by Maggie Hoyt
“You can sell ten percent of your stock for five sovereigns each, or sixty percent of your stock for one sovereign each. Which price scheme makes you the most profit?” I wrote the details on the parchment and turned it toward her, offering her the pen.
“How am I supposed to know something like that? Aren’t you supposed to be teaching me?”
“You can do this, Fan. Start with the percent. It’s out of one hundred, so I’ve made it pretty simple.”
“So I’m stupid then because I can’t answer your little question. Thanks, Mom.”
“No, I’m sorry, Fan, of course that isn’t what I meant. I just thought you knew how to do this. I told your tutor to teach you your sums and a few more advanced topics, like percent.”
“That was years ago. Why would I remember that? I’m never going to use it. Real women aren’t like you, Mom. When my prince shows up, he’s not going to care if I can do percent!”
“Evie, no board of directors is going to let Fanchon do that much damage,” Henry said.
“They’ll use her. They’ll lie to her, manipulate her, and buy her vote while they gradually edge her out!”
“So we’ll find her a husband.”
I’d avoided this topic. Of course I could find Fan a husband, even if he wasn’t a prince, but I didn’t want her to need one. There were too many men like her father and not enough like Henry.
“He’ll do the same thing! He’ll assume control, take over the company, and leave her. Fanchon is my daughter, and I love her, but if we’re perfectly honest, she is not pleasant!” I paced up and down the bedroom, barely keeping my voice at a sort of screeching whisper. Henry put his hands on my shoulders and sat me at the vanity.
“First of all, we don’t know that’s what would happen. Think of all the unpleasant married women we know!”
“Her father didn’t think. He didn’t think about actually protecting her,” I said.
Henry held my hands. “And isn’t that why we’re here? Fanchon’s got to make her own mistakes. And when she does, she can come back to us. We’ll be here for her.”
“She’s bound to learn some common sense before we’re dead, right?” I sniffled.
“Has to.” He kissed me on the forehead.
“Thank you. Really, thank you, for taking both of us …”
“You worry too much, love! Everyone will be fine. Fan’s just needled you today. You need something to take your mind off it. Do you want to look over my list of potential acquisitions?”
I nodded.
“That’ll make you feel better. And I need you to help me make up my mind …”
CHAPTER THREE
HE DIED in our second year of marriage, when bandits attacked his caravan. I don’t remember who brought us the news. Ella screamed and sobbed. I put my arms around her, and I stroked her hair. She didn’t fight me, but she was distant and a little bit cold, like she was pretending I was someone else.
There always seemed to be a reason for me not to cry. Ella was distraught. Fanchon was cruel to Ella. Nosy neighbors came by, wondering how I was putting on such a brave face. The funeral. The closest I came to losing it was at Mr. Sherman’s arrival.
“No. We are not doing this today. I do not care about the will, or the money. Just go away! Go away!”
“I know you are grieving, madam, but surely you will want to know where your family stands.”
“I don’t really care right now.”
“For your daughters, madam? It will only take a few moments.”
We sat down at the kitchen table.
“Once again, a fairly simple will.”
“Oh good.” Everything would be Ella’s, of course.
“He left everything to you.”
It took me a moment. “Wait, what? That’s not right. He would have left something for his daughter.” Henry was sweet, but not stupid.
“He trusted that you would treat her fairly.”
That was a lot of trust. I sat there with my mouth hanging open.
“I believe his words to me were ‘I’d have to ask Evelyn the best way to distribute it anyway, so it might as well be hers.’”
“That sounds like him. Thank you, Mr. Sherman. This was much less painful than I thought.”
He squirmed a little in his seat. “Well, I have bad news too, madam.”
“Of course.”
“Your husband didn’t really have any business for you to inherit. His clients and trade routes reverted to his business partners. He could only leave you the money he’d saved.”
“He was always good about saving.”
