staircase and into the North Parlor and the ballroom. She hoped they would not go upstairs. It would violate that ghostly region if someone strode in and threw open the shutters to reveal the dust and decay or pulled down the bed curtains to expose the rottenness under their beauty.

When the adults came back, it appeared that they had not indeed gone that far. “I had no idea that it had gotten this bad,” Harry was saying. “The staircase is nearly rotted through and should not be used. The North Parlor looks to be in fairly good shape, and the ballroom is still beautiful. I remember the hunt ball when we were fifteen, Margaret, the one where your parents announced your engagement to Daniel. The two of you stood together in the ballroom while the orchestra played above you. It was a lovely room.”

“I remember,” Mamma said softly, and shook her head. “The hopes we have when we’re young, Harry...”

He nodded. “Things don’t always turn out the way we think they will, do they?” He put his hand on hers and gave it a squeeze.

She smiled up at him. “So, you think that if we start on the roof—” They made plans the rest of the morning.

Maude had pulled out their mending basket, and Jane reached into it and took out a stocking. “What are you doing?” Isabella asked.

Jane shook out the stocking and showed her the hole in its heel. “Darning. It’s hard to make it smooth, but if it’s lumpy, it will raise a blister when you walk. Do you want to do one?”

Isabella looked at her, bewildered. “Why do you do that?”

It was Jane’s turn to be bewildered. “If I don’t, Mamma won’t have a stocking to wear.”

“Why don’t you just throw it out and buy another one?” Isabella persisted.

“Buy another one?” Maude asked. “You don’t buy stockings. You make them. Or Mamma does. She’s teaching me how. She can teach you, too.”

Isabella said, “I didn’t know they were something you could make.” Maude and Jane looked at each other and then bent over their work. Isabella spoke again. “When I was at the palace—”

“You were at the palace?” Jane asked, and Maude said, “I don’t believe you!”

“Oh, yes, I was.” Isabella smoothed her bright skirt over her knees. Jane once again became aware of her own too-short dress, patched and mended, with threads hanging off the frayed ends of the sleeves. “Father had business with the king, so we came to your country for a visit. While Father was in the throne room, my mother took me to visit her friend, who was a lady-in-waiting to the queen. I even saw the prince. He came to the stable as we were leaving, to find a manservant he suspected of stealing his horses’ oats. He was beautiful.”

“Was he?” Maude asked. “I mean, was the man stealing the oats?”

“I don’t know. The prince didn’t either, but he had the man taken out and whipped anyway, as a warning. I was wearing silk stockings, and when I curtseyed they tore on a splinter, and after we went home Mother threw them away and gave me new ones.”

“Silk stockings!” Jane tried to keep the awe she felt from showing in her voice. She had heard of such things but didn’t know that they really existed. It was as if Isabella had told them that she had ridden to the palace on a gryphon and had been presented with a pet dragon.

“I don’t believe—” Maude started, but Jane cut her off.

“We have to take care of the milk,” she reminded her sister, and they left, Maude muttering, “Liar” under her breath.

In the dairy, Maude poured the cream from that morning’s milk into the butter churn and pumped the handle. Jane uncovered the bowl where she had mixed starter into milk two days before. She lined a sieve with cheesecloth, spooned in the soft white mixture, and placed it over a bucket to catch the cloudy whey. Later, the people of the woods would fetch the bucket, and at Christmas time, they would thank Mamma with the haunch of a fat pig, its flesh sweet with whey, to feast on. Jane’s mouth watered at the thought of the crisp skin and juicy meat. Mamma said that when she was a girl it would be a whole pig for the servants to roast on a big spit, but that was when there had been a large household to feed.

Maude took the top off the butter churn and peered inside. She reached in a finger and pulled out a glob of butter, inspecting it with satisfaction. Then she popped it in her mouth and covered up the churn again. “Mmm.” She closed her eyes in enjoyment, then opened them. “Janie, do you like having a new sister?”

“She doesn’t feel like a sister. And it’s strange having that man around.”

“I know. I thought I would like to have a papa. I like when Mamma takes me to Hugh’s cottage and his father is there. He always gives me a sweet.” Maude churned a few more strokes. “I don’t think this man will give me a sweet.”

No, I don’t think he will, Jane thought, wishing suddenly that her sister wouldn’t talk like a baby. Maude inspected the cream again and held out her hand. Jane passed her the slotted spoon, and Maude fished out the pale gold lumps, setting them to drain on a cloth. Jane poured the buttermilk into another bucket and set it in the back of the dairy, near the cool stream. Jane looked at her cheese once more and saw that it was dripping nicely.

