“Do you remember the way home from here?” Maude asked uncertainly.
Jane nodded. She’d better remember; the girl had truly disappeared this time. Why had she brought them to the old lodge? Was it because she knew that they could find their own way home now?
A short time later, the girls pushed open the heavy front door of Halsey Hall and for once didn’t make the effort to close it behind them. What did it matter? There was no warmth to keep in and there was nothing to steal. Besides, closing it would take more energy than they could muster.
Mamma was nowhere to be seen, but Isabella still crouched in the fireplace, sifting the ashes through her fingers. She looked up as they entered. “You’re all muddy, Maude. Mud-Maude.” She laughed.
“And you’re covered with cinders.” Maude listlessly emptied the nuts from her pouch on to the table in front of Jane. “Cinder-Ella.”
“Don’t call me that, Mud-Maude,” Isabella said.
Maude stuck out her tongue at her and filled the saucepan with water. Jane picked up the last sticks of wood and stood by the hearth as Isabella scrambled out. Despite the younger girl’s constant complaints of the cold, she had never learned how to make a fire. Jane piled up twigs and struck at the tinderbox until a spark lit the wax-soaked string. Soon the fire was burning weakly, and Ella stretched out her chapped fingers to it.
Maude came back from Mamma’s room. “Asleep already.” Mamma had been going to bed earlier and earlier. Jane suspected that this was so she could leave more food for them without showing that she knew they were in want. Jane smashed the nuts with a frying pan, loosening the shells. Maude balanced the saucepan above the fire and sat down next to Isabella, who was now staring dully at the pale flames.
“Maude, move over,” Isabella said crossly. “You’re taking all the fire.” Maude didn’t answer. “Move, I said,” Isabella repeated, and she gave Maude a shove. Maude put out a hand to catch herself and knocked over the saucepan, spilling the water and extinguishing the flames. Isabella gave a shriek. “My fire!” she wailed, and scrabbled at the soggy ashes until her fingers were black.
“Oh, Isabella,” Jane said heavily. It was obvious that the fire was out and would stay out, too, until the wood dried. In this weather that would take at least a day. None of them had the energy to look for more sticks, which would be wet, in any case. Jane pushed the nuts into three small piles. “Come here, both of you, and eat something.” They ignored her, and Isabella continued to scold Maude. Jane knew she should stop them, but she just didn’t care enough to make the effort, and she nibbled on a nut. Maude gathered a reserve of energy from somewhere and pulled Isabella’s hair.
“Get your hands off me, Mud-Maude!” Isabella cried, and she slapped Maude’s face.
“Cinder-Ella!” Maude slapped her back.
Jane didn’t say anything. Let them fight, she thought. At least it will warm them. The two girls stood facing each other and glared, and then they turned to the table. Each ate her portion of the nuts, Maude sniffling loudly, Isabella maintaining a dignified silence.
Jane thought that she would fall asleep easily after their ordeal. Instead, she lay wakeful between the two younger girls. Since they had stopped keeping a fire in the evenings, the nights were so cold that Isabella had been sharing their bed. She never said a word to them, and every morning when Jane awoke, Isabella had already risen and was seated at the hearth, pretending that she had been there all night.
Jane stared at the ceiling, listening to the others’ even breathing. Who was the girl who had led them home? And had she really been leading them, or did she just happen to pass by the hunting lodge?
The questions turned over and over in her head until she fell asleep.
Chapter 14
Jane woke alone in the big bed. Finally, weak sunshine came in the window. At least she wouldn’t be doing her chores in the rain today. She pulled on her boots—she had slept in her clothes—and ventured into the South Parlor, where Isabella and Maude sat close together under a shawl, their hatred of each other less potent than their desire for warmth. They looked at Jane wordlessly as she passed through the room. Mamma must have still been asleep, for she was nowhere to be seen.
Jane didn’t need to check on the hens roosting in the pantry; she knew that Maude wouldn’t let her beloved chickens starve as long as even a handful of grain remained to them. She headed to the barn, hoping that her memory was faulty, that she really hadn’t fed the animals the last of the fodder the day before.
