The Stepmother

The children — twins, a boy and a girl — knew they had to be be patient and quiet. And so they sat for long hours before the fire, playing with the little doll they’d made for the new baby. The twins had kept the doll a secret even from their parents, snatching scraps from their mother’s sewing box when she was out of the room. It had black buttons for eyes, strands of spun wool for hair, and a pretty nightdress made of white fabric.

Day turned to night, and the night wore on, and the boy and the girl with the doll in her arms sat slumped on the floor staring into the fire. They listened as their mother’s cries grew ever more exhausted, ever more faint. The baby’s cry never came.

The boy, angry at the baby for not only killing their mother but dying itself, snatched the toy from his sister’s arms. But she grabbed it back before he could throw it into the fire. 

“This is our baby now,” she told him, smoothing the little doll’s little nightdress. “We will care for him and do our best to keep him happy.”

Hamlin, pale and exhausted, watched his children from the doorway for many long minutes before he came to them, sat on the floor between them and held them in his own arms.

***

Upon her husband’s death, Eufemia secured a position as companion to the brewer’s wife.

Eufemia could never seem to adjust to her new position — even though it was a good and fitting one, given her circumstances. She was always complaining about this or that, and no matter where a conversation started, she found a way to bring it back to her husband’s death. 

“I am a silly little woman, I admit,” she would say, “but I cannot help but be honest — I make no apologies; that is my nature — and tell you that I don’t see how I can ever recover from my loss, my tragic loss.” Here the tears welled and the chin quivered. 

“He was called to Heaven mere months after our sweet little wedding. My dear husband, you see, was siezed with some sort of fit in the night, as I slept by his side, completely innocent of his suffering.” Here her voice would strengthen, and she’d lift her eyes to the ceiling and press her palms together.  “Oh how I wish I had awoken! How I wish I could have soothed him and nursed him! How I wish his body and soul were still of this earth!” 

She would then look down at the embroidery on her lap, wait a moment in silence, and conclude her story in a hoarse whisper. “I was awoken by the morning sun, and I felt his body, cold, next to mine” — here came the slight shiver — “and I shall never forget those eyes, looking right at me, seeing nothing.” And that’s when she would raise her face to look into to her interlocutor’s eyes, searching their depths for the sincere appreciation of her suffering. 

The brewer’s wife soon grew weary of Eufemia, and his wife readily agreed to his plan to secure the young widow a more suitable position.

***

“I just adore spring evenings like this,” Eufemia announced with a sigh as she and Hamlin strolled the village path. It was their first time alone together.

“The bird’s sweet songs, the leaves finally opening, the scent of the fecund soil, the blossoms engorged to bursting,” she said. “All the senses stimulated! Isn’t it glorious?”

She turned toward him, her brown eyes shining. 

He responded with a shy smile and couldn’t seem to meet her eyes. She tilted her head and looked at him with the sweet little frown one would use to comfort a frightened child. “You are still so very sad, Mr. Hamlin?”

He stopped walking and turned to her.

“I grieve both for myself and for the children, Miss Eufemia,” Hamlin said, the words spilling out. “Hansel confessed to me today that he no longer remembers his mother’s face. He tries so hard to be a brave boy. And little Gretel, she does her best to be of help to me and to comfort her brother. And that little doll they made for….” He had to turn away.

“I understand, Mr. Hamlin, perhaps better than most.” He looked back at her and saw the tears welling.

“Forgive my selfishness, Miss Eufemia,” he said. “I know you have suffered your own sadness, and here I am, burdening you with mine.”

“Our acquaintance is short,” she said, “but I walk with you in your grief, Mr. Hamlin. I sympathize all too well. You see, I lost my Charibert when I was still but a girl myself. I shall never forget that morning. I shall never forget those empty eyes, staring at me, seeing nothing.” She gazed into the middle distance as if she were watching the death scene all over again, and covered her mouth with her hands. “I felt I would go mad with grief! What would become of me, a young girl, no longer a virgin” — here she shot him a glance, lips parted, a wild, lost expression in her eyes. “Where would I go?”

They walked on in silence for a while. It was that magical hour when everything looked bright and dark at the same time, and the air was thick with the intoxicating sweetness of honeysuckle. 

“My children need a mother,” Hamlin said after a brief silence, “and I need someone to help manage the farm and the kitchen.” 

He missed the disappointment that darkened Eufemia’s expression before she put on her bravest smile.

“Well,” she said, in a chipper, helpful tone, “you could always hire a servant, could you not?”

“I suppose I could,” Hamlin said. “But the truth is, Eufemia, I would like a, a companion. A companion for myself. As well as someone to be a mother to the children.”

He stopped again and turned toward her. Eufemia positioned her face to its most attractive angle, a questioning expression in her eyes.

“Eufemia,” he said, holding both her hands, “will you become my wife, my helpmate and companion?”

Her hands shot away from his and she clutched at her breast. She allowed her knees to slacken, as if about to faint. 

“You are awfully bold, Mr. Hamlin” she scolded. “Why, we barely know one another. What do you think I am?”

“I, I’m sorry Miss Eufemia. I did not mean to presume… Please, we will not speak of it again.” He marched ahead toward the brewer’s house, its windows now glowing gold, and so again missed her expression — this time a frustrated eye roll.

“Mr. Hamlin?” she called in her meekest voice from a few paces back. “I must admit to my fear of being left behind. I’ve heard of vagabonds about in the gloaming.”

Hamlin said nothing as he waited for her to catch up. They walked together in embarrassed silence toward the house, which soon loomed before them. 

When they were about to enter, he heard Eufemia take a big breath, as if to corral her courage before their acquaintance was ended.

“I believe women were made by God to look after children,” she said. “And as He did not grant me my own, I would care for yours as if they were.”

Soon after Hamlin and Eufemia solemnified their union, the famine launched its merciless ravage across the land. If Eufemia’s heart had housed any seed of kindness, there was no chance for now it to grow roots and sprout blossoms.