by Patty Jansen
“And what if I hadn’t lived to this age?”
But as she asked the question, Nellie knew this had been the point of her father’s words. He had not expected her to live healthily until the age of fifty, so that whatever was in the book would be useless to her, because she would have been too old and frail to act on it.
Then Nellie had a further thought: her father didn’t even know that mistress Johanna had taught her to read and write.
He had said many times he didn’t think girls should learn. After all, when would they use those skills?
So, he had made up rules to ensure that she would never get the book.
She clutched the box to her chest, the blood roaring in her ears. Something rattled inside, so the box contained more than just the book.
“Is that all?” she asked. It cost her a lot of effort to keep her voice straight.
No, she should not get angry. Her father was dead. She shouldn’t let him taunt her from beyond the grave. That was not worth it.
“Yes, that’s all.” The man gave her a penetrating look.
Nellie was shaking too much to contemplate what his expression might mean. Was it pity for the poor simple dumb kitchen maid who wouldn’t understand the great importance of the thing she’d just received?
Nellie said a hasty goodbye, because the sun was coming over the roofs of the houses on the other side of the harbour, and she needed to be back at the palace. She had her job to go to. Real work, for which she was paid, even if it wasn’t much.
Real work, like her father had never done, because he used to get paid by the church out of the donations of the citizens.
She didn’t care about her father’s secrets.
Chapter 2
* * *
NELLIE STUMBLED down the staircase. She was so angry that her knees felt weak. She had no idea how she managed not to fall down those steep and creaky steps.
The narrow passage didn’t allow for much light to come in, and the air was cold, stuffy with tobacco smoke. She wanted to get out of this place and go back to work.
All the fear she’d had about this meeting had been a waste of time. His book of thoughts! Her father always made a huge fuss over the smallest things.
Once, when she was little, her mother had sent her to the shops for a pound of sugar. It was very busy at the grocery store, and she had to wait amongst all those adults, who smiled at her and then pushed in front of her anyway.
It had taken so terribly long before her turn came.
When she got home, her father told her he hadn’t given her permission to stop along the way and play. Then he demanded the change. She could still see her hand as she put the grubby coins on the table.
His face became a mask of anger. “That’s half a cent. Where is the last quarter penny? Have you lost it again?”
Nellie searched her pockets, but she already knew she would not find the missing coin in there. She had been given the change and had clutched it as if it were the biggest treasure, because it was money and money was important. “This was what they gave me.”
“And you didn’t check it before you left the shop?” His voice sounded like the clap of a hammer.
Her ears glowed. No, she had not. Because she hadn’t thought she should. Or she had forgotten, because now she thought about it, she knew her father would have wanted her to check because you can never trust people when money is involved.
He dragged her back to the shop. In front of the customers, he made a big speech that just because Nellie was an innocent child, it didn’t mean they could get away with stealing his money. He said it should never happen again and that, because he was the bookkeeper for the Church, there would be consequences.
Yes, over a quarter of a cent.
Nellie’s ears still went red whenever she thought about it. She had never felt more embarrassed in her life. Especially because the poor boy behind the counter, the grocer’s son, admitted that he’d made a mistake and because he was crying by the time her father dragged her out of the shop, and his mother was calling her father “miser” She had not dared ask what it meant and had only later learned the meaning.
Nellie was no longer that little girl.
Once, in times better than these, she had served the queen and lived upstairs in the palace, with her own room. She didn’t need to know the pompous musings and opinions her father had kept from her. Those were best left where they belonged: in the past. She liked to remember the good things about him, even if right now, she was so angry that she couldn’t remember any of those.
A moist and cold squally wind lashed the quayside, making deck covers flap and rigging rattle. She turned her face into the breeze, clamping the box with the hated book in her hands. She crossed the walkway to the bollards that held the ropes restraining the sailing ships in their positions.
A space between two tall ships would do just fine. She’d fling the book into the harbour. It would become soaked within moments, her father’s precious ink would run and no one could ever read his pompous, hateful words.
She swung her arm back to fling the book into the water—
—And stopped.
What if, just if, it contained important things? Not just important things from her father’s point of view, but really important things?
About the church. About the royal family.
But surely he would have made sure that if those things were that important, someone knew about them before his death? He had not died suddenly and there would have been plenty of time to warn someone.
But what if these things made him afraid to speak out?
She tried, and failed, to picture her father afraid of anything. He would say whatever came to his mind to whomever he pleased—except perhaps to the king.
No, definitely, he would not speak his mind to the king. But the king had been dead four years when her father died.
And except to any of the shepherds.
No, he would also never speak ill against any of the shepherds. More than the king, the church ruled his life. If he had any secrets relating to the church, he would never risk upsetting Shepherd Wilfridus by revealing them.
She hesitated, the book heavy in her hands. An insane desire to throw it as far away as possible consumed part of her.
