The prioress seemed unaffected by my words, but I detected a softening in Mother Elfilda’s voice when she said, “This is a just argument. It would be the right and Christian thing to do to bring the girls into our school.”
I sagged with relief. All was not lost. “Thank you, my lady! You will find them to be excellent students.”
“You still must return to Aviceford.”
“Yes, my lady.”
She looked at me steadily. “You have genteel manners and speech. You might make a fine lady’s maid. My sister now lives at Aviceford Manor, and she is expecting her first child. I shall send you to help.”
The days following my audience with the abbess were an agony. I was frantic to return to Charlotte and Matilda, but once I arrived home, I was equally frantic at the thought of losing them. I lay awake at night, listening to their snuffly breaths, resting my fingers lightly on their slender chests to feel their warmth and the movement of the sweet bones beneath their skin. To please them, I made their favorite foods, and though queasiness and the lump in my throat kept me from eating, I watched hungrily for their bright smiles. At times my despair overwhelmed me, and I slinked into the brewery and muffled my sobs in a towel. I tried to feel grateful for their opportunity to attend the convent school, but I was too absorbed by my own selfish pain. When my daughters left my body at birth, their roots remained behind, entwined in the flesh of my heart, wrapping tighter and deeper as they grew tall and strong in the light of the world. The blood in my veins sang their names with each heartbeat, and I did not know how to survive being torn from them.
Matilda’s pox had blackened and were beginning to heal. Scarring was inevitable, but I still prayed back then that some of her beauty would return. Her health had certainly been restored, as had her spirits. It broke my heart to see how happy it made her to have me home again. She gamboled about the alehouse like a spring lamb.
Charlotte, on the other hand, sensed my distress, and she followed me everywhere with a furrowed brow. I knew that I had to tell them of what would come to pass, but I put it off, hoping that I would think of some new solution. When the abbey’s sergeant returned with a notice of eviction, however, I knew that I could delay no longer.
I sat with Charlotte and Matilda on the bed and told them that they were to go to school. While they looked at me with wide eyes, I described for them the beauty of Ellis Abbey and the wonder of the library and scriptorium. I told them about the rose garden and the fishpond. When I finished, Matilda said, “But, Mama . . . we want to stay here.”
“Yes!” Charlotte agreed. “We never want to leave!”
“I would also like to remain here in Old Hilgate,” I replied. “We do not have a choice in this.”
They looked alarmed, and Matilda asked, “But why?”
“Because your father is gone, and we are not allowed to live here anymore.”
“Where will you go then?”
“I must go to Aviceford Manor.”
“Where is that?”
“Not far,” I lied. “I shall visit you as soon as I am able.”
“But I cannot bear to be without you!”
I sensed Matilda’s rising hysteria. Though I had tried to keep the sorrow from my voice, I had not done well. To distract them, I gathered the stones from the chest and handed half of the collection to each girl, saying, “When you miss me, take one of these stones into the palm of your hand, like so. Then close your eyes and concentrate on one of your happiest memories from Old Hilgate. When you do that, God will whisper in my ear, and I shall send you the softest kiss on your cheek. You will feel it, I promise.”
The girls were not mollified and would not be turned back from their grief. They were so desolate that I nearly changed my mind in that moment. If I accepted a new husband, no matter what deprivations they would suffer, we would at least stay together as a family.
I knew that their only opportunity for a life of peace and comfort lay in the church. As nuns, they would have a far better life than I could give them. I held my daughters as they wept long into the night.
I sent Charlotte and Matilda to Ellis Abbey with Mylla Ainsley’s husband, John. Much as I loathed Mylla, John was a good man, and he was kind to my daughters. He needed to lug his carpentry tools to the abbey, and he was glad of an excuse to ride in a coach.