She pushed open the barn door and saw what she knew she would find—animals that looked at her with a spark of hope in their dull eyes, quickly quenched, and no fodder left. She made her way into Baby’s stall. The cow didn’t even bother to poke her nose into Jane’s clothes to see if she had brought a treat. Somehow this hurt Jane more than if she’d had to disappoint her, and weak tears ran down her face as she knelt next to the animal, her arms around the bony neck.
The little pony stood with her legs wide apart and her head down, and didn’t raise it when Jane scratched her between the ears. As Jane left, Mouse lowered herself to the ground and lay there, her limbs tucked under her, her neck bony under her shaggy winter coat. Jane wondered if the day when sweet little Mouse would lie down and be unable to rise again was far off.
Jane picked up a half-rotted acorn and bit into it. The bitter taste made her gag, and she dropped it into the wet leaves. Her foot slipped on a damp rock, and she fell, tearing her stocking, which had been mended so many times that she doubted that anything of the original garment remained. She lay in the mud. I should just stay here, she thought as the wind shook freezing drops of water on to her face. I could go to sleep and never wake up, and not have to worry about Mamma or Maude or Isabella. But tempting as that thought was, she knew she couldn’t abandon them, and with an effort, she rose and went back, dragging her feet, into the house.
Voices came from the South Parlor—angry voices. Had someone come in while she was away? Fear gave her the energy to break into a trot, coming to a halt when she saw that it was Mamma who was talking, or rather scolding, while Maude sobbed, hunched over in the big chair.
“In the house!” Mamma said. “Animals in our house—the house that our ancestors built, that you were born in, the house where Grandmamma died and where Papa and I held our wedding feast! What are you thinking? Turn them out immediately!”
“But Mamma,” Maude wailed. “It’s too cold outside—they’ll die!”
“We are not farm women,” Mamma said through gritted teeth. She clutched Maude’s ear and pulled her to her feet. “We are not peasants who keep livestock in our home.”
Maude wriggled and tried to pull away, but Mamma had an iron grip on her. She shook Maude, who cried, “Ow! Ow!”
Jane couldn’t stand it. Mamma seemed unaware of how much pain she was causing, unaware of everything except her outrage that chickens were roosting in her parlor. She took Mamma’s arm. “Let go of her,” she said as calmly as she could. Mamma kept shaking Maude but glared over her shoulder at Jane, who drew back at the sight of her face—white, with gaunt cheeks and staring eyes.
Then Maude whimpered, and Jane pried Mamma’s fingers off her sister. Mamma looked at her and then at her own hand as though not understanding what had happened, and then she picked up her skirts and fled from the house.
Jane wrapped her arms around her sister and sank into the big chair, drawing Maude with her. They were so thin now that they both could fit, sitting side by side. “All right, Maudie?” she asked quietly. Maude nodded, and her sobs quieted. “How did Mamma find out about the chickens?” Mamma had to have been aware that chickens had been roosting in the pantry for some time now. Something must have happened to force her to acknowledge that fact.
Maude started to cry again. “I was worried about Delilah.” Delilah was the fiercest of the chickens; she
wouldn’t let anyone except Maude reach under her to search for an egg. She was also Maude’s favorite. “She acted like she was cold, so I brought her in here and held her on my lap.” Her lip trembled. “And then Mamma came in, and...”
Jane stood. She was bone-weary, and she ached where she had bruised herself in her fall. She was cold, and she was hungrier than she had ever been in her life. Most of all, she was tired of taking care of everyone. But she knew she had to. She didn’t cry; she didn’t have that luxury. She had only one hope left and had to take advantage of Mamma’s absence, which wouldn’t last long.
She hadn’t climbed the stairs in a long time. Her arms trembled with weakness as she hauled herself over the dangerous spots, and when her hands slipped on the banister or her foot didn’t land squarely, she paused until her heartbeat slowed to its normal pace. She didn’t dare look down as she inched her way past the long gap in the middle where she had to place her feet carefully, slowly, on the supports that had once held steps.
