All the Ever Afters

by Danielle Teller

  After John died, I fell into a deep sorrow. I received news of the barn collapse from Elisabeth. I do not think that she relished my pain; even she seemed sad about John’s death. For the first time since my arrival at the manor, I broke down and sobbed in front of the laundress. She said nothing to me, but let me exhaust myself, and when I returned to the bucking tub with sore eyes peering from swollen slits and a trail of snot and tears down the front of my gown, she did not chastise me.

  From that day, my time at the manor was almost unbearable. I sat alone at supper and listened to my heart thunder as I lay awake each night. I had no appetite, and the frocks that had become too tight across my growing bosom and hips hung loose once more. I sleepwalked through my duties in the laundry, hardly bothering to acknowledge the laundress on the rare occasions when she was chatty. I felt invisible.

  On saints’ days and other holidays I was allowed to leave the manor, and I saw my family then, usually at church. It should have made me feel better, but somehow it made me feel even more alone. Everyone in my family had married, and Lottie already had two babes, though one of them died in the cradle. My father married a widow from the village, a sharp-tongued gossip. My brother and his wife still lived at Father’s house, and Lottie lived in Nether End, nearer the church. Without a dowry, Lottie had been unable to do better than a villein as poor as our father, and while her husband was a godly man, I doubt that she loved him.

  Elisabeth was a constant reminder to me of what my life would become if I did not find a husband. She never spoke of the bedchamber scene I had witnessed, but it became evident to me that she had chosen harlotry over the drudgery of being a laundress. Even at the age of fourteen, I understood that slothfulness could not account fully for such a choice; she must also have been driven by despair, the same shadowy desolation that closed on me. Blistered hands, an aching back, endless toil, unremitting loneliness shaped my days and nights and every day to come, a gloomy blur of sameness that stretched nowhere except to its own pointless end.

  As I teetered on the brink of marriageable age, I was too conflicted to truly mourn my lack of prospects. Even wedlock, while preferable to life at the manor, did not represent escape. The best that I could hope for was the life my sister lived, a smoke-filled house of dirt and straw, an empty belly, dead babies. I was a mouse trapped in a corner, looking for a crack to flee through but despairing of finding one.

  It is said that clouds may turn forth a silver lining, and indeed, if Elisabeth had been less spiteful, I might never have found out about the opportunity at all. She taunted me one hot afternoon in August, as I was kneeling on the lip of the laundry basin scrubbing shirts. Sweat slid from under the band of my bonnet, trickling to the tip of my nose or the edge of my jaw before splashing into the tepid pool. Elisabeth had come to recline in the relative cool of the dark laundry room; she lay on a pile of linens, wearing only her chemise, fanning herself with the lid of a rush basket.

  “I heard something from Geoffrey.”

  I swatted at a fly that droned in erratic circles around my head and then returned to scrubbing, not caring what she had to say.

  “I heard that Abbess Elfilda requested a girl to help with her mother.”

  Her tone of voice told me that she was up to no good, but she had piqued my interest. I took her bait. “What do you mean, miss?”

  “I mean that the mother of the abbess had a lady’s maid who took ill. It will take some time to get a new one, and so the abbess asked for a loan of a girl from our manor. I told Geoffrey that of course we couldn’t spare you.”

  My mouth felt dry. “I am not sure that I understand, miss.”

  “I mean, you dimwit, that you might have gone to the abbey to play lady’s maid for the old woman. But you shan’t.” Her fleshy underarm jiggled like a pale fish on a hook as she fanned herself. “They’ll find a girl from one of the other manors. Anyway, we have only you.” She wrinkled her nose. “Cothay Manor has a goose girl and chambermaids for the lady, besides two laundry girls. The abbess only wants to take from our manor because she knows the souse won’t complain. Besides, Geoffrey says she wants to punish us for poor revenues. God’s bones, we can barely keep up as it is.”

  I struggled to control my voice. “When did the message arrive, miss?”

  “This terce. The abbess’s messenger is still in the kitchen, waiting for supper. A dark-skinned devil.”