After we loaded a trunk full of clothing into the carriage, the girls would not say good-bye. Charlotte clung to me and refused to let go. I kissed the top of her head; the frizz of hair that had come loose from her braids tickled my chin. Her familiar scent, like spring grass and fresh-baked bread, brought more tears to my eyes. I knelt awkwardly, still holding Charlotte, and I begged Matilda to kiss me, but she clutched her doll and turned her face away. Finally, John had to pry Charlotte from me and force them both into the coach; Charlotte tried to twist away, so he cuffed her sharply, and she stumbled into the bench with a dazed look. John swung himself up and gave the horses a smack with the reins. As they pulled away, Matilda watched me with frantic eyes, her arms outstretched, wailing “Mama! Mama!” until her voice was mercifully drowned by the wind.
I told myself that I had done the right thing, that my daughters would be happy, but I was plagued by doubt and by my own excruciating loneliness. Nothing gave me comfort, and I could find no respite from the emptiness. I drank ale to excess, hoping that it would usher in oblivion, and so it did, for a brief while. Then I would wake, dizzy and sick, staring into blackness, startled by a scrabbling rat or wind-rattled shutter. More tankards could hurry the endless blank hours of darkness before dawn, but morning brought nothing but more sickness and another long string of creeping, desolate hours until dusk.
By the time I returned to Aviceford Manor, I had wrung out all of my tears, and I felt as insubstantial as the dry autumn leaves that drifted and crunched underfoot. I paid little attention to the exterior of the manor. Ivy grew thicker than I remembered; the gargoyles were draped with creepers, and inky stains of lichen nibbled at their heads. They leered blindly at me through broken eyelids as I passed through the front entrance. I noted with numb indifference how much the interior had been altered. The austerity of the manor had given way to jumbled, extravagant domesticity. Even the corridors were choked with a hodgepodge of rugs, tapestries, carved furniture, and statuary. As the new chamberlain led me through the foyer, I recognized one of the statues, a bronze cerf that held its head cocked to one side, as though listening. My fingers remembered the contours of the smooth flanks and sharp antlers that I had once dusted at Rose House.
In my absence, Emont had taken a wife, Lady Alba, the daughter of the late Count and Countess of Wenslock and sister of Abbess Elfilda. Emont’s wife had apparently inherited not only her mother’s belongings but also her mother’s taste for miscellany and tolerance for clutter.
I had heard tales of Lady Alba when I lived at Ellis Abbey; it was said that she was even more beautiful than her sister, but that she had caused her mother much heartache. As a young woman, Lady Alba had visions and heard the voice of God, and it was said that she was destined to become a great mystic. While her older sister rose in the church to the position of abbess, however, Lady Alba’s behaviors became increasingly strange. She stopped eating because she believed that her food was poisoned, and nobody could convince her otherwise. She became so thin that her clothing hung off of her like rags, and she wore the same loose gown every day and night until she smelled like a beast of the woods. After she proclaimed herself to be the Virgin Mary, she was sent to the archbishop for a cure of the evil spirits that had invaded her body. It was even whispered that she bore a demon child.
When Lady Alba reemerged into society, near the time that I moved to the abbey, her mind and beauty had been restored, but her mother could not find her a suitable husband. According to Mary, Lady Wenslock was greatly aggrieved by this problem. She died without seeing her youngest daughter wed, but somebody else had succeeded in finding a match, probably Abbess Elfilda. Emont could not
have been the first choice, but then the trouble of finding a husband grew worse with time. Lady Alba must have been at least a thirty-year-old bride, what Fernan used to call “winter forage.”
The new chamberlain introduced himself as Wills; he appeared to be far more pleasant than his predecessor. When I asked what had happened to Geoffrey Poke, Wills replied merely, “He died.” Wills had a large round face topped with ginger curls that made me think of a pumpkin, and though he was twice my age, approaching fifty years, his manner was oddly hesitant. I wore fine clothing, my best scarlet silk and a lace wimple that Henny had pronounced perfect for setting off my fair skin and brown eyes. I spoke with a cultured accent, affected a stately bearing, and stood a full head taller than Wills. I expect that he did not quite know what to make of me.
Wills led me through the great hall, which was brightened by white tapestries brought from the library at Rose House, the ones showing the arms of the late Count of Wenslock. I was so used to seeing the tapestries in the smaller chamber that they seemed dwarfed by the great hall. The effect was vaguely comical, like seeing a grown man dressed in clothing meant for a child.