The disapproval in her ancestors’ expressions hardly registered as she made her way through the dim corridor past their tight-lipped faces. You go out hunting mushrooms and nuts in the rain, and then we’ll see how dirty you get, she thought as she passed a damsel decked in a lavender frock that always made Jane think of springtime and flowers.
Jane paused at Mamma’s door. She knew that a few silk gowns still hung there; but the fabric was so thin that Jane doubted they would make any difference against the cold, even if the cloth was still sound enough to be sewn, so she sighed and continued down the hall. She stopped again. Papa’s door.
Since her last visit, more dust had gathered, coating all the surfaces. The disturbance of the door’s opening made some of it rise in little swirls near her feet, and she sneezed. Rain had come in through a crack in the window, and the smell of mold was stronger than she remembered. The riding crop still lay on the floor—what would disturb it, after all? She looked up, and there was Mamma smiling down at her from the portrait on the wall, stepping forward eagerly, her plumed hat as fresh and jaunty as her expression. Jane walked up to the portrait, dust eddying around her feet, and studied her mother’s likeness. Where was that Mamma? Where had she gone?
“I’m doing my best,” she whispered, and flinched at even that little sound in the tomblike silence.
The large wardrobe in the corner was closed and locked, but its key was in the door. She had to open both doors wide so that the feeble light from the window would penetrate enough for her to see inside.
Not much was left, but what was there was free of dust and mouse nests, since the doors were so stout and tight. She did find what she was looking for: Papa’s riding boots. On one of their visits, Maude had for some reason tried to put them on. Her feet were too broad for the elegant boots and although she had jammed her toes in, willing them to fit, she’d had to give up. Jane had wrestled them off her and landed with a thud on her bottom when the foot finally freed itself, causing the first laughter heard in that room for years.
Jane took out the boots and then closed the doors of the wardrobe. She ran her hand over the smooth surface of the wood, admiring its rich color. Many generations of wax were rubbed into it, giving it the illusion of depth and life. A thought came to her. Still clutching the boots, she ran down the corridor. “Maude!” she called down the stairwell. Her voice boomed and echoed. No answer. “Maude! Come here!”
Isabella’s pale face, streaked with gray, appeared around the doorway to the South Parlor. She looked up mutely, and Jane shivered. If only she could find someplace where the girl would be taken care of, maybe she would talk again and find something to do other than playing with ashes and cinders.
“Where’s Maude?” Jane demanded. Isabella looked over her shoulder toward the large front door. Why wouldn’t the girl speak? “Out?” Jane guessed impatiently. No answer. “Isabella, is Maude outside?” Isabella nodded. “I need you to find her.” Isabella’s face remained blank. Jane had to suppress the impulse to leap down and slap that stony face, slap it until it showed some expression. Why wouldn’t Isabella behave normally?
“Firewood!” Jane called down with a sudden inspiration. She was startled by the fierce look that passed over Isabella’s features. “Get Maude and tell her to come up. I found firewood.”
While she waited for her sister, Jane emptied the wardrobe. She tried not to look at what she was removing, but she couldn’t help recognizing the jaunty hat, the metal flask, the rusty hunting knife. To the small pile she added the woolen shawl that Papa used to wear around his shoulders as he stretched his long legs out to the fire after a long day of hunting. It had been bundled into the bottom of the wardrobe and smelled musty, but it would still be warm.
“What firewood?” Maude’s voice came from the door. She sniffled.
Jane added the last item, a box of bird shot, to the heap on the floor and straightened her back. She pointed. “This.”
“Oh, Jane,” Maude protested. “Papa’s beautiful wardrobe!”
“Papa is dead,” Jane said flatly. “And this wood is dry and soaked with wax. It will burn beautifully.”
“But we can never carry it downstairs,” Maude said.
“I know,” Jane replied. “Help me.”
