Bella at Midnight (9 page)

They watched as I began to grasp the implications of what I had just learned. I looked at Father, searchingly.

He only nodded sadly.

And so that meant that Will and Margaret were not my brother and sister! I took a sudden breath, for somehow that was the hardest news of all. They were
mine
! They were part of me!

“Oh, Bella!” Mother-who-was-not-Mother said, kneeling down and taking my hands in hers.

“And my real father?” I asked. “Is he dead also?”

“No, child.”

Now the lady spoke again. “You see, your mother was a perfect angel, and your father loved her so much that when she died, he was much disordered by grief. And so I brought you here, to this good place, until such time as your father was fit to look after you.”

“Why did no one
tell
me?” I cried. I was weeping now, and cared not that all were watching me. “How could you let me believe you were my family when you were not? Did
you
know, Will? Did even
Margaret
know?” I did not allow them to answer, for I fell upon the floor and screamed and wailed—I was so brokenhearted and I was so angry!

The auntie rose as if to come and comfort me, but I shouted at her not to touch me, not to come near, and so she sat down again. They let me cry until I was spent. Then I sat up and looked around at all of them and said, “You ought to have told me!”

“Yes,” Father said. “We ought to have done. Truly, Bella, we
meant
to.”

Now, looking at the auntie, I went on being shrewish with all the force I had in me. “And
you
have come here—why? Because this
father
of mine, this
father . . .
has he a name?”

“Edward.”

“This
father
, this
Edward
, who sent me away as a tender child and has never
once
come to see me or inquired after me . . .” Here I began to weep again.

“That is why we could not bring ourselves to tell you, child,” Mother said.

“This
father
,” I wailed (I
would
finish my thought!), “has he now decided that I must leave this house where I am happy and these people I love and believed to be my family and go live with him?”

“Yes, child.”

“Where? Where am I to go?”

“To the King's City,” said the auntie. “He has a fine big house there, Isabel. He is a knight.”

“
A knight!
I am a
knight's
daughter? Oh, wonder of wonders! How unfortunate Prince Julian did not know of this! A
knight's
daughter! What else?”

“Oh, there is much else,” said the auntie—and I noticed that I liked the sound of her voice. “Of your sweet dear mother who held you in her arms and loved you so long ago, and did not deserve to die. Of that I can tell you much. We will talk of it on the road.”

“And my father? Is there more to tell of
him
?”

“Some. Not so good to hear, I'm afraid. But he has married again, and I think his new wife will have softened him. And I will be nearby and will do all I can to ease your way.”

“But why?” I asked. “Why does he send for me now, after so many years?”

All eyes turned to Auntie.

“Well,” she said, “I confess he did not tell me his reasons. He sent a letter, is all, to ask would I go and fetch you home. But I would guess he has finally recovered his senses. And as he has a wife now, to keep house for him, it will be easier for him to do all for you that is proper and needful—and long overdue, Isabel.”

“But I do not
want
to go,” I wailed.

“Enough, Bella,” Mother said then. “Stop your weeping. The bird leaves the nest, and so must you. We do not like it, either, for we have loved you as our own for all these years. But you are thirteen, now—almost a woman. You would have left us anyway before long, to marry and make a new life with your husband. It is well that you prepare yourself now to live according to your station, and know your own father and your good auntie here, while still you can.”

This was so well said and sensible that I bowed my head in submission and agreed to do as I was bid. I set to gathering such few things as I had and made ready to leave the next morning.

Then, in what little time remained before dark, I went about the village and said good-bye to my friends of a lifetime. I told them that I had recently discovered I was a knight's daughter and that I was off to live in a grand house in the King's City—and I found I was rather taken with the idea. I wondered if they thought I was only making up stories, as I was wont to do as a child, but they seemed to believe me.

Well, of course, I thought! Of
course
they would know I was not born in that village, at least those who were old enough to remember when my auntie brought me there. Surely they had known it all along, yet they'd never said a word, except that they called me Princess. I saw now that it had been more than just a baby name. They called me that because of my noble birth. I never really was one of them.

That night, as I lay upon my pallet by the fire for the last time, I thought of my foster parents and how good they had been to me, how they had given me a home when my father would not, and how they had loved me as dearly as they loved their own children. It did not seem fitting, after that, to add my grief to theirs. And so the next morning, when it came time to leave, I kept my composure. I gave them my warmest love and thanks, then kissed them good-bye and rode away. Margaret ran along beside us for a time, throwing kisses. And people came out of their houses to wave good-bye. Auntie had given me a fur-lined mantle to wear against the cold—and I
did
feel like a knight's daughter in it. I liked that my friends saw me wearing it. I wondered if I would ever see them again.

We had been out upon the road for but a little time when Auntie reined in her horse and turned to me with a troubled look upon her face. “Dear child, I did not think!” she said. “Did you wish to go up to the castle and say your farewells to the prince?”

“How did you know about the prince?” I asked, my cheeks burning.

