Alida punished her maid by withdrawing her favor from her. She shared no more secrets with her; treated her as one of many instead of as special. Burning her at the stake would have been kinder to Penella than such treatment, and Alida well knew this. It was the perfect revenge.
Now, Penella should have been suspicious when she told her mistress that the old woman who had been hired to be a wet nurse to her daughter and that boy was asking to speak to her, and Alida showed no surprise. But Penella was so pleased to have something private to share with her mistress, that she noticed nothing extraordinary. Her mind was fully occupied with dreams of getting back into her mistress’s favor, of having her old privileges, her old power back.
“Who else knows of this?” Alida asked sharply.
“No one. She was walking about the courtyard with a shawl over her face and when she saw me she ran to me. You may imagine my distaste, my lady, when such as she dared to speak to me.”
Alida had to control herself to keep from reminding the woman that she was merely a maid and no more important than this fat farm wife. But in the last few moments, Penella had slipped back into the close relationship she had once enjoyed with her mistress; it was as though the past nine years had never been.
“She spoke to no one else? You are sure?”
“Most certainly. She made a point of saying such. She said she has been waiting outside for two days, hoping to see you or me. She knows that I am close to you, that to tell me something is to tell you, so she spoke only to me.”
What had once pleased Alida now disgusted her. How had she stood this woman’s presumption? When she’d been so alone that she’d had no husband, no friend, nothing but hatred in her heart, she had clung to this woman’s cloying ways.
“Bring her to me,” Alida said. “Let no one see her. Give her a basket of herbs to carry so no one will suspect that she has anything to say to me but of her wares.”
“Yes, my lady,” Penella said, joy racing through her heart. Some part of her knew that her ladyship’s anger had been caused by what had happened the night of the fire. Over the years Penella had come to regret warning those peasants of what her ladyship intended. What did they, or those babies, matter to her? If her ladyship wanted them dead, who was she to question that? But if the truth were told, she did not fully understand what she had done that night to anger her ladyship. Everything had turned out well since then, hadn’t it? So what had she done that was so wrong? Didn’t she do everything for her ladyship’s own good?
“Yes,” Penella said, “I will get her, then you and I will talk to her.”
“No!” Alida said sharply. “I will talk to her alone.”
Penella opened her mouth to protest but closed it. “Yes, my lady,” she said, allowing as much anger in her voice as she dared.
When her maid was gone—Alida thought that she must get rid of her—she tried to calm herself. Calm herself and think. She had to find out where this woman lived, where the boy was being kept. She had to make her talk.
What Alida saw when Meg shuffled into the room was a very ordinary-looking woman, her face lined with ceaseless toil. She was fat and walked slowly, carrying her basket of herbs as though it were very heavy.
What Alida also saw was the woman’s guileless blue eyes, as open and as innocent as a kitten’s. This was a woman who had not been tormented and hated all her married life as Alida had been. Alida would have died before she admitted it, but what she was feeling was jealousy. This fat old farm woman had not been born with beauty or wealth; her only children, born late in her life, had died. But, as though she were blessed by God, she had been given two strong, healthy children to replace them. No doubt her husband loved her, protected her, wanted nothing more than her happiness. While she, Alida, lived in this great, fine house John was still building and had a husband who, if told his wife had died, would do little more than shrug his shoulders.
Alida smiled at Meg as though she were an emissary from the queen. “Do sit down. You must be tired from your journey. May I pour you a glass of wine?”
Meg, prepared for coldness, was disconcerted by such warmth. Only three times before in her life had she had wine to drink, and then it had been heavily watered. And it had never been poured into a silver goblet by the white hand of a lady.
Tentatively, Meg took the wine—and it went straight to her head. There was not a drop of water diluting this wine.
Spreading her gown of dark red velvet about her, Alida took a seat across from Meg and watched until the wine was finished and the sweetmeats eaten. When Meg hesitated to take a second glass, Alida entreated her to do so, saying she would be hurt if Meg did not. “After all,” she said, “I owe you a great deal. You have been caring for my daughter these many years, have you not?”
“Yes,” Meg said, feeling wonderful and relaxed; then she had the sacrilegious thought of understanding why men liked drink so much. And why they did not want women to drink. Feeling like this, it’s no telling what a woman would do. For herself, Meg was feeling quite confident; she could do anything.
“Tell me about my daughter,” Alida said in the sweetest possible tones. “That is, if you wish to do so. I fear that now she is more yours than mine.”
“Oh no, none of it,” Meg said, knowing she was lying, for both the children were hers. But the fuzzy feeling the drink gave her made her feel that this lie was all right.
“Then you don’t mind talking about them?” Alida said, subtly hinting that she wanted to know about both children. Then, frowning, she took the goblet from Meg. Another moment and the old woman was going to be asleep.
There was nothing on earth that Meg wanted to do more than talk about her children. Sometimes she got very annoyed with Will when he wanted to think about his farm and not their children. Once he’d said, very sternly, “Do not get so attached to what is not yours.” She’d laughed at that because there was no one as attached to the children as he was. Sometimes Meg thought that Will’s love for the two of them was even stronger than hers, so strong that he could not talk about them.
