Bella at Midnight (11 page)

“So what if, instead, I took home a few gold bracelets or silver spoons or a diamond clasp? Whatever would fit in a basket and isn't—what's the word?
Itemized?
And then after all the wicked men have come and took all you have, why then you come by my house and pick them up. They'd be none the wiser, now, would they? And you'd have a bit of
seed money
so to speak—to start over with. You might reward me in some small way, I'd think, for doing you that little service?”

Then she folded her arms and smiled and waited for my reaction.

W
as it not hard enough already that Father was dead and we were ruined? Must we also have old garlic-breathed Mortran Greatbeard come to our house and announce that he would not allow that pimple-faced, pig-eyed son of his to marry me, now that I am penniless?

One minute I was about to be wed in grand style to a wealthy man—then suddenly I am rejected, thrown onto the ash heap, into the gutter—no longer good enough for toothless, dim-witted Richard! Oh, it was too much! Can you wonder that I took to my bed and wept over it? Was that not the
natural
thing to do?

Well, Mother did not seem to think so, for she proceeded to give me a tongue-lashing over it, demanding I control myself and attend to the matter at hand. Oh, how she prattled on, till I thought I would
scream
, saying we must “rise to the occasion” and “control our own destiny” and many other such commonplace remarks. She must be made of ice, that woman, that she could be so sensible, with Father dead and my engagement broken!

My sister, Alice, did not “rise to the occasion,” either—she just sat there upon the bench as still as a stone, and did not utter a single word after smelly old Crumbs-in-His-Greatbeard left our house. Mother seemed to find Alice's silence just as annoying as my wails and moans. She slapped my sister on the cheek to get her to stop sulking. Then she slapped me, too.

And so we had little choice but to set our grief aside and go help Mother find as many small, precious things as we could, so that Liddy might carry them away from the house before the creditors came. And I must admit, it was a good plan. Not two hours later a pair of grim-faced men arrived at our door—just as flatulent old Mortran Grossbelly said they might.

Mother had told us to change into our finest gowns before the creditors came. This was not a matter of pride. She said they were bound to take our jewels—but she was sure they would never stoop so low as to strip us of our dresses and send us naked into the street. Nor did she think they would have the nerve to tear the seed pearls from my bodice or cut the marten collar off her mantle. So why not let them take the everyday gowns and walk out in our best?

Of course, they were not fooled by this strategy. “You count upon our chivalry, I see,” said one, lowering his eyelids in a suggestive manner. I will not repeat what the other man said, for it was most offensive and very cruel.

On the whole they were a vile, coldhearted pair. They did not seem the least bit sorry for us. They rejoiced over our beautiful things most shamelessly, as though we were not standing right there to hear every word they said. It revolted me to see them pawing through our treasures with their coarse, dirty hands and sitting in the very chair where once my father sat! Oh, it was horrible!

But we did not have to endure their company for long. Once the contents of our house and stable were inspected and all the papers signed, they turned us out.

It was a cold day, but shutters were open all along the street. I saw the faces of our neighbors peering down at us from their windows. Not one of them thought to offer us shelter, or even bothered to come out and tell us good-bye. How that chilled me! I had thought them our friends. I had planned to invite those people to my wedding!

I looked back only once, but then I began to weep again and Mother took firm hold of my arm. “Be as dignified as you can, Marianne,” she said. “Hold your head high and walk away like the lady you are.”

And so we did. Dressed in our finest gowns and wearing our stylish little pointed shoes, we paraded out of that lovely neighborhood and headed for the working-class district where Liddy dwelt. Mother said we would find a room to rent there, something clean but modest. Then, once she had collected our trinkets and sold a few, we would find something better.

I noticed, as we made our way, how the buildings grew ever shabbier and the lanes narrower and more crowded. There was a ripe smell of filth in the air. These common folk emptied their chamber pots right outside their doors, each house with its own revolting little pile! And the people were vulgar and discourteous; they pushed and shoved us as we walked and shouted at us to get out of the way of carts and horses.

Though we took great care not to walk in the gutters and navigated as best we could around horse droppings and garbage and other refuse, still our shoes were soon wet and stained. Nor was it easy to walk on cobblestones in those dainty slippers. Twice I turned my ankles, and was soon hobbling along like a cripple.

As the afternoon wore on, it became clear that finding “clean but modest” lodgings would not be as easy as Mother had imagined. People were suspicious of us—three ladies dressed so grandly, inquiring after a furnished room in such a humble part of town. Who were we? Trollops? Thieves? Certainly, they did not want the likes of
us
living in their God-fearing houses!

By the time the curfew bell rang for closing time, matters were desperate. It was growing colder, and we were hungry and exhausted. Though I knew Mother would scold me for weeping, I could not help it. I feared we would have to sleep out on the street!

Seeing how things were, Mother entered a nearby tavern. It did not meet her standards of “clean but modest”; indeed, she would never have set foot in such a place had we not been so very wretched. But a boy selling meat pies said he thought room and board might be had there, though he did not know the price.

