All the Ever Afters

by Danielle Teller

  We stripped away Lady Alba’s shift and gave her the bath that she had so badly needed but refused. It was a strange intimacy with her body, greater in death than it would have been in life. She could not flinch or pull away, and we could not mount a wall of words between us. The absence of her soul made her nakedness stark, and I did not want to touch her. Gisla tended to her with a quiet tenderness that made me feel ashamed.

  The color drained from Lady Alba’s face as we cleaned, leaving her pale except for delicate blooms of red on her cheeks and nose. The whites of her eyes remained discolored, but as the swelling subsided, we managed to close them. In silent collusion, we dressed her in a high-necked gown that hid the wound on her neck. Gisla’s hands trembled as she fastened the buttons.

  Gisla took her mistress’s jeweled brush and worked through the tangles in Lady Alba’s hair as she had done so many times before. She looked at me, her face grim, and spoke for the first time since we began the bath. “You had better go and tell Sir Emont.”

  I dressed quickly in the anteroom. Joan had ceased her moaning, but she remained crumpled against the wall. I asked her to stay with Ella before I left.

  Emont was still in his bedchamber; as he did not like to have an attendant sleep with him, he answered the door himself. His reddish curls hung in greasy ropes from beneath his nightcap, and his white, hairy legs poked out from beneath his gray undertunic. I would have felt more comfortable delivering bad news in the great hall, when he was fully dressed, but I could not delay. I took a deep breath. “I am sorry to bring you bad news, sir, but Joan found Lady Alba dead this morning.”

  Emont’s expression did not immediately register the shock, but his polite smile dissolved with painful slowness. “What happened?”

  Gisla expected me to deceive him, but I had not taken the time to invent a convincing lie. I feigned bewildered confusion, saying, “I . . . I don’t know. Joan said that she did not wake.”

  “Has someone sent for the priest?”

  “Not yet.” Given the circumstances of Lady Alba’s death, I had not considered calling the priest, though of course I should have, or people would begin to ask questions. I looked at my slippered feet to hide my burning cheeks. My great toe poked through a hole in the upper.

  Emont closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. In a strangled voice he gasped, “Oh, my God!” He calmed himself and said more firmly, “I shall have to let her sister know. Show me to Lady Alba.”

  I led Emont to his wife’s quarters. Joan had not moved, but Ella was nowhere to be seen. We passed into the dim and airless chamber, where the strong scent of rosewater greeted us, a loud note that failed to obscure the pungent undertone of accumulated odors. Gisla was gone. Slanting shafts of morning light filtered through the shutters. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, except for the silence.

  Gisla had arranged Lady Alba’s hands so that they lay folded over her velvet-clad bosom. She looked so angelic, her pale face smooth and expressionless, her golden hair spread out like a halo, that I nearly believed my own falsehood. Emont went to the bedside and touched his wife’s hand.

  It was then that I saw Ella. She crouched in the shadows behind the bed, still as a statue, her eyes watchful. I did not want to disturb Emont, so I approached the child carefully, as one might approach a feral creature. Before I got within arm’s reach, Gisla appeared, announcing that the priest had been summoned to anoint Lady Alba’s corpse. Ella took advantage of the distraction to dart away. Her father, who was asking Gisla for details, did not notice.

  Ella hid from me for several hours; I finally found her sitting behind the curtains in the solar reserved for guests. She wrapped her arms around her legs, resting her little chin on her knees. Her expression was blank and her eyes were dry. She did not look at me as I crouched beside her and stroked her back lightly.

  “Ella.”

  She did not respond.

  “Ella, your mother has gone to heaven to be with God. Jesus has welcomed her home.”

  Ella seemed unaware of my presence. I was used to Charlotte and Matilda’s occasional stony silence, their quiet, fuming resentment, but this was not the same. Ella was simply absent. I shivered.

  “We have to get ready to go to the abbey, sweetheart. There will be a Mass for your mother. She will take her place among the saints.”

