“Have you not seen how much the scullions throw away? If you had mouse-proof containers built and kept them nearer the fire, where it is dry, you would suffer far less waste.”
“Even if we eliminated the cost of flour altogether, it would make no real difference to our monthly expense.”
“I beg to differ. Every line on this sheet is important. What about this one? Twenty crowns for ale? A royal fortune! We could make our own for a few shillings. Why do we not make our own soap too? And why do you have so many kitchen staff? You have three paid servants and a half dozen villeins who must be fed from the manorial larder. They sit idle when there are no guests, which, as far as I can see, is nearly always. They could be working the land instead of sitting on their thumbs.”
It was the first time I saw the bailiff smile. “The lass has some sense in her pretty head,” he said to Wills. “I could use some of those idle hands to repair the church roof.”
A loud snore caused me to start. Emont had fallen asleep beside me, sprawled on the table. He stirred, and his arm flopped over a portion of the parchment. I stood over him, unsure how to proceed. He let out a long, whistling breath that ended with a comical vibration of his lips, not unlike the sound of escaping flatulence. The bailiff chuckled, and when I looked at Wills, he was having trouble suppressing his own smile.
“I suppose this concludes our session,” I said.
“Yes,” Wills said stiffly, his smile snuffed out. He tugged the ledger from under Emont’s arm. “We cannot continue without the master.”
The bailiff bade me good-bye politely, but Wills left without a word. I found him later, in the kitchen.
“Would you like me to show you the problem with the flour?” I asked.
“I have eyes in my own head.”
“I am not your enemy, Wills. I would like to be of assistance.”
Wills looked at me skeptically.
“I cannot say why I have the master’s ear, but I have it—”
“Yes, why?” he interrupted. “I bet you lift those fancy skirts for him.”
I stared at the chamberlain until he began to shift uncomfortably and dropped his gaze. “You have not only insulted me grievously, you have insulted the lord and lady of the manor,” I said. “Would you stand for any of your staff to say such a thing?”
“I shall look into the grain and flour storage,” Wills said by way of apology. “You had best get back to work.”
Though he said no more about it, Wills did follow my advice about the flour. I became a regular attendee of business meetings, and Wills grudgingly accepted some of my suggestions. Once the resistance of the bailiff and chamberlain had worn down, Emont began to wander away partway through meetings, leaving me to finish for him. As the lord’s tacit representative, I took over, in one small way, the duties of the lady of the manor.
Journal Entry
The Royal Court
The seasons slip by as I scribe my history, and while new events keep the court gossip mill turning, there is a sameness to every day that obscures the passage of time. Mornings, afternoons, and evenings unspool torpidly at the palace; life here is a tedious string of aristocratic social rites overlaid by idle chatter. The brightest moments are those spent with family, though today our precious time together was marred by tears.
We joined Ella in the green solar, where she has been receiving well-wishers and their gifts for baby Princess Phillipa, named for the new queen consort. Little Prince George came for a time too, with his nurse. He is a delightful boy, and now that he can talk, it is evident that he is as clever as a wren.
Ella was radiant in a simple satin gown, her tresses adorned with pearls. Flanking her on the settee were two ladies-in-waiting, Cecily Barrett and Isabella Florivet. Both women wore elaborate gowns and had their hair sculpted into fashionable cornettes, but though they are not unattractive, they were like a pair of common mules browsing next to a majestic destrier. The elegant line of Ella’s long neck, her graceful bearing and lustrous golden mane would put any thoroughbred to shame. It is rumored that the Barrett girl has found her way into Prince Henry’s bed, but I don’t believe it. What man who owns the kingdom’s best horse would consent to ride a mule?
Chairs had been arranged for the attendants, and George’s nurse had wisely chosen one close to the door, positioning herself to escape when the little boy began to squirm. I kissed the crown of his fair head as I squeezed by, and he rewarded me with a smile. We are accomplices in mischief, Georgie and I, which is why his nurse looks so sour whenever she sees me.