Her father had been rigid, fond of rules and all too quick to apply them to his family with an iron fist, but she refused to believe he was a bad man.
No, he was not. He believed in the Book of Verses. In fact, he would read them out every day before dinnertime. He would read the Verses as they were written, without the embellishments and interpretations added by the shepherds.
He believed in utter honesty and would never, ever lie to anybody about anything.
Maybe she should have a look at the book tonight. She could always throw it in the hearth later. The fire in the kitchen was always roaring hot. It would love a thick musty book full of lovely paper.
She let the box sink into her carry bag, where it felt like a stone dragging her down. She had hoped . . . she didn’t know. Nellie ought to be old and wise enough to know that life never gave her any lucky breaks, that happiness always passed her by.
But she could have used a little bit of money. Her lack of a husband or family doomed her to work until she no longer could, and then die of starvation or illness brought on by poor nutrition in the poor house.
Money would help a great deal, even just a little bit of it.
Failing that, just to have a proper birthday would be nice. A moment shared between friends—all of whom worked in the palace kitchens—around a table with some tea and sweets. Just a little token of appreciation.
But none of them knew it was her birthday—and whose fault was that? She had told no one.
Fifty was so old. Many people never lived to her age, and many who did were worn out. They relied on their families, looked after grandchildren. They put their feet up in well-earned retirement.
But Nellie would get none of that because
she was just a maid, because her father had never liked her and would give money to the church before giving it to his own daughter, and because she was just perpetually unlucky. She had never gotten married and her parents had no other children.
And now she had better stop feeling sorry for herself and get going, because nothing ever happened by complaining about it, she used to say to beautiful Princess Celine with the golden curls.
Nellie hurried through the moisture-laced streets back to the palace.
Saardam looked so grey these days. All the hope, the colour and the life had been sucked out. The weather was grey, the offerings at the markets were poor, many shops were closed and houses had not been painted for years. In other parts, houses stood empty, because people had left or because they had failed to keep up with the rent and joined the growing horde of the city’s destitute.
All because the ships failed to come into the harbour. Sea captains went elsewhere with their exotic products, due to hordes of rogues making the inland rivers unsafe; and the river captains rarely came down, since so few wares were available for trade.
The palace guards stood forlorn in their guard boxes, staring into the greyness. They knew Nellie and nodded to her as she slipped into the only enclave in the city where life still looked relatively normal.
All was quiet in the courtyard, waiting for the many guests for tomorrow’s banquet.
The courtyard lay neatly raked and the stable roof had received a new cover of straw. The steps had been swept to within an inch of their lives and the stable boys hung around in their crisp uniforms, doing nothing while they waited for the horses and coaches to arrive from those guests who lived out of town.
Nellie went down the side entrance, through a low door and down a few steps into the servant’s quarters.
She stopped off in her room to hang up her coat.
A soft cry caught her attention: a little black and white kitten, hiding in an alcove. It couldn’t be more than a few weeks old.
“Poor thing.” Nellie crouched.
She’d fed the creature some milk, yesterday, because it was as thin as a bag of bones, too small to hunt mice and probably without a mother. Now it saw her as a source of food. Typical. She always collected all manner of strays—people and animals.
The kitten didn’t let itself be touched, but scooted into the darkness of Nellie’s room. Oh, well, it would be safe there and might scare mice, even if it was much too small to catch them.
She’d get it some milk later.
Poor thing.
She took her father’s box from her carry bag and shoved it into the back of the small cupboard that held her clean work clothes and linen. She’d look at it tonight. The thought of the unpleasant memories she might awaken filled her with dread, but the sooner she did this, the sooner she could get rid of the hateful thing and forget about it again.
She put on her apron and did up the strings while walking down the corridor into the kitchen—
Several voices called out, “Happy Birthday!”
What?
Nellie stopped in the doorway.
There they all were, around the table: the people, who—for all their warts and foibles—were her family now: Dora the cantankerous cook, Wim, the elderly and often confused taster, Lily and Corrie, who worked for Dora, and a couple of the young kids who came in if they were needed.
In the middle of the table stood a plate of fresh apple turnovers, still steaming hot.
For a moment, Nellie couldn’t say anything.
“You thought we forgot, is that right?” Dora said.
“Well, I hadn’t told anyone.” Her voice felt choked up.
“No, because you’re such a grump. But someone told us. Also that you’re turning fifty, and you didn’t think we’d let that go by without mention.”
“Someone?” Who would have known?
“One of the guards.”
“The guards?” She knew none of them well. They were neatly dressed dapper men who stood by the gate and who wore leather belts with swords and who would kill intruders. How could any of them know about her birthday? “But I don’t know any—”
Dora laughed. “I think people know you better than you think they do.”
Well, clearly, but a guard? “Who was this?”
