But for today, I'm going to post the beginning of my version (well, one of them) of Cinderella.
It all began one day--about two years ago--when I started thinking about my best friend's stepmother. She is a lovely person and a good mom. So why are fairy tale stepmothers portrayed so horribly? And then I had this life-changing (believe it or not) thought:
What if Cinderella's family loved her?
What follows is the beginning of my answer to that question. I'll post more of it later, probably.
Chapter 1
I have heard the stories that the common
people tell about me—some near the truth, but as time as gone on the tales have
become increasingly absurd. Poor princess, someone said recently,
thinking I couldn’t hear her. Her evil stepmother tormented her until her
fairy godmother rescued her. It took
all of my self-control to avoid striking the viscious woman; it was only by
reminding myself that she meant no harm that I stayed my hand.
They speak ill of my sisters as
well. Perhaps that is my own fault, I
shouldn’t have let them go to other nations so soon after the wedding—I’ve
heard it said that they were banished!
And I’ve heard worse as well. Her nasty sisters treated her as a slave
even though the princess was born noble!
Or even, the princess’
step-sisters tried to fool the prince into marrying one of them—and they almost managed it!
Ridiculous. So here and now I
set down the tale of my life, the tale of Cinderella.
Which is also rather silly. What kind of name is Cinderella? My parents were more sensible than that, they
gave me my great-grandmother’s lovely and traditional name—Elniorae. Which I always
thought was too much of a mouthful, so when I was still little I began to
introduce myself as “Elnie.”
Unfortunately, I had difficulty speaking as a young child, so my parents
thought I was calling myself “Ellie.”
Over the years I was encouraged to behave more like the Duke’s daughter
I was, and eventually was called the less-diminutive “Ell.” However, I am telling my story out of order.
For when I was only three years old,
my mother died giving birth to my younger brother. That brother, Elixendre III, passed on only a
few weeks later. My father, Elixendre
II, was devastated. Those months are my
earliest memories—my father, who had always made time to play with me, would
not leave his study even to sleep. He
rested little and ate almost nothing, which left him ill in ways I don’t
believe he ever truly recovered from. It
was not until my fourth birthday that my father, exhausted and grieving,
emerged from behind his locked door to care for his lonesome daughter.
Papa could deny my nothing after
that. Horses, gowns, tutors, candies,
all were lavished upon me at my slightest whim.
The servants sniffed at the way I was being spoiled, but they said
nothing, and for five years I was petted and played with, nannied and nursed,
served and sung to. I suppose I was
something of a terror to my five—five!—personal
maids. Thankfully, I did not remain my
father’s beloved doll daughter. When I
was nine, my father came into my bedchamber as I was preparing to sleep.
“Did you say your prayers, Ell?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Good girl.” He kissed my forehead.
“I must go away again, Ell.” My father was often required to ride to his
other properties, far out in the country.
He had never left for more than a few days, but I often stormed about
his leaving—the servants did not dote on
me as my father did. I scrunched my face
and used my best near-tears voice.
“For how long?” Papa could hardly refuse someone with such a
sincere tremble in her voice! Papa
sighed.
“That is what I wanted to talk to
you about, Ell. I must ride out to all
of my lands and inspect them thoroughly.
This happens every few years, you were too young the last time to
remember. I can leave for such brief
visits at other times only because of these long, exacting trips, and I’m
afraid—“
“How long, Papa?” I demanded in a
strident tone.
“Now, pet, don’t scream.”
“How long?” I truly screamed then, furious at not getting
my way. Papa and I stared at one another
in silence.
“Eight months. Maybe as few as six.”
“Papa!”
It was more than an hour before the
maids could get me to stop throwing things, and another two before I consented
to get back into my bed. When Papa tried
to talk to me the next morning I only glared and threw my porridge spoon at
him. When he left a few days later I
only allowed him to kiss me because he promised to bring me back a wonderful
present. And it was with a sullen stare
from his daughter that my father’s carriage pulled out onto the road.
My life altered radically after
that.
Papa had left my care and education
in the hands of our bossy housekeeper, a woman I referred to as Cook, despite
the fact that she did little of our actual cooking. She was not a woman with patience for
peevishness, and had utterly disapproved of my father’s manner of raising
me. I despised her. She was a good woman, generous to those in
need, gentle to those in pain, and more stubborn even than I. After my father left I went straight to my
bed and stayed there for several hours, nurturing my wrath and promising myself
that I would not step outside my chambers until Papa came home. This resolution did not endure for very long.
I rang for a servant around noon;
Cook herself entered quickly enough that I suspected she had been awaiting my
summons. Good, I thought, she ought
to be attending me so well. After all, Papa has abandoned me and I am
miserable.
“Cook, be a dear and bring me some
lunch. Cold pheasant and hot bread would
be best. And an apple.”
