Ella: A Novel

by Jessilyn Stewart Peaslee

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  FOR THE finders OF OTHERS’ SHOES.

  WE WOULD BE LOST WITHOUT you.

  “If there is a real woman—even the trace of one—

  still there inside … it can be brought to life again.

  If there’s one wee spark under all those ashes,

  we’ll blow it till the whole pile is red and clear.”

  —C. S. Lewis

  Prologue

  THE SOFT SUNLIGHT STREAMED IN THROUGH THE TALL eastern windows of Ashfield, illuminating the corn silk curls that bounced impatiently on Ella’s shoulders.

  “Can you show me now, Papa?” she pleaded, her tiny hands clasped under her chin.

  Henry Blakeley smiled over his violin at his daughter and slowly pulled the bow across the strings, letting the last note linger in the quiet of the morning. The sound didn’t pierce the stillness—it melted into it, transforming it into a more exquisite version of itself. He lowered his violin and bow, and his gaze turned from the brilliant sunrise and fell dotingly on Ella. He chuckled at her excitement as he set his violin on its stand and lifted her up into his arms.

  “Up you go, Pumpkin,” he said with a smile. He grunted teasingly. “You are getting so heavy! How old are you now? Twenty? Twenty-one?”

  “Papa, I’m four!” she replied as she held up five fingers. Henry laughed and tucked her thumb down and Ella giggled. He carried Ella from the drawing room and into the foyer where they passed Grace, her governess, and Mr. Claybrook, the butler. Miss Bell was humming as she dusted the mantle on the opposite wall. Ella waved an enthusiastic good morning at them and they waved back affectionately. She heard the boisterous laughter of the cooks in the kitchen as they prepared her birthday breakfast and the luscious aroma of roasting ham and simmering maple syrup filled the house. Her tummy grumbled, but she could wait to eat. Henry had promised that he would show Ella her birthday present before breakfast.

  Henry carried Ella up the stairs and she reached out her hand to slide it along the smooth banister. It always felt more like porcelain than wood to her. Henry reached the top of the stairs, continued down the hall to Ella’s bedroom, and stood outside the door. Ella wiggled her dangling bare feet in anticipation.

  “Close your eyes, Ella,” Henry whispered.

  Ella quickly covered her eyes and tightly closed her fingers, but then peeked through a crack in between them.

  Henry reached down with his free hand and pushed on the latch, letting the heavy door fall open. In the far corner of the room, something glimmering caught Ella’s eye. She couldn’t pretend not to look anymore, and her hands flew away from her face as she gasped at the beautiful dress hanging on the outside of her wardrobe.

  The gown was light blue: the color of the sky when it was covered with the thinnest layer of clouds—clouds that lightened the sky somehow instead of darkening it. Henry entered the room, walked past Ella’s four-poster bed, and carried her to the dress until it was close enough to touch. Ella looked at her father, and he smiled and nodded his permission. She slowly stretched out her fingers and stroked the shimmering fabric. It felt as smooth as water when it flowed gently out of the well spout.

  Henry watched his little girl admire the gown, a pleased smile on his face. He kissed her rosy cheek and placed her on the chair at the foot of the bed. He walked over to the dress, took it off its hanger, and held it up to her, positioning the shoulders of the dress in front of her own. Even with her standing on the chair, the hem of the dress brushed against the floor.

  “It’s too big,” Ella pouted, her lower lip poking out and trembling slightly.

  “Of course it’s too big, silly.” Henry chuckled softly. “This is a very special dress and you must wait to wear it until you are a grown-up lady.”

  “I’ll never be big enough,” Ella said as she looked down at the yards of fabric swirling around her.

  Henry grinned and reached up to touch one of her glossy curls. “Yes, you will.” It was barely a whisper.

  “Do you promise?”

  “I promise,” Henry said quietly.

