All the Ever Afters

by Danielle Teller

  One day, Matilda succeeded in convincing Charlotte to leave the house to play. God help me, I encouraged her to go. I knew that something was amiss when I heard the screaming. Children were always shrieking outside, but this was a sustained keening, a formless wail of distress. I rushed into the street in time to see that the noise came from one of the Ainsley girls; she ran past me, a flurry of pale blue petticoats, her face contorted in a howl. I did not see Charlotte and Matilda, so I ran in the direction from where the girl had come.

  As I passed the first alley, I spotted my daughters. Matilda was helping Charlotte to stand; it looked as though she could bear no weight on her right foot. Charlotte’s hair was disheveled, standing out in a wiry halo around her head, and her dress was completely torn from the neckline to the waist. Both girls looked grim. Matilda was muttering something to her sister, and Charlotte was crying.

  I stopped in front of them, panting. “What happened?” I asked. My voice sounded too sharp; I had not meant to bark at them.

  “They hurt Lottie.” Matilda was nearly four, but she still lisped like a baby. There was a smear of blood on her chin.

  “Who hurt Lottie?”

  “The girls.”

  “What girls? The Ainsley girls?”

  “And others,” said Charlotte.

  “They said she was a witch. They pushed her.”

  “My ankle is twisted.”

  “They said witches get pulled on a rope, and they are naked. And people throw stones.”

  “Why did the girls run away? Why was the girl screaming?”

  Matilda looked at me slyly. “I bit her.”

  “You bit her?”

  “Tilly jumped at the big girl and knocked her over too.” Charlotte wiped her tears, leaving a long streak of dirt across her cheek. “Then she bit her. Hard. The girl tried to get away, but Tilly hung on with her teeth. The girl got mad, and then she got scared because she was bleeding and Tilly wouldn’t let go. I was scared too. I thought Tilly would kill her. Then she got her off and ran away, and the others ran too.”

  Matilda tilted her round face toward me with an expression of defiance mixed with apprehension. She set her mouth in a grim line, waiting for the blast of my anger and her punishment. I wanted the girls to have the appearance of being high born, and they were used to me reacting furiously when they behaved badly. I was not qualified to teach the nuances of manners, but I routed out coarse behaviors by whatever means were necessary.

  Matilda held Charlotte’s brown arm protectively over her narrow shoulders. A dark bruise was blooming under her eye, and I realized that the blood on her chin belonged to the girl she had bitten. She looked fierce, barbaric. As I watched them, these mysterious creatures who came from my womb, I felt my determination, my certainty, sag and collapse. I did not know what was best for my daughters.

  I lifted Charlotte; she was heavy, but I was big and strong enough to cradle her in my arms still. I kissed her forehead. She still had a raw scar there from Saint John’s Day. I sighed and said, “We should go home, girls.”

  This time, it was Mylla Ainsley who called on me. She never frequented the alehouse as a customer, and she looked about the empty room awkwardly, as though she had entered a foreign country. It was clear that she did not want to be there. She wasted no time in getting to the point; her voice crackled with anger. “Your beastly urchin bit my Ann. If I ever see either of those animals again, I shall personally whip them to a bloody pulp. We are God-fearing citizens in this town! You don’t belong here. None of you. Not you or your heathen husband or your heathen children. Go back to where you came from!” Her eyes bulged, and taut cords appeared on her neck.

  “You cannot come to my home and threaten my children.”

  “Home? This is no home. This is a nest of sinners!” Her eyes were wild. “I shall threaten if I like. My family has been in Old Hilgate for five generations, and we do not tolerate heathens here, or witches.”

  My blood turned cold. It was one thing for children to call one another witches, but it was something else entirely for an adult to use that word. Although I had never heard of a child being put to death for being a witch, it was a dangerous accusation.

  “What do you mean, ‘witch’?”

  A glint of triumph shone in Mylla’s eyes. She had seen my fear.

  “You know exactly what I mean.”

  “Take that back, or you will regret it.”

  “Take what back? That your ugly daughter is the result of congress with the devil? That she is marked?” She said this with a sneer, taunting me.

  “If you say one more blasphemous word about Charlotte, you will regret it.”

