“What do you mean?”
“They slice the back of a deer’s hind leg so that it can do no more than hobble, and leave it near a path. They stay near and watch for someone who is so in want that he’ll risk capture for the chance of food. Sooner or later someone comes by, like Edmund, the boy whom they caught, and he shoots the deer. Then they take him for poaching.”
It did sound unfair, but still, the law was the law. “He shouldn’t kill the king’s deer,” Jane said. She realized that she sounded more prim than she intended and tried to amend what she had said. “What I mean is—”
The boy didn’t wait to hear what she meant, but spat, “His father’s dead and his brother can’t hunt anymore—can’t even work, since he broke his leg falling off your roof.”
“His brother was that man?”
“Jeremy. Edmund has to find food for all of them. Something you would know nothing about.” And before she could answer, he had disappeared into the woods.
Something I know nothing about, she seethed inwardly as she made her way back to the house. What does he think we live on? Who does he think finds food for us?
* * *
That afternoon, Jane, still raging at the rudeness of the boy in the woods, found an old black dress in Mamma’s wardrobe upstairs and cut it down into a mourning frock for Isabella. She fashioned a black hair ribbon out of a piece of lace that had gone around the dress’s hem.
“Why can’t I wear my mother’s gowns?” Isabella tugged at the black sleeves that came down nearly to her fingertips. “I’m almost big enough for them. This one is so ugly. And black doesn’t suit me.” It was true; her pale beauty faded next to the harsh fabric.
“You’re in mourning,” Mamma said. “Out of respect for your father, you must wear black for a year. It’s not supposed to suit you. I am wearing black as well, and it doesn’t suit me either.” She didn’t ask where the black silk had come from, and Jane didn’t offer the information.
After Maude found two chickens frozen in the coop, she and Jane brought the rest into the house and set them to roost in the empty pantry. Despite the mess and the smell, this arrangement made for less work, since no one had to go out to feed them and hunt for their eggs. They feasted on the dead chickens. Jane tried to put out of her mind the fact that with two fewer to lay and with the short days and scarce feed, they would be lucky to find one egg a day until spring. One egg, and four people to share it.
They still had the cow and goats to tend to. They had moved the butter-churn and cheese-making materials indoors so the milk wouldn’t freeze. Without it, they would starve. Mamma sold Harry’s big coach horses, saying that they had no need of them, and Jane had to fight hard to hold back tears as they trotted down the drive one last time, blond manes flowing, heads tossing as though with joy at leaving. They were so beautiful, and there was so little beauty left to them. Mamma managed to pay off Harry’s debt in the village with the gold that they brought, and even came home with some flour and tea. But when that was gone and Mamma talked about selling Isabella’s little carriage and pony, the child grew so hysterical that she changed her mind.
“We’ll keep them for now,” Mamma told Maude and Jane after Isabella had sobbed herself into a restless sleep. “They were his last gift to her, after all.” Yes, his last gift, Jane thought, along with the candied fruits—the mere thought made her mouth ache with longing—and the sparkling glass shoes and the silk hair ribbons.
Mamma wrote letter after letter to banks, to Harry’s relatives, and to his old business acquaintances. No reply came. Whenever Jane left the house to do the milking or to clean the barn or to turn the animals into the field or let them in again, she saw Mamma’s face at the window, or Mamma standing in the doorway, looking down the road, and Jane knew she was waiting for a messenger. Once, when the sound of hoofbeats reached them as they sat down to a meager midday meal, Mamma flew to the door, her hand to her throat. But it was only a peddler, and Mamma was nearly rude to him when she turned him away. The disappointment on her face was so wrenching that Jane had to look away, and she distracted Maude with questions about the hens so she wouldn’t notice that Mamma sat down heavily in the big chair and stared at nothing.
Isabella, huddled so close to the small fire that she was practically in it, spoke for almost the first time since her father’s death. It was an unusually cold day, bright with piercing sunshine and new frost. Isabella had wrapped herself in a blanket as she crouched on the hearth. She reached for a stick, but Maude said, “Don’t. There won’t be enough for tomorrow.”