“They are strange children,” Meg said softly, her mind going back to the farm. For all that, by comparison with this rich house, the farm was a poor place, she would not trade one rose from her cottage for all of this wealth. In the two days she had been waiting to see her ladyship there had been a feeling of, well, of something unhealthy about this place. Now all she wanted to do was perform her task and go home.
Happily, her mind went back to the farm, to the simplicity of Will and their children. “The children are as alike as though they were two halves of a whole. When one is hungry, the other is hungry. What makes one ill makes the other ill. They like the same colors, the same foods. They have the same temperament, both loving…” She hesitated, searching for the right word.
“They both love being players, like in the village,” she said at last.
Concentrating, Alida tried to understand what she was hearing. Drama, she thought. Flamboyance. The children loved all the emotion that she had learned to suppress.
Meg continued. “Sometimes the children will not talk to each other for hours—they will be working at their chores—but you can ask what they are thinking and it will be the same.”
Meg’s eyes took on a dreamy quality. There was nothing in life she loved more than her children. She was sure she would never get into heaven for this thought, but sometimes she was almost glad her own children had died so she’d been able to spend these years with Talis and Callie. Her own children would not have been as entertaining as these two were; they would never have jumped on a great black horse and gone running off across the countryside. Her own daughter would not have told stories at night as they sat about the fire.
Meg’s head came up, maybe a little too suddenly, since she felt dizzy at the movement. How could she have thought that this woman had evil intentions? She must be heartbroken that she had been denied the company of her delightful, adorable daughter. Of course she wanted
to hear all about her. It did not occur to Meg that while she was telling Alida all about her own daughter, she was telling an equal amount about a boy Alida possibly hated.
“The children learn at the same speed, and they are interested in the same things,” Meg said, thinking how clever she was to casually mention learning. By the time she finished, Lady Alida would be begging to hire a teacher for her daughter.
22
Once Meg had started, she couldn’t stop talking about the children. Nine years of living with them, loving them, and telling no one about them, had built up inside her. She had never been able to tell her neighbors because her children were so different from theirs. At every village festival—the ones Will allowed them to attend—Callie and Talis stood out from the other children. Instinctively, everyone knew they were separate and distinct.
Now, Meg was free to talk to her heart’s content. And talk she did. She told of Talis’s arrogance, how he sometimes hurt Callie’s feelings. Talis would never think of apologizing when he did something to hurt Callie, but at night he would put the best pieces of meat onto her plate. Then Callie would serve him the best of the bread.
“You’ll both starve from giving the other the best,” Will had said to them more than once. The children would deny this, then Talis would lapse into a long speech of how he and Callie couldn’t abide each other. Callie would nod her head in agreement, both of them too proud to admit what they were each to the other.
“They can not be separated,” Meg continued. “They won’t sleep if they aren’t in the same room, preferably in the same bed. And they…” She hesitated as she cocked her head to one side, thinking. “They talk to each other through their minds.” Embarrassed, she looked up at Lady Alida, whose face showed interest but also some revulsion. Meg decided it was better not to talk about the mind-talk. “When one cuts his finger, the other feels it. If you were to strike one, the other would feel it.” Neither of the children had ever said this, but she remembered too well the way Callie had sat down quite gingerly after the times Will had taken a belt to Talis.
As Alida listened, she became more angry with each sentence. Here was proof that her prayer to God had been answered. He had not answered her many prayers she’d offered Him for the nine months of her last pregnancy that she had spent on her knees. No, He had not granted her wish for a son. Instead, she had prayed that her child share the soul of that foreign woman’s baby and that prayer had been answered. Why, why could not He have answered her request for a boy? A boy of her own, one to inherit? A son who was healthy in mind and body?
Now this fawning old woman was saying how sweet the children were, how kind and loving, how they liked to do things for other people. Alida knew she had to stop her before she became nauseated.
“Come, come,” Alida said, “they must have at least one weakness. Or are they not human?”
Meg’s back stiffened at the very thought that her children were not what was best in the world. “Yes, of course they have weaknesses. They…” She hesitated, but then she remembered that this woman was Callie’s mother so she could confide in her. “They are jealous,” she said softly. “They are both very jealous.”
Alida gave a little smile. “That does not seem such a bad weakness. We are all jealous. Here, have some more wine. If you do not tell me what their flaws are, I will not believe their virtues.”
That made sense to Meg, and, besides, wasn’t it her own vanity that was keeping her from telling this woman all the truth about her own child?
“Their jealousy is stronger than most people’s. It is not normal. Talis is the worst. He cannot bear Callie to give her attention to anything but him. There was a boy who came for one day and he gave Callie a book. Talis has several times become angry at Callie when she looks at that boy’s book. He wants all of her attention all of the time.”
“And what of the girl?” Alida could not bring herself to call her her daughter.
“She…” Again, Meg hesitated. How to state Callie’s biggest sin? “Callie worships him,” she said at last.
For a moment, all Alida could do was blink. “Worships him?” She paled. Perhaps this boy was from the devil.
