All the Ever Afters

by Danielle Teller

  He grunted but sat up again, crushing my ribs beneath his hips. “Come to bed.” His voice was hoarse. He staggered to his feet and held out a hand to help me up, but I didn’t trust his balance. I stood on my own, brushing down my skirt.

  “You will only make things worse for both of us.” I stroked his arm lightly with an affection that was only partly feigned. For all of his drunken, awkward advances, he did care for me, and for all of his privilege, he was deeply unhappy.

  Emont leaned forward and kissed me again. I pressed my lips briefly to his, and then I pushed him away again. “No. Please. Why don’t you lie down on the bed? I shall untie your boots. It is late and time you slept.”

  Emont looked at me hopefully. He tried to take my hand, but I placed my hands on his shoulders instead and guided him to the bed. When we reached the bedside, he grasped both of my wrists and searched my face intently. His eyes were lucid; perhaps he was not as drunk as I had believed. I felt a queasy flutter and could not meet his gaze.

  “Agnes, you are unlike anyone I have ever met. You are so clever and kind. I . . . I wish . . .”

  The naked sentiment in his voice made me uncomfortable. I did not like to hear him describe me as kind. I cut him off, saying, “Perhaps you should meet more women.” I had meant to sound wry, but the words were bitter even to my own ears.

  Emont held my wrists a moment longer, and then he flopped down resignedly and closed his eyes. I unlaced his boots slowly, telling him a story about Ella from earlier in the day. Before I could finish, he began to snore.

  In the weeks that followed, Emont twisted and strained against the bonds of circumstance. He did not want to risk angering Abbess Elfilda, but he could not bear the thought of marrying me to another man. He made untenable proposals to hide me at the manor, but even he understood that the abbess would soon hear if he were consorting with an unwed servant.

  I encouraged Emont’s attachment by being warm and solicitous, hoping that he might cave in and marry me, but my attentions inflamed Emont without pushing him closer to a decision. He drank more heavily than ever, and he was intolerant of his daughter, which he had never been before.

  One morning, while we sat together in the great hall, Ella squirmed on Emont’s lap and knocked over his cup of ale.

  “Get off me, you clumsy mimmerkin!” he bellowed and pushed Ella forcefully from his lap.

  The girl landed on her knees, and she remained still for a moment, stunned. Then Ella’s lovely eyes widened and she let out a shriek, an uninterrupted keening. Emont grasped her long hair, which she wore loose that day, and he hauled her to her feet with a sharp yank. He pushed his face close to his daughter’s and shouted, “Take your sniveling elsewhere!”

  This ended Ella’s shriek, but she began to sob. Shaking, she pulled away from her father. I rose to help her, but Emont roared, “Stay!” so I sank back into my chair, and the girl ran crying to Gisla by herself.

  Emont gripped the arms of his chair. I waited for his breathing to slow before daring to speak.

  “You should go to her and soothe her spirits with a few kind words,” I said.

  Emont closed his eyes and knocked the back of his head against the carved headrest. He sighed. “I know,” he said. “I will go to her.”

  “You are a good father.”

  “I am a weak father.”

  “Most fathers do not show so much affection to their daughters.”

  “She is all I have.” He sounded miserable.

  “She can certainly be trying at times.”

  Emont opened his eyes and looked at me curiously. The color of his eyes was the same arresting violet-blue as his daughter’s, and it occurred to me that his gaze shared something of her innocence as well.

  “You find Ella difficult?” he asked.

  His words took me by surprise, for I had assumed that everyone found Ella difficult. “She is quick to tears,” I said, “and she is a fussy child.”

  “She is sensitive.”

  “Yes, I suppose that is true,” I murmured. “Can I fetch you more ale? Would you care for a blanket?”

  “Do you not like her?”

  I had never posed such a question to myself. Ella was my labor, my duty, just as the laundry had once been. She was peculiar, certainly, a solitary woolgatherer who did not engage in play like other children. She was a stickler for quiet and rigid in her likes and dislikes. Still, she was a good girl, rarely defiant, and as fastidious about following rules as she was about routines.

