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The Golden Thimble(continued) The townspeople, though wary of strangers, seemed kind
enough to us. It struck me as odd that, although a number of people
brought wedding gifts for me, all of them brought small trinkets and
presents for Ella. Well, I thought, no need for me to feel greedy. After
all, I had the best of my own things, and John's house was well-stocked.
We had no need of anything. I thanked everyone that I met that day-for
joining us, for my gifts and even for Ella's small tokens. Ella herself
was not over-eager to thank anyone. Our life together was certainly pleasant. John did well
at his job. He was not rich and never would be, but we got by better
than most. I ran the household for the five of us and did so with my
usual efficiency. John had told me I need not stint at anything, but
old habits die hard. And certainly, a stew or soup made of the leftover
roast is just as tasty as one made from fresher meat. John had the extra
expense of feeding three more people. And instead of selling me cloth,
he now provided wares for four women. But as I was handy with the needle
and an economical cook, he soon found that he was better off than before.
When he left to sell his wares at other towns, I always packed more
than enough food and drink to last him his entire trip. He teased me
about that, said that I was worried he might otherwise find another
woman to take my place. At first I was uneasy. Yes, in my heart of hearts,
I did fear he would meet another woman. But John assured me that one
woman — and three daughters — was enough for him. He often
shared the meals I packed with other lonely men he met traveling. "Not
every wife is as careful with her husband as you are, my dear,"
he told me. So passed our lives for a number of years. We all missed
John whenever he went travelling. And we all four danced around him,
chattering when he returned. He always brought the girls new trinkets.
On his most successful trips, he brought me lovely pieces of gold and
silver jewelry. All in all, I thought that we were a contented family. But John was not so strong and hearty as I had believed.
He came home from one trip rather ill. I nursed him for days, then urged
him to set up a shop in town. He had been looking more and more tired,
and I began to worry about him. John just laughed at my concerns. As
soon as he improved, he left for another trip. He came home even more
tired and ill. I did all I could. I cooked his favorite meals. I brewed
special herbal teas and put together salves and ointments. But nothing
worked. John just grew weaker and weaker and seemed to fade away before
us. I spent hours by his bedside, holding his hand, putting cool cloths
on his forehead, comforting him in every way I could imagine. "You
are a good woman, Ursula," he murmured from time to time. "A
good and loving wife and mother. I know you will take care of our daughters." Every day I brought the girls in, listening to their chatter
as they tried to cheer poor John. The day he died was as sorrowful for
Olga and Lucy as it was for Ella. Despite my broken heart, I tried my
best to comfort the poor girl. "Do not worry, pet," I told
her. "So long as I live, you will always have a home." Ella
did not reply, no matter what I said that day. For weeks afterwards,
the only sounds I heard at night were the sobs of three young girls.
And every night I cried myself to sleep. As my old grandmother used to say, life goes on. So it
did for the four of us, although not so smoothly or comfortably as before.
There were no more little gifts for any of us; no more John to fuss
over and chatter to. I went through his storerooms and found bolts of
cloths, packets of needles and pins, rolls of trim and lace, and buttons
of very description. Luckily for all of us, John's town was larger than
my old village. There was more than enough work for an extra seamstress.
I got to work, sewing up dresses and shirts and vests. Olga and Lucy
were proficient needlewomen by now, and I soon found enough work to
keep all three of us busy. Again and again, I tried to teach Ella the
art that came so naturally to us, but she never could learn. Life was
not so easy as it had been with John alive, but I kept a roof over our
heads and plenty of food in our bellies. Whenever we needed new clothes,
I pieced together scraps of cloth and made us patchwork dresses to wear
day to day. I was busy then: running our small household, sewing clothes,
overseeing Olga's and Lucy's work. With some of my profit I bought a
few chickens. They were good layers, so we always had eggs to eat and
sometimes a few spare ones to trade for other necessities. I planted
a vegetable garden in back. Because Ella could not learn to sew properly,
I put her in charge of weeding and picking the vegetables and collecting
the eggs every morning. Perhaps she did more than her share of sweeping
up and tending the fires and keeping the house clean. But Olga, Lucy
and I had to keep sewing. I thought we were all doing well enough. We all still
mourned and missed John. The heartache I felt was so deep that I knew
I could never love another man. I never even thought of marrying again.
