Bella at Midnight (14 page)

“No, Matilda, not mad. But I fear you shall drive me to it. On whose authority did you go into my dead wife's chest and dress that child like a ghost out of the past? Tell me!”

“I did not think it mattered
whose
dress it was,” Mother said. “I thought only to do as you commanded and find her something to wear. And since my reward was a slap in the face, you may dress your daughter however you please, but do not come to
me
about it.”

The rage was out of him now.

“Go,” he said.

“And gladly,” she snapped back.

Mother slept that night with Alice and me, while Isabel slept in the kitchen. When I saw little ash-face at breakfast the next morning, she was once again dressed in her old peasant gown of olive wool. And as neither Mother nor Edward seemed willing to do aught about it, she went on wearing it from that day on. It was enough to put you off your food!

As you might imagine, I was heartily glad to pack my things that very day and return to court!

I
did not like it in that house. No one was happy there.

Not my father, who prowled the halls like a caged beast, haunted by ghosts and poisoned by grief. He scarcely spoke to me, except to criticize. I often wondered why he brought me home at all, unless it was so he might stare at me endlessly, searching my face for the living shadow of my long-dead mother.

Nor was my stepmother happy, for she had been forced to marry a man who was not amiable in the least and who regarded her with contempt. She had one daughter who could not speak and another who thought only of herself. And then she had
me
thrust upon her, quite unexpected and very much unwanted—a coarse and ignorant bumpkin who sat in her hall every day, reminding her always of that first marriage and that first wife whom her husband seemed unable to forget.

And most certainly Alice was not happy, for she had crept into the darkness and dwelt there, overcome by silent grief.

I believe the very mice in the baseboards and the fleas among the rushes were unhappy there. Misery filled the house like a fog, seeping into every corner, chilling us on the warmest days, robbing the finest food of its savor. However white the bread or spiced the wine, all tasted flat when eaten at their table.

There seemed no proper place for me in that household, unless it was to be stared at by Father and scolded by Stepmother and mocked by Marianne and ignored by Alice. I think at first they had some intentions of improving me, so that I might be decently married off as soon as possible. But they quickly lost interest in the project, or were discouraged by the hopelessness of it. Whichever it was, they taught me precious little of how a lady ought to behave, unless you count such rebukes as, “Do not eat like a
ploughman
, Isabel!” or “Are you a hunchback, child? Sit up straight!”

As they seemed not to know what to do with me, and as it was plain they found my presence bothersome, I took to spending my time in the kitchen. It was warm and the air smelled of roasting pig and onions, cinnamon and rosemary. There was work for me to do, and laughter. Cook called me a “right jolly lass” and patted my cheek and smiled at me. (She did not have to live in that house all the time and so had not succumbed to the gloom of the place.)

I think she was glad of my help, for the kitchen maid was lazy and none too bright, whereas I was eager to help and already knew much of cookery. I could roast meat and brew ale and make eel pie and other such common fare, though I knew naught of fancy dishes. At the cottage we had never made dainties like bone-marrow pie, with its many layers of marrow mixed with currants, artichoke souls, great raisins, damson prunes, cinnamon, dates, and rosewater. Cook got the receipt out of a little book she had. I asked her if we might make more of those dishes, so that I could learn how to prepare them.

“Why, of course,” she said, and squeezed my hand. “Just look through the book and tell me what you fancy.”

“I cannot,” I said, “for I never learned my letters.”

“Well, then, we'll go over them together, won't we? I'm no great reader myself, but I can usually make out such words as are in the receipts.” (She only said this to be kind—she could read perfectly well, and I knew it.)

After that, whenever time allowed, Cook would tell me the names of the various receipts, and we would choose one of them to make the following day. I enjoyed this, and I think she did, too; it made her work less monotonous. Even Stepmother commented on it, saying our meals had become more varied and interesting of late, not just the same old roast meats day after day. I tried hard not to smile when I heard her say this. Had she known I had aught to do with it, she would have found fault with every dish.

One morning Cook and I set out to make a salmon and fruit tart. As I had made pastry many a time in the old days, she set me to doing that while she simmered the fruits in wine—figs, dates, raisins, and currants—and cut up the fish. Once I had made the pastry coffin, she would show me how to fill it with layers of fish, fruits, spices, and pine nuts—that way I would remember how to do it the next time.

I was standing at the kitchen table, kneading the dough and watching Cook at her preparations, when suddenly the door swung open and Stepmother came in. This startled me, for Stepmother
never
came into the kitchen. She preferred to summon Cook out to the great hall if there was anything she needed to discuss with her.

Whatever had brought her there, she was about to say something to Cook when, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted me. All was quiet for a moment. Then Stepmother turned her head in a slow and affected manner and fixed me with a hard, cold stare. This made me most uneasy—just as it was meant to do. My hands began to tremble, and I grew breathless and light-headed. It was then, as I took a step back from the table to make sure of my balance, that I dropped the pastry onto the floor!

Cook gasped, the kitchen maid squealed, and all eyes gazed down to where the pastry lay at my feet. “Oh!” I cried, retrieving the ruined dough and stupidly making as if to brush it off.

“Well, Isabel,” Stepmother said, “I see you are just as inept in the kitchen as you are everywhere else.”

“Oh, Madam,” Cook said most anxiously, “I hope you do not mind that I let her help in the kitchen sometimes. I just thought—even a highborn lady needs to know
somewhat
of cookery.”

Stepmother sighed expressively and closed her eyes to show her impatience. “Highborn she may be, Cook,” she said, “but a lady—never! If you can teach her anything at all, then I will be glad of it. You are welcome to her.”

