All the Ever Afters

by Danielle Teller

  “You must be the nurse.” His words were rounded by a soft slur. From his silhouette, I could see that he had grown heavier.

  “Yes, sir.” I jiggled Ella, whose cries had begun to subside.

  “How is my daughter?”

  “She does well, sir.” On an impulse, I added, “Would you like to hold her?”

  He looked at his child dubiously. I thought that he would say no, but he surprised me by reaching out his arms. His hands were steady. I gave him the little bundle, and he retreated to his chair by the fire, murmuring. I followed him, saying, “She knows her father. She is quiet in your arms.”

  He smiled up at me, pleased. Age and paunch had not improved his looks, but his smile was charming. “You seem familiar. What is your name?”

  “Agnes, sir.”

  “Agnes. Do I know you?”

  “I worked here years ago. As a laundry girl.”

  His gaze swept over me quizzically. “You were not the girl who looked after me when I was ill?”

  “I was, sir.”

  “My. Yes, I recognize your eyes. You were always so grave.”

  “My cow eyes, sir? I believe that is what you called them.”

  Emont snorted. “Yes, I recall that you were always direct too. I see that you have grown up. You seem quite . . . elegant.” In the firelight, I could see that his coppery hair was now streaked with white. He had pouches under his eyes, and one of his lids drooped, but the irises were a more startling blue than I remembered.

  “I had the benefit of some education, and I married well.”

  “What happened to your husband?”

  “He died of the pox.”

  “Ah.” He looked down at Ella, who had fallen asleep again. He rocked her gently. “I am sorry.”

  My throat tightened in response to his solicitude.

  “What is that by your ear? Are you bleeding?”

  I lifted my hand to my temple, and my fingers came away sticky with blood. Emont rose and handed Ella back to me. I realized that I had grown taller than him. He pulled an embroidered handkerchief from his pocket and reached for my face. I flinched as he leaned close and dabbed softly. His breath smelled strongly of wine. I stood stiff and ill at ease, but he seemed to find nothing strange about the situation. After a moment, he gave the handkerchief to me, saying, “I think that the bleeding has stopped, but keep this in case you need it.”

  “Thank you.” I stepped away from him.

  “You must bring Ella to see me every day.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I am glad that you are back, Agnes.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He smiled at me and then sank back into his chair, closing his eyes wearily.

  It became my routine to bring the baby to the great hall each day at dawn, after her morning feeding. Ella and her father were both early risers. Emont was occasionally surly, but he took only ale before noon, so he was not drunk in the mornings. In the hour or two before the chamberlain or the reeve arrived to discuss manorial business, Emont held his daughter, cooing like a grandmother. I was beginning to notice how peculiar he was, how bumbling and unrefined, something that I could not see as a child. He paid little heed to social convention, but I do not believe that he rebelled against it; he was simply oblivious.

  Emont conversed with me as though I were his equal. He asked about my experiences, and he was particularly interested in my time at the brewery. The first morning, he asked how I learned to brew ale.

  “Alice, the former alewife, gave me lessons.”

  “Was it difficult?”

  I laughed. “Yes, sir. The first six batches were awful! I thought that I would go out of business before I even got started.”

  “What did you do wrong?” He sounded genuinely curious.

  “Well, first I damaged the husks of the barley, and then I ground it to too fine a flour. Then I mashed too long, then too short, then too hot, then too cool. Then I boiled it too soon and the head fell.” I smiled. “There are so many ways to ruin a batch of ale!”

  Emont handed me his cup. “Taste this and tell me what the brewer could do better.”

  I took a dainty sip. “Better is a matter of taste, sir. I find this overly sweet. I would have added more gruit. I would have let it stand longer before straining.”

  Emont looked delighted, as though I were a juggler who had performed a difficult trick. After that, he made me taste his ale nearly every day and give him a critique. It became a sort of game for him to predict what I would say when I did my tasting.