  “Ha! Who knew that you could be so funny? You listen to me. I shall say whatever I want. If your brats come within fifty feet of any of my children, I shall flay them. Nobody would stop me, not after what happened to my Ann today. They are animals. You keep them away, or you will be sorry!” She left, slamming the door behind her for emphasis.

  With trembling fingers, I poured myself a cup of ale, and then another. I could not rid my mind of the image of myself as a young girl, helpless, unable to defend myself against the laundress who mocked me. I felt the full force of my hatred for Elisabeth, but she now wore the face of Mylla Ainsley. It was worse that the victims were my own daughters; I would have suffered any injury or indignity if my suffering could have spared them theirs. I could not stand having failed Charlotte and Matilda.

  After some time, and yet more ale, I grew calmer. My girls were healthy, and they were fortunate to have been born into better circumstances than me. Snot-nosed bullies would not determine their fates. The extent of Charlotte’s success in life would be the true measure of whether she had won against Mylla Ainsley and her ilk. In the meanwhile, I would find a way to shut Mylla up about Charlotte. I was determined to give her a taste of her own medicine.

  My plan proved easier than I had anticipated. While I chatted with customers in the alehouse, I mentioned that Henry, the itinerant tinker, had seen an unusually large black cat on Mylla’s roof, and I asked whether anyone had noticed a strange number of dead rodents and birds on our street. Townsfolk disliked Mylla; some were envious that she had been a great beauty in her youth and had married well, others resented her sanctimoniousness, but all seemed eager to see her brought down a peg. Soon, gossips were asking why the smoke from Mylla’s chimney had a greenish tinge, and why she always kept her shutters closed. There were sightings of a mysterious cloaked figure slinking toward the river at night; I even heard claims that a naked woman was seen in the embrace of a shadow at the edge of the woods. It was not in the least believable that a woman as pious and rigid as Mylla would turn to witchcraft, but the story was titillating enough to spread like fire on a thatch roof. To encourage the conflagration, I reported that Maggie, who had taken over most of her grandmother’s midwifery practice, had noticed an unusual number of miscarriages in Old Hilgate. I had even suffered two miscarriages myself.

  Eventually, the rumors made their way to Mylla’s ears. She did not have to be shrewd to realize that I had something to do with the gossip, and she paid me another visit. This time, I was ready for her.

  Mylla threw the door open with a bang, startling a party of travelers who were supping at the alehouse. I was in the brewery, but if I had any doubt about who had slammed the door, it did not last long. Mylla shrieked, “Agnes! Agnes, you rump-fed hag, get out here!”

  I straightened my skirts and went out to meet her. “Why, Mylla!” I said. “What a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you? I have some new lavender ale that is fresh and not too sweet if you would like some.”

  She flushed even more deeply. The travelers had stopped eating and watched with interest, doubtless hoping for an entertaining catfight.

  “I know that it is you spreading scurrilous rumors about me!”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Rumors? What sort of rumors? You know that I am too busy for gossip.”

  “You are trying to get
me accused of heresy!”

  “Oh my. Such a thing would be very dangerous.”

  Her eyes flashed murderously. “Nobody will believe your villainous lies. Everyone in Old Hilgate knows the godly life I have lived!”

  “Oh. Well then, you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Do not pretend to me that you are not behind this!”

  “Maybe if I did hear such a rumor, I could try to squelch it the way you try to squelch lies about my children. You know that all of Old Hilgate drinks and sups at my tavern. They listen to me. Or maybe you could spend some time here yourself. Get to know people better. They find it strange how much you keep to yourself.”

  Mylla glared at me, breathing hard. She must have realized that it was a fight she could not win, for she picked up a full flagon from the table and threw it in frustration. It clattered on the sideboard, splashing an arc of ale onto the wall. The man whose ale it had been yelled “Ho!” but Mylla paid him no heed. She spat on the floor and left without saying another word, but I knew that things would get better for Charlotte after that day.

  Although Charlotte’s troubles caused me pain, we had plenty to eat, a comfortable home, and a community that mostly welcomed us. Fernan remained distant but constant. We had no more children for a time, partly because Fernan was so often absent and partly because of my miscarriages. Fernan still hoped for a son, but I eventually gave him another daughter, which was when our real misfortunes began.