  I returned to scrubbing, trying to ignore the roaring in my head. I could not stand that the possibility for liberation had miraculously appeared, only to be snatched away by the person I most wanted to escape. Although I was no longer a child—in fact, I stood a full head taller than Elisabeth, and I was as strong as any boy—the laundress made me feel powerless.

  Sharp pain sliced neatly through my self-pity. I had scraped my knuckles against the rough stone at the edge of the basin. For a moment my fingers went limp; I watched as the new pink furrows I had dug began to slowly fill with red. Sitting back on my heels, I sucked the blood away. It tasted of metal, like the blade of a knife.

  Pain calmed the ferment in my mind. There had to be a way to circumvent Elisabeth; I could not sit idly by as she closed the door to my escape. I had to find some way to approach Emont. Even if I failed, I would have the comfort of knowing that I did not just lie down and let Elisabeth wipe her feet on me. I went back to work, nurturing the seeds of my new resolve.

  When suppertime arrived, I spread the ashes on the bucking cloth, wiped my hands, and walked slowly toward the kitchen. The usual chaos awaited me there. The serving staff was just finishing with the lord’s supper in the great hall, and many of the other servants were gathering at the trestle tables in the kitchen for their own suppers. It was hotter in the kitchen than in the laundry, and the men were red-faced and sweating. We were not supposed to eat the leftovers from the master’s table, but as Emont employed no almoner to supervise the table scraps, and as tonight there were no guests, the serving boys brought back a plate of sturgeon with pear and raisins and a pigeon pie. On the kitchen tables were trays of pork roast, carrots, turnips, and ceramic jugs of ale.

  The abbess’s messenger was seated near the door, enthusiastically tearing into a piece of pork. I had noticed him before when he had stopped in for meals at Aviceford Manor. He looked different from anyone I had ever seen; his skin was chestnut, as though he spent every day of his life in the sun, but his face was smooth, not rough and wrinkled. He always seemed to be in good humor, joking with the kitchen staff. He carried himself with confident grace, but he did not behave haughtily toward the servants, even though they were beneath his station.

  On an impulse, I walked over and stood in front of him on the opposite side of the table. When he looked up, I curtsied. “Greetings, good sir. I am Agnes.” I did not have a plan for what to say next.

  The messenger leaned back, stretching his long legs in front of him, and he beamed at me. His teeth were white and straight as a string of pearls, and his smile could have lit a cathedral. “Good evening, Agnes. My name is Fernan. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” He spoke with a slight accent, the result, I would later learn, of a childhood in Aquitaine.

  “I have heard that you brought a message about a position at the abbey.”

  He arched his black eyebrows. “Why does a laundry girl know the content of a message intended for her master?”

  “How do you know that I am the laundry girl?”

  “Either you are a laundry girl or you have been cleaning chimneys, cinder wench!” He laughed, and I blushed deeply. I had forgotten to wipe my face before coming to supper.

  “Did you already deliver the message to the lord, then?” Despite my embarrassment, I looked him steadily in the eye. I knew from what the laundress had told me that the message had been delivered to the chamberlain instead.

  His smile wavered. He opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it again. It was my turn to raise my eyebrows, which made him laugh again. “I suppose that I did not
deliver the message directly to the intended recipient, no, but not everyone reads his own letters.” Fernan waved genially at the bench in front of me. “Sit, sit! Join me. I have a weakness for cheeky lasses.”

  “I cannot sit here, sir. This table is for the highest rank.” He should have known that. He was making fun of me. Already, I was getting sidelong looks from the menservants gathering at the table. When the chamberlain arrived, I would be in trouble.

  “Nonsense! You are my guest.”

  “Really, I cannot.” His flippancy irritated me. “I have a favor to ask of you.” I was surprised by my own temerity.

  “What might that favor be?”

  “Can you speak with Sir Emont about his response to your message before you leave? Can you call on him after supper?”

  Fernan wiped his sweaty brow with his sleeve. “I think that I can guess the reason for this strange request, and I don’t object to helping you. I still need Sir Emont’s signature on the response that I have drafted.” He patted the satchel by his side. “However, your master is not likely to go against Geoffrey’s recommendation.”