Isabella didn’t look up. In a low but penetrating voice, she said, “You must not let me freeze to death. My father would never allow it. My father would buy me—”
“Hush.” Jane spoke so sharply that Isabella obeyed.
Finally, on an evening that was so bitterly cold that Isabella and Maude consented to sit together under the last warm blanket, Jane was returning from the barn, hoping that Maude was making something for supper, when she heard a single horse on the road. King’s men again? She stood still, expecting the hoof beats to continue on down to the village, and when the sound grew louder, she stepped into the drive.
The rider drew up when he saw her. “This Halsey Hall?” He jerked his head up toward the house. Jane nodded mutely. The man leaned down and held out a small piece of paper, folded and sealed with a blob of green wax. “Take this to your mistress.”
Jane didn’t bother to correct him as she took the paper from him. “Do you want to wait for an answer?”
He turned his horse around and kicked at its sides. As he moved away, he called over his shoulder, “I was told there wouldn’t be one, and no money to pay to carry it back. Is that true, or does your mistress have enough to pay a messenger to ride across the border?”
Across the border! The message must come from someone Harry had known, his banker or a friend, or someone else who would finally loosen his money from the bank. Jane hurried back home, hardly noticing the pail banging painfully into her shins. She left it on the steps, mindful even in her haste not to let any of the precious milk slop out, and ran into the South Parlor. “Mamma!”
Mamma stood and snatched the letter from her. She ran her thumb under the seal, breaking the wax. Her lips moved slightly as her eyes darted back and forth across the page. A frown creased her forehead, and she turned the page over, saw there was nothing there, and reread the message.
“Mamma?” Maude squeaked. Any words of comfort Jane might have spoken stuck behind a lump of fear in her throat. Mamma raised her head, and what Jane saw frightened her even more. Mamma looked so strange. Her eyes glittered as though with fever, and a bright red spot stood out on each cheek. She turned her eyes in Jane’s direction but didn’t seem to see her. Her hand fell to her side and the paper fluttered out of it as Mamma walked slowly, slowly from the room and into her own chamber. The door closed behind her without a sound.
As soon as she was gone, Jane leaped on the paper. It took her no more than a minute to read the cruel words.
Madam,
I have been instructed by Lady Mathilde, to whom you have written twice, to tell you that she is not, as was claimed by Master Harry Delaville, the godmother of the child you describe as being the daughter of Lady Mathilde’s “friend” Serafina. This Serafina was indeed known to Lady Mathilde; however, the lady was not her friend, but her paid companion. When the lady married Master Delaville against Lady Mathilde’s wishes, Lady Mathilde broke all ties with her.
Lady Mathilde wishes no ill to the child and has made inquiries on her behalf with the bank that handled Master Delaville’s affairs. Far from leaving a fortune to the girl, he died in debt. Lady Mathilde has made good those debts, but finds herself unwilling further to extend herself on behalf of the daughter of an ungrateful servant. She instructs me to tell you that she will receive no more letters from you and that
any emissaries you send to her will be turned away.
And then there was a scrawled signature that Jane didn’t even try to make out.
The other two girls stared at her as she folded up the paper and tucked it into the pouch at her waist.
“What is it?” Maude asked finally, her voice just above a whisper.
“We’ll get no help from Isabella’s godmother,” Jane said. “Come on. It’s time to make supper.” Together they went to the pantry and surveyed the nearly empty shelves. Maude picked up the last of the biscuit, and as they made their way back through the freezing kitchen, a little scratching sound came from the South Parlor. The rats and mice must have been as hungry as they were, to be bold enough to come out of their holes and nests during the day.
But the sound was neither rats nor mice. It was Isabella sitting in the fireplace, her fingertips restlessly stirring the cool ashes. “What are you—” Maude stopped at the sight of the pale, drawn face that Isabella raised.
The green eyes looked blankly in Jane’s direction but did not seem to focus on her or on anything else. “I’m cold,” the girl whimpered. “So cold.”
