Bella at Midnight (13 page)

“You are too kind,” I said drily.

“I am not kind at all,” he answered, “but I
will
endeavor to find you a husband, which is of more use to you than sweet words.”

He looked at Alice then, but spoke to me. “The child is mute?” he asked.

“The child has lost her father. She loved him dearly, and grief has troubled her mind. She will mend in time.”

“Nevertheless, she is an encumbrance. A penniless widow is bad enough. A penniless widow with a mute child is worse.”

“
Perhaps
,” I said, through clenched teeth, “you can find me a man who
does not like noise.
”

At this, Lord Percy leaned his head back and laughed. “Yes, Matilda,” he said, “perhaps I can!”

The Slippers of Glass

L
ord Percy was as good as his word. Before the month was out, he had found me a place at court—and as lady-in-waiting to a princess, too! I could scarcely believe my good fortune!

Of course, Princess Alana was only the wife of the king's
second
son, Gilbert, and so she would never be the queen. This
was
something of a disappointment to me, if truth be told. Oh, I do not mean to sound ungrateful. It is a great honor—an incredible privilege—to serve in the household of a princess,
any
princess, no matter how lowly. And though it would have been so much grander to have served Princess Berta, still, I did not complain.

But then—oh, what an amazing series of events transpired! First King Raymond was struck down by the fever. Then the crown prince fell ill also, and followed his father in death only three days after. And thus, quite unexpectedly, Prince Gilbert assumed the throne—and as I served his wife, I became handmaid to the
queen of Moranmoor
! Imagine!

Naturally, I was as sorry as everyone else that King Raymond and Prince John died. It was such a terrible loss to the kingdom! Still, as the poet said, it is an ill wind that turns none to good. And certainly it was good for me, the way things turned out.

I think sometimes of our neighbors back home, and how cruelly they treated us in our time of distress. I wish they could see me now. They would be sick with envy. And heartily sorry, too, that they did not treat me more kindly while they had the chance.

I think of Father, also, almost every day, and how he would rejoice at my success! I picture him looking down on me from heaven and pointing me out to the other angels: “Look! See there, in the palace of Moranmoor—the beautiful young lady arranging the queen's hair?
That
is my daughter Marianne!” Oh, he would be so happy for me!

I only wish the same could be said of Mother and Alice. If Father knew what had become of
them
, it would break his heart.

Mother had no choice but to marry again, you see, penniless and cast adrift as she was. And so once again, Lord Percy kept his word. He found her a husband, a widower of good birth and some fortune. Now my mother dwells in this man's house, a knight by the name of Edward, and he is as cold and stern as Father was warmhearted and amiable. I consider myself fortunate twice over that I am so much at court and need rarely be at home.

Mother was not married to Edward for many months—and bitter months they were, too, with him expecting her to make order in a household that had been in disarray since the death of his first wife—when he announced that he had a daughter by that marriage and that she would soon be coming to live with them. This daughter had been living among
peasants
all her life!

Imagine it, then, if you will: it is late afternoon. Edward is alone in the solar, the sunny upstairs room where he sits for hours with his books; Mother and Alice are in the great hall, busy with their needlework. I am visiting for a few days and, as they sew, I am regaling them with stories of life at court. (Poor Alice does not join in these conversations, for she is as dumb as a stone, her mind much disordered since Father died.)

There comes a knock at the door, and a few moments later the housemaid ushers in as ridiculous a pair as you might ever hope to see. The first is a plump lady of middle age wearing an idiotic grin and a gown of questionable taste—the sort of thing a butcher's wife might think very elegant. Her wimple is askew. Beside her stands a girl of about Alice's age, wearing some shabby garment of olive wool, a black winter cap covering her head and ears, and mud-caked, round-toed shoes of coarse leather. This peasant attire is made all the more ridiculous by the overlong scarlet mantle she wears, for it is of fine cloth and lined with fur, clearly belonging to somebody else.

Her face, I confess, might be thought handsome were her skin not so dirty and sun-browned and did she not possess those startling eyebrows of a carroty hue—never
once
plucked in all her life—setting off such a pair of piercing blue eyes.

These two outlandish figures proved, once introductions had been made, to be Maud, the sister of Edward's first wife, and our new stepsister, Isabel.

Mother sent the maid up to the solar to fetch Edward, who quickly sent the sister-in-law packing—rather rudely, I thought, considering their former connection and the fact that she had traveled some great distance (at his request) to bring his daughter home.

Once Maud had departed (after first kissing Isabel many times, and embracing her, and weeping copious tears at their parting), Edward studied the girl silently for a good long time.

“
Isabel
, is it?” he said at last.

“Yes, Father.” She curtsied awkwardly.

“Take off the cap,” he said. She did so.

“You do resemble your mother somewhat,” he said, “though her hair was more of gold than brass. Perhaps yours will be more golden once it is clean.” He turned to Mother then. “She needs a good washing—and some respectable clothes.”

“If you will recommend a dressmaker, I will summon her right away,” Mother said.