“No, milady.” I stared at her for a moment. No? I was Ell, daughter of Elixendre II, and I
was not accustomed to being denied my whims.
“Oh, Cook, I see,” I said after a
moment. “We have no pheasant, is that
it? Lamb, then, I know we have some of
that.” I felt that I was being, after
the ordeal of the morning, very kind and accommodating.
“No.”
“No?”
“No.
When you want your lunch you will get out of your bed. You are not ill, and I will not see you
lounge about all day like a cripple. When
you get out of bed to eat your lunch, you will change your dress, because tossing
about on the one you are in now must have wrinkled it terribly. You will then come down to the kitchen, and
the kitchen servants will assist you in making your own lunch. “
“My own—“ I began to wail, but Cook clapped a hand over my mouth and
continued.
“You will then return here, to your
room, where your one maid will teach
you how to iron the dress you have mussed by lazing on it. After that you have your lessons in grammar
and mathematics with your tutors, supper, and time to yourself to read or
embroider as is proper for a young lady of your station. However, I should warn you that if you should
misbehave again today, that time with be allocated instead to assisting a maid
in scrubbing the entryway floor. You
will then return to your room for your night’s sleep in your nightgown. Have I
made the day’s schedule clear?” Cook
said all of this very fast, staring into my eyes, her large hand still clamped
tightly, if not painfully, over my mouth.
I bit her finger.
To Cook’s everlasting credit, she
did not strike me or scream. She simply
wiped my spittle on her apron, froze me with a stare that took at least three
inches off of my height, and said,
“Milady, you have not been behaving
in a way that befits your station in life.
As a noble, it will someday be your duty to oversee and care for many
people. Perhaps you will even be a
Queen. A Queen does not throw porridge
spoons at her father, or scream when her meat is cold, or bite people’s fingers. A Queen is gracious and wise and kind and
good.”
“A Queen does not make her own
lunches!” I shouted.
“No, but she does have discipline,
she knows how to work—even if her work is not scrubbing floors or ironing
gowns, it requires as much focus and diligence—and she does not depend on her
servants to do every tiny thing for her.
A Queen is a worthwhile human being.
Like a noble. Like your mother
was, God rest her soul. And like you
will be, if I have any say in the matter.”
I screamed and screamed until my
throat hurt, long after Cook left my bedchamber. I remained in bed all day, and all the next
night, and well into the next day’s morning.
I rang for a servant again. And again, Cook entered.
“Cook,”
I said as plaintively as I could manage, “I’m awfully hungry and weak. I think perhaps I’m ill. Would you bring me up a large slice of lamb
and half a loaf of fresh bread and a few apples?”
“Lady Ell,” Cook said, “if you have
the strength to eat all of that, you have the strength to come down to the
kitchen and learn to make your own lunch.
Be sure you change your dress first; the one you’re wearing must stink
by now. I suppose you’ll have to learn
to wash it before you learn to iron.”
She turned and left the room without another word.
“I hate you!” I screamed. “I’ll never do your worthless servants’ work,
I’ll stay here, I’ll starve until I die and my father will have you executed
for my murder! You’ll be sorry you
treated me so then, when your head is on the chopping block!” My stomach growled and tightened
painfully. “You’re killing me!” I
wailed, shrillest of all. “I’m
dying!” Then I turned and sobbed into my
pillow for half an hour.
An hour later I stood in the
kitchen, a clean dress flung over me, my stomach roaring its displeasure at
being truly hungry for the first time in my life, and a scowl that could darken
the sun on my face. Cook entered the
kitchen, looked me over briskly, and smiled.
Chapter 2
Looking back, it’s surprising how
quickly I adjusted to the life Cook planned for me. After only four months, my evenings were
mine—prior to that, every night had been spent cleaning, sewing, cooking, or
doing whatever else Cook ordered me to.
I was even reasonably good at my work.
At first, of course, I was convinced
that Cook wanted me lowered to her own station.
When I discovered the first callouses on my hands, I showed her
sullenly, expecting her to clap for joy and laugh in my face. She did neither.
“Ah, little Ell. I didn’t think of
that. What would your mother say?” I looked up at her, not understanding. “We can’t leave you with the hands of a
serving-maid, it won’t do. From now on,
as soon as your skin is sore, rest, and wash your hands. And you’ll sleep with a treatment slathered
on them.” Cook found a very old pair of
my mother’s formal gloves, and instructed me to sleep with them on, over
puddles of ointment, every night.
My hands were only the
beginning. Watching me stumble in the
kitchen for the fourth time one day, Cook looked at me with that same ponderous
look in her eyes.
“M’lady, we’ve missed something very
important in your upbringing.”
“What is it?” I asked, pausing as I
kneaded bread.
“Dancing.”
“Dancing?” I scoffed. “When will I use that?” Cook threw her hands in the air and stared up
at the ceiling.
