Mamma swung to Jane. Her eyes were hard. “Jane?”
“She was hurting Maude,” Jane said loudly.
“She did it on purpose,” Maude broke in. “Janie had to hit her to make her let go.”
“She’s lying!” Isabella cried, her pale skin flushed.
“I don’t lie!” Maude shouted back. She ran at Isabella, but Jane managed to catch her.
“Stop it!” Jane hissed at her sister, who wriggled to get away. For answer, Maude pinched Jane in the tender spot inside her upper arm. Jane gasped and almost let go. She looked at her mother, begging for help with her eyes, but Mamma stood as if thunderstruck. She neither moved nor spoke.
“Be quiet, all of you!” Harry said. “Margaret, I expect you to punish these girls. Come, darling,” he said to Isabella. “Come inside and let me put some cool water on your face.” He shot a ferocious look at Jane and went into the house, carrying Isabella, her head pillowed on his shoulder.
With a sudden twist Maude managed to break away, sobbing loudly, but to Jane’s relief she ran off toward the woods instead of into the house after Isabella. Jane hesitated, rubbing the sore spot on her arm. It was red, and she knew it would bruise. Mamma raised a hand to her mouth and turned away.
Jane’s hurt and indignation drained away like whey from cheese. She was suddenly so tired that she could barely keep to her feet. Maude must have run to Hannah Herb-Woman’s house, where she would be consoled and soothed, to be sent home with an apple or a slice of new bread to fill the empty hole in her heart.
And where do I go? Jane asked herself. Who will comfort me? Not Mamma, certainly. She knew that Mamma would never refer to the incident again, as though nothing had happened.
She went inside to start supper but didn’t want to see Harry and Isabella. If Harry was going to wash Isabella’s face, he must have taken her outside. Creeping through the dank kitchen, she heard the squeak-squeak-squeak of the outdoor pump as someone worked its handle. She peered through the crack of the door and saw the man kneeling before Isabella, wiping her face with a large handkerchief. Were there really tear tracks to remove? Jane wondered. Had the girl really cried?
Isabella suddenly gave a large hiccupping sob that must have startled the man, for he rocked back on his heels and stopped what he had been doing, the handkerchief dangling from his hand. “Ella?” he asked, almost fearfully. “Ella, darling—”
She had bent her head and stood twisting the hem of her gleaming dress in her fingertips. She murmured something.
“What is it, my own?”
She raised her head, and Jane was shocked at the misery in her pale face. “Father, please take me home.”
“Ella—” he began, but she rushed on.
“They hate me. She only likes her own girls, and they don’t like anyone but themselves. It smells bad in that house, and there are mice and bats and spiders. You said I would have servants and fine clothes and my own bedroom with my own fireplace....” She turned her head from her father, but Jane could tell by her shaking back and hunched shoulders that she was crying silently. After a moment, the girl said in a voice thick with tears, “I was trying to be nice. I tried to tell them how much prettier they were now that they were bathed, but they didn’t want to talk to me. And Mother’s comb truly was stuck in a knot. I didn’t mean to hurt her—I was just trying to take the comb out without breaking it.” Jane swallowed a lump of guilt. Had she misunderstood what had happened?
“Ella,” the man said again, his voice shaking. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, my darling, but I had no idea. She told me that the house was in disrepair, but I thought she was so accustomed to fine things that a little mold or a broken stair rail would strike her as disrepair. I didn’t know it was this bad.”
Isabella took a deep breath and straightened. “There aren’t any servants. They do all the work themselves, and they want me to do it, too. They act like I’m stupid because I don’t know how.” Jane stifled a cry of protest. They acted like she was stupid? But it was Isabella who treated them like ignorant country girls!
“They don’t really work,” the man answered, but Jane heard his uncertainty. “A little fine needlework, keeping poultry, making cheese—she told me that these were their occupations, and those are all suitable ways for a lady to keep herself amused.”
“No, father,” Isabella said. “No, it’s not just a little fine needlework and keeping poultry. They make stockings, and they sew everything they wear. They cook and clean the house. They must also chop the wood and do the laundry, because who else is there?”
“Well, Ella.” He stopped. Jane wondered if his face mirrored the discomfort in his voice. “Well, Ella, I’m having a bit of difficulty getting the bank to release my funds. They don’t want to send gold over such a long distance until the king recovers from his illness and puts more guards on the road. I’m working on it,” he said hastily, as she seemed about to speak again, “and soon we’ll have maids and cooks and footmen. Won’t that be nice?” He stood and took her hand. They started toward the door, and Jane fled back through the empty dining room to the South Parlor. She wiped the table and set out the bowls for the midday meal, trying to act as though she had been there ever since the incident with the comb.
The man and the girl passed through the parlor, still talking to each other, and took no notice of her. As soon as they were out of sight, Jane sat down in the big chair, her thoughts flying in and out of her head as she tried to sort them. Had Isabella really been trying to be friendly? And had she meant it when she said that she and Maude were pretty—or at least prettier—when they were clean and neat?
Clean and neat, perhaps, but hardly the ladies Mamma kept insisting they were. Jane winced at the recollection of Isabella’s biting words, even though the girl had merely repeated what Jane herself had recognized long ago: she and Maude weren’t ladies who were so bored with their lives of ease that they played at being dairymaid and hen girl and needlewoman. She and Maude were dairymaids and hen girls and needlewomen, and they were also wood choppers and floor sweepers and cooks. It was a triumph, in a way, that an outsider had seen so quickly what Jane had been aware of but that Mamma had been denying for years.
Jane didn’t feel triumphant, though. She felt sick and so weary that she didn’t ever want to get up.
She had to, though. She hoisted herself out of the chair and went to look out the big door. In the drive, the man was still holding his daughter’s hand. “I’m taking Ella to the village,” he was saying to Mamma. “She needs something to divert her.”
Don’t say anything, Jane pleaded silently. Just let them go.
Mamma lowered her gaze without answering him. Harry led his daughter into the barn, and in a few minutes he emerged, leading the chestnut horses, now harnessed to the carriage. They tossed their heads and lifted their legs high. He helped Isabella inside and climbed awkwardly into the driver’s seat. The horses set out at a brisk pace as he sawed ineffectually at the reins. When the carriage was gone, Mamma said, “They’ll be back this evening.” Then she looked down the drive again.
Maude reappeared, scuffing her feet in the dust as she came up the drive. She didn’t say where she had been, and Mamma didn’t ask.
Harry and Isabella did not return in time for supper, and they still had not come when Jane lit the lamps in the South Parlor. They sat on the rug, one girl leaning on either side of Mamma, as she told them stories of parties she had gone to when she was young. The ladies