  “She is a dear child,” I said.

  “The dearest,” Emont agreed. “An angel. Perfection itself.”

  I smiled politely.

  “I do believe that she is the brightest and most beautiful girl in the kingdom.”

  “Undoubtedly,” I said. “Certainly the most beautiful I have ever beheld. And she is clever.”

  After a pause, Emont said, “You would be a good mother.”

  “I am a mother.”

  “Of course, of course. You had daughters once too.”

  “I have daughters still.” I had not seen my children in five years. I did not know if they remembered me. I only knew that they were alive because I begged the abbey’s messenger to inquire for me.

  “I hope that I did not offend you,” Emont said. “I only meant that you are good with Ella.”

  “I shall fetch that ale for you.” I left for the buttery, my eyes burning.

  The days dragged on, and Emont made no decision. He was cornered, frantic for an escape but unwilling to run toward the danger he perceived on every side. He was simply unable to act.

  I tried to speak about a plan for me to return to Old Hilgate. I thought that he might give me the money to make a new start; I had guided the manor out of debt, and he could afford to be generous. From Old Hilgate, I could visit Charlotte and Matilda at the abbey.

  Emont refused to discuss any of this with me. He pounded his fist and told me to keep quiet and allow him to think.

  Ella caught a fever, and she was sick for several days. Soon I too began to cough and ache, and then it was my turn to be confined to bed. My fever subsided, and I thought that I was improving, but the cough worsened. I had paroxysms that left me gasping, and then the fever came roaring back, worse than before. My phlegm turned putrid, then to blood, and I was frightened.

  Gisla sent for the apothecary, but the medicine did not help. Troubled dreams leaked into waking hours until I could no longer distinguish sleep from wakefulness. My breathing was labored, and I had nightmares about drowning in a pond covered by gray scum and dead rushes: I sank and sank into lightless depths. The muddy bottom of the pond was as soft as eiderdown and just as yielding, and as I descended, it enfolded me until it closed over my mouth and nose. Then I would wake, heaving and struggling to catch my breath.

  Often when I woke, I saw Emont’s concerned face hovering over me. He rubbed my back or sat me up to ease my panic. Though I do not remember it, Gisla told me that a physician came to bleed me, and when he left, he told them not to expect me to survive.

  Emont took up a vigil at my bedside. He prayed, and Gisla said that he wept when he saw how my lips turned blue as I gasped for breath. He gave up food and drink, though when Gisla saw how his hands trembled, she convinced him that he should at least take some ale.

  I was ill for two weeks and wobbly as a newborn kitten when it was over. Emont insisted on feeding me broth by his own hand, and he supported my arm on his shoulders as I tried to walk again. I had never seen him so gentle, not even with Ella.

  Fasting had made me gaunt; my gowns hung loose, and I was startled by the angularity of my face in the mirror. It suited me—at the end of my third decade, the soft contours of youth had given way to more sculpted features. The hollows beneath my cheekbones and sharp angle of my jaw were too austere to be beautiful, but, coupled with my large brown eyes, the effect was still pleasing.

  Emont seemed to be enchanted by me. He watched me so intently that I was embarrassed and f
ound it difficult to meet his gaze. Much to Gisla’s disapproval, he gave me one of Lady Alba’s necklaces, and he insisted on fastening the clasp himself. Once he had properly arranged the jewels, he held me at arm’s length and told me that I was dazzling.

  Though I was the servant and he the master, Emont was happy to fuss and coddle me, bringing cups of cider and tucking blankets around my knees. My infirmity seemed to give him new purpose. He was never more cheerful—or more sober—than during my convalescence.

  On a sunny afternoon, Emont bundled me in one of Lady Alba’s fur cloaks and took me outside for a walk. The snow had melted, leaving behind puddles and mud, but the breeze carried the loamy promise of lilies and lilacs. My legs were still weak, but the sunshine lifted my spirits.