“Forgive me, Lali.”
“Lali?”
“Your mother, Lalliana.”
“I
didn’t know you knew her so well.” I wiped
the dough stuck to my hands off, stepping back from my rising bread. Slowly, I sat on the old wooden table. “Papa doesn’t talk about her much.”
“I
knew your mother almost her whole life.
I can tell you whatever you’d like to know.”
Things
changed again after that. Months of hard
work—not too hard, of course, but difficult enough to teach me—were now invaded
with hours of lady lessons. Dancing,
playing the harp (my mother’s) and singing, drawing and painting, etiquette,
and training in social interaction. It
was an entirely different kind of hard work, and I started to miss the simple
routines of cooking and dusting and even beating rugs. I often spent my free time helping Cook with
her chores, stretching my back after hours of sitting straight.
It
was during this time that the letter arrived from my father. Once again, my life was turned on its head.
My dearest little Ell,
I feel certain that you must have
missed me these past nine months, for I have surely missed you, my little
angel. I write now to tell you that I am
coming home to you on the ninth of March, should God allow it, and bringing you
a greater gift even than I had originally planned.
A young girl needs a mother in her
life, as well as friends and confidantes.
I come to you with both, with all speed.
Love always,
Your father
Elixendre II
I
spun where I stood—or perhaps the room turned around me. What did he mean, a mother? Was he married again, then? What would that mean? My life had changed so much in the previous
months, I could hardly imagine it returning to the way it was, let alone
changing into the life of an ordinary noble girl. For one thing, I would never again be able to
ignore a mess! More importantly, I had
no idea how to interact with such a person as a mother. All I could do was wait.
The
days melted together into one long, suspenseful, syrupy month. At times I was excited—a mother, and my
father returned! No more floor
scrubbing, and a woman in whom I could confide!
At other times, I was afraid.
What if the new woman didn’t like me?
What if she was a nasty, wicked stepmother? I had Cook to confide in and cry to, what did
I need a mother for?
And
what did Papa mean, he was bringing me confidantes? I asked Cook; she guessed
that the new Lady had daughters of her own.
That
was a month of nightmares. Fearful
dreams from which I woke in a panicked state; I was forced to be a servant in
my own home, my stepmother was cruel, my step-sisters wretched. I saw them as severe beauties, towering over
me, stepmother with whip in hand. In
these dreams, I could never perform my tasks fast enough—tasks that I could
perform very well when waking—and was beaten, shouted at, kicked, and turned
away from the life I was owed. My
stepmother sending Cook away from the manor, locking me in the tallest tower
for months. Papa, cowed by the new
woman, powerless to protect me.
I
was a bit nervous to meet my new family.
However
much I might have willed it otherwise, the ninth of March dawned—clear and
cold, with just a hint of the smell of spring in the air.
“Do
you smell that, Cook?” I asked her as she was preparing my bath—I would be
clean to meet the new ladies of my house!
“Smell
what, little cinder-girl?” Cook asked, laughing. I’d fallen asleep on the rug by the fire the
night before, and I was streaked with soot.
I knew as soon as I climbed into the tub, the water would turn black.
“Spring
coming. The ground is starting to thaw,
and soon there will be blossoms, and we can plant the peas.” I had been very excited to work in the
garden—winter had been long, and I ached to run about on the manor’s grounds.
“I
only smell you, reeking of
woodsmoke,” Cook said, still laughing at me.
“Now come here, cinder-girl, before the water gets cold.”
I
was not quite ten, hardly a lady, but Cook had fancied a dress for this
occasion. She put my hair in ringets and
twisted it up. When I inspected myself
in the looking-glass, I was quite pleased—I looked like a little lady, a
miniature of my mother’s portrait.
“Except
your eyes,” Cook said when I commented on this to her. “Your father’s blue eyes, not your mother’s
brown ones. But her soft, pale skin, and
her black hair, yes.” She looked up, as
she often did. “Oh, Lali, look down at
your child now. You would be so proud of
her.”
“You
really think she would?”
“Of
course!” Cook said, making a face that meant she wanted me to think she was
offended. I laughed.
Just
then a shout came from downstairs. The
carriage had arrived! Heedless of my unstable hair and dangerously long skirt,
I dashed down the staircase, skidding to a halt in my bare feet in front of
Clyde, the doorman.
“Are
they here? Is it them?” I demanded of
him.
“Now,
milady,” he said in a voice so low it felt like thunder, “you know as much as I
do, and perhaps more. A carriage is
approaching. Patience.” I scrunched up my nose and bounced from foot
to foot, anxious to get outside, but knowing there were still eternally long
minutes until the carriage stopped at the door.
Cook
came down the stairs in her half-gliding, half-bouncing way, shaking her head
and holding my shoes. Rather than wait
for someone to help me with them, I sat down on the floor, there in the
entryway, and buckled them myself.