Cook's face brightened. “Oh, thank you, Madam!” she gushed. “Indeed, Miss Isabel is a most clever—”

“There will be five of us for dinner, all this week,” Stepmother said, clearly not wishing to hear of my cleverness. “Miss Marianne is coming home from court.”

“Yes, Madam,” Cook said with a curtsy and a nod, “I will take note of it.”

Then Stepmother looked over to where I stood, still holding my sad little lump of dirty pastry, and said, “Make sure you throw that out.” And then she left.

I was too disheartened after that to help Cook with the pie. I went over and sat in the corner. It was all I could do to keep from weeping.

I had never asked to come live there. I would rather have stayed in the village, where I was happy, for all that it was so humble. But as it seemed that I had no choice but to live in my father's house, I had done my best to please him and my stepmother. I tried always to be pleasant and helpful. I minded my manners and spoke softly and absented myself whenever I seemed to be in the way. Whatever they bid me do, I did it eagerly. But none of this did any good. Clearly I was still an annoyance to them. What little time we spent together—at meals, and on occasion in the great hall—was painful for everybody.

Why, then, did they not just marry me off and be rid of me? Because I was too coarse and stupid to make a decent match, that's why. And besides, if they were unwilling to give me a respectable dress, such as a knight's daughter ought to wear (neither Father nor Stepmother would submit in the matter, after their loathsome quarrel), what were the chances they would provide me with a dowry sufficient to buy me a suitor? No, like as not, I would grow old in that dismal house, unwanted and unloved.

While I was engaged in these bleak musings, my fingers had been busy playing with the dough, pinching off bits of it and forming them into little animals. And, indeed, I was rather pleased by the results—for you could easily tell which were the sheep and which the cows. I showed them to Cook, and she smiled.

“What a clever lass you are!” she said. “Why don't you set them in the oven this afternoon, once the fire is out? They will dry nice and hard and then you can keep them, you see. I will show you how, before I go.”

Her kindness lifted my spirits, and I decided I would give her one or two of the animals, for she had been good to me, and she seemed to fancy them.

Working with my hands has always calmed me, and it did so now. As I sat there, shaping the little legs of another cow and forming its head and giving it a set of delicate horns and a slender rope of a tail, my mind carried me out of the kitchen and back to the village where I had been a child—where life had been simple, and I was loved and felt safe.

I put the little cow aside and began, very carefully, to shape the figure of a lady. I gave her a simple gown, and an apron, and a headdress such as Mother always wore. I took a broom straw and used it to poke two holes for eyes and draw a delicate line for a mouth. Then I pinched her up a little nose.

I laid the figure down upon the mantel, then began working on the next one. I gave him a blacksmith's apron and sturdy boots and a bald spot on the top of his head. After that I made Will, with his broad shoulders and long legs and fine, straight hair. I made a little hat for him, like the one he used to wear when he worked in the garden. And last of all, I made Margaret. She would be taller now—children grow like weeds at her age. But the only Margaret I remembered was the one who had run along beside me, throwing kisses, on the day I left the village. And so that was how I made her: a sweet, round-faced angel with plaited hair and a little winter cap.

Then I kneaded the remains of the dough and began work on one more figure—a boy dressed in a fine tunic with a sword at his belt. I wondered if I ought to put a crown upon his head, as he was a prince. But as I had never seen him wear one, I decided against it. I gave him boots and a long mantle, and when I was finished, I felt quite proud of my work. I had improved with practice, and Julian was the best of the lot.

As I held the little figure in my hand, my mind was suddenly flooded with memories. It was like looking down at my childhood from a high place. There we were, Julian and me: picking blackberries, sending leaf boats sailing down the river, playing tug rope out upon the common, visiting the fairy castle, telling stories, running races, sharing confidences, laughing about homely princesses, and admiring his beautiful falcon. Oh, how happy we were!

But then I came to that last day, at the fair: Julian in his scarlet tunic, sitting upon the paddock fence with all those handsome boys. And I saw him grinning and laughing—how could I ever forget?—then suddenly noticing me, and hiding his face with his hand, in hopes I would not recognize him. And I watched as he nodded to me so coldly—as though I were little more than a stranger, some upstart peasant whose attentions were unwanted—and turned away to laugh about me with his friends! I closed my fist over the figure, then, and Julian was gone, nothing but a formless lump of dough.

“Are you all right, lass?” Cook asked, for hurt and anger showed plain upon my face. I was not sure of my voice, and so I nodded and tried to smile.

Then Cook saw the figures, all lined up on the mantle. “Why, Isabel!” she said. “Will you look at that! Aren't they just like
real
little people! A man and a lady and a boy and a girl. It's a
family
, isn't it, child?
Your
family!”

“Yes!” I answered. And of a sudden the loss and the loneliness washed over me so that I could not help but weep—big, gulping sobs. Cook wrapped her arms around me then, and I leaned against her soft and ample bosom and breathed in the comfortable odors of herbs and onion and fresh-ironed linen. She stood there, holding me and stroking me and whispering sweet endearments, until I was done crying. Then she dried my tears with her apron.

“We'll set them all in the oven to dry tonight, just like I told you. And tomorrow I'll bring a little box for you to put them in. That way you can keep them safe—all the people you love.”

What a rare good soul Cook was! I kissed her and thanked her and told her she was an angel. She just said, “Oh, pooh!” and turned away in embarrassment and went to take the pie out of the oven and get dinner ready to serve.