  Matilda was four years old when I was pregnant with Catherine, so I was glad to welcome a new baby. She was born healthy, but Fernan came home with a fever one day, and the baby sickened a fortnight after he left again. In the beginning, Catherine was colicky and restless, and she refused to nurse, but this was soon followed by a high fever and flux. I called on Maggie, who gave me some poultices. It seemed at first that Catherine was improving, but then, to my horror, I noticed small reddish spots in her mouth and on her forehead.

  Maggie brought her elderly grandmother to see the baby, but by then the rash had spread over Catherine’s entire little body, forming flat, velvety patches. Matilda also developed a fever. I did not need a midwife to tell me that this was the pox.

  I sent Charlotte to stay with her godparents, and I asked Maggie to fetch medicine from the apothecary. It was of no use, because Matilda vomited every hour, and she could not keep the tonic down. I closed the alehouse so that I could tend to the children day and night.

  Catherine whined and fussed, but Matilda’s suffering seemed worse. She heaved and choked when there was nothing in her stomach left to come up, and she drifted from fitful sleep to confused delirium. The shivering that racked her body was so violent that her teeth chattered. She sat up in bed once, her eyes open but unseeing, and cried out. Most of the time, I lay helplessly beside her, stroking her back or singing softly. I could not understand how she shivered when her skin was as hot as a cauldron on the fire.

  I wondered how Fernan fared, and too soon the news came to find me. A pounding on the door woke me just before dusk; I had nodded off beside the children. I left Matilda sleeping and carried Catherine with me to answer the knock. Catherine had become quieter, and I did not know whether to be glad or worried. She slept most of the time, and I had to rouse her to nurse. The rash on her skin did not seem changed.

  At the door stood a burly young man who introduced himself as Ralf, the sergeant for Ellis Abbey. He took a step back when he noticed the rash on Catherine’s face.

  “Sorry to bother you, Goodwife, but I have brought bad news. The man who owns this alehouse has died, and I am here to evict any tenants.”

  “Fernan is dead?” My head hurt, and my heart began to pound.

  “Was he a relation?” The sergeant asked this reluctantly, not wanting to hear the answer; he had already guessed that I was not a renter. He scuffed the dirt with his toe. The weather had been dry, and a cloud of fine dust rose.

  “He was my husband . . .” I was used to Fernan being gone, and we had shared little genuine intimacy, but the knowledge of his death brought real grief. I thought of the day before his fever, how he teased Charlotte and Matilda, dandling them on his knee just as he had when they were babies. He bounced them high into the air, much to their delight. I couldn’t imagine his powerful limbs stilled, his eyes sightless globes, his familiar face a mask of death.

  “I am sorry to hear it, madam. I am also sorry to tell you so, but you will have to leave.” He looked embarrassed.

  “But it is my alehouse! I own it. I have paid every cent for it.”

  “I don’t know anything about that. I was told to come here and make sure there are no squatters.”

  “How did Fernan die?”

  “Pox. He was at the hospital at the abbey, but the nuns could not save him.” Ralf crossed himself quickly.

  Tears rose to my eyes. I was so tired. “I need to tend to my children, and when they are better, I shall visit the abbey to sort this out. The alehouse is mine.”

  He looked at me dubiously, unsure what to do.

  “Please. I need to go back to my daughter. Tell the reeve, or the steward, that I shall come as soon as I can to sort this out.”

  The sergeant hesitated. He looked at Catherine, and then he glanced over his shoulder to where his horse was tied. When he looked back at me, his expression was troubled, but he said, “Very well.”

  I waited on the threshold until he unhitched his horse and left.

  Matilda continued to sleep. The vomiting seemed to have ended, and she felt less feverish to my touch. I searched her face and breast anxiously, hunting for the first red spots, but her tawny skin remained flawless. My lips moved in a whispered prayer to Saint John that Matilda be spared.