“Ell—“ Cook began. Clyde chuckled. Shaking her head over me, Cook began calling
out to the servants.
“The
master is home! Come line up to greet
him! You, Thomas, re-tuck your shirt in
the back. Pierre, Artur, you’ll be
escorting Her Ladyship, and George, you’ll be helping her daughters, assuming
she does have some.”
“By
myself?” George protested—he was
rather skinny.
“No,
no, have John help you,” Cook replied.
“Maude, Catterine, Anne, and Jane, you’re to serve as personal
maidservants to the new women of the house.
Ell—“
“Yes?”
I asked, now standing as near to the door as I could.
“Remember
everything you’ve studied in the last few months. No jumping, running, or shouting, no matter
how pleased you are to see your father.
And be on your best behavior with the new ladies—it would be best for
everyone if they like you.” Cook
surveyed the staff. Nathanael, the
butler, caught her eye. She blushed,
embarrassed at having done his job for him.
He just smiled.
“Everybody
turn out!” Nathanael said. I yanked the
door open and flew down the front steps to where the carriage was just
stopping. I opened my mouth to shout
with joy to my Papa, but just before the sound came out, Cook spoke quietly
behind me.
“Ell.”
I swallowed my shout and took a step backward, waiting for the carriage
door to open.
My
father stepped out.
“Papa!”
I squealed, heedless of propriety. I
heard Cook sigh behind me, and then I was swept up in my father’s arms, while
he cried,
“Little
Ell! No longer so little! Well, my little lady, would you like to meet
your new family?” Apprehension shot
through me like a sudden cold rain as my Papa put me down. I stepped back.
“Yes?”
I managed, wishing I sounded more certain.
Cook poked me in the back to remind me to keep good posture. I stood straight as a house and looked the
carriage door square in the eye. “Yes.”
I said.
“Good!”
my father said, and turned to offer his arm to someone waiting inside the
carriage.
My
first impression was that this woman was impossibly lovely—from her beautiful
blonde curls, her wide green eyes, and her button nose to her violet dress and
matching shoes.
“Thank
you, Elixendre,” she said, and kissed my Papa on the cheek. She then looked at me. “You must be little Ell,” she said. She cast a mock-resentful eye on my
father. “Elixendre, you didn’t tell me
she was a little lady.” I smiled and dropped a curtsy—without even
Cook’s whispered suggestion.
“Yes,
milady.” She smiled at me, then turned
to the carriage.
“Come
and meet your new sister!” she called.
Then she turned back to me and gave a polite nod. “Now, we’ll have none of this ‘milady’
nonsense,” she said. “Call me Mama.” I paused, considering, oblivious to the
commotion at the carriage door.
“I’ve
never had a Mama that I remember; I might not know how to do it. Are you sure you want a daughter who doesn’t
even have practice?” Mama giggled, a
friendly, girlish sound.
“If
you’ll give me a hug right now, I’ll take every bit of you,” she said. I decided that I liked her. I rushed into her arms.
“Thank
you,” I said.
“For
what?” she laughed.
“For
taking me and not being a scary evil stepmother.” Mama wasn’t the only one; a boy’s voice from
behind our embrace gave a snort, and two matching, chiming chuckles rang out at
a higher pitch. I looked around my new
Mama; there stood two girls who looked about my age, and a boy who looked a bit
older. I stared at them, even though I
knew it was rude. Silence sloshed
between us, in a sort of conversation made of first impressions.
The
boy had his mother’s blonde hair, and he was going to be handsome when he grew
up—I could see it. The two identical girls
had their mother’s curls, but they were darker.
All three had the same wide green eyes, and while I was absorbing and
guessing about them, they were staring at me with those eyes, probably doing
just what I was.
“Ell,
don’t stare,” Papa said. “it’s rude. These are your new brother and sisters. Girls?” he glanced between them with a
focused stare. They tittered again.
“I’m
Sarah,” said one, offering her hand. I
reached out my own hand in confusion; surely she didn’t expect me to kiss
it? But she just sort of crushed all of
my fingers together and shook my hand like she was trying to get it off of my
arm.
“Ell—I’m
Ell.” I said, pulling my hand away. I
heard a sigh from behind me.
“Sarah,
women don’t shake hands, you know that,” Mama said. Sarah just smiled at her innocently.
“I’m
Suzanne,” the other girl said, blushing rose pink across her whole face. “It’s very nice to meet you, Ell. I hope we will be friends.” I smiled and nodded.
“I’m
nine going on ten in about three months,” I told Suzanne. “How old are you?”
“We
turned ten just two weeks ago!” Sarah exclaimed. I grinned broadly.