We mounted the stairs to the family’s quarters, and Wills knocked lightly on the door to Lady Alba’s chambers. A young woman with a worried expression and dark circles under her eyes answered the door. She looked at me suspiciously, and then asked, “What is it that you want, Wills?”
“Not even a hello, Joan? I have brought a new maid sent by the reverend mother. Her name is Agnes.”
“You are a maid?” She looked shocked.
“Yes, I am. I am pleased to meet you, Joan.”
The woman gaped at me, and then she recovered and smiled shyly. “Between Gisla and me we’ve got our hands full, so I’m not sorry to have you join us. Why don’t you come in and meet Lady Alba and her new babe. Gisla will figure out how you can best help.”
Wills left us, and Joan stood aside to let me into the anteroom that adjoined the main chamber. There was a canopied bed on one side of the room and an imposing armoire on the other. On the wall beside the armoire was a painting of a pretty blond girl seated on a horse. Except for a braid encircling her pale forehead, she wore her hair loose, and it cascaded nearly to her booted foot. I wondered if it was a portrait of a young Lady Alba.
When we entered the large inner chamber, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. Though there were two large windows, the shutters were closed fast, making the room airless and dark. Narrow strips of sunlight squeezed through thin cracks, illuminating dust motes but little else. An enormous bed hulked in the middle of the room; it was raised on a platform beneath a frame draped with hangings. Thin bands of moted light slashed the drapes with the radiance of a cloudless afternoon. As my eyes grew used to the shadows, I could make out the W’s encircled by gold crowns embroidered on the canopy and bed curtains. A silvery voice called from behind the drapes. “Joan! Did you fetch my wine?” The familiar clear timbre of the voice made me shiver.
“No, my lady, I am going to fetch it now. I have brought a new maid sent for your comfort by Mother Elfilda. She is called Agnes.”
“My sister sends a maid; should I be afraid? I think not, she has brought ought that is sought. That is a new . . . thought? . . . Spot?” There was a long pause and then a giggle. “What rot!”
Joan pulled back the curtain as Lady Alba made blowing sounds with her lips. She lay sprawled on the feather bed, dressed only in a gossamer shift, her back resting against a pile of satin pillows. Like her sister, she had the delicate features of a doll, and her skin was so pale that she glowed like the moon in the dim light. Lady Alba did not otherwise share the abbess’s ethereal quality, however. She was plump, with dimpled cheeks and a jiggling bosom that overflowed her bodice. Her teeth were discolored, giving her a slightly sinister air when she smiled, but it was easy to see why she had been considered such a beauty when she was younger.
An elderly woman—Gisla, I assumed—sat on a stool next to Lady Alba, holding the ends of her corn-silk hair in one hand and a brush in the other. “Welcome, Agnes.” Her voice creaked like a door on ancient hinges. “We will be glad of your help.”
I was startled by the wail of an infant; only then did I notice the cradle beside the bed. The cry wrought its work on my breasts; I felt a painful tingling, and then milk gushed from my stiffened nipples, soaking through my gown. Gisla’s eyes widened.
“You have milk! Where is your baby?”
My arms ached for Catherine as though she had just that moment been torn from me. “She is dead.”
“I am so sorry, dear. But I must say, you have come at a good time! We are looking for a wet nurse for the little one.”
I did not know what to feel. The infant’s cry had made the pain of Catherine’s death fresh and sharp, but at the same time, I longed for the comfort of a baby in my arms.
Joan picked up the crying infant and rocked her gently. Lady Alba paid no attention; she flicked impatiently at some invisible lint on her sheet and asked Joan again to fetch her wine. Gisla rose stiffly from her stool and shuffled around the bed. “Hand me the babe, Joan. You go and fetch the mistress her drink.” She turned to me. “Come with me; let’s see if you can quiet this little thing.”
I followed Gisla to the anteroom, where she bade me to sit on the edge of the bed. “It would be a shame for your milk to go to waste. And you will feel better to get rid of some of it.” She handed me the baby, who weighed nothing at all. My daughters had all been big and sturdy; Lady Alba’s baby was a mere wisp by comparison.