“No,” Meg said quickly, correctly reading the lady’s horror. “I do not mean she goes against God. She—” How could she explain? Right now she wished she had Callie’s gift for words. “Talis has a great sense of honor. Yes, that is the word. Honor. He talks all the time about the honor of a man and that a man cannot lie.”
“Ah, then the girl is a liar,” Alida said, understanding the need to lie.
“No,” Meg said sharply. “Callie doesn’t lie. She is very honest, but she cares very, very much for Talis. She cares only for him.” Meg’s voice lowered to a whisper. “I sometimes think Callie would sell her soul to protect him from a bee sting.”
Meg shook her head to clear it, trying to explain what she meant. “They are only children, you understand. It is nothing serious. Callie will steal tarts for him but Talis would die before he stole for any reason on earth. My Callie is a good girl, honest, God-fearing—except when it comes to him, then she’s the devil’s own.”
Meg was finishing the glass of wine and beginning to laugh. Even when she told the “worst” of the children, it wasn’t very bad. “Will and I have to watch Callie, for she will take the blame for anything wrong. Whether Talis has left the barn door open, broken something with his wooden sword, or anything else, Callie will say she did it.”
“And the boy allows her to be punished for his crimes?” Alida asked, smiling. Here at last was evidence that he was indeed Gilbert Rasher’s son.
“No, no, of course not,” Meg said. “Talis is angry when he hears that she has taken the blame for his misdeeds. He will ask her how she can lie, then tell her that lying is a sin.”
Meg smiled. “Callie won’t lie otherwise, just for him. And he never asks her to lie for him. It’s just that she says she can’t bear to see him in pain. She says he’s seen enough pain.”
“What pain has the boy experienced?” Alida asked sharply. At the moment she felt that only she knew of pain.
“I do not know, my lady. I am only telling you what your daughter says. She says that Talis has experienced enough pain and he needs no more. Perhaps she means about his mother dying.” Meg was unsuccessful at keeping the hurt from her voice when she said this. Perhaps the children thought she, Meg, was not good enough to be their real mother and that is why Callie referred to Talis’s birth mother.
“Then you have told them the truth of their birth?”
“Oh no! Will said it was better that the children did not know—until it was time, that is.”
At that statement, Alida was sure the old woman’s husband knew more than he was telling his naive wife, but, whatever the reason for the secrecy, she was very glad that the children knew nothing of their birth. If these two old people were killed, and if, by chance, the children were left alive, they could not come to her and demand sustenance—or recognition. They would not know to come to her and, more important, to John.
Meg took advantage of the momentary silence, and of her completely relaxed state, to explain the reason for her long journey, the reason for risking the wrath of her husband. “I need money to hire a teacher for them,” she said all in one breath.
Alida understood at once. So this is why the woman was here. Of course it was inconceivable that Alida would pay to educate that boy. If he did somehow escape the death she had planned for him, she would not want to give him the advantages of an education. Besides, she did not want to part with money for even an instant. Nearly losing everything had made her very careful of her money.
Meg knew what Alida was at, knew why she was stalling. She didn’t want her husband reminded of Talis. So now, Meg thought, was her time to be clever.
Meg began to talk, saying what she’d thought of over the days of her long walk. “It’s not right for the children to be left uneducated,” Meg said with determination. She had r
esolved to be utterly firm on this matter. “They must have a tutor, someone to educate them to their station in life.”
When Meg saw her ladyship hesitate, she plunged a knife in. “It is all my husband and I can do to feed young Talis. He grows so fast we can’t keep him in clothes. Did I tell you that he is near as tall as me and he is only nine? I am sure the master would be delighted to see him.”
Alida stalled for time while she thought. In the past she had had no time for planning. On the night of the fire she had made mistakes, but this time she wanted to make things right. “You want to educate the boy,” she said graciously, doing all she could to keep the hatred from her voice. She now understood that this horrid woman was trying to blackmail her, to threaten her that if she was not given the money for a tutor, she would present this healthy boy to John.
“Oh no!” Meg said. “They must both go to school. You cannot give one something and not give it to the other. They could not bear to be separated.”
“Oh? And what would happen if they were separated?” Alida said, smiling, but thinking how much she disliked this old woman.
“It would destroy them,” Meg said simply and with utter honesty. “Have you not understood? They are not two people. They are only one person. They are two halves of a whole. They do not exist one without the other.”
Again, Alida felt the hairs on her neck rise as she remembered her prayer nine years ago. Two halves of a whole. One spirit divided into half.
“Yes, yes, come tomorrow and I will give you the money,” Alida said hastily. Yes, she thought, come tomorrow and I will have everything arranged. I will find out where you live and I will have all of you annihilated.
Understanding that she was being dismissed, Meg started to leave, but when she stood, she was unsteady on her feet. She did not want to come back tomorrow. Maybe it was because her senses were different because of the drink or because of something else, but suddenly, she wished very much that she hadn’t made this trip. She wished she had talked to Will about all of this. Maybe Will could have found a way to afford a teacher for the children. Maybe Will could have—