“Pardon
me, ladies, is there room for me in this party?” The manly voice would have intimidated me,
except that it cracked into a high pitch on the word “ladies,” making everyone
laugh. The boy I’d noticed before was
grinning rather shyly at us all. He,
like Sarah, extended a hand to me. I
shook it.
“My
name is Antony,” he said. “I’m
twelve.” His voice cracked again on
“twelve,” and his face reddened like his sister’s had a moment before. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You,
as well,” I responded automatically. The
four of us stood there, not sure what to do, and our Papa and Mama beamed at
us.
“Would
you like to see the house?” I blurted out.
“We weren’t sure how many of you there would be, or what you would want
in terms of rooms, so we just got all of the guest rooms ready. Cook says you can pick your favorite and we
can make it more personal to you. Is
that okay, Papa?” I glanced up at my
father at the end of this rapidly uttered speech. He smiled and nodded.
“Go
ahead, Ell, but—“
“Come
on!” I said to Sarah, Suzanne, and
Antony, rushing toward the house.
“Don’t
lose anyone!” Papa called after me.
“And
don’t run in the—house.” Cook shouted,
too late.
Chapter 3
Sarah
and Suzanne turned out to be excellent at just about everything. Sarah was bossy, taking charge when we took
walks, despite not knowing the grounds, and telling Suzanne and me what to say
when we played dolls. Suzanne was sweet,
and followed Sarah around like my puppy Brownie used to follow me. But they were both good company, and happy to
join in games of make-believe (Sarah was a fairy princess, Suzanne and I her
attendants and sometimes hopeful suitors,) dolls (Sarah was the Mama and we her
daughters,) and exploration (Sarah led the excursion, with Suzanne as
cartographer and me as the chief magician, defending us from lions and
manticores.) They both excelled at what
Cook termed my, “ladyship lessons,” dancing, embroidery, drawing, and the like. However, I could beat either of them in a
foot race, and kept my bedchamber neater than theirs.
Antony
was just what I’d always wished for and dreaded in an older brother. He mussed my hair, helped me pick up dolls,
laughed when I was sooty, complimented my dresses, robbed me of my dinner
rolls, and dried my tears. Sometimes he
would play with Sarah and Suzanne and me (he was fond of playing the wild
creatures when we went exploring, jumping out from behind trees to our startled
screams,) but he was often engaged in lessons of his own, learning to fence, to
dance (sometimes he joined us in those lessons,) to ride, to hunt (he had his
own dog, who was expecting puppies who would make up a whole pack of Antony’s
hunting dogs,) and manly etiquette. He was also soon caught up with his own
friends, playing the games that young boys do and running as wildly on the
grounds as Mama would let him.
Mama
and Papa were wonderful, too. It took me
about two seconds of living with the pair of them to realize that they were
well and truly in love. They loved us
children too, and in many ways, my life was perfect. In the evenings after supper, Mama read to us
from books she’d brought from far out in the country. Sarah swooned to hear about dashing princes,
and Suzanne sighed over gleaming knights.
I always thought fairy stories were a little silly—the princesses never
seemed to do much for themselves. Antony
agreed with me, preferring to hear about the great deeds of powerful wizards
and pious priests.
On
days when I just couldn’t stand to be a lady for one more minute, I sneaked
down to the kitchens to help Cook. The
third time Papa caught me doing this, he gave me a long look.
“You
really like spending time with the servants, don’t you, Ell?”
“Yes,
Papa. It’s nice not to have someone
constantly remind me to stand straight or asking me to strum out a tune for the
fifteenth time.” Papa chuckled, then
sighed.
“Very
well. You may work with Cook as long as
it doesn’t interfere with your lessons—“
“It
won’t, Papa, I promise—“
“And
so long as you remember your station.”
“Cook
won’t let me forget.”
“Oh?”
He raised an eyebrow at Cook, standing quietly—for once—behind me.
“We
all remind her that she’s to be a lady, m’lord, even though she acts like our little
cinder-girl.”
“Cinder-girl?”
Papa asked. I blushed.
“She’s
ruined two dresses standing too close to the fireplace, m’lord, we call her
cinder-girl because of it.” She paused,
then quickly added, “we can stop, if you like.”
No,”
Papa mused, “but I think she needs an apron to cover her dresses.” He looked at me. “See to it that someone makes her a servant’s
uniform.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me.
“A
servant’s—!”
“You
asked for it, little Cinder-Ell,” he said, and laughed. “Now off to your dancing with you, your
sisters are waiting!” So I made myself a
uniform (Cook refused to let me get away with passing it off to someone else,)
and continued to help out in the kitchen.
Sarah and Suzanne each tried a day, but detested it.
“How
do you stand it, Ell?” Sarah asked.
“The
kitchens are so dirty,” Suzanne said.
“And
hot,” Sarah added.
“And
full of delicious things!” Antony put in, walking into the room.