  As the time for manorial business approached, Emont became restless and irritable. He complained about the difficulties of administration and the demands of the abbey. He particularly disliked court days, when he had to preside over disputes and disciplinary actions for wrongdoers. On those days, he yelled for more ale, and the serving boys could not bring it fast enough. By the time the first petitioner arrived, Emont was often soused and completely ineffectual.

  One morning, when I prepared to take Ella away, Emont requested that I stay. The baby had fallen asleep, so I remained in my chair. Emont fidgeted with his cuffs and pushed stray hairs back from his brow. His hair had thinned, and he wore his curls pulled back in a scraggly tail. He rose and paced by the fireplace. When the bailiff arrived, he scowled, saying, “I was rather hoping you might have found something else to do with your morning.”

  The bailiff, a bearded bearlike man with a gruff demeanor, did not look amused. He carried a roll of parchment under his arm, and his face became grimmer when he saw me. He turned to Emont. “Sir. What is the woman doing here?”

  “I asked her to stay.”

  The bailiff opened his mouth to reply but then seemed to change his mind. He shook his head in disapproval as he spread the parchment on a trestle table, weighing the edges down with Lady Alba’s bronze candleholders. “We have some problems, sir.”

  Emont shrugged impatiently. “We always have problems.”

  “We could barely make our payment to the abbey. But now the mill needs a new millstone, which is probably coming at a good time, since one of the horses that’s used to run the mill is lame. We have brought in no new fines this month, and we have lost three villeins to fever.”

  I shivered as I thought of Lottie and Thomas, hoping that they were not among the dead. I was anxious to visit the village, but there was not enough time between Ella’s feedings.

  “Also, we are losing our second girl this year to Cranfield Hall. We need to make these girls marry Aviceford boys or raise the price for leaving. We are short enough of hands as it is.”

  “What is the fee that we have levied?”

  “One ox.”

  “That does not seem too low a price.”

  “And yet it is, apparently, because they keep leaving.” The bailiff’s tone was biting.

  “Who decided that it should cost an ox?”

  “You did, sir.”

  “Well, what should it be?”

  “Is it not up to you to decide, sir? An ox does not seem to be sufficient.”

  The exchange continued in this manner for some time, with both men becoming increasingly frustrated. When Emont ended their meeting, it seemed to me that nothing had been resolved. Emont flopped heavily into his chair and bellowed for some wine. A serving boy scurried in, carrying a carafe and a cup.

  “I hate this place.” Emont rubbed his eyelids and blinked. I wondered whether Ella would inherit his long lashes. “It gives me a headache.”

  “Why do you use horses to run the mill?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because oxen are cheaper. They eat less and do not need to be shod. But the way the abbey’s mill works, using wind, is cheapest of all. You do not have to feed a windmill.”

  “The mill has always been run by horses.”

  I shrugged. “That does not mean that it must always remain so.”

  Emont looked annoyed. Perhaps my presence had been a comfort to him, but it was not anymore,
so I prepared to leave.

  “Good day to you,” he said wearily.

  I tucked Ella closer and curtsied.

  “I shall see you in the morning, sir.”

  “Yes, see you in the morning.”

  I took most of my meals in the family’s quarters, along with Joan and Gisla. They were pleasant companions, though Joan could be testy when Lady Alba was giving her trouble. The mistress was capricious, and she sometimes made unreasonable demands. On one occasion, she got it into her head that we were all living inside her looking glass, and that the image in the looking glass was the real world. She had Joan turn everything in her chamber backward, including the bedclothes.

  On a more frightening occasion, Lady Alba decided that Ella was a changeling. I had left the baby in her mother’s care, and Joan caught her dangling the squalling Ella by her legs over the fire, shrieking, “Tell me your name! Tell me your name!” After that day, we made sure that Lady Alba was never alone with her daughter, although to my knowledge, she never mentioned fairies or changelings again.

  Rarely, I took a meal in the kitchen with the other servants. The atmosphere was more relaxed since Wills took Geoffrey Poke’s place as chamberlain; seating by rank was no longer strictly enforced, and the chatter was louder and more jovial. Many of the servants were new to me, but the one person I would gladly have missed was still there. The laundress had grown even fatter since I had last seen her, and the lines on her face gave her an expression of perpetual sourness.