Together they shoved the massive piece of furniture through the door and down the hall. It creaked and groaned, and the screech as they pushed it over the flagstones made Jane’s teeth ache. Their arms and shoulders shook by the time they paused at the top of the stairs. Jane peered through the gap to where Isabella stood, staring eagerly up at them.
“Get back in the parlor,” Jane commanded. “And then do not move a step until we come get you.”
“What are we going to do now?” Maude asked. For answer, Jane set her shoulder to the square frame of the wardrobe and heaved. It slid forward a few inches and then stopped.
“Help,” Jane managed to choke out, and Maude bent over and added her weight to her sister’s. When the heavy piece of furniture stood poised on the very edge of the landing, they straightened and looked at each other.
“Papa’s beautiful wardrobe,” Maude whispered again. Her objection was only a token one, Jane knew, and she ignored her.
It took but a little effort to push the wardrobe over. At first it tipped slowly, suspended; and then with a speed that made them gasp and leap backward, clutching each other, it hurtled forward with a wrenching sound, skidded on the few steps remaining at the top of the flight, and then plunged through the gap. The crash boomed and echoed through the empty hall. Mice skittered out of and then back into their holes along the edges of the wall, and from the ballroom came the chirping of birds. Jane stepped back, feeling oddly exhilarated.
“Can we do it again?” Maude’s eyes glittered.
But Jane was worried what their mother would say at the sight of a huge heap of highly polished and carved firewood, so she shook her head. Best to burn the evidence. “This will have to be enough for now.” She dropped Papa’s riding boots and the shawl down the gap. The boots bounced off the wood and landed with dull thuds on the stone floor. Then the girls made their slow, careful way down, being even more cautious than usual in case the shock of the heavy wardrobe smashing into the supports had loosened them.
Jane left Maude carefully laying a fire. She put the boots in the spot where she used to leave the milk and whey. When she returned that evening, the boots were gone.
The next day she left Papa’s shawl, and that evening she found a dead rabbit, frozen nearly stiff, in its place. She brought it in and thawed it while Maude fetched a shriveled onion and wood-hard turnip which she had miraculously found where they had fallen into a bin that had long been unused. They made a stew, feeding the rabbit’s small purple entrails to Betsy, who snapped them up and licked their fingers. The scent of the cooking meat nearly drove them wild while they waited for the tough vegetable to
cook enough to chew. They ate the stew with their fingers, sucking the meat off the little bones. Isabella managed to look dainty even while gnawing on the end of a bone, rabbit gravy on her chin, and Mamma took enough notice to remind her to wipe her face. That night they slept well for the first time in weeks.
Papa’s wardrobe burned bright and hot, but too quickly, due to its dryness and to the years of beeswax that servants had rubbed into it. They went back upstairs several times to find more fuel. Maude tried to wrestle the heavy shutters off their hinges, but the hardware was rusted almost solid and she gave up. So instead they pushed down Grandmamma’s rocking chair and a small table that stood in the corridor. The ancestor in the portrait hanging above the table glared down at Jane when she slid it away from the wall, and she muttered, “Oh, leave me alone,” as she carried the dainty thing to the stairwell.
For now their firewood needs were met. But the people of the woods left them food only occasionally, and often they had nothing to eat except an egg. Once a chicken was clearly on the point of dying, so Jane wrung its neck as she remembered seeing servants do long ago, and they had stew, and then soup made of the bones. Christmas came and went with no pig haunch to roast. The disappointment drove Jane nearly wild, and for several nights she dreamed that she was about to sink her teeth into a chunk of pork, dripping with juice and covered with crackling skin, only to wake up with her stomach feeling as though a knife had transfixed it. Isabella was so thin that she was almost translucent, and Maude seemed to be all knobby bone. Mamma spent most of each day sleeping.
Jane considered. That girl in the forest had been slender, but not as thin as they were. She’d shown a great deal of energy as she fled through the woods—didn’t that mean that she was eating, at least a little? Maybe Jane could find her. She didn’t know what she would say when she did, but she couldn’t just sit here and wait as they all grew weaker and weaker until they died one after the other.
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