They left her alone while Jane went outside and retrieved the pail. They made a meager meal out of stale biscuit and thin milk, saving for breakfast the eggs that Maude had found. Isabella wouldn’t leave the fireplace, so Maude brought her portion to her. Isabella ate it as daintily as if it had been pheasant. When night fell and the sisters went to bed, she was still there. And when they woke in the morning, it was to find Isabella sound asleep on the hearth, her cheek resting on a bed of cold cinders.
Chapter 11
Jane broke the surface ice from the washing basin with the back of her hairbrush and washed her face quickly in the stinging water. She rubbed herself dry with a rough cloth that brought some blood back to her cheeks and then passed it to Maude. Her sister took the towel, and without looking at Jane, she asked, “May I go to Hannah’s house and ask her husband for some fuel?”
“No.” Jane knew her voice was hard.
“But, Jane—”
“There is nothing dry in this whole area. They have no more wood than we do and no more food. We can’t have Hannah’s family freeze and go hungry so that we may warm and feed ourselves.” Jane’s tone must have told Maude that no arguing was possible. Her sister’s quiet resignation chilled Jane more than arguing would, more than the icy water in the basin had.
In the barn that afternoon, Jane dropped a handful of hay into the pony’s manger. Poor little Mouse. It was fortunate that she didn’t need to eat much, or she surely would have starved by now. As it was, the ribs showed through her shaggy winter coat. The goats had stopped producing milk. Jane rested her head against Sal’s skinny neck, and he nibbled her hair gently. Isabella hadn’t stirred from the fireplace all day, and she looked away when Maude tried to coax her out. Jane felt a twinge of pity for the girl. She must be so miserable, so frightened. What could—
She started as the big horse lifted his head and swung it to the side. He snorted, nostrils flaring, his ears upright. “What is it, Sal?” Jane rubbed his neck. “There’s nothing out there.” She spoke to calm herself as much as the horse. What would she do if thieves were to come? They had nothing worth stealing, but hungry men might be capable of anything—taking their little bit of furniture for firewood, she thought, or even murder, if they were angry at finding no plunder.
She held her breath. She thought she heard singing far, far off, but Sal had never seemed to notice fairy singers. What could be bothering him?
Sal’s ears swiveled back and then forward, and his bony neck even arched a little. One huge hoof pawed the ground, and he tossed his head and snorted again. Then Jane heard it, too: faint and far away, the sound of a hunting horn. She held still and listened. It came again, a bit louder, tinny yet somehow rich, plaintive but also exciting. Sal whickered and moved restlessly from one side of his stall to the other.
The horn sounded again, closer, and now Jane could make out distant shouts, as well. She hurried back to the house with her pail of milk, leaving a small amount in the bucket next to the path. It steamed gently in the chilly air before she covered it, and she had to fight against the urge to drink the few drops herself. In the parlor, as she poured what remained of the thin liquid into four cups, she asked Maude, “Where’s Mamma?”
“She’s still in her room,” Maude said. “I peeked at her, and I think she’s asleep. Why?”
“I heard hunters in the forest. And Sal acted like he wanted to go right out with them.” Maude handed a cup to Isabella and kept one for herself before sitting down at the table with Jane.
“There aren’t any hunters in the forest,” Isabella said dismissively from the cold fireplace. It was the first time she had spoken. Maude rolled her eyes. “There aren’t,” Isabella insisted. “These are the king’s woods, and the king is too old to hunt. Nobody else would dare. If poachers are caught, their right hands are cut off.”
The baying of hounds and thudding of hooves reached their ears. “What’s that, then?” Jane couldn’t resist saying as all three ran out into the dusk. Jane caught up a shawl and wrapped herself and Maude in it as they stood in the snow of the drive, straining to see what was coming. Jane gestured at Isabella, and reluctantly Maude held open a corner of the shawl to her, but Isabella wrinkled her tiny nose at the frayed piece of cloth. “Fine,” Jane muttered. “Freeze to death.”