All three of my girls, as I thought of them, were now of marriageable
age. I preferred to spend my time thinking of ways for them to meet
suitable men. Around that time I noted a change in Ella. It was not
just that she had grown into her full beauty, though that had indeed
happened. She grew quieter around us, even — although I hated to
admit it — sulky at times. At first my heart went out to her. Poor
thing, I told myself over and over, first to lose her mother, then her
father, having to fit into a family of women with skills she so obviously
lacks. I tried to set aside a time each day when we would all do something
together — a task at home or a small outing to the center of town.
Olga and Lucy were delighted by any change in the routine, but Ella
just continued moping. I put up with more sulkiness from Ella than I ever did
from Olga and Lucy. Perhaps that was a mistake, but I felt so sorry
for the girl that I could not help myself. I even made excuses when
stories started drifting in from the neighbors. Every now and again,
for no apparent reason, the good women from town would just appear at
my door. Some would bring a meal with them, while others would just
come in to visit. But all of them, I noticed, seemed to look around
the house so much that I became uneasy. What were they looking for?
I kept my poise and ease. After a time I became friends with the women.
And that's when I heard the stories. Ella was feeling even more sorry for herself than I had
feared. She told the local women that she ate only scraps of food and
had to dress in rags. At first I was indignant and even tried to talk
with Ella. She denied everything and seemed more cheerful for a time. But the stories kept cropping up. I invited a few families
for meals, though that meant stretching our stews and soups more than
I liked. If Ella was eating scraps, then we all were. As for her wearing
rags, I made a point of showing my neighbors the numerous patchwork
dresses and aprons that I had sewn for the four of us. Granted, they
were not of whole cloth, but the cuts remained stylish, and the dresses
wore as well as any. Most of my neighbors sympathized with me after
that. Some women even gave me tips on how to raise a stepdaughter, though
a few of them recommended harsher methods than I was willing to try. Still, every now and again I heard those stories, and
other ones, too. Ella was forced out of her bedroom and had to sleep
in the attic or — worse still — slept near the bare hearth
at night. Well, really, I thought. After John died, I decided to turn
one of the bedrooms into a workroom. I moved Olga and Lucy into the
bedroom I had shared with John and myself took the small room where
Ella had slept. I was about to move the work materials into the attic,
when Ella insisted that she wanted that room for herself. At first I
was hesitant. I did not like the thought of the girl being upstairs
by herself at night, but she begged and pleaded so much that I gave
in to her. As for sleeping on the hearth, it was true that on the most
bitter cold of nights we all huddled there together. Some nights we
built up a big fire and all slept in front of it, covered in blankets,
close to each other for warmth. If Ella complained that her work got
her dirty, well, I had tried time and again to teach her the clean needle
arts. It was hardly my fault that the girl was sometimes clumsy and
spilled ashes on herself. But that was no reason to claim that my daughters
and I referred to her as Cinders Ella! I bit down my annoyance and tried
all the harder to please all three girls. And then one winter, Master Edwards, the richest shop owner in town, decided to throw a fancy dress ball. His son Maurice, whom everyone in town dubbed the merchant prince, had just returned from university and was about to start out in life. Master Edwards decided that he wanted the young man to marry a local girl. And how else for the girls to show off their charms than by attending a dance! The event was a godsend to me in many ways. Everyone in town would attend. Who knew what young men would be happy to meet my three pretty girls? Everyone seemed to need new clothes for the gala. Olga,
Lucy and I were kept busy for weeks, sewing new gowns and repairing
old ones. When the girls slept, I stayed up late by candlelight and
created the three loveliest gowns I had ever made — soft, frilly,
delicate, with lace all over. I even managed to sew up three small shawls
for the girls, out of leftover material from others' gowns. I kept the
dresses hidden from the girls until I had finished them. How delighted
they were when I finally showed them the new creations. At least, Olga
and Lucy were delighted. On and on they chattered as they tried on their
dresses, danced around the house with each other and thought up new
ways to do their hair. Ella smiled, but I thought she looked less than
pleased. "Does the dress feel comfortable?" I asked her.
"It would be no trouble for me to alter it or make some changes
if you like." "No, no," the girl replied. "There is nothing
wrong with the dress." Nothing wrong, I thought. If anything, Ella's gown was
even more intricate and dainty than those I had sewn for my own daughters.
I hid my annoyance and asked if she liked her new shawl. But by then
Ella had wandered back up to the attic.  
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