  I could get no response from the girl. I wondered queasily whether she knew that I was not telling the truth. That was impossible; the child had seen nothing and knew nothing of heaven’s rules. I gave up trying to talk to her and picked Ella up in my arms. She stiffened, her eyes flashed with hostility, and then she became passive again. She did not fight me when I dressed her and braided her hair. I packed a trunk for both of us, and then we joined Emont in the carriage.

  The trip to Ellis Abbey lasted an eternity. Emont stared fixedly out the window; the countryside that crawled past was brown and drab after a long winter, and the sky a dull gray. I worried that he would ask me questions about Lady Alba’s death, but he said nothing. If he had any suspicions, he kept them buried, where they belonged.

  Ella reclined on her father’s lap, dozing or simply looking at the roof. At times, she hummed tunelessly. We had bread and cold chicken for supper, and I peeled an apple that was spongy from months in the cellar. I sliced off small pieces for Ella, and she took them absently from my hand. Sickness from the morning’s events and my nervous excitement about seeing my daughters again made it impossible for me to eat. As the hours dribbled by, my heart pounded on my rib cage like it was trying to get free.

  We arrived at the abbey as the bell rang for vespers. The sky was orange and pink in the west, and the air held the freshness of early spring. Grooms met us and helped us down from the carriage just outside the church, and Mother Elfilda herself appeared from the door to the cloister. She was attended by two nuns, one of whom I recognized as the prioress. Their veils glowed in the fading light and fluttered behind them like banners. The abbess held out a small, pale hand to Emont, saying, “I am sorry for your loss.”

  Emont bent to kiss her hand and replied, “It is your loss as well, Your Reverence.”

  Mother Elfilda bowed her head in assent. “You may use the bishop’s chambers tonight, Emont. Sister Margaret will show you to them, and a manservant will meet you there.” She looked to Ella, who was clinging to her father’s leg, and to my astonishment, the abbess stooped to speak to the child directly. “I am your godmother, Elfilda. I shall help to care for you now that your mother is dead. We shall celebrate the ascension of her soul into heaven tomorrow.”

  Ella looked up at her with huge eyes, saying nothing. The abbess smiled faintly. I wondered if Ella reminded her of herself as a child. The resemblance was striking.

  “Are you the nurse?” Mother Elfilda showed no sign of recognizing me.

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “You may take Elfilda to the guest quarters. Sister Margaret will come for you when she has shown Emont to his rooms.”

  Servants were already unloading our trunk from the carriage.

  “I know the way, my lady.”

  The abbess and prioress had started back toward the church without waiting for my reply, so I took Ella by the hand. She did not want to let go of her father. He kissed her head and bade her go with me, and she relented to do so as long as I carried her.

  I let Ella ride on my back, holding on to her little hands so that she did not grab too tightly at my throat. She seemed to have recovered from her earlier torpor, and she chattered about the animals that she had seen during our trip to the abbey. As she seldom went outdoors, and as there were no animals within the inner gate of the manor, even sheep were a novelty for the girl.

  Although it was out of our way, I went first to the cloister in the hope of seeing Charlotte and Matilda. The sun had set, which meant that vespers was ending, and the children would soon be on their way to their dorter. I lingered in the arcade in the deepening twilight, trying to entertain Ella by watching the sky for t
he first stars to appear. She grew bored and cold, and guilt crept over me when I heard her kittenish yawn. Reluctantly, I left the empty cloister and brought Ella to the guesthouse. Our trunk had been delivered to the large chamber at the front of the building, where I put Ella to bed, relieved that she had returned to her normal three-year-old self. I settled beside her, knowing that sleep would be elusive. I yearned to go to my daughters; they were so close, and my mind filled in every detail of their appearances as they slept. I could see the rise and fall of their breathing, the fluttering of their eyelids, their loosely curled fists flung wide. I could feel the warmth of their brows as I kissed them good night ever so softly.

  The next morning, Ella was up with the sun, and I took her to the abbey’s kitchen to fetch her some milk. I planned to wait in the cloister until Charlotte and Matilda passed through, so I brought Ella’s buttons on a small tray to keep her occupied. On the day that poor Ella would see her mother buried, I was as nervous as a young girl on the way to her wedding.

