The Stepsister's Tale

by Tracy Barrett

  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

  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 v
illage 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.