While Maude went to hunt for eggs, Jane returned to the house, but her path was blocked by a large cart in the drive. It was full of boxes and bundles; three men from the village were unloading them. “Where do you want this one, Mistress?” a big man asked Mamma. He shifted his weight as he balanced the edge of a large crate on the side of the dry fountain.

“Oh, I don’t know—what’s in it?” She peered at the label. Lately, Jane had noticed, Mamma was having difficulty threading needles and making out small print.

“Mamma?” Jane asked. “What are these boxes?”

“Oh, Jane,” Mamma said. “I’m glad you’re here. Look, can you read what this label says?”

The man tilted the box. “‘Serafina’s gowns,’” Jane read. “Who is Serafina, Mamma?”

Isabella appeared at the door, her eyes red and her face swollen. “Serafina was my mother, and those gowns are mine. Just like the jewelry that your mother stole. She can’t have my gowns, too.” A fat tear slid down her pink cheek.

“Isabella, I already explained it to you,” Mamma said wearily. “I did not steal your jewels. I am merely keeping them for you until you are old enough to wear them. You might lose them if I were to give them to you now, and in any case they are not suitable for a girl your age.”

“But they’re mine,” Isabella sobbed. “You can’t have them. You’ll sell them. I know you will.” Jane pressed her lips together. Maude might sound like a child, but at least she didn’t sound like a spoiled child.

“We will discuss it later,” Mamma said. “Poor Jacob is getting tired of holding that heavy box.” And even though the man’s shoulders were so broad that he would have a hard time squeezing into the South Parlor, the wooden crate was indeed sagging in his arms. Mamma pointed. “Through there, and into the bedroom on the right.”

“On the right?” Jane asked as Jacob turned sideways and maneuvered his way in. “But that’s our room.”

“I’m sorry, darling,” Mamma said, “but there is just no space anywhere else. We can’t put them in the rest of the house with the—” She stopped. With the mice and bugs, Jane thought, but of course Mamma wouldn’t admit that there was anything of the sort in their house. “They have to go in your room,” Mamma finished.

“Margaret.” Harry was standing in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“I must ask you to remember that Ella has been through a great deal lately. Her dear mother has died, she was uprooted from her home, and now she has two new stepsisters who dislike her. You must be patient with her.”

“I know how to be patient with a child. My own two girls—”

“And that’s another thing.” Harry cut her off. “The way they act is disgraceful. They are filthy and shoeless. They must comb their hair, at least, and wash themselves.”

Mamma said apologetically, “When I am away, they run a little wild—”

“They are too old to run wild,” Harry said over his shoulder as he turned to go back in the house. “Please, be sure they clean themselves up before I see them again.”

Mamma stood with her hands on her hips, her head on one side, looking at Jane. She considered Jane’s ragged dress, her dirty knees, her bare feet. “Where’s Maude?”

“In the dairy.” Jane’s heart sank. She knew what was coming next.

“I’ll fetch her. I want you two to take a good bath and then comb all the tangles out of your hair. And find some shoes,” Mamma called as Jane headed toward the kitchen, feet dragging, to put water on the stove. Heating the water bucket by bucket and then bathing and drying would take hours. At least it wasn’t winter, when the water would cool long before they were through.

She had almost finished filling the great iron washtub when Maude came in, scowling. Yes, Jane could see that her sister would appear a little wild to a stranger, with her hair a brown tangle, her callused feet dirty, her knees scabbed, her fingernails blunt and filthy. She suddenly felt resentful at the way the newcomers were forcing her to see everything—her home, her clothes, her sister, even herself—in a new and unflattering light.

“Why do we have to get washed?” Maude complained. “It isn’t church day.”

“We need to get cleaned up a little. He says we’re too old to run wild. He thinks we’re living in the city, with dukes coming to visit.” Maude giggled. “You can have first bath.” Jane unhooked her sister’s dress and let it drop to the floor. Maude eased into the hot water. When they finished, they left their clothes in the tub to soak and put on their Sunday dresses.

They sat in the late-summer sunshine of the courtyard and took turns teasing the tangles out of each other’s hair. Jane worked on a particularly nasty knot at the top of Maude’s head as Maude squirmed with pain. When Jane straightened to ease her back, she saw Isabella watching them.

“What are you staring at?” Jane asked.

Isabella didn’t answer for a moment, and then she said, “You look—different.”