Mr. Sherman hesitated. “He was, yes. He stored it at a goldsmith’s not too far from here …”
“Yes, my first husband did the same thing. They’ve got vaults and everything.”
“Unfortunately,” Mr. Sherman began, “the town was pillaged by marauders a few days ago. They couldn’t, of course, take everything, but since your husband was unable to defend his own interests, I’m afraid he has two thousand sovereigns remaining.”
Defend his own interests. Of course. As soon as the marauders left, undoubtedly every nobleman within earshot descended upon the vault to “determine” which coins belonged to whom, probably with the help of three-hundred-pound bodyguards. Everyone except Henry.
“So in essence, Mr. Sherman, you’re telling me that I have complete financial control over what amounts to a few months of survival.”
“Um, yes. Yes, I suppose. Um. I’ll have the money sent here to you?”
“Well, I think you’d better. We used up most of the mattress savings just paying for the funeral.”
He stood to leave, and I ushered him out impolitely.
“Until next time, madam.”
“I’m not getting married again.”
“Ah, no, um. Won’t Fanchon be eighteen soon? I imagine we’ll have some paperwork to fill out then.”
We began cutting back. One by one, I let the servants go. Ella cooked all our meals, and even though I’d started purchasing blander fare, she somehow made it palatable. Fanchon did the dusting and the floors poorly for three weeks, so Ella went through and cleaned all the spots Fan had missed until Fan quit working altogether.
Meanwhile, I went looking for a job. It was what had to be done. My father was only a chemist, but I never had to sit on the streets and beg, mostly because no one knew how to wring copper flats from stones better than my parents. If he lost a few customers and times looked lean, Mother tightened belts and Father worked harder. He peddled sleeping draughts outside the nobles’ mansions in the middle of the night. He’d predict the next plague and sell preventative cures. “Money is out there,” he always said. “You just have to work hard enough to find it.”
So I tried. I could consult, I told potential clients. I had exemplary marks from Furnival’s and would have been a consultant if I’d been a man. I had advised both husbands (not a lie—just because Husband #1 didn’t listen didn’t mean I hadn’t given advice), and I had years of experience managing my husbands’ households. No one was really impressed. A few kindly told me they’d consider my offer. Most looked at me like I’d sprouted horns. Women didn’t do this sort of thing. It wasn’t in the stories. Even Henry’s business partners had no provisions for widows and orphans.
Laundry was my chore, but I was out constantly, networking, job hunting. There were even a few nights when I begged at taverns for leftover food because I knew we only had enough at home for the girls. I’d sit down to do the washing late at night at the end of the week, and it would already be done. The beds were already made, the fireplace already swept—even the kitchen garden had already been tended. The first time I noticed, I felt a little surge of hatred for Ella. She was all the house needed. What had I ever been good for, anyway? The second time, I just fell into bed, supremely grateful I didn’t need to scrub clothes.
The storm hit after the first month. Our thatching wasn’t quite up to the task.
“Find containers!�
� I shouted. Ella ran to the kitchen. Fanchon tried to stand between the holes. I dropped an armful of linen cloths in Fanchon’s arms.
“You can’t dry the storm, Mother!”
“It’ll damage the wood. Any water that doesn’t land in a bowl, wipe it up. I knew we should have switched to tiles.”
By morning, the ceiling sagged and dripped. Ella lay asleep on the floor, drops falling on her waist. Fan had found the one dry spot, and since she hadn’t mopped up like I’d asked her to, she was using the dry towels as blankets. I took one and put it over Ella.
I reassessed the placement of our containers, adjusting the vases and pans until the house resounded with plinks. The drops sounded almost like coins clinking into a metal vault. That was wishful thinking. All the coins around here were being washed away with the flood.
We couldn’t begin to afford to fix the roof. That storm was a fluke, I said. We shouldn’t have more for a few months. The roof didn’t need to be done right away. Unfortunately, I’d also run out of options. The only non-cleaning, non-sewing jobs for women in their late middle age were in childcare.