  We did not have to wait long for the convent school girls to finish morning prayers. I watched them file out of the chapel, all garbed in the same gray frock that I had worn at Rose House so long ago. The older girls walked quietly in pairs, and the younger ones spilled out after them, jostling one another and stifling giggles. My heart was in my throat as I searched the faces for my daughters.

  When I saw Charlotte, I caught my breath. She had grown so tall! Her raven hair and dark skin stood out among the fair children like a black sheep in a flock of white. Soft contours of baby fat were gone, giving way to the hard lines of her jaw and graceful bridge of her nose. Without thinking, I stood, spilling the tray of buttons that Ella had been playing with on my lap. Ella shrieked, and I bent to comfort her, promising to gather the buttons. I did not have time to straighten before Matilda crashed into me crying, “Mama!” We fell backward onto the grass, still dead from winter, and Matilda covered my face with quick pecking kisses. When she smiled, I could see that she was missing two of her teeth. Behind her, wavering through my tears, Charlotte looked down on us, beaming.

  Ella was so surprised by the commotion that she stopped crying. A nun scolded the girls sharply, and Matilda let go of me and brushed the yellow blades from her skirt. Her face was still badly scarred from the pox. Though her skin was no longer discolored, it was distorted by pits and jagged ruts. My heart ached as I remembered her smooth, perfect baby face nuzzling at my neck.

  “What is the meaning of this behavior?” demanded the stout nun. Some of the younger girls lingered and stared.

  “Forgive us, Sister. This is our mother,” said Charlotte.

  The nun raised her thin eyebrows. “Is this how a lady behaves?”

  “No, Sister,” the girls replied in unison.

  “You must each pray a novena so that you will remember next time.”

  Charlotte groaned.

  The nun turned to me. “I did not know that their mother had come. Are you taking them home?”

  Charlotte and Matilda watched me with shining eyes, childish hopefulness written clearly on their faces.

  “No, Sister. I have come for Lady Alba’s funeral. This is her daughter, Elfilda. I am her nurse.”

  Matilda’s chin quivered.

  “I would like to visit with my daughters while I am here. I have not seen them in more than three years. We could spend this morning together. I must leave tomorrow to bring Elfilda home.”

  The holy lady looked doubtful. It was difficult to reconcile my appearance and speech—and my daughters’ positions as convent students—with the fact that I was a servant. She was probably unsure of what to make of me or how to address me. Finally, she said to my daughters, “Meet us for prayer at terce. You may stay with your mother until then.” The nun herded the remaining girls to the dining hall like a mother goose, leaving Charlotte and Matilda behind with me.

  The girls became shy once everyone was gone, but I asked them to help me to pick up Ella’s buttons, and that seemed to put them at ease. They examined Ella with fascination. With her long, graceful limbs and dainty proportions, Ella looked like a golden-haired Bathsheba shrunk down to the size of a doll. Next to her, my daughters were giants.

  Charlotte, who had always been nurturing, tried to play with Ella. She made a game of counting the buttons, which made the tiny girl laugh, but when Charlotte tried to pick her up, Ella screeched and hid behind my skirts. I proposed that we go for a walk around the pond to look for frogs, and my suggestion was met with enthusiasm from the older girls, but not from Ella. She avoided water like a cat. I promised that her feet would not get wet, and she agreed to come as long as I carried her.

  On the way to the pond, I peppered Charlotte and Matilda with questions about their lives at the abbey, but they were not interested in talking about it. They skipped around me, chattering about a girl who had fainted during Mass, how angry the prioress had been, what they hoped to eat for dinner, and how much they loved Ella’s blue gown. I managed to gather that they were both good pupils, and that they liked some teachers and loathed others. I suppose that I got the only answer I needed, which was that they were not unhappy.

  The ground around the pond was muddier than I had anticipated. I tried to herd the girls away from the edge and onto more solid ground, but they were carried away by their excitement; when the frogs tried to escape into the rushes, Charlotte and Matilda followed. I warned them that they would be punished for dirtying their shoes, but they did not care. After a while, I did not care either. I followed their movements hungrily. Their delight nourished me, and their laughter brought color back into the world.