Charlotte and Matilda had saved me a spot beside baby Phillipa and her nurse. I asked to hold the baby, and Isabella sniffed sharply. I don’t care that it is uncouth; I am not going to pass up the opportunity to cuddle my granddaughter. Phillipa is a placid little thing; she favors her father, with dark eyes and hair. When I stroked her creamy cheek, her perfect little rosebud lips twitched with dreamy contentment.
When Charlotte asked to hold the baby, Cecily said in her wheedling voice, sweet as honey, “Is Lady Charlotte feeling broody?”
Charlotte pulled Phillipa closer as though to protect her.
Ella was occupied with a subject, an elderly woman who winced arthritically as she curtsied low. Cecily whispered, “Don’t squeeze the little doll, or you will have puke on your . . . Where did you get that gown?” Her smile was counterfeit. “It is so . . . rustic.”
Isabella giggled and said, “I have heard that a certain courtier has taken a keen interest in Lady Charlotte. Perhaps there will be babies in her future after all.”
I was surprised to see a faint flush in Charlotte’s cheeks. She is usually dismissive of these cruel girls, but her look was one of embarrassment tinged with self-conscious pleasure.
“What sort of interest do you mean?” Matilda asked sharply. She put her arm around her sister.
“Oh, well, you should ask Charlotte, shouldn’t you? Perhaps I have said too much.” Isabella lowered her chin and widened her eyes, parodying a child caught in a fib.
“What is she saying, Lottie?” Matilda asked.
“It’s . . . It’s probably nothing.”
Charlotte’s discomfiture was difficult for me to watch.
“Your ‘probably nothing’ seems to be provoking a good bit of amusement,” Matilda said dryly. She is never afraid of speaking her mind, which may be a silver lining to her disfigurement. She doesn’t care a whit what anyone thinks of her.
“There have been letters . . .” Charlotte’s voice was so low that I could barely hear her. “And a gift. A trinket, really.” She pulled a ring from her pocket. It was cheaply made and obviously too small for her fingers.
“Oh how adorable!” Cecily said. “She carries it with her!” She winked at Isabella behind Ella’s back.
“Who sent the letters?” I asked cautiously.
“I have not met the gentleman,” Charlotte responded, her eyes downcast.
“Do tell us his name!” Isabella said.
The well-wishers had cleared out, and Ella turned to face us. “What is so funny?” she asked.
“Charlotte has a secret admirer!” Cecily said. “Tell us his name!”
“Sir Blakely Snoodgrum,” Charlotte whispered.
Isabella tittered and Cecily covered her mouth with her hand. Ella looked from one to the other with her lovely violet-blue eyes. “Isn’t that what you call his majesty behind his back?” she asked.
Cecily frowned.
“See, now you’ve ruined their fun, Princess.” Matilda’s voice was harsh, and Ella flinched.
“They were making sport of Charlotte,” I explained. “Tell me, Cecily, how many marriage proposals have you received? And you, Isabella, you must have been heartbroken when the baron married Lord Geraint’s daughter. Her fortune is so much smaller than yours! I wonder why he chose her?”
Matilda snorted, Charlotte blinked back tears, and Ella watched us with a puzzled frown. She is bright, but she has never been able to discern obl
ique messages concealed behind ordinary words. Cecily opened her mouth to deliver what I don’t doubt was to be a nasty retort, but Matilda cut in, saying, “Isn’t Phillipa lovely? It brings tears to my eyes just to see her so happy in your arms, Lottie. She is a sweet lamb and beautiful like her mother.” She made as though to brush away a tear, and Charlotte glanced at her gratefully, her eyes brimming.
“Our poor princess looks exhausted,” I said. “Would you two ladies be so good as to inform the chamberlain that she needs to rest and see her back to her chambers?”
Ella looked relieved.
“You have no standing to tell us what to do!” Isabella said crossly.
“Of course, it was only a suggestion. Your Highness, are you weary?”
“Yes, very much.”
“So, I shall find the chamberlain myself. Come, Charlotte, give Phillipa back to her nurse and help me to find Aleyn.”