It galled me to think I really couldn’t provide for the three of us, but I had to admit I needed a new plan. I covered the dining table with the parchments of both wills. Henry’s was useless—he had truly left me everything and nothing—but I hoped there was a loophole in the first one, something that could prevent Fanchon from hanging Ella and me out to dry. Because the more time I spent at home, the more obvious it became that she would.
“Ella! You touched my dresses, didn’t you! I told you not to touch my things!”
“I was getting your washing, Fanchon,” Ella said and carried an armful of clothes into the washing room at the back of the house.
“Stupid little serving-girl!”
“Fanchon! Leave your sister alone!”
“Stepsister, Mom. I would have thought you’d be on the side of your real daughter.”
“You’re being rude, Fan.”
“It’s because she’s jealous that I have nice things and she just has rags,” Fan taunted.
“If you actually did your chores, you wouldn’t wear velvet either,” I said.
“She doesn’t have nice things because the idiot sold all her gowns.”
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “Ella!” I called.
She entered with a basket of neatly folded clothes.
“Did you sell your gowns?”
She froze, eyes wide like she was going to get in trouble. I could almost see her mind trying to formulate a lie. She wordlessly opened and shut her mouth several times, and then started a very faint humming noise. “Umm,” she’d say, clenching her fists and swallowing hard, but she couldn’t get another word out before she’d started humming again. We’d have waited all night, if it hadn’t been for Fanchon.
“She hid all the money from you. She’s stealing. She should be punished for being wicked.”
“I didn’t steal!” Ella cried, her eyes brimming with tears. She dropped the laundry basket and ran to her room. She returned with a coin purse, which she placed on the table.
“I wanted to fix the roof, but I didn’t have enough, so I was saving it until I could get more.”
“But now you don’t have any clothes,” I said. I heard Fanchon snort.
“The girls in the stories never do.”
“How much did you get?” I asked. The purse didn’t look very full.
“Thirty-eight sovereigns.”
It took all my willpower not to wince. She’d been cheated something awful. Ella kept her clothes in good condition.
“Ella, why don’t I put this with the rest of the savings. When we have enough, we’ll use it to fix the roof.”
Ella nodded and scurried away with the laundry basket.
“She’s so stupid,” Fanchon said.
“Fanchon! You are being unacceptably rude, and I don’t want to hear it! Find a way to help!”
“You like her better because you hated Dad. Well, you’ll end up sorry. This is just like in the stories.”
“Which stories?”
“I’m like the princess who has to live in filth because an evil fairy takes everything away from her. But soon I’m going to get my money, and then I’ll marry a prince, and you and Ella can starve for all I care!”
I was too exhausted to scold Fan. If she really thought about it, any prince would be embarrassed to have his mother-in-law sitting in a ditch begging for coins, but Fanchon wasn’t going to marry a prince. She was going to end up with someone like her father, and I’d have to move back to the city, where I could beg from my husband’s former business partners.
The person who ought to end up with someone like her father was Ella. The girls might disagree, but that was better than a prince in my book. He’d take care of her, he’d listen to her, he’d appreciate her. He’d feel guilty enough to help Ella care for Fan and me.
I started to feel a twinge of guilt myself as I pictured how well this would work. Really, Evelyn? You’ll marry your stepdaughter off to avoid becoming a washerwoman? But he has to be kind, I thought. He has to be good, or it won’t work. I could solve everything, if I could just find Ella a husband. The only problem was, every time I tried to be helpful, neither girl cooperated. I sighed. I didn’t even know who was eligible. I needed my connections.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE NEXT DAY I went looking for my “friends.” They’d disappeared ever since I started flirting with poverty. I found them, finally, near the King’s Woods, having a luncheon under a pavilion.
“She said that whoever wants to marry her son is going to have to pass some sort of test. Like weaving a carpet with gold thread or something. I said—” Delia jumped as I approached. “Evelyn!”