“What is her name?” I asked.
“Elfilda, after her godmother. But we call her Ella.”
14
Ella
Ella and I had problems from the beginning. Nursing was difficult for both of us, because Ella could not abide the rapid flow of milk, and yet she was hungry. She latched eagerly to my breast, but within moments she would begin to thrash her head from side to side, pulling painfully on my nipple. She would then release with an angry cry, jerking her fists in the air while my milk sprayed against her reddened cheek. I would settle her by walking and singing, but the sequence inevitably repeated until my milk had been drained to a slow trickle.
I worried about Ella’s feedings because she was so tiny. I could cradle her head in one hand and easily support her entire body on my forearm. By her age, Charlotte had already weighed a stone, but Ella must have weighed less than half that. She was slim and long limbed, with skin so translucent that I could see the blue veins snaking across her scalp. Her little body thrummed with nervous energy, and her voice was high pitched and eerie, like a lute strung too tight. She had the alert look of a wary bird, and her eyes were a dark slate; it was only later that the color faded to the peculiar shade of violet she is so famous for now.
Lady Alba did not like to be woken by the baby, so I slept in the anteroom with Ella and Gisla, while Joan used the trundle in the main chamber. Ella woke every two hours through the night, and I passed my days in an exhausted fog. Remembering the sweet, idle first months of my own daughters’ lives made me miss them all the more. My babies had nursed with calm earnestness, their eyes unfocused, their expressions entranced, as though they were gazing into the heavens. My milk made them drowsy and content, and they drifted into sleep like a skiff pushed along by a light breeze.
With Ella, feeding was a battle that was never won nor lost, only punctuated by armistices when both sides were too spent to continue. I got to rest when Lady Alba took the baby, but that was often only once each day. Sometimes Lady Alba played with her daughter’s fingers and toes and spoke to her in singsong nonsense rhymes. Other times, she placed her in the cradle and ignored her completely. Whenever Ella cried, Lady Alba gave her to me to take away.
Because my entire responsibility was to care for the baby, I enjoyed far greater freedom than I had during my previous time at the manor. I was not officially permitted free rein of the house, but in practice nobody checked my movem
ents. Lady Alba left her chambers only for supper, and sometimes not even then. If she was not in the mood to dress, she would have Joan bring her food on a tray.
When Ella was awake, I swaddled her and carried her with me to wander the corridors and grounds. She liked to be walked, and I found Lady Alba’s chambers suffocating, so I was glad for an escape. Though I usually skirted the great hall by taking the outside staircase and reentering by the back foyer, on a particularly rainy autumn day, I decided to stay indoors.
The great hall seemed to be unoccupied. A fire roared in the giant hearth, its crackling drowned by the torrent of rain that battered the windows. The air was chill, and though I disapproved of the wastefulness of a large fire, I was tempted to warm my hands for a moment.
Two imposing high-backed oak chairs flanked the fireplace, new additions since the arrival of Lady Alba. I had almost traversed the long shadow of the nearest chair when I glimpsed a hand on the armrest. I froze, realizing that the room was occupied after all. I meant to creep along the wall and leave undiscovered through the screens passage, but fate would not have it so. A puddle of water had formed at the base of one of the windows, making the floor slick. My fall was swift and silent. Instinctively, I twisted my body in midair, so that my back struck the floor, followed by my head. My ears rang from the thud of my skull against the stone, but I succeeded in holding Ella away from my body, unscathed. For a moment, we remained an inert tableau, my back to the floor with Ella suspended above me, her face toward the roof. I wondered if she miraculously still slept, but then came a piercing shriek. The cry continued until she had squeezed every shred of breath from her tiny body; she fell silent as she choked and struggled to fill her chest anew, and then she let loose another shrill wail.
I rose awkwardly to my feet, hushing the baby. My head throbbed. Standing before me was Emont, arms crossed, frowning. I curtsied and apologized for the intrusion.
All the Ever Afters Page 17