  Ella was not tempted to join the older girls, but she watched their activity with interest from her perch on my back. When Charlotte trapped a frog in her hands, Ella leaned precariously low to peer into the darkness between Charlotte’s fingers. As she could see nothing, Charlotte opened her fingers wider and wider, until the frog saw its chance for freedom and sprang into the air. Ella started and I nearly lost my grasp of her, but then she giggled happily. Charlotte laughed too and promised to find her another frog.

  As the time to part grew near, Matilda grew quiet and sidled closer to me. She pulled at my arm, but as I needed both hands to hold on to Ella, I could not embrace her. I tried to set Ella on some dry ground, but she squirmed and refused to get down. Matilda then whined plaintively that she did not wish me to leave, and she tried to hook her arm around my waist, but Ella was in the way. I am not certain whether Matilda hit or pinched her, but Ella sent up a wail of fury and indignation.

  “Matilda!”

  She looked at me sheepishly.

  “Shame on you!” I shifted Ella so that I held her against my chest, and I kissed her golden hair. “You apologize to Ella right now!”

  Matilda’s expression darkened as she watched me cuddle the whimpering Ella. “I’m sorry.”

  “She is just a wee girl. You should know better!”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Matilda had never called me Mother before, only Mama. Her tone was more sad than cold, and I had the urge to drop Ella and gather my own daughter in my arms. Instead, I called Charlotte over and said, “I shall help you both to get clean. The bells will ring shortly, and we should go back.”

  Charlotte looked stricken, and I did not know how to comfort her. I struggled to keep the tears from my own eyes. On the road, Ella consented to walk, and I gathered tufts of grass to clean the girls’ shoes. They plodded silently back to the cloister with me as the bells rang for terce. When we reached the arcade, Charlotte turned to me, her eyes glistening. “When shall we see you again, Mama?” Her voice wavered.

  “I don’t know, my angel.” Ella pulled at my skirts, and I yanked them away in annoyance.

  “Shall we ever live with you again?”

  “I wish it with all my heart.”

  “Me too.”

  Ella whimpered, but I ignored her. I embraced Charlotte and Matilda quickly and told them to hurry,
for they were late. They left reluctantly. As they neared the chapter house, Matilda looked back over her shoulder. I had just picked up Ella, but I managed to raise my hand to wave. Matilda turned away again without returning the gesture.

  The funeral Mass was not very different from any other Mass I had witnessed at the abbey. All of the sisters were in attendance, but there were few other guests, and as far as I could tell, nobody shed a tear. The richly dressed men and women in the front pews likely came to curry favor with the abbess, whether they belonged to the Wenslock family or not. I am not even certain that Lady Alba’s sister mourned her passing.

  Ella and I sat in the pew behind Emont. He did not look well; his face was sallow and bloated. I had dressed Ella in her finest velvet and brushed her hair until it shone, but he did not remark on her beauty in his usual manner. He merely patted her cheek and then knelt to pray.

  After Mass, the abbess led a procession to the burial ground, but Ella and I did not follow. The little girl had fallen asleep with her head on my lap, so I remained behind in the church and let her rest until we had to join the others for the abbess’s reception. Though she had shown no outward signs of grief, I pitied the child for the loss of her mother. Lady Alba had been inconstant, but Ella must have loved her dearly.

  Lady Alba’s body was a feast for worms, but I wondered what would become of her soul. Hers was the gravest of sins, one that could not be repented. It did not seem right that murderers could go to heaven after confession, but Lady Alba would not be afforded such a chance.

  I twined the ends of Ella’s pale curls around my fingers as she slept. Her hair was soft and fell in perfect ringlets around her fair, heart-shaped face. I felt a shiver of wonder, just as when a huge harvest moon floats silvery bright on a purple horizon, or when the church fills with song at Christmastide.

  Sadness pressed down upon me when I thought of my own daughters. Nobody would ever find them beautiful.

  As the sun dropped low in the sky, the western windows glowed and cast their brilliant colors over the floor and the pews. I tried to feel grateful for my good fortune, telling myself that Charlotte and Matilda had a comfortable life. I could not help but worry that just as Ella had lost her mother, my daughters were losing theirs too.