And then a glorious sight burst upon them. One instant the drive was empty save for their three hunched figures, and the next it was filled with long-eared dogs milling around and nipping at each other; horses, brown and white and gray and black; and gentlemen and ladies in heavy winter hunting clothes in jewel tones of scarlet and blue and green and gold, with shiny long boots and woolen cloaks whose mere sight made Jane feel warm. A merry-looking boy blew short blasts on a silvery horn.
The hunters took no notice of the girls, standing silent in the shadow of the porch, but talked and laughed as a young man on a white horse pushed his way through the crowd. His dark green hood had fallen back, showing a head of bright gold hair, pale blue eyes and a pouting mouth.
“So, they’ve lost the scent, have they?” He lazily swung his riding crop down at a hound. The dog dodged the blow, wincing, and tucked its long tail between its legs. A lady laughed.
“Let’s dismount here and have the people give us refreshment,” one of the young men suggested, but another, looking up at the house, exclaimed, “You’ll get no refreshment here! This is old Halsey Hall, isn’t it?” He pointed at Mamma’s family crest carved in the stone above the door: a greyhound under an oak tree, its branches intertwined into an H.
One of the ladies said, “Is it really? My mother used to talk about the splendid balls they had here when she was a girl. I always thought Halsey Hall was such a funny name. Why won’t they give us refreshment, Frederick?”
“Didn’t you know?” a man answered, reining in his horse so that it walked backwards to where the ladies were talking. “Lady Margaret Halsey married Daniel Montjoy. Surely you’ve heard of him?”
The lady rolled her eyes. “Who hasn’t? The handsomest man in the kingdom, my mother used to say! Their wedding was the most beautiful anyone had ever seen.”
The gentleman spoke again. “Montjoy went through all her money before he drank himself to death. Just look at the place.” They stared up. Jane followed their gaze to the empty window frames, the broken chimneys, the grass growing between the stones of the high walls. She tried to speak, but her throat was too tight to allow words out.
“Didn’t Lady Margaret marry again?” one of the ladies asked. “Some man who made a fortune in foreign lands—”
Before the speaker could finish, Isabella’s clear voice rose above the din. “That was not some man. That was Harry Delaville. It’s true that he made a fortune. A huge one
. I am his daughter.” Heads turned in their direction. Silence fell, except for the stamp of a horse’s hoof.
“His daughter?” someone finally asked. “Where is your father?”
Isabella lowered her eyes. She made a small gesture and then said, with a choke in the middle of her words, “The fever—”
The riders drew back. “He’s ill?” one asked, as another nervously edged his horse toward the path to the woods.
“He died some weeks ago,” Isabella said, and the company relaxed. If he had been dead for weeks, the danger of infection would be over. A few drew closer, looking curious. “I made him soup, and fed him, and bathed him, and tended to his every need—” Jane clamped her hand over Maude’s sputtering mouth “—but he died.” Isabella’s voice shook.
“You poor child,” said one of the ladies. “You took care of him?”
“Oh, yes,” Isabella said simply. “In between my other chores. I had to milk the cow and feed the chickens, and sweep, and do the laundry.” And she started to cry. One of the ladies dismounted and knelt by Isabella, who wept into her shoulder.
“And who are these girls?” The lady wiped Isabella’s face with her sleeve and glared up at Maude and Jane.
“Oh, those are my stepsisters,” Isabella said dismissively.
The others looked at them as though surprised that someone was there. They must be a sight, Jane thought—two ragged girls huddled together in front of the ruin of their house. Jane tried to curtsey, but she became entangled in the shawl. She stumbled, and nearly fell. She stood upright again, conscious of every eye on her. “I—” she began.
“Why do you not share your shawl with your stepsister?” asked the lady sharply.
“I—I offered it,” stammered Maude. “She didn’t want it.”
“I’m cold.” Isabella looked up appealingly at the lady.
“Of course you are, darling.” The lady glared at Maude. She took off her own bright blue cloak and wrapped it around Isabella.
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