We left Matilda to contend with the other two ladies-in-waiting, which I am sure she did ably. I wish that our lives were not filled with people such as these, that we could live like a real family. I miss the intimacy, the warmth, the simplicity that we captured so fleetingly in those tender days that are more dream than memory for me now.
16
Valley of the Shadow
By the age of three, Ella had become a child of breathtaking beauty. Every time I glanced at her, I found her even more exquisite than she had seemed the moment before. Her hair grew in silken curls like her father’s, but the color was pale gold, like her mother’s. She had eyes too big for her small head, liquid pools of amethyst fringed by long, sweeping lashes. While most children have sturdy, chubby limbs, Ella’s were the slender and graceful limbs of a fawn. Lady Alba dressed her in light-colored satins that suited her fair skin, but the gowns were impossible to keep clean. I took to dressing her in serviceable wool whenever I knew that her mother would not see her.
Like other children, Ella learned to walk on her first birthday, but she did not begin to speak until her third. Until then, she had been able to follow instructions, but she mainly got by with pointing, grabbing, or crying to communicate what she wanted. Emont worried that his daughter was simple, and he sighed with relief when, seemingly overnight, she learned to chatter and sing. Her voice was pitched high, the droll but charming warble of a sparrow. When she shrieked, however, her voice pierced like a dagger.
Ella did not like stories or pretend play. What she liked best was sorting and arranging. I remembered how much I loved collecting stones as a child, and I tried to interest her in searching for a new collection with me, but she did not care for the outdoors. Gisla suggested that I try buttons, and that was more successful. Ella could sit for hours, lining up the buttons in neat rows from largest to smallest or sorting them by color and shape.
Emont was smitten with his beautiful daughter, and he denied her nothing. He requested treats from the kitchen every morning, so she was anxious to go to him as soon as she woke. Ella still slept beside me when she was three, and she would prod me awake with little kicks and pokes, telling me to hurry. It was a struggle to get the child properly clothed and her hair brushed; she squirmed and complained, and if she saw an opportunity to escape before her toilette was complete, she would invariably take it. Emont seemed not to care whether her hair was a squirrel’s nest, and if Ella managed to elude me in the morning, she would peer at me triumphantly from behind the safety of her father’s legs. Gisla was the only one who could convince the girl to sit docilely for a brushing; the old woman had infinite patience and a soft touch.
Once Ella was clothed, she would race downstairs singing “Treats! Treats!” Emont hid the sweets, pretending that he had not brought any. Ella searched the hall and Emont’s pockets until she found her reward, and Emont allowed her to curl in his lap like a cat while she nibbled.
Ella preferred her father’s company to anybody else’s, I believe because he demanded nothing from her. He did not insist on good manners, like I did, or dress her up like a doll, like her mother. He did not try to draw her into conversation like Joan and Gisla. He simply let her abide in his presence, and she was content.
Toward the end of Ella’s third year, Lady Alba changed in some fundamental but inexplicable way, as though a part of her went missing. She had never gone out much, but during that period, she withdrew almost entirely from the world. She refused to leave her chambers, and I never saw her fully dressed anymore. A light within her was snuffed out. Whereas she used to vacillate between fevered intensity and the charming whimsy of a mischievous child, she became listless and indifferent. Her eyes were dull and her face slack. Night and day, she huddled on her bed wearing the same dirty shift, refusing to let Gisla or Joan bathe her.
I often found Lady Alba muttering to herself when I brought Ella to visit. She paused with her head tilted to the side as though listening for a response, though nobody else spoke. If I tried to get her attention, she usually ignored us or feigned sleep. Ella sang little ditties, hoping that Lady Alba would join in as she used to. When she got no response, she settled for lying next to her mother on the bed, playing with her limp white fingers. The sun burned through the shutters, laying stripes across the accumulation of discarded toiletries on the floor. The rosewater that Joan sprinkled on the bed could not hide the stench of Lady Alba’s unwashed body, but Ella did not so much as wrinkle her little nose.