  “It is good to see some color in your cheeks again,” Emont said.

  We walked in companionable silence for some time, his arm brushing against mine, and then Emont stopped. He tapped his walking stick against the cobblestones. “You do know how much I value your company, Agnes?”

  I watched him tug at his tunic where it wrinkled over his belly. When his eyes met mine, I was embarrassed by the vulnerability I perceived in them.

  “I value your company also, sir,” I replied.

  “Sir? You haven’t called me that in a while.” He cleared his throat and smiled nervously. “You had suggested that we get married.”

  I suppose that I must have looked as uncomfortable as I felt, because he laughed and said, “Don’t tell me that the formidable Agnes has become a blushing maiden!”

  My heart beat almost painfully against my ribs. “It is only that I was not expecting you to speak of marriage.”

  “I have had time to consider.”

  “You are reconciled to the impediments?”

  “It is not so much that . . .” He twisted his walking stick for a moment. “I have discovered that I cannot live without you. It is a ridiculous idea for me to marry you, but I don’t see any other way. I . . . I know that you do not feel about me as I do about you. I do hope that you have some affection for me. I believe you do. Of course, the marriage would be a great advantage to you, as you know . . . And of course to me, because you are the best manager anyone could hope—”

  When I could no longer stand for him to go on, I placed my hand on his and said, “Emont, it would be my honor to be your wife.”

  With a sharp intake of breath, he clasped my hand in his and bent to kiss it. He smiled at me, his eyes glistening, and said, “Thank you, Agnes. I will endeavor to be worthy of you.”

  The unnatural transition from servant to betrothed of a lord did not progress smoothly. There are no signposts for such an overthrow of convention. It is said that Ella rose from rags to riches by marrying a prince, but in truth, she was a high-born lady, even if her father was not wealthy by royal standards. Ella’s marriage was only unusual. Mine was unthinkable.

  It is fortunate that we were isolated in the countryside and that visitors had become rare, or Emont might have lost courage in the face of censure from his peers. As it was, in lonely Aviceford Manor, crouched atop a hillside and surrounded by no one but unlettered peasants, we heard objections only from Gisla and, of course, Ella.

  I told Gisla the news myself, after we put Ella to bed. She looked dumbfounded. “What is this you speak of?” she asked, not trusting her own ears.

  “I am to be married. To Emont.”

  “No! That cannot be!” She covered her mouth with a gnarled fist.

  “It is. We are betrothed.”

  “The master must marry a lady! Marry a servant? Foul—” She searched mutely for words to express her outrage and finally spat out, “Scandalous!”

  I set my candle down and lit a second one in a wall sconce. The room Gisla and I shared lacked its own hearth, though the fire in Ella’s adjoining chamber kept us warm.

  “I have done a great deal to right this sinking ship,” I said. “The manor has never been so profitable. Emont has never been so well. You know that I do him good.”

  “You do, that is true, but marriage? To a nobleman?”

  “Are you not happy for me?”

  Gisla crossed her bony arms. “You have always acted above your station. I lay no blame on you for that. You are educated. I lay no blame on you for catching the master’s eye either. ’Tisn’t your fault you were born handsome. But there is right and there is wrong, and a servant marrying a master is wrong.”

  “Even if it will be good for the master? Good for Ella?”

  “What Ella needs is a mother with proper standing. She is the granddaughter of a count and a baron. She cannot have a villein stepmother! It would ruin her reputation. How would her father find a husband for her?”

  “You really doubt that Ella will find a husband?” I said teasingly.

  Gisla’s indignation did not prevent her lips from twitching with a smile. It was obvious that only a blind man could be unaffected by Ella’s enchantment. She pressed her lips back into a thin line and said, “’Tisn’t proper,” but the disapproval in her voice had lightened.