“Antony,” pouted Sarah, “One does not
simply walk in to someone’s
conversation, it isn’t polite.” Sarah’s voice pitched on the word polite, and I looked around to see
why. Another boy had quietly followed
Antony into the room, and was examining a tapestry, hands behind his back, chin
high.
“Ah,
ladies,” Antony said with excessive elegance, “this is Henri,” he paused. “Crown Prince of Fresnia.” Sarah gaped until Suzanne poked her in the
side, and all three of us curtsied. The
prince, who looked about Antony’s age, stepped forward.
“Please
don’t,” he sounded a little weary, but his voice was commanding
nonetheless. “You’re nobility, after
all, and I’m here as Antony’s friend, not as your prince. Please, don’t curtsy to me unless we’re at
some sort of formal affair. Really. I’d like to be friends.” He smiled weakly, and I got the impression
that most people were too afraid to be his friend, like not wanting to play
with a china doll in case it broke. So I
smiled widely at him, stepped forward, and grabbed him by the hand.
“Come
on, Henri, let me show you our teepee,” I said, referring to a quilt we’d hung
around a tree nearby. “You can play
American Indians with us!” I tugged on
his arm once, then stepped back to the safety of my sisters’
companionship. Suzanne looked utterly appalled,
but Henri’s face cracked into a handsome smile.
“I’d
love to, miss, but I’m afraid you’ll have duties to attend to…?” I stared at
him, then smacked my head playfully. I
was in my servant’s uniform. Antony
laughed.
“Oh,
no, Henri, that’s my sister, Ell. She
likes to help out in the kitchens, as you can see from the enormous streak of soot on her face.” He laughed again while I blushed and covered
my face in my hands.
“Really?”
Henri asked. “Well, then you can take
the lead as Chief Indian—winter is coming, and we must prepare food! As our resident expert, would you care to
direct me?” I smiled at the thought of directing a prince.
“Actually,” Sarah interrupted, “I’m usually the Indian Chief. But you can help us track down the bear we’ve
been hunting!” Antony winked at her; he was the bear in question, and he left
us little clues about how to find him. I
was sure once we did, Sarah would reveal herself to be not only the Indian
Chief, but a fairy princess who could speak to, and mollify, the bear.
So
it was that Henri, Crown Prince of Fresnia, became my brother Antony’s friend,
and my friend too. Usually the boys
played by themselves, but sometimes all five of us would play together, even
occasionally at the palace—the palace!
Henri was a loyal friend and an expert bear-hunter, explorer, and fairy soldier
extraordinaire.
Chapter 4
Years
pass like the falling of autumn leaves; each may be examined and declared
individual and exquisite, but only rarely do they mean much on their own. Only when watching as a storm of leaves blows
past in a bouquet of colors do they make up a whole, beautiful story. So it was with me. I grew older and taller, if not much taller, and my life was a happy
one. I excelled at my harp-playing and,
with Antony or Henri or occasionally my father as partner, at dancing. I spent my free time with my sisters, or with
a book, or serving with the maids. A
ball was held for Sarah and Suzanne when they turned sixteen, and another a few
months later for me. I was called on by
a few fellows, but not seriously. Cook
allowed me to direct the servants for parties and dinners, and Papa stopped
calling me his “little Ell.” Mama
chaperoned when Henri waited in the sitting room with me for Antony to
come. I stopped playing pirates and
fairies and learned to host tea parties and get my dance card filled. In other words, I became a woman.
But
autumns passed steadily, bringing only the slightest variation in the leaves of
my life. Then, the summer I was almost
seventeen, things changed in a surprising way.
My friendship with Henri had always been easy, comfortable, almost
brotherly. Then, one night, we hosted a
ball at the manor.
“You
know, Cinder-Ell, you’re beautiful,” he said, walking over to me at the food
table and popping a strawberry into his mouth whole.
“Oh,
Henri, don’t eat the leaves,” I said. “A
strawberry plant will grow inside you.”
“Good,”
he replied when he had swallowed, laughing.
“Then I can eat them all the time.”
We laughed. “Seriously, Ell. Dance with me.” I accepted good-naturedly—we had often
practiced dancing together, and we fell naturally into graceful step. We laughed together during the dance,
gossiping about which lady admired which lord, or who would be the first to
faint from too much alcohol. Then the
music ended.
“Come
with me,” Henri said, nodding his head in the direction of the gardens. I giggled.
“Why,
your Highness, I daresay the company will think we are quite the scandal if we
step into the gardens alone.”
“Good,”
he said, and tugged my hand, which he still clasped after our dance. I laughed again and allowed him to pull me
out into the garden. He guided me to a
favorite old path of ours, still holding fast to my hand. I wriggled my fingers, but instead of letting
go, he pulled me around so that we were face-to-face.
“Henri?”
I asked.
“I
have to tell you something, Ell,” he said.