  The first time that I noticed her, my heart quickened, and my palms began to sweat. I forced myself to walk slowly to her table and take a place across from her, where I sat with my hands neatly folded until she looked up. I expected her to be startled, but she merely narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

  “Huh? What do you want?” As she spoke, she opened her mouth wide, affording me an unpleasant view of the food she was chewing.

  “I just stopped by to say hello, Elisabeth.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “You don’t recognize me?”

  I was gratified to see her eyes widen.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I am the nurse for Sir Emont and Lady Alba’s baby.”

  The laundress looked around uncomfortably. “You have come up in the world, haven’t you?” She gave me a treacly smile. Her teeth were rotting.

  “Yes, I have.” I reached across the table and took the bread from her plate, and then I smiled back at her. “It is so lovely to see you again.”

  I walked away. Elisabeth was worried, and that was enough for the moment.

  It was not until Saint Crispin’s Day that I had an opportunity to visit Aviceford Village. Both Sir Emont and Lady Alba had fallen ill with flux and vomiting, and I offered to keep the baby away for the day. Joan and Gisla were so busy caring for the mistress that they did not ask what I would do. I doubt that they would have approved of my plan to take Ella to the parish church with me, so I did not mention it.

  Ella was a fussy baby, but she was most settled when we walked. Her watchful eyes stayed open, and I chatted to her along the way. I pointed out a squirrel and a sparrow, and I sang a song about a robin that my mother used to sing. I could only remember a single verse, which I repeated over and over, but Ella did not seem to mind. She frowned at the sky or stared at my chin with a serious expression on her face.

  Arches of crimson and gold branches over the road were made brighter by vivid patches of cerulean sky. There was not a breath of wind, but the occasional leaf came loose and floated down. One landed on Ella’s head, and she responded with such wide-eyed shock and consternation that I had to laugh.

  We came upon the bridge by the church far sooner than I expected, for I remembered the walk as being much longer. The river was no more than a stream, and the span of the bridge was so short that I could cross it in five strides.

  When the church came into view, I was seized by shyness. Clusters of villagers sauntered down the lane opposite me, collecting in the churchyard; over the hubbub of conversations drifted the laughter and shrieks of young children. The church, which once seemed so magnificent, looked dingy and inconsequential to me now. Some of the villagers glanced at me curiously.

  I had not seen my sister and brother since they were youths, but I recognized Thomas in the crowd right away. His head was uncovered, and he wore his wavy brown hair the same way he had as a boy. Though his shoulders had broadened, he still slouched as he used to. He was engaged in conversation with an older man when I tugged on his sleeve.

  “Yes?” He took a step back.

  “Thomas! I am your sister Agnes!”

  “Agnes?” A look of surprise came over his face. “Not little Nessie who went off to the manor house?”

  He regarded me from head to foot, and I realized that my fashionable wool dress and wimple were foreign in the village. I touched the edge of my veil self-consciously. “I am. I went to Ellis Abbey for a time, and then to the town of Old Hilgate. I worked as an alewife.”

  “You sound mighty fancy. Where did you learn to talk like that?”

  “The abbey, I suppose.”

  My brother was like someone from a dream. He was both familiar and entirely alien. His placid brown eyes were the same, but his face was bronzed by the sun and deeply creased, ancient. Like the bridge over the stream, and the church, he had shrunk. I remembered a strapping youth, clever from his lessons at church, seasoned and wise from his work in the fields. Before me was a tentative, uncouth peasant with stooped shoulders and gnarled hands, a gap where his front tooth had gone missing, cheeks hollow from privation.

  Thomas turned back to the man whose conversation I had interrupted. “Can you believe this is my little sister?”

  “I would’ve guessed she was lady of the manor!”

  “Where are you living now, Nessie? Look at your sweet babe!” Having recovered from his surprise, Thomas seemed pleased to see me. He peered at Ella.

  “Oh—” I felt disoriented and unaccountably miserable. “Nay, this here is the daughter of Lady Alba. I am her nurse.”