  I lay back down and arranged Catherine beside me. Her eyelids fluttered faintly, but she did not otherwise stir. I wondered whether I should wake her for a feeding, but she seemed so peaceful that I did not want to disturb her. I watched her little face in repose until the last light from the window died. In the gloom, the rash hardly showed. Her breath came quick as a rabbit’s. I settled my head next to her so that I could feel her little belly press up against my cheek with each rapid breath, and I fell back asleep.

  In the morning, I woke to find Catherine’s body cold. Her lids were open, and her glassy eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling. As though falling from a height, I watched the pain rush toward me without feeling it. When it hit, the breath left my body soundlessly, surging from my mouth like my soul escaping. My baby was dead. My Catherine.

  No tears came, and my body ached with the effort to expel some part of my agony. I dug my fingernails into my arms until bright spots of blood appeared.

  I could not leave Matilda, who still slept, so I cradled Catherine’s body all morning, kissing her cold brow and praying for her soul. I told myself that she was already with the angels. But who in heaven would comfort her when she was alone and frightened? At the thought of Catherine forsaken and afraid, my tears finally came in great racking sobs.

  Matilda woke, and I struggled to compose myself. She looked at me, confused, trying to make sense of what was happening. “Mama, what is it?” Her voice was weak and thick with sleep.

  “It is nothing, sweetheart. I am just worried for Catherine.” I hid the baby’s face from Matilda. “You must be thirsty! I shall fetch you a cup of water.”

  I went downstairs and placed Catherine’s body in her cradle, covering her entirely with a blanket. I felt sick. I wished that Fernan would come home. As soon as the wish flitted through my mind, I remembered that Fernan too was dead, and a new wave of grief threatened to overwhelm me. I could not think about that now. I had to tend to Matilda.

  Matilda drank the water I brought, but she ate nothing. “Where is Catherine?” she asked.

  “In her cradle. I thought that she would be better there.”

  “Where is Lottie?”

  “With Henny and George. She will come home soon. I have to go out for a little bit. If Henny comes
by, tell her to wait for me. I shan’t be gone long.”

  I carried Catherine’s body to the rectory and found Father Michael. He had been eating bread and cheese, and he wiped crumbs from his black beard with a bony wrist. I told him numbly about Fernan as well. He blessed the bundle in my arms and said that he would pray for both of their souls, and he would prepare a funeral Mass for Catherine the following day. I am sure that he pitied me, but I could not help but feel that it was only another day’s work for him.

  When I returned to the alehouse, I saw a pot of steaming stew on the table by the door, and I knew that Henny had come to visit as she did nearly every day. I found her upstairs, laying fresh blankets on Matilda and piling the soiled clothing for washing. When she saw me, she looked concerned; I shook my head, warning her not to ask in front of Matilda.

  “We are enjoying having Charlotte with us,” Henny said cheerfully. “She is a helpful child. She misses you though. She would like to come for a visit. Might do all of you some good!”

  “I am not sure, Henny. This air is corrupted. Let her bide with you a bit longer.”

  “I am glad to see that Matilda looks better!”

  “She does. I pray that . . .” My voice trailed away. I avoided meeting Henny’s eyes.

  “Well, now that I have tidied up here, let’s get you some supper. You are too thin!”

  Downstairs, I told her about Fernan and Catherine. She embraced me warmly, exclaiming, “Oh, you poor dear girl! You poor, poor dear!”

  Her kindness provoked a new flood of tears. When I could speak again, I said, “Henny, I could not manage without you. You are an angel.”

  “Tut, tut, no talk of angels. Someone up there might hear you. Your job is to care for your little one. Charlotte is fine, and I shall see to the funeral arrangements. All you need do is show up. I shall fetch you tomorrow. Now eat up!”

  I thought about Alice sitting in the same spot while Henny spooned food into her mouth, and how strange it was that I had taken her place. I had become an alewife, and like her, I had lost a daughter and a husband. Henny now brought dinner for me as she used to do for Alice. Like the seasons, the cycle of life and death rolls relentlessly forward, grinding our selfhood, those treasured sentiments and aspirations that distinguish each of us, into a handful of dust. Once I am dead, nobody will remember Catherine. Apart from a faint echo in the depths of her sisters’ memories, it will be as though she never existed.