I cocked my head.
“Very
well,” I responded curiously. He dropped
my hand and began to walk again; I scuttled after him. After a moment, he spoke.
“I’m
nineteen now, Ell,” I nodded. “You know
my position requires things of me. Well,
one of those demands has arisen. It’s
time for me to find a wife,” he said. I
stopped walking to stare at him. This
seemed so sudden, so fast! One moment he
was just my friend, the next, a grown man looking for a wife.
“Why
are you telling me?” I asked. He stopped walking, stared into my eyes, took
my hands in his. My heart began to race.
“Because
I want you to be her,” he said.
“Be
who?” I asked, not understanding. He
sank to one knee, and my heart thumped faster still.
“Elniorae,
I am asking you to be my wife. I love
you, I have since—“ My head swam, my
heart was pounding so loud I couldn’t hear my thoughts, this was all so soon,
so hasty—
I
turned and ran.
At
first I charged up the stairs toward my room, thinking I’d hide in my bed. But Cook had instilled in me a horror of
lazing, and to be in bed but not to sleep seemed lazy to me. So halfway up the second flight of stairs, I
changed my mind, running down again, and down down down, panic creating hurry
as I raced to the kitchen and flung myself into Cook’s surprised arms.
She
stroked my hair for a few moments, letting me cry the paint off of my
eyes. Then, when I had worn down to
sniffling, she pushed me gently onto a stool.
I looked up at her, the image swaying a bit in my leftover tears.
“Oh,
my Cinder-Ell. What happened?” I blubbered out the story as best I could,
interrupting myself with bouts of sobs every few moments. Finally I finished.
“And
that’s…all?” Cook asked. I looked at her
curiously, wiping a trickling tear from my cheek.
“Yes?”
I questioned; what more did she need? I
felt that I had lost a dear friend in Henri, and that I had smudged out any
hope of future friendship with him by rejecting him, by running away. Cook sighed.
“Dear
child. All is not lost. Not even close to it.”
“It’s
not?” I asked. “But—Henri will never
speak to me again—” the thought ripped through me as though I was being clawed
by a wild animal. Henri was dear to me.
“No,
Cinder-Ell,” Cook said, using my childhood nickname to soothe me. “You owe the Prince an apology, certainly,
but just because you don’t love him doesn’t mean you can’t still be
friends.” She paused. “Do you love him?”
I
gaped at her.
“Cook—no!—I’m
not yet seventeen, too young for love.
I’ve never even thought about it.”
Cook eyed me doubtfully.
“Never,
in all the years the Prince has hung around?”
Silence extended between us, and Cook sighed. “Perhaps not.
But your mother was married to your father at sixteen, so I don’t know
that you’re too young to love. Just give
yourself time, and your man will come along, Prince or no.”
Cook
continued to whisper kind things to me, her soothing words a healing balm to my
heart. At last the tears stopped pushing
their way out, my trembling stopped, and I held my chin higher. The ball had long since ended, and all the
guests had gone home—I wondered when Henri had left, if he’d looked for me
after I fled, or if he’d danced the night away with some other girl. To my surprise, I couldn’t decide which idea
pained me more. So, rather than think
about it, I helped Cook clear up after the party. Finally, when I shook so much from exhaustion
and emotion that I nearly dropped the punch bowl, Cook ordered me to bed.
“And
rest, child. Sleep in peace. You can write your apology to the Prince
tomorrow. For now, you are for
bed.” She kissed my forehead, and I
plodded up the stairs.
Sarah
and Suzanne were waiting for me, perched on my bed like birds in nightgowns.
“Ell,
what happened to you? We heard you went
off to the gardens with Henri—“
“Without a chaperone—“ Suzanne cut in.
“And
then you were gone, nowhere to be seen for the rest of the night!” Sarah paused to inhale, and took her first
steady look at me. “You’re covered in
dirt. You abandoned the ball to do
servants’ work?” I sighed.
“It’s
a bit more complicated than that,” I began, and recounted my evening to my
sisters.
Sarah
and Suzanne slept with me in my bed that night, the way we’d all slept together
as children when one of us had a nightmare.
Their arms around me were a comfort, and at last I fell asleep, Cook’s
words echoing in my ear. “Do you love
him?”
I
wrote my apology to Henri the next morning.
I had thought to explain myself fully, expecting several pages to flow
from my hand. In the end, however, I
barely managed a short note.
To the hand of the Crown Prince, Henri, of
Fresnia,
I pray that this missive finds you
in good health. I feel that it is mine
to apologize to you at this time; my behavior to you last night was unladylike
and rude. It’s not that you aren’t
wonderful, Henri; it’s just that I’m too young for love.
Your servant,
Elniorae
I
wept again after I sent the letter. It
was so afraid that I’d lost Henri’s friendship forever. The idea hurt me, made me sick to my
stomach. Then, two days later, his reply
came.