“Evelyn Radcliffe. What a surprise,” Cora said, hiding her shock much better than Delia had.
“Evelyn! It’s so good to see you!” Maribelle gushed.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I had a few spare minutes today and thought I’d say hello.”
“We’re so glad you did! Here, we don’t have an extra chair, but I’ve got a footstool.” Maribelle paused her knitting and handed me a little footrest that put me barely six inches off the ground, with my knees pulled up to my chest.
While Maribelle was welcoming me, Delia had put all her focus into consuming a poached fig so she didn’t have to look at me, and Cora gave me a pinched smile that didn’t extend all the way to her eyes. They were probably wishing they’d officially uninvited me.
“It’s really so awful what’s happened to you,” Cora said. Delia nodded her agreement, mouth stuffed with fig.
“I felt so bad when I heard!” Maribelle said, and she possibly actually meant it. “Here, Delia, pour Evelyn a cup of tea.”
Once I’d accepted a cup of tea, Delia brought up two noblewomen who’d shown up at a ball in the same dress, and the gossip hour continued as if I wasn’t there—although that’s not exactly accurate. I had a feeling that when I wasn’t there, they were gossiping about me.
“How are you feeling about it all?” Maribelle finally asked me.
“I just don’t know how you do it. I don’t know what I’d do without William.” Delia started sniffling.
“Evelyn and Henry just seemed like a match made in heaven!” Maribelle said, knitting needles clacking.
“We heard you had to let go of your servants,” Cora said. “Looking after your own house, caring for your own children—you must cry yourself to sleep every night.”
“No,” I said crossly. Cora gave me a smug smile. I pursed my lips. I needed information out of them, so I had to throw them a bone.
“I just make Ella do all the housework anyway. It’s all she’s really good at.”
“Congratulations, Evelyn! We knew you’d turn wicked eventually,” Cora said.
“Just like in the stories,” Delia trilled.
“Well, wicked or no, I’ve somehow got to get the two of them married or I’ll be
stuck with them forever.”
“That might be difficult, given your … current station,” Cora said.
“Not for Fanchon,” Delia said. “Not with her inheritance.”
“I don’t even know who’s eligible these days.”
“Ooh … there’s the Kindler boy,” Maribelle said.
“Isn’t there a Kingsley?” Delia asked.
“I thought he was married,” Maribelle said.
“No, there’s another one,” Cora said. “But he’s dreadfully pocked.”
“I suppose Cora’s son is too young,” Delia said.
Cora grinned at me and winked condescendingly. I gave her a withering sidelong glare.
“There’s a Windham, a Quincey, and a Meekley,” Cora said. The others nodded in agreement.
“Good luck finding anyone for Ella,” Delia said.
“Men never want to marry orphans, do they?” Maribelle said. “Unless they’re a prince. In the stories, princes marry orphans all the time.”
“The girls both seem to think they’re living in one of these tales,” I said. And I need to make one happen, I thought. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with them.”
The knitting needles stopped. “Not familiar with them!” Maribelle cried.
“I don’t like stories.”
“But you have to have heard them!”
“I wasn’t paying attention.”
“There are all kinds of stories about pretty young girls with an evil stepmother and a wicked stepsister,” Maribelle said.
“And the father always dies and the girl is treated like a servant,” Cora said.
“And then she meets a prince!” Delia said. There, I thought. Reason #23 for why I can’t stand these stories: contrived and impossible chance meetings.
“How on earth does a common girl meet a prince?”
“He usually throws a party,” Delia said.
“Except the girl is always forbidden from going, so her fairy godmother gives her a beautiful ball gown, and a carriage, and glass slippers,” Maribelle said with a sigh.
That was familiar, but even Ella hadn’t made it sound so ridiculous. “Glass slippers?” I snorted.
“She loses one of them when she leaves,” Cora said.