“Oh, one of the older ones. I don’t know his name. I’m glad he told us, though.” She gestured at the plate. “Come on, have some, before they get cold, and before upstairs complains we’re not doing anything. Don’t tell me that dry prune of a solicitor person gave you any food.”
“No, he didn’t.”
Nellie sat down, and then had to explain to everybody about the book, which brought many questions, such as why her father would go through such efforts to make sure she never read it.
“I bet he kept it from her because he didn’t want to burden her with his secrets,” said Wim.
Dora scoffed. “Oh, come on, what sort of secrets would he have that a woman can’t handle? This is all about showing how much of a dick he is, frankly—no, don’t say anything, Nellie. I’ve heard enough about your youth to know he was a dick.”
“I would just prefer if you used less crude language. He was my father. He did a lot of things right. He looked after my mother and me and we never wanted for anything at home. I won’t have people speak of him in crude words.”
“Hmph. I’m a cook. Crude words are what I do best. I stuff pig guts, I cook ram’s balls. I cut up all the bits you never knew an animal had by looking at the outside. If you can’t do crude, you can’t work in a kitchen. I make no excuses. Your father was a dick, and I’ve heard enough to think he was a dick to you and your mother even more than he was a dick to the rest of town. Only he was a kind dick, and that’s the worst type: the ones who fool you with praising words while taking away your pride. If he didn’t want you to know about his thoughts, then he was a dick.”
“He may have wanted to protect us. We were the closest family he had.” Save Uncle Norbert, who she didn’t think had been a bad man either.
“Maybe, maybe, but my money is on the dick side of things. Because if he really wanted no one to know about his stuff, then why write it down in the first place? Why not burn the book before his death? He didn’t die suddenly; he would have had plenty of time to do it.”
A chilling truth hung in Dora’s words, much as Nellie didn’t like to acknowledge it, because it upset her.
Nellie had never witnessed her father chastise her mother, but his actions made it clear he was disappointed that she couldn’t give him any more children, specifically male children.
Her mother had fallen pregnant when Nellie was fifteen and already lived with Mistress Johanna. The twin boys were born too early. They were small and sickly and never stood a chance when disease ripped through the city a few years later. They were not even five years old. It had broken her mother’s heart.
“What about your uncle?” Corrie asked. “What did he say about it?”
“I don’t think he ever opened the box and wouldn’t have read the book even if he had. My uncle and my father didn’t get along at all—”
Dora interrupted. “A dick, as I said. Norbert was a fine man.”
“Can you shut up?” Corrie said. “You wouldn’t like it if we spoke about your family like that.”
“Go ahead. I learned all of my foul language while listening to people describe my parents. Heretics, devil-worshipers, whoring bitch—I’ve heard it all. What do you think they told us kids when all the fuss was going on after the death of the royal family? We were devil’s brood and whore spawn, all because our father was a gifted baker who made no bones about the fact that he put his magic into his bread.”
“But your family cared about you and taught you well.”
“That, they did.”
There was an uneasy silence, in which Nellie sipped from her tea. Yes, Dora came from a family of cooks who were open supporters of artisan magic. And since the death ten years ago of the roya
l family through the crown princess’ wayward magic, the Regent and the church had been on a rampage to eliminate magic, no matter what the type.
The two young girls, sisters Els and Maartje, watched with wide eyes. They had come to work in the kitchen only recently, after Nellie had spotted the eldest, Els with the thick blond hair, coming out of a sailor’s tavern, and knowing what women did in there, was determined that anyone that young and innocent shouldn’t have to do that.
“This is not about you, Dora,” Wim said. “We know what you think. Nellie asked what to do with the book.”
“Especially because her father thought she couldn’t read it,” said Maartje, eyes wide.
“But I can read it,” Nellie said.
Dora spread her hands. “Then why is this a question? You should read it, because that’s what books are for, right? You should read it, and decide if it’s worth the fuss.”
“Probably not,” Nellie said.
“Fine. Then we’ll have a bonfire here tomorrow. With a bit of luck, the Regent’s wine will have arrived by then—”
“It has,” Nellie said, remembering the barge from the Guentherite order she had seen moored at the quay.
Dora smiled. “Good. Then we can celebrate with a bit of pretasting with our friend here.” She clapped her hand on Wim’s back. The Regent employed him to certify that none of the food that went upstairs contained any poison or other ingredients that would have ill consequences for the noble guests. “We’ll celebrate, have a party.”
She pushed herself up from the table, having solved everyone’s problems in one clear swoop. Dora was like that, as decisive and outspoken as Nellie was timid.
Sometimes, Nellie envied Dora.
“But now, I need you to start on the pastry dough. I need the ducks cut up and gutted for the soup. I need you to slice the leek, and I need you to bring in some firewood and core the apples.”