Isabella was sitting on her father’s lap on the big chair, her feet on the armrest. She squirmed, and her shoes made streaks on the cloth. Jane looked at Mamma, but Mamma appeared not to notice, and Jane put the food down and went to join Maude outside.
The sun was low, and the evening noises were starting. Crickets and tree frogs screeched out their songs, and a light breeze rustled through the trees beyond the henhouse, lifting a little of the heat from the late-summer day.
Maude showed Jane six new-laid eggs in her basket. “One for each of us and two for the man. He’s big and probably eats a lot,” Maude explained. She had placed them carefully in the basket, nestled in straw to keep them from breaking.
Jane picked the few remaining berries from a bush near the kitchen door. Walking carefully, she entered the South Parlor just as Maude was placing the egg basket on the scarred wooden table they used for everything from sewing to cooking to eating. Mamma had lit the lantern.
“Look what I have, Mamma,” Jane said. “We can eat these after the eggs.” She carefully pulled the berries out of her pockets, heaping them on the table.
“Lovely, dear,” Mamma said. “Where—”
But Isabella interrupted her. “I can’t eat those,” she said to her father. “She touched them with her dirty hands!”
“So wash them,” Jane said, as she would to Maude. Her fingers were a little grimy, she supposed, but none of it was nasty—just good, clean dirt from pushing branches aside and picking fallen berries up off the ground.
“There appears to be no water,” Mamma said as though to no one.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jane thought. Of course there isn’t. There are no servants to fetch it.
The man spoke to Isabella. “Don’t worry, darling. We’ll wash the berries, won’t we, Margaret?”
Mamma’s lips were pressed together. Jane looked at the man. Didn’t he know that this meant he should stop now, before Mamma got angry? But Mamma just said, “There is nothing wrong with the berries. Isabella may wash them if she really wants to, or she can have apples and a boiled egg. That should be sufficient. A light supper is all a lady requires.”
“I want berries,” Isabella said. Mamma pressed her lips together even tighter, and Jane waited for the storm. But it didn’t come. Instead, Mamma reached into the back of the cupboard and pulled out a small white bowl painted with tiny flowers, one of the few pieces that had been saved from her beautiful china. They had not been able to sell this one because of a tiny crack.
They needed water to cook the eggs, anyway, so Jane went outside to the pump. They had used up the rainwater stored in the cisterns weeks before. While she was working the pump handle she thought how ridiculous it was to pretend they were still the Halseys of long ago, with servants to fetch heavy pails of water and to wash things that didn’t need it. When she came back, the man took the jug and hastily poured a little water into the bowl holding the berries, splashing some on the table. “She really isn’t used to country ways, Margaret,” he said apologetically. “In the city—”
“I understand, Harry,” Mamma said.
Jane could tell by the way Maude was looking at her that her sister shared her shock. Mamma would never have allowed one of them to tell an adult what to do, and she would have sent her to bed without any supper if she wasn’t satisfied with what there was to eat.
When the water in the pot hanging over the fire steamed, Jane placed the eggs in it. They knocked about pleasantly. When they were done, Maude scooped them out. Jane cracked her egg quickly, blowing on her fingers after each touch. Soon the soft white and golden yolk were spreading on her plate, to be eaten while hot and delicious.
Isabella made no attempt to peel hers. Instead, her father did it, his big hands clumsy. He sucked on a reddened forefinger while his daughter daintily spooned up her egg. Jane watched, fascinated, as the girl wiped her mouth after each bite. Isabella caught Jane staring at her and glowered. Jane dropped her gaze and crumbled some biscuit into the smear of yellow that remained on her plate, and then spooned it up.
“Father, look what she’s doing,” Isabella said with a giggle.
“Hush, darling,” he said. “That’s how they eat in the country.”
“In the country?” Jane asked. “Don’t they eat eggs where you come from?” The girl and the man exchanged a glance, but neither answered. Jane felt she was doing something wrong, but what?
They ate the apples, Harry peeling and slicing Isabella’s and his own, and then Mamma took Harry to see the gardens. Isabella perched on the edge of the big chair, whose brown velvet was almost rubbed away. Her toes barely reached the floor as she sat silently, her hands crossed in her lap, her eyes fixed on a spot a few feet ahead of her. Maude asked her abruptly, “How old are you?”
“Thirteen.” Isabella didn’t look up.
“What?” Maude asked. “That’s older than I am! You can’t be thirteen.”
Isabella raised those extraordinary eyes to her. They glittered like the green ice on top of the pond in the winter. “Why can’t I?”
“Because...” Maude gestured at her. “Because you’re so small!”
“I’m not small,” Isabella said. “You’re big.”
“But...” Maude started, and then fell silent. She looked at Jane, indignation plain on her face.
“Maude is tall.” Jane came to her sister’s defense. “Tall like Mamma. So am I. And you’re short. Your hands and feet look like they belong to a baby.” Their mother said that their long fingers and toes were an aristocratic trait, and besides, they would grow into them, but Jane didn’t believe her. Secretly, Jane admired the girl’s small feet and hands and her slender limbs, unlike her own arms and legs, which were unladylike and muscular. The girl crossed her arms over her chest, tucking her hands into her armpits, and looked away. Jane shrugged.
They heard footsteps, and then outside the parlor, the man laughed and Mamma said, “Oh, of course I remember that party, Harry! That was the one where that fat girl—what was her name?” They came in together, still laughing.
“Alexandra,” Harry said. “She fell in the pond—”
“And when she came out she said she had seen a water-sprite—”
“And nobody could stop Daniel from jumping in and looking for it—”
They broke off when they saw the girls staring at them. “Serve the berries, Maude,” Mamma instructed. Maude spooned some into each bowl. Jane could tell that she was counting them and stifled a smile. Maude loved anything sweet and would make sure that no one got more than she did. Maude passed the painted bowl to Isabella, who daintily dug in her spoon and lifted it to her lips. She swallowed a mouthful and then took another. Jane relaxed enough to take a bite.
A high-pitched scream made everyone jump. Isabella was on her feet, her face purple-red and distorted.
“What is it? What happened?” Harry shouted, kneeling in front of his daughter. Isabella either could not or would not talk, but kept screaming, and then spat something on the floor. A dead bee.
“Oh, my Lord!” Harry gasped. Isabella’s lower lip was already starting to swell.
“Is the stinger out?” Maude asked.
Harry repeated, “Oh, my Lord—my little sweetheart—Ella, Ella, my poor darling.”
Maude pushed herself between them. “Let me make sure the stinger is out.” She lifted Isabella’s chin, but the girl’s hand