  “I know, sir. But I would appreciate it all the same.”

  He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “Very well! I wish you luck, laundry girl.”

  My heart pounded as I walked to my usual seat near the other end of the kitchen. I used to eat with John and old William, the scullion who rewarded my chatter with treats that he secreted away during the course of his day in the kitchen. Poor, frail William got no break from his labors, and by the time I was fourteen, he had died of brain fever, the result of overwork. My supper seat was now between a chitty-faced, sullen youth who ignored me and an oily scullion who pressed his skinny leg against mine at every opportunity. As usual, we made no conversation. I was too nervous to eat, but I had to bide my time until all of the servants were finished in the great hall. I pushed my food around my bowl, watching the traffic through the kitchen doors carefully, because if I waited too long, the chamberlain would be finished with his own supper and roaming again. When I judged it to be safe, I bade my tablemates a good night and slipped out of the kitchen. Fernan was still at supper; as I passed behind his broad back, his animated story provoked a roar of laughter from his neighbors.

  My life would have turned out very differently had I not found Emont still sitting in the great hall that evening. The red sun lay low on the horizon, lighting the room with a fiery glow. As I passed the series of diamond-paned windows, the warp of the glazing made the sun look like a rosy apple bobbing in a rain barrel. Emont stared into his cup, paying no attention to the sunset. I approached from the front so that I would not startle him, but it still took a moment for him to notice me.

  “Agnes. Why are you here? You’re filthy.”

  I blushed for the second time that evening. I had forgotten about the soot on my face. “I have heard, sir, that Abbess Elfilda needs me to fill in for her mother’s lady’s maid until they can find a suitable replacement from the castle.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “So Geoffrey told me. He also told me that he cannot spare you.”

  I gathered my courage. “Sir, might not a refusal to send me to the abbey anger the abbess further?”

  “Further?”

  “Oh . . . It is not my place to say, sir . . . I should not have come to you. It is only that the laundress seemed so afeard that if I did not go to the abbey, Mother Elfilda would punish us. She said small remittances from Aviceford displease the abbess, and she will be furious if we refuse this request as well. I only came because the laundress was so troubled. I mean no impertinence, sir.”

  Emont scowled. He took a long draught from his cup and set it heavily on the table.

  “Sir, if you had sent me, I would have been diligent and godly, but I can see that I should not have bothered you with things that I cannot understand. I am most contrite.” I curtsied and lowered my gaze, waiting for him to dismiss me.

  Emont might not have had much stomach for arguing with Geoffrey, but I could tell that my words had reached their target. He groaned with irritation and released me with a gruff command. I flew from the room, seeking familiar, safe territory before the chamberlain could overtake me.

  I learned of my success in the very early morning when the tip of Fernan’s boot jostled my elbow. I had been sleeping prone on the kitchen floor, and it took some moments for the sticky cobwebs of slumber to clear from my head.

  “Up you get!” he whispered. “We have a long road ahead!”

  When I realized that he was taking me to the abbey, my heart leapt into my throat, but I was careful not to show my excitement. Fernan turned his back while I took off my nightcap and pulled a dress over my chemise. I silently gathered my few belongings, including the stone collection, and placed them in my bag. The morning was mercifully cooler than the day before, but there was no need for a cloak. I pinned my plaits together and covered my head with the gray coif that I reserved for rare trips outside the manor.

  As we left the kitchen, I cast a glance at the bulky form of the laundress, who lay sprawled in her scant underclothes, glistening with sweat in the weak light of dawn that filtered through the skylights. I prayed that I might not meet her again.

  6

  Ellis Abbey

  Fernan led me silently to the stable. His demeanor was less friendly than the night before, but I didn’t care. Everything made me want to sing for joy: the rosy dawn giving way to the brilliant light of day, the dew that soaked my shoes, the sweet scent of woodbine. I stopped at the rain barrel to rinse my face and ran to catch up to Fernan, who strode ahead. He walked with a springy lope, leaving dark imprints in glittering patches of sunlit dew. It pleased me that I could copy his long stride, for I nearly matched his height. I imagined that we were a pair of wolves slinking over the dappled grass.