  Ella’s smile returned. Henry always kept his promises. With a touch of sadness in his eyes, Henry turned away from Ella to place the gown back on its hanger. Ella sat down on the chair and was about to ask her father why he looked sad, but before she could, the expression was erased from his face and replaced with excitement.

  “I have one more surprise for you, Pumpkin,” Henry announced, his eyes brightening.

  Ella covered her eyes and closed her fingers—all of them this time.

  She heard Henry’s muffled footsteps move across the rug and then his voice was very close to her. “Open your eyes, Ella.”

  She pulled her hands away from her eyes and saw her father standing in front of her, a smooth wooden box in his hands. The box was painted the same sky blue as the beautiful gown, and it had a white ribbon tied around it, holding the lid on tightly.

  There were two letters carved on top of the lid: EB

  Henry placed the box in Ella’s lap and she lightly ran her fingers over the top and along the satiny smoothness of the ribbon.

  “It’s so pretty.”

  Henry chuckled. “I’m glad you like it. But I think you’ll love what’s inside.”

  She blushed and lifted the lid. Her lips opened into an astonished O, but no sound came out.

  Inside the box, nestled in soft, white fabric, lay the most exquisite pair of slippers Ella had ever seen. Ella’s fingers hovered over the beautiful shoes in the box, afraid that if she touched them they might burst like a bubble, vanishing into a million pieces. They were clear as a teardrop, but when they caught the light they glistened faintly with all the colors of the rainbow.

  “Are they made out of fairy wings?” Ella whispered.

  “Glass,” Henry answered, pleased with her reaction. He carefully set the box down on the bed and lifted a slipper out. He knelt down in front of her and slipped it onto her tiny foot.

  There were still a couple of inches for her foot to grow into, and Ella giggled. She sat admiring the too-big slipper on her foot and then gazed at the beautiful gown. “Did angels make these for me?”

  Henry’s gray eyes met hers and he whispered, “They once belonged to an angel.” He paused, swallowing hard. “These were your mother’s.” He tried to smile, but his chin trembled and his eyes filled with tears.

  Ella’s heart quickly filled with the emptiness of missing someone she never knew. She looked back at the dress hanging in the corner. The sun shone on it and made it sparkle like newly fallen snow on a bright winter afternoon. She looked at the shoes that were as smooth and fragile as the pond when it froze over. She suddenly felt very close to her mother, knowing that these beautiful things once belonged to her.

  Ella’s gaze fell to the lid of the box next to her on the bed. “Does ‘EB’ stand for Ella Blakeley?”

  “Close. It stands for Eleanor Blakeley.” Henry said the name with reverence, his eyes still wet with tears. Ella recognized her mother’s name and smiled. “I’m grateful that I can still hear her name every time I say yours.”

  Ella lifted her small hand and gently brushed a tear off his cheek; her face puckered in concern. He smiled and placed his big hand over her small one and held it there.

  “You have her eyes, you know,” Henry said. Ella felt his cheek lift under her hand as he smiled.
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  “They were blue?” Ella asked, her voice rising on the last word. She pulled her hand from her father’s cheek and clasped her hands together under her chin.

  “Yes. The color of forget-me-nots. But the most beautiful thing about your mother’s eyes—and your eyes—is that they were kind. They were so filled with love and joy and compassion.” He smiled, his own eyes far away. “I see her in your eyes every day.”

  Ella blinked in confusion as she listened to her father, wondering how someone could see kindness and love and joy in someone’s eyes.

  “Was she pretty?”

  Henry’s eyes were still unfocused, seeing things that Ella couldn’t see. “Yes,” he answered softly, staring out the window.

  “Very pretty?” Ella’s eyes twinkled.

  Her sweet inquisitiveness brought Henry back to the present, and he turned to look into Ella’s bright, eager eyes. “Yes, you funny girl. She was very pretty.” Henry pulled on one of Ella’s ringlets and it bounced back into place. “But your mother used to have a saying: ‘Pretty is pretty for a little while, but true beauty is beautiful forever.’”