“Why, you spoke of him yesterday. And Beatrice told me what loving friends you were, from the time you were a wee babe! She mentioned it several times. I think she wished me to know that not
all
in your upbringing was so very humble. Shall we turn back, so that you may say good-bye to him?”

“No,” I said, “for he is not there. He lives in Brutanna now, at the royal court. Did you never hear of it, Auntie? He is a hostage there, as part of the truce that ended the war.”

“No, I never did!” she said. “You must think me a perfect dunce! But I do not get about much in the world. I look after your grandfather and have little time for gossip. I do know of the truce, of course. All the world knows about that. But, my stars—that poor fellow! Sent off to live in Brutanna!”

“What is so very dreadful about Brutanna, Auntie? He is living with the royal family there, in the palace—even though he
is
a hostage.”

“Well, I suppose that in the palace they live better than the common folk. Perhaps they light the fire once or twice in the winter and do not spit upon the floor and eat fish guts and pigs' ears for dinner.”

“Oh, Auntie—you are making up stories!”

She reached over, then, and took my hand in hers. It was warm, and dry, and soft, and it made my fingers tingle—and, strange as it is to tell, with that touch I felt the sorrow and the anger begin to drain away from me, and I felt whole again. I gasped at the wonder of it. She squeezed my hand and looked straight into my eyes. I saw that she was weeping.

“What happened?” I said.

“Oh, child, just one person loving another.”

“No. Something more.”

“Well,” she said, “I do not know how to say this, but all my life people have told me that my touch brings them comfort. Your dear mother said it was so, and poor Father says it, also. I have always thought it foolishness—only, now I think perhaps I must believe it.”

“Why, Auntie? Why now?”

“Because, dear Isabel, I felt it, too. From you.”

“From
me
?”

“Such gift as I have—sweet Catherine said it was because I had lived a life of service and God had blessed me for it—my gift is a small thing compared to yours. I saw it in your eyes when you were born, and I felt it again just now.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, stunned.

“I do not know, dear child. I do not know. We must wait and see.”

The Ring

M
y father lies below the sea. Crabs scuttle over him and scatter his bones. Beside his remains, half buried in the sand, lie trinkets he was bringing home for me.

I rehearse this scene in my dreams, night after night. Mother says I'm being morbid. She says each day brings enough gloom and trouble without our hoarding it up and mooning over it. But can I help the dreadful thoughts that drift into my mind as I sleep?

Before Father left this last time, he invited us all to go down to the harbor and see the ship that would be his floating home for so many months. He would show us his snug little cabin, he said, with its slanted walls and tiny windows. And we could watch the sailors scrambling up the masts as nimbly as squirrels in the trees! Surely anyone would be eager for such an adventure. I certainly was.

But Mother said she has a weak stomach and could not tolerate the rocking of the ship (it was at anchor in a peaceful harbor). In truth, I think she feared she might get her gown wet about the hem or soil her shoes. As for Marianne, I suspect she was too occupied with her own affairs. She had an appointment with the dressmaker. Also she is inclined to worry about what damp air will do to her curls. But I did not care—it meant I would have Father all to myself.

We rode down to the harbor early in the morning. Along the way he told me stories of the faraway places he has seen, of the Moors who dress in long robes and wear turbans upon their heads and have another, completely different religion from ours. They do not drink ale or wine and are very particular about being clean—they bathe
every day
and yet do not fall ill or suffer any consequences from it at all!

He told me about some creatures of the desert, rather like horses with long legs and humps upon their backs. He said they could travel for days and days without drinking any water. He swore he had ridden them many times. They are trained to get down on their knees, he said, so you can climb up onto their backs. But they have nasty tempers and will spit at you if you do not take care.

In Egypt there are giant dragons in the rivers that can swallow you in a single gulp. Children from nearby villages go missing all the time. They just wade into the river and are swallowed whole! I shrieked when he told me that, so he took me in his arms and kissed my nose and said it was altogether too tiny and he needed to keep kissing it so it would grow properly. Soon I was laughing, and he was telling me about pirates. Then we arrived.

The harbor was full of so many ships—and such a profusion of tall masts rose up from them—that it made me think of a forest in wintertime.

“Oh, Father,” I cried, “which one is yours?”

“Wait and see,” he said. Then he took my hand and helped me into a little boat with some great, smelly sailors. Once we were settled, they rowed us away from the dock, past ship after ship, each one looming far above us, high as a castle wall.

Father's ship wasn't the biggest and it wasn't the grandest, but it was
Father's
ship and so I liked it the best. I craned my neck to see to the top. Men were leaning over the railing and looking down at us.

“How will we get up there?” I asked.

“You shall fly, little bird,” Father said. Then he called up to the men, “A bosun's chair for Cap'n Alice!” The faces went away and soon a chair appeared, lowered from on high by ropes. I got into it and held on tight, and they hauled me up on deck. Never in my life had I been so frightened—or so thrilled—all at the same time!