Emont had been a rare visitor to his wife’s chambers, and after one particularly bad evening, he stopped visiting altogether. Ella was asleep when Emont knocked on the door; Joan vacated the chamber to give the master and mistress their privacy. After a silence, we heard an incoherent scream and then loud cursing from Emont. He banged the door open, holding the palm of his hand over his eye. Streaks of blood ran down his face. He lurched rapidly through the antechamber, like an injured hart fleeing from hunters. That was the last of his nocturnal appearances.
Gisla wrung her knobby hands, worrying for Lady Alba’s soul. She brought the priest to give her mistress communion and hear her confession, but Lady Alba turned mute as a stone. Gisla told me that when the priest blessed her forehead with holy water, the lady recoiled from his touch. This convinced the loyal servant that the devil had invaded her mistress’s body, and she resolved to speak with Sir Emont about sending Lady Alba to the bishop.
Whether the bishop could have saved Lady Alba, we cannot know. What transpired was so dark that nobody has spoken of it since. One day at dawn, as I floated in the shallows of early-morning sleep, Joan burst from Lady Alba’s chamber, wailing and sobbing. Gisla was already out of bed, and she asked sharply, “Whatever is the matter, girl?”
“The mistress!” Joan wailed. Her face was a mask of anguish.
Gisla’s eyes widened in alarm. She marched briskly into Lady Alba’s chamber to investigate. Ella, who sat up straight in bed beside me, stared after the old woman, her face blank. I pulled the child protectively toward me, and though she did not resist, she did not yield either. She remained silent and inanimate as I kissed the top of her head.
Gisla shouted my name, and Joan collapsed against the wall, mewling helplessly. My legs refused to run. Fear and duty struggled for control of my limbs, and though duty won, I moved toward Lady Alba’s chamber with leaden footsteps.
I could not make sense of the sight that greeted me. Gisla, her wrinkled face red with strain, gripped Lady Alba’s thighs, holding her aloft as though she were tossing her into the air. Lady Alba slumped to one side; her corn-silk hair cascaded over her shoulder, dancing slowly back and forth over the top of Gisla’s black nightcap. She swayed gently, like a stalk of wheat in a light breeze.
“Come here!” Gisla wheezed. “Take her legs!”
Lady Alba’s face turned slowly toward me like the moon waxing. It was purple and swollen beyond recognition. I swallowed the gorge that came to my throat and relieved Gisla of the task of supporting our mistress’s weight. My strength fed on fear and revulsion. I lifted Lady Alba effortlessly, high into
the air, so that the cord around her neck slackened, and she slumped farther sideways. Her cold body pressed against my cheek; the foul smell sickened me. Gisla righted the overturned footstool and stepped up to untie the noose from Lady Alba’s neck. This attempt was unsuccessful, but she retrieved a knife from the side table to slice through the silken tie. Lady Alba must have used the same knife to cut a length of cord from the bed hangings.
I laid the body awkwardly on the bed. Joan still moaned in the anteroom. I went to the door and saw that Ella was on the bed where I had left her. She watched her hands intently as she waved her fingers sinuously in front of her eyes, something she did to calm herself. I closed the door softly, hoping not to disturb her.
Gisla worked to remove the noose from Lady Alba’s neck. It had bitten deep into her flesh, and the swelling nearly swallowed the cord, leaving only a thin sliver visible in the channel it had cut. Lady Alba’s eyes were slits between her puffy, violaceous lids, and the whites had turned a satanic red. I tried to close her eyes, but they would not remain shut.
“Agnes, try this knot. My old hands are no use.” Gisla’s voice shook.
I worked on the cord until I loosened it, and then I pulled it as gently as I could from the furrow in Lady Alba’s neck. It was dark with blood, but nothing fresh oozed out.
“She has been dead some hours.”
Gisla nodded and winced as though it hurt her. “The stupid sow slept right through.”
“It was not Joan’s fault.”
Gisla did not answer. When she looked at me, there were tears standing in her eyes. “Help me to wash her. Fetch some water.”
“No amount of water is going to hide what she did.”
Gisla struck me across the face with shocking ferocity. I brought my hand to my stinging cheek.
“Fetch the water.”
The slap woke my anger, but I also saw too late how traitorous my words had sounded to the old woman. I did as she bade me.
All the Ever Afters Page 20