  Ella pursed her lips. “How do you know if you’re pretty or if you’re beautiful?”

  “I’ll give you a hint.” He reached out to playfully touch the tip of her nose. “You can’t see beauty in a mirror.”

  Before Ella had the chance to ask what he could possibly mean, Henry scooped her up in his arms. “I’m going to have Miss Bell put your dress and shoes in a safe place for you. Then, when you’re all grown up, you’ll be ready to wear them.”

  Ella nodded soberly, trying to grasp the significance of her gifts, but she couldn’t hold back a sigh of disappointment as she reconciled herself with the reality that she would have to wait so long to wear them. Her brow furrowed and she looked back at her father. Henry smiled at her solemn expression and Ella couldn’t help slowly smiling back, and then bursting out in giggles. Suddenly Ella threw her arms around her father’s neck and squeezed with all her strength.

  “Thank you, Papa.”

  “I love you,” they said in unison.

  Ella laughed and pulled back to look at her father. “We said that at the same time!”

  “Then it must be true,” Henry whispered.

  Among the Cinders

  Chapter 1

  ONCE UPON A TIME, I LIVED. NOW, I SURVIVED.

  I sat on the damp bank of the small, glassy pond, unconcerned about the dirt and moss that were ruining my already ragged dress. I dipped my bare feet in the cool water and wiggled my toes around in the smooth, slimy mud. The tadpoles swam quickly away and hid in the cattails and under the lily pads.

  Bright blue dragonflies hovered just above the algae-covered water: the humming of their wings both menacing and comforting. I tipped my head back so that my tear-soaked face could absorb the warm rays of the slowly rising sun. It seemed hesitant to rise this morning, unwilling to wake the world just yet. I understood how it felt.

  I raised my arms and pulled my hair off the sodden ground so that it covered me like a blanket. Leaning back on my hands, I let my fingers caress the slipperiness of the mud and the soft, tender blades of grass that were trying to emerge but could never quite grow—their roots having nothing to cling to in the too-moist soil.

  There was so much work to be done, but I couldn’t pull myself away from this quite yet—the one quiet moment of my day.

  Today would be a difficult one for everyone who lived at Ashfield, though not for the same reasons. It was the first day of September and ten years ago today my father, Henry Blakeley, had died. At that thought, I choked back a sob and turned it into a sigh, but not before yet another tear escaped and slid down my cheek. The pain of missing the most significant person in my world always seemed to hover around me like a fog, except for rare days like these when the fog became icy and sharp, piercing me from the inside. And though I usually would have fought against the pain, today I welcomed it. It helped to remind me that I was alive.

  Victoria would be sad today too, or perhaps upset would be the better word; though not because she missed my father so much that it felt like the air had been knocked out of her lungs. Victoria was upset because with the loss of Father meant that he would no longer be adding to the considerable wealth he had accumulated while he was alive.

  I wondered if Victoria would ever forgive my father for dying before he was able to give her all she had wanted. And—I shuddered—for leaving her to care for me all alone. Not that she had ever tried.

  The sun was just rising over the distant hills, its bright rays finally deciding it was time to wake the slumbering countryside. The light and warmth helped me to pull my mind out of its melancholy reverie and open my aching eyes.

  I blinked against the sun and the moisture that had been trapped behind my closed eyes, and allowed the tears to spill and clear my vision. I looked across the pond and saw the familiar and comforting sight of William Hawkins in his usual fishing spot. He had been away for a couple of days and I was grateful to see him there, especially on this day.

  I absently wiped the tears from my face, raised my hand in greeting, and answered his smile with my own. His smile was so wide and so genuine it lit up his whole face. I marveled at how so much happiness could be contained in one person.

  “Any luck this morning?” I asked as quietly as I could. I didn’t want to scare the fish away, but I knew he could hear me; there was no other sound.