For Elniorae, my friend,
I owe you an apology as well. I knew you were not ready for marriage. Truth be told, nor am I—I have convinced my
parents to wait a while before continuing to pressure me about marriage.
I want to further apologize for the
words I spoke to you in haste on that night.
Speaking of love as I did was wrong.
We are both too young for such words.
Forgive me. I hope that we will remain friends.
Ever in your service,
Henri, Crown Prince of Fresnia
I
pressed the letter to my heart, peace filling me after days of anxiety. Henri was my friend again; I could rest.
Quietly,
though, in my heart, I felt that I had lost something. I told no one this, feigned total
relief. But there was a very small part
of me which felt that not having Henri’s love—even if I had never had it to
begin with—meant that I was not worthy of the love of a man of his
caliber. And so a poison seeped into my
heart that I could not quite dismiss.
Work
of any kind kept my mind off of my growing knot of worry. I danced harder, played the harp more,
scrubbed the floors of the main floor until I could see my reflection in
them. In the evenings I embroidered
until my fingertips ached and I couldn’t see my stitches in the low light of my
candle.
My
life was not miserable, though, whatever worries possessed me. Sarah and Suzanne and Mama saw to that. We attended so many parties that year, I
thought I would never breathe again after all of the corsets. Then one night, we attended a ball at the
home of Lord and Lady Belisle.
It
was my first ball away from Papa. He was
on one of his long trips, like the one he’d left on when I was young. Mama saw us all dressed like dolls, like
princesses, and led the way into the ballroom.
Antony
claimed my first dance. We had danced
together so much, and for so long, that dancing with him was easier for me than
walking. He glanced around.
“Ell,
you would never lie to me, would you?” I
stared into Antony’s eyes, and it occurred to me—not for the first time—that he
was, in fact, handsome.
“Never.”
“Henri
told me an interesting story the other day.”
“Oh?”
I thought of the last story Henri had told me; it was interesting, a story
about his great-grandmother’s quest for her prince’s hand, and his mother’s
testing whether the princess was indeed royal using a very innovate maneuver
with a pea—but Antony had been there when Henri told the tale, had laughed the
loudest of any of us. I cocked my head
to the side, eyes still staring, feet still dancing.
“About
something that happened two months ago, a little after your birthday?” I felt my chest tighten as I gasped
involuntarily; I’d told no one but my sisters about Henri’s proposal, not even
Mama. Antony sighed, then chuckled.
“You
really ran away?” I felt myself flush.
“It’s
alright, you know. Henri was embarrassed
that he asked you.” I swallowed as Antony’s words cut me. “He thinks you were reasonable to run.” I sighed, unsure of what to say. Antony continued. “But I do have two questions for you.”
“Oh?”
I asked again.
“First,
why didn’t you accept him?” Antony asked.
I gaped, despite my proper breeding.
“Accept? Antony, how could I?”
“Well,
you love him, don’t you?” I was so
surprised that I actually stopped dancing for a moment, so that Antony and I
had to rush through a few of the steps to catch up with everyone else. Antony had always seemed to understand me,
how could he misread me so?
“I’m
too young to fall in love, Antony. I’m
only seventeen.”
“And
a half.” He made a face; I giggled. Antony could always make me laugh.
“And
a half,” I agreed. “Next question.” Antony’s face dropped into seriousness.
“Why
didn’t you tell me?” There was a pause.
“I
don’t know,” I began finally. “I only
told the girls. Not even Mama.”
“Well,”
Antony said, spinning me out and then in against his thudding heart, “from now
on, you tell me major life events.”
“From
now—“
And
then it happened. Antony told me that he
looked up just as I did; facing the same way as we were, we both saw. Mama was standing on the balcony, leaning
against the railing, watching the dancers below. The railing was a little too short, coming to
her hips, and she was leaning too far over the edge anyway. Then, almost slower than life, it seemed to
me, a couple danced past. They had
clearly had too much to drink, and their steps were wide and ungainly. Just behind Mama, the man tripped, flying toward
Mama. He threw out his arms, and they
hit Mama at her middle. The drunk man’s
partner fell without his support, and she slid in Mama’s direction as well. Then, slowly, so slowly, Mama tipped forward,
forward, under the man’s weight, and the woman glided under Mama’s feet. The woman tried to stand, reaching for the
railing, and hefted Mama on her back.
Mama tipped and rose. And the world
ended.
The
crowd beneath her heard the shriek of the dancers, saw Mama falling over the
rail, and ran to get out of the way of her falling body. I stumbled as Antony released me, then saw
him running, flying to catch Mama. He
wouldn’t make it in time, I could see.
He must have seen it too, because Antony fell to his knees, sliding
forward, and Mama’s stilled body fell against his chest, head smacking the
floor with an audible thud.
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