  The stableboy had already saddled Fernan’s rounsey, a silvery gray mare named Perla. I was to ride pillion behind Fernan, and there was a moment of awkwardness when it became apparent that I did not know how to mount a horse. There was no resemblance to a graceful wolf in the way I struggled to get my leg over the horse’s back. Through some combination of Fernan pulling and the boy pushing, I was finally settled with my bag in front of me, gripping the back of Fernan’s saddle.

  Fortunately, Perla was a good ambler, and though Fernan told me that I rode like a bag of barley, I was soon able to relax my grip and take in my surroundings. Fernan rarely spoke, and I tried to ignore his broad back in front of me; something about the way his thin tunic rolled across his shoulders and clung to his skin as the morning grew warmer made me uncomfortable.

  August is a busy month in the countryside. Fruit pickers swarmed the orchards, and the boughs of trees trembled under the weight of climbers. Women and children milled among the stands carrying baskets, yelling objections when they were struck by apples falling from above. The fields too were humming with industry, as every available pair of hands had been conscripted for the wheat and rye harvest. Teams of reapers crept alongside golden palisades of grain, felling stalks with flashing sickles, while binders followed behind, gathering swaths into bundles. The weather had cooperated that year, remaining dry and unusually hot for the whole week, and while the harvesters no doubt cursed the heat, they would be grateful for an easy harvest. I knew that my father and brother would be somewhere among the workers in the fields, but I could not make them out that day.

  The dry weather sped our travel, and we were soon beyond the boundaries of Aviceford Manor’s demesne. As the sun climbed steeply overhead, we entered a small market town, which Fernan told me was called Old Hilgate. It was a rank and cheerless place, with rickety market stalls made of wood and cob, some of them three stories high, crowding the narrow, rutted street. Perla had to pick her way through streaks of rubbish strewn from doors and windows, and entrances to side alleys were choked with barrels, broken crates, and other detritus. Few townsfolk roamed the streets, because it was not a market day, and shops were closed. />
  Fernan told me that on market day, the town would be transformed as people from the countryside and manors poured in. The shops were thrown open, the streets teemed with bustling crowds, and the alehouse filled to overflowing. Music and banter enlivened the now quiet marketplace as goods were bought and sold, gossip exchanged, news delivered, flirtations traded. “Even a serious girl like you might find it to your liking,” Fernan said. Though I couldn’t see his face, I knew that he was smiling.

  When we reached the market cross, Fernan pulled Perla to a halt. “We should stop here to eat,” he said, pointing to a squat building; a garlanded alestake jutted from the thatch roof. “The ale is usually watery, but the food is not too bad.” He held out his hand to me, but I did not immediately understand that he meant for me to dismount. He heaved a sigh, and turning in his saddle, grasped me around the waist. I yelped with surprise as he hoisted me from my perch and slid me halfway down Perla’s flank before dropping me to the ground. I landed unharmed, though his grip had been disagreeably firm. More than anything, my dignity was bruised.

  “I do not enjoy being treated like a child!”

  “Then dismount like a lady next time. Do me a favor and hold the reins.”

  I took the reins grudgingly while he jumped down and strode into the alehouse to find someone to feed and water the horse. He brought back an urchin with a dirty face and a runny nose, and we left Perla in his care.

  The alehouse, which was smoky and poorly lit by a few tallow candles and a halfhearted fire, was furnished with four long tables, all empty except for a clutter of flagons at the farthest ends. The straw on the floor was moldering and matted down, littered with food scraps that had been left untroubled for some time.

  We took seats nearest the only window, hoping that a breeze would diminish the stink of tallow and rot, and a stout alewife came to take our order. Her surly expression softened as Fernan chaffed her good-naturedly. The ale she served us was indeed watered down and had a bitter taste, but the meat pie was decent, as was the applemoyse. Given the uncleanliness of the alehouse and the poor quality of the ale, it did not surprise me to discover that the alewife’s daughter did the cooking. She should have done the cleaning as well.