I felt a stab of hope when I saw the proprietress. She was a bit unkempt, but she had a kindly face. And she showed she had a good heart, too, when Mother told her the truth: that we were ladies of high estate who had been thrown into poverty of a sudden, and had no protector. Our fine clothes were all we had in the world—those and a few trinkets. All we asked was a roof, a bed, and a meal.

She looked at me, my face still wet with tears, then at Alice, who stood there trembling with cold and numb with sorrow. Then she looked at Mother with genuine sympathy and said she would take us in.

She gave us a room near the kitchen. It was dirty, and it smelled of fish and onions. Instead of the featherbeds with silk hangings we were accustomed to, we would have to sleep on a single straw pallet upon the floor—no doubt infested with fleas or lice. It was most disgustingly stained, too, and there were no bedclothes and no blanket. All else the room contained were two stools, a cracked chamber pot, and a tiny window with no glass and a broken shutter. This was to be our home for the night.

As it was growing dark, Mother hurried off to find Liddy while the landlady led Alice and me into the kitchen for some supper (she did not think it proper for us to eat in the main hall of the tavern with all those rowdy men).

She gave us each a thick slice of coarse brown bread and a tankard of watery ale. Peasant fare. I turned to Alice to see if she found it as revolting as I did, but she only stared at her meal, insensible, as though she had never seen bread before.

“I fear we must eat it, Alice,” I said, in a low voice so the landlady would not hear, “for there is nothing better to be had.” She looked up at me with puppy eyes, then down again. At last she picked up her bread and began nibbling at it distractedly.

As for me, I ate every crumb of mine, for all that it was dry and stale. And though the ale was thin and bitter, I drank every drop. Then, when we were finished, I took Alice by the hand and we went upstairs to our ugly little room to wait for Mother.

I
sat on one stool and Marianne sat on the other, waiting. There was naught to do in that room, and there was no candle, so it soon grew dark in there. The only light came through the broken part of the shutter, but it brought us little comfort.

I wanted to sleep more than anything in the world, but I could not bear to lie down upon that pallet with its horrid stains and smell of mildew. I would have slept more readily upon the floor, but it was even dirtier and would have ruined my gown (it was too cold to take it off). Marianne seemed to feel much the same, though we did not speak of it. She sat in her corner; I sat in mine.

Mother was gone a long time. We heard the bell ring for Compline. The streets were quiet and the moon was already rising over the rooftops—yet still she did not come. I began to feel light-headed with fear and had to tell myself to take slow, deep breaths, sitting there on my hard little stool and leaning back against the wall. Mother would be back soon. Perhaps she had already returned and had only stopped downstairs to have something to eat. It calmed me somewhat to imagine it.

At last I heard the welcome sound of footsteps in the hall. The door opened, slowly and quietly; she must have thought we were asleep. Dark though it was, I could see she was carrying something in her arms.

“Mother?” cried Marianne, leaping from her stool. She sounded as frightened as I was.

“Yes,” Mother said. “Where are you, Marianne? It's hard to see.”

“I'm here. Alice is over in the corner, on the other stool. We did not like to lie upon that bed.”

“I know,” Mother said, “but you cannot sit up all night. Here, I have a bedsheet and a blanket from the landlady. They will have to do for tonight. Tomorrow we will leave, first thing.”

She spread the sheet over the pallet and tucked it in.

“Now let me help you take your dresses off,” she said then. “You must fold them carefully and lay them on the stools so they do not get any more soiled than they already are.” She found us in the dark and helped us undress. I could tell that something was wrong.

“Mother, do you have the basket?” Marianne asked.

“Get under the covers and we shall talk about it,” Mother said. “Hurry, children, or you will catch a chill!”

We did as we were told. I could smell the mildew through the sheet, and the blanket was coarse and scratchy, but it was warm. Marianne lay on one side of Mother and I on the other. We huddled together like three kittens in a basket.

“Now tell us!” Marianne said.

“As you wish,” Mother answered with a sigh, “though you will not like what I have to say. I did
not
get the basket, Marianne. Those directions Liddy gave me to her house—which I wrote down so carefully on parchment and secreted in my bodice—were false. There was no such street in that quarter, no such bakeshop on the corner. Alas, Liddy was cleverer than I took her for. I had thought to give her my green shawl as a reward—but instead, she has taken it all. We were outfoxed by a housemaid—think of that!”

She let us weep for a while, and then shushed us. “That's enough, children,” she said. “Tears cannot help us now. I have been thinking hard upon the matter and have formed a new plan. Much as I do not like to do it, we must go to my sister's house. She will not like it, either, but she will take us in.”

“But your sister lives far away,” I said.

“Yes—in the King's City. We can walk there in a week, I would guess.”

“Walk!”
cried Marianne. “For a
week
?”

“Oh, Mother, no!” I cried. “We
cannot
go away! How will Father find us?”

“He won't
need
to find us, you little dunce,” said Marianne. “He's
dead
! Can't you get that through your thick skull?”

“Stop it,” Mother hissed, “both of you! I am no happier about this than you are, but we must do something; we must turn to someone. I would much rather go to my brother, if you would know the truth, but his lands are too far to the north. My sister it must be, then.”