  Will was leaning against his favorite tree, one leg bent up and his fishing pole resting on his other leg, his hat pulled low over his eyes. He was also enjoying the only quiet moment of his day.

  “Of course!” he answered as he held up a long line of fish, dangling on hooks. “But I wouldn’t call this luck. This is expertise.”

  “Of course.” I smiled as I used Will’s same words and returned to looking at the tadpoles that had slowly, cautiously started swimming around my feet again.

  Will and I had both lost our fathers when we were ten years old. Only a few months after his father had died, Will had come to work at Ashfield as a stable boy so that he could help earn money for his large family. My father had taken Will under his wing, and Will was instantly drawn to him. If Father was out in the stables, Will was close at his heels, learning all he could.

  He was fourteen when Father died and only a few months later, Will had stopped working in my father’s stables. Not because he didn’t enjoy the work, or that he wasn’t a hard worker, or that he didn’t know more about horses than any other man in the stables; but because Victoria had sold most of our horses in exchange for what she saw were more important things—like dresses, extravagant furniture, and trips to exotic countries. She had also neglected paying the servants and one by one, they left us.

  Fortunately, Will had been chosen to work in the king’s stables soon after. His knowledge of and way with horses at such a young age had more than qualified him for the job. He loved the horses, but he would rather work anywhere else in the world than at the palace, or prison, as he referred to it. But once his older brothers grew up and left to seek their fortunes, the duty fell on Will to provide for the family, and he shouldered it with maturity and without complaint.

  Will stretched, gathered up his gear and the fish he had caught, and headed toward the rickety bridge that extended across the width of the small pond. I knew it was time I should be getting home, and I reluctantly pulled my feet out of the water, rinsed off the mud, and tied my frayed scarf around my head, stuffing as much of my hair in it as I could.

  My hands were muddy and stained pink from picking wild strawberries earlier that morning. I dipped them in the water and splashed them around, washing off the mud and hoping to wash away the stain, but knowing that it was no use. I dried my hands on my apron and picked up two full baskets of berries.

  Will crossed the pond to my side and I met him at the end of the bridge. He looked inside my heavy baskets and his eyes widened. “When did you get up this morning?
This must have taken hours!” He spoke cheerfully but watched me intently, almost warily.

  I nodded. Morning had come especially early that day. I had spent half the night desperately trying to sleep, but every time my eyes closed, I was awakened by nightmares, and I would go back to staring at the comforting embers of the waning fire. Once the heat had completely faded from the fireplace and the chill crept into the cold stones of the dark kitchen and to my bare toes, I finally threw my thin blanket off me in frustration, pushed myself up off the hearth, and went to go do something more sensible than chasing sleep. I brushed the cinders from my dress, milked the cow, took her out to pasture, fed the chickens, and gathered the eggs.

  But before I went to pick berries, I knelt down at the edge of the garden, kissed my fingers, and touched them to the headstones of both my parents. I knew that this new day would mean the anniversary of Father’s death and I dreaded it. And what I dreaded even more was the thought that I would be the only one who acknowledged it … or even cared.

  “Yes, it was an early morning.” I opened my mouth to say something else, but my breath caught in my throat and I closed it again.

  “Ten years,” Will guessed quietly, uttering the words I couldn’t. His careful expression softened into compassion.

  I nodded again and then smiled a little, relieved that I was not completely alone in my grief. I sometimes forgot how much Will had loved Father, and his expression reminded me of that. I blinked back the next wave of tears that threatened to spill over, knowing that if I let one fall now, they wouldn’t stop. There was something tender about being understood that inspired tears.

  “I’m so sorry, Ella,” Will said gently. He lifted his hand, probably trying to figure out a way to comfort me somehow. He looked so helpless and I felt a rush of pity for him. I smiled my bravest smile and held out a basket of berries.

  “These are for you,” I said, and I placed the basket’s handle in his still outstretched hand.