The Stepsister's Tale

by Tracy Barrett

  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

  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.