“Different how?” Maude demanded, and Jane wondered whether “different” was good or bad. She didn’t want to ask for fear of being ridiculed, so she bowed her head to her work again. Maude said, “Ow! Janie, stop it!”

“Wouldn’t a comb with wider teeth be easier?” Isabella asked. Jane’s hand halted, suspended above Maude’s head. “I have one,” Isabella said. “I’ll go find it.” She glided into the house.

Maude snapped her mouth shut audibly and looked up at Jane, but Jane just shook her head in bewilderment. “Maybe she’s settling in, like Mamma said,” she suggested. Maude looked skeptical.

Isabella reappeared holding a tortoiseshell comb, its handle covered in gleaming silver. “Here, let me.” She gently worked the comb into the end of the tangle, smoothing and straightening Maude’s hair. Her small hands were so deft, and the comb had such wide, even teeth, that Maude could have felt scarcely a twinge as Isabella worked. Jane saw her sister’s shoulders drop as she relaxed. One smooth lock followed another as Isabella worked her way around Maude’s head.

As Isabella continued and Maude smiled up at her, Jane, too, lost her tension. Maybe Harry was right. They had not been upset when their father died, but a mother was different, Jane thought, feeling a twinge of sympathy. Maybe Isabella had just needed some time to feel comfortable with them. Maybe tonight she would move into their room and the three girls would stay up late talking, and tomorrow they would show Isabella how to find eggs and tell her which trees were best for climbing, and Isabella would tell them about the boys she knew and would show them how to curtsey like the ladies in town and—

Her daydream was interrupted by a shriek from Maude. Isabella held a long damp strand of hair in one hand, and she appeared to be twisting the comb deeper into it. Jane leaped to her sister and slapped Isabella across the face.

Harry came running and shouted, “Stop!” He pulled Isabella to him, shoving Jane away so hard that she fell in the dust. “What do you think you’re doing? You brat!”

Mamma came running. “Girls, what happened?”

Isabella was sobbing. She lifted her face from her father’s vest, and the marks of Jane’s fingers were clear on her cheek. “I was helping. I was combing that one’s hair, and the comb got stuck. I was trying to pull it out and I think it hurt her and then she—” Isabella pointed to Jane, who quailed but stood her ground “—she hit me. And she broke—” her voice shook, and she swallowed before going on “—she broke my mother’s comb. Her beautiful comb that came from Spai-ai-ain.” She sobbed as she held it up. Two of the brown teeth were missing.

Mamma swung to Jane. Her eyes were hard. “Jane?”

“She was hurting Maude,” Jane said loudly.

“She did it on purpose,” Maude broke in. “Janie had to hit her to make her let go.”

“She’s lying!” Isabella cried, her pale skin flushed.

“I don’t lie!” Maude shouted back. She ran at Isabella, but Jane managed to catch her.

“Stop it!” Jane hissed at her sister, who wriggled to get away. For answer, Maude pinched Jane in the tender spot inside her upper arm. Jane gasped and almost let go. She looked at her mother, begging for help with her eyes, but Mamma stood as if thunderstruck. She neither moved nor spoke.

“Be quiet, all of you!” Harry said. “Margaret, I expect you to punish these girls. Come, darling,” he said to Isabella. “Come inside and let me put some cool water on your face.” He shot a ferocious look at Jane and went into the house, carrying Isabella, her head pillowed on his shoulder.

With a sudden twist Maude managed to break away, sobbing loudly, but to Jane’s relief she ran off toward the woods instead of into the house after Isabella. Jane hesitated, rubbing the sore spot on her arm. It was red, and she knew it would bruise. Mamma raised a hand to her mouth and turned away.

Jane’s hurt and indignation drained away like whey from cheese. She was suddenly so tired that she could barely keep to her feet. Maude must have run to Hannah Herb-Woman’s house, where she would be consoled and soothed, to be sent home with an apple or a slice of new bread to fill the empty hole in her heart.

And where do I go? Jane asked herself. Who will comfort me? Not Mamma, certainly. She knew that Mamma would never refer to the incident again, as though nothing had happened.

She went inside to start supper but didn’t want to see Harry and Isabella. If Harry was going to wash Isabella’s face, he must have taken her outside. Creeping through the dank kitchen, she heard the squeak-squeak-squeak of the outdoor pump as someone worked its handle. She peered through the crack of the door and saw the man kneeling before Isabella, wiping her face with a large handkerchief. Were there really tear tracks to remove? Jane wondered. Had the girl really cried?

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 (#u7bd853b0-545a-5b30-be18-6249a4e20660)

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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