  “I understand your objection,” I said. “This is terribly unconventional. I do not deserve Emont’s love. He is likely to change his mind. If he does not, the abbess will doubtless interfere before we can be wed, and you will be gratified.” I knew that Gisla disliked the abbess for her cold treatment of her sister, Lady Alba. “There is only the slimmest chance that we will arrive at the altar, but in the meantime, I beg for your compassion. You and I have always been friends and allies to each other.”

  Gisla waved me away irritably. She was not ready to capitulate, but she had a soft heart and did not hold out for long. A few days later, she told me how touched she had been when she saw Emont sitting vigil at my sickbed. A few days after that, she compared me with Asneth, the poor orphan who was clothed by an angel so she could wed Prince Joseph of Egypt. Perhaps unintentionally, Gisla constructed a romantic narrative around my marriage to make the unpalatable more agreeable to her strict sensibilities. The stories we tell ourselves have great power.

  I was far less successful with Ella than with Gisla. The problem may partly have been my approach, for I was unaccountably nervous. I brought gingerbread to sweeten her mood, but as Ella nibbled her treat, perched on a high stool, I was at a loss for how to broach the matter. I paced awkwardly around the girl and then blurted, “Your father and I are to wed!”

  Ella stopped eating and looked at me warily. “Who are you both to marry?” The detached tone of her fluting voice was disconcerting.

  “Each other.”

  “You are to marry my father?” Ella sounded doubtful, as though I had told her that I had sprouted wings and was going to fly to the moon.

  “Yes. I am to be your stepmother.”

  Ella’s gaze was cool. She went back to nibbling her gingerbread. Perhaps I ought to have left her alone, but I wanted to be sure that she understood. She was such a quiet child; I never knew what was going on behind her pretty eyes.

  “We will be a family,” I said brightly, “and you may call me Mama if you wish. Gisla will still care for you as she does now.”

  Ella ignored me. She munched and brushed the tips of her hair against her cheek in a circular motion.

  “I shan’t mind if you would rather call me Mother. You are a big girl now. I suppose that ‘Mama’ sounds babyish to you. I forget how old you are, since you are so small.” I felt foolish, running my mouth, but her silence unsettled me. I plunged on, “This is no great change, not like your father marrying a stranger. We will all continue to live together, only now as a family.”

  A tear trickled down Ella’s alabaster cheek, followed quickly by another.

  “Oh,” I said, “no, dearheart, don’t cry.” I put my arm clumsily around her shoulders, but she shrank from me. I removed my arm and watched helplessly. Ella stared at the floor; tears made silvery paths down her face and beaded on her long eyelashes.

  “Would you like your poppet?”


  Ella did not acknowledge me, but I fetched the doll anyway. Guilt and annoyance followed me as I rushed through the corridor. A part of me wanted to comfort the poor child, but another part wished nothing more than to be away from her.

  When I returned with the poppet, a clay doll with a fancy gown and coronet, Ella had brightened.

  “Shall we find beads to sew on her train?” Ella asked. She was always improving upon the poppet’s garments with bits of lace and embroidery.

  “Certainly,” I said. “We can snip some from your mother’s old clothing.”

  Ella’s expression wobbled, but she recovered her equanimity.

  “Even though your mother lives in heaven now, she will always be queen of your heart,” I said. “Death does not diminish a mother’s love. Not a whit. She cherishes every hair on your head, and she sings your praise to the angels.”

  Ella jumped down from her stool and brushed crumbs from her lap. “Help me find some beads,” she said.

  Though Ella did not speak of the marriage, she clung to her father even more than usual. She sat in his lap like a tot, ate from his plate, climbed into bed with him in the morning.

  Ella had always resisted lessons from me, but as her nurse I had insisted. The betrothal changed our relationship: I lost my narrow authority as governess, but I had not yet been granted the broader authority of a parent. I looked on in frustration as Ella squandered her days in idleness, and Emont colluded with her, encouraging his daughter to lounge against him hour after hour.

  “She is just a small child,” Emont told me.