“A
dressmaker
? When you have nothing to do all day but ply your needle? Do not put on airs, Matilda. Just wash the child—she stinks, and most likely she is crawling with vermin. And if you cannot make her a gown yourself, then give her something of Alice's.”

“
Wash
her?” Mother gasped, appalled. “You want
me
to
wash
her?”

“Just see that it is done, Matilda—you can manage that much, I think. Chances are she can wash herself, though I doubt she has had much practice at it. And when she is clean and properly dressed, bring her back to me and we shall see whether she truly resembles Catherine or no.”

Mother turned on her heel and stormed out of the hall; Alice and Isabel and I followed quickly after. “He is a monster!” she muttered.

We went straight to the kitchen, where Mother ordered the scullery maid to heat some water for a bath and told Isabel to stay there till it was ready. “Can I assume that you will know what to do with it?” Mother asked.

Isabel flushed and said she would.

Then we left the kitchen and Mother—still in a fury—went tearing through the house, rummaging through chests and drawers in search of
something
to put on the girl. Finally, in the storeroom, in a chest of cypress wood, Mother found some ladies' clothes and shoes and under-linen, all carefully folded away with a scattering of bay leaves between each layer to keep them sweet. She took out a gown of fine wool in a deep indigo color, trimmed with ermine.

“Oh—how elegant!” I said. “Whose do you think it was?”

“His late wife's, I suppose, or perhaps his mother's. Edward might even have had a sister—I would certainly be the last to know of it. I do not rightly care, Marianne, if you would know the truth.”

“But isn't that much too grand for little ash-face?”

“Have you a better idea, Marianne?” she snapped back. “Would you have her wear something of Alice's—or of yours?”

It was not a real question. She already knew the answer.

By the time we returned to the kitchen, the maid was busy tossing buckets of dirty bathwater out the window into the street, and Isabel was sitting by the fire, drying her hair. Her skin was an entire shade lighter, I noticed.

“When you are dry, put this on. If it does not fit, then we shall have to see what we can do to alter it.”

“I can sew, my lady,” Isabel said. “Whatever is needed, I can do it.”

“Well, that is a relief,” Mother said. “But you must not say ‘my lady.' You are a knight's daughter, and you must learn to behave like one.”

“How shall I address you, then?”

Mother paused to think. “Stepmother, I suppose,” she said.

Then we went to sit in the great hall and wait until Isabel was dry and dressed and ready to be presented to Edward a second time. Alice retreated to our room, as she so often did. Mother took up her work again, still much agitated, jabbing her needle into the embroidery with savage force. We sat in silence for a while, irritation filling the air like an evil smell. Then suddenly I thought of something.

“Mother,” I said, “where is Isabel to sleep?”

She laid her sewing in her lap and looked up at me, aghast. She had not yet considered this. “Oh, dear child!” she said. “She must sleep with you and Alice—there is nowhere else.”

“Oh, Mother, no! He cannot make me share a bed with that dirty peasant!”

“Then you may return to court early, Marianne. You are most fortunate that you have that choice. But what of poor Alice? Troubled as she is, I cannot bear to think of her lying beside that strange child at night.”

“Let ash-face sleep in the kitchen, then—that is what she is accustomed to.”

“Marianne, you make me weary sometimes,” Mother said. “I am trying to think.” She returned to attacking her embroidery with her needle while I gazed at the fire.

Not long thereafter Isabel came into the hall dressed in the blue gown, her hair combed and lying free upon her shoulders. Her cheeks were bright, and she smelled of soap. The gown was a bit loose about the bodice, but it would do well enough. Indeed, such was the transformation that one might almost have taken her for a lady—were it not for the awkward way she walked in her dainty little shoes.

“Excellent,” Mother said, rising from her chair. “You are much improved, Isabel. Let us take you to your father for inspection.”

“Oh, Stepmother,” Isabel said, “it is such a beautiful gown! Like the sky on a clear night.”

“Just so,” Mother said. “Now come along.”

And so we led Isabel up to the solar and presented her to Edward.

“Here is your daughter, husband,” Mother said, “washed and dressed as you requested.”

But he did not smile, nor did he compliment us on the transformation. He rose to his feet, unmindful that his book fell onto the floor. Indeed, he trampled upon it as he strode across the room, roaring like a wild beast. His dark eyes were fierce with rage.

“How
dare
you!” he shouted, grabbing Mother fiercely by the arm. “Is this your idea of a
jest
, woman?” Then he slapped her face. I gasped and clung to the doorframe, knowing not whether to run or stay.

Then he turned on Isabel. “Take it off!” he said in a low growl.

“Here? Now?” said Isabel, retreating toward the door. She clearly knew not what to do—did he expect her to stand before us in her
underclothes
?

“Take it
off
, I say!” and he began pulling and tugging at the dress until it ripped at the neckline and along the right sleeve.

Isabel turned and fled from him, struggling with the buttons as she went, crying, “I am taking it off! I am taking it off!”

At the bottom of the stairs, she finally freed herself from the lovely blue dress that had reminded her of the night sky. She left it lying there and disappeared.

“Have you gone
mad?”
Mother cried, her hand against her burning cheek.