  “So you are back at the manor!”

  As Thomas spoke, a small, meek woman approached. She had a purple bruise on her weather-worn cheek, and she held the hand of a boy of about three years.

  “Lottie! Would you believe it . . . Here is Nessie!”

  The woman stiffened and looked at me warily.

  “Lottie?” My voice caught in my throat. She looked nothing like the sister I remembered. “Why— Why, I wouldn’t have recognized you!” I had tried to sound cheerful to cover my confusion, but I realized that my words might have been hurtful. I paused lamely, searching my tumultuous mind for better words. We both remained rooted in place.

  “Nessie was just telling me that she is the nurse at the manor. This is the new baby.”

  “Her name is Ella,” I volunteered, my voice too bright.

  As though woken by her name, Ella began to wail. I jiggled her while Thomas and Lottie stood awkwardly by.

  “Do tell me your news, both of you! Thomas, I have heard that you are doing well. And, Lottie, how many children do you have? Where is your home?”

  “I’ve got three. This one’s Hugh. I lost four. My Margaret drowned last spring.”

  I could barely hear her over Ella’s crying. “Oh, Lottie, I am so sorry. I hope the others are well?”

  “Well enough.”

  “How is your husband? Aldred?”

  Thomas crossed his arms and frowned. “His name’s Aldrich.”

  Lottie shot a worried look at her brother.

  Ella continued to cry, and little Hugh pulled on his mother’s arm.

  “What celebrations are planned for Saint Crispin’s Day?”

  Thomas gestured to women setting out food on a table next to the church. “Mass. Then we eat, as usual. That woman on the end with the green hood, she’s my wife, Matilda.”

  “Matilda! That is the name of my daughter.” I looked at Lottie expectan
tly, but she did not ask about my children. She swatted her son to stop him from tugging on her. Her gaze darted around the crowd.

  “A well-chosen name,” Thomas said.

  We all fell silent except for Ella. I groped anxiously for something to say, but my mind had been swept clean. The baby’s piercing cry nettled me. Finally, Thomas said, “Looks like time to go in for Mass. You coming, Nessie?”

  “I’ll try to settle the baby, and then I may come in.”

  “Well, sure is a surprise to see you. I hope we shall see more of you, now that you are back. We heard that you left, but then nothing more. I feared you died.” He looked to Lottie. “Are you coming in?”

  Lottie nodded to him and gave me a weak smile. “There has been a Christmastide celebration at the manor since Lady Alba came.” A bit of warmth entered her voice. “Maybe we shall see you there.”

  I watched until they disappeared through the church door, but Lottie never looked back. I walked back over the bridge as quickly as I could while comforting Ella, ashamed by how relieved I felt to be returning to the manor.

  15

  Manorial Business

  Christmastide was a sad time for me. I longed to return to my life in Old Hilgate with Charlotte and Matilda, or even to hear news about how they fared at Ellis Abbey. I consoled myself by remembering the roasted swan and pudding that the nuns had served at the Feast of the Epiphany. I could imagine the delight on my girls’ faces when they tasted the first succulent bites. Charlotte would nibble daintily, luxuriating in new delicacies, while Matilda would wolf down her meal and then sneak her little fingers onto her sister’s plate, crawling her hand forward like a clever spider. I imagined them hale and smiling; I could not bring myself to consider any other possibility.

  Lady Alba worked herself into a state of high excitement before the holidays as she planned for banquets. She usually lost interest in new pursuits within hours, but Christmas held a particular fascination for her. She emerged from the cocoon of her chambers to give servants orders and supervise their preparations. It was the only time of year that she undertook any of her duties as lady of the manor, and she did a poor job of it, not knowing how the manor functioned. Some of her dictates were nonsensical, and some resulted in needless waste, but nobody was brave enough to gainsay Lady Alba when her blue eyes were flashing and her rosy lips were parted in a fierce smile. The servants grumbled, and Emont was even more mercurial than usual. In the mornings, when I brought Ella to him, he bellyached about his wife’s intention to invite every soul in Aviceford for Twelfth Night.