There was another moment of sympathy in Will’s eyes as he watched my attempt to lighten the mood, but he smiled indulgently. “Thank you, Ella,” he said softly, the sadness barely contained beneath his smile. “You always pick the best ones.”
“This is for you too,” I said, lifting the cloth that covered the basket and revealing a small tin pitcher nestled in with the berries.
“Cream?” he asked, his eyes sparkling in excitement.
I nodded, smiling at his enthusiasm for such simple gifts.
“I’m going to eat like a king!” he exclaimed. “You spoil me, Ella. You didn’t have to do all this … but I’m also very grateful you did.” He chuckled.
“You’re very welcome. It’s refreshing and enjoyable doing something for someone who actually knows how to say thank you. I think I would fall over dead if I ever heard those words at my house.”
“Let’s hope they never say it.” Will laughed and I joined in. Will had taught me years ago that it was easier to laugh than to cry. He made it look effortless. Somehow he had overcome his grief and had turned it into something positive and even motivating. I tried my hardest to follow his example, but even now, when I did laugh, it felt like a hollow memory of what real happiness used to feel like and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t recapture it.
“How was your trip? Is your mother well?” I asked, purposely avoiding any subject that could induce tears from me or discomfort for him. Will lived alone in a little cottage that he had built, his mother having left our village of Maycott to go to live with one of Will’s sisters in the sea-bordering village of Lytton five years before.
“They are doing very well. Margaret just had another baby, and my mother is healthy as a horse.” Will smiled like he had just told a joke.
“What is it?” I asked, my grin widening.
“Well,” he stalled, trying to build the anticipation. “I sold the foal while I was in Lytton. I got more than what I was asking for him.” His eyes brightened and he raised a hand to run his fingers through his hair, unexpectedly nervous as he spoke. “The man I sold him to wants the next one, and possibly the next one after that. Of course, once I can afford to, I’ll be able to keep them and breed them myself.”
“Will, that’s wonderful!” I raised my hand and clutched his arm. “You’ve always wanted to raise horses! Your dream is coming true.” I glanced down at my hand on his arm and dropped it, blushing at my overexuberance.
Will grinned back at me, not seeming to mind. “Well, not quite.” He chuckled. “But I hope I’m headed in the right direction.” A satisfied smile spread across his face. Will had worked for years to finally be where he was today. It had been a slow and often frustrating process, and even though Will only had three horses, the king himself could not be more proud of his dozens of horses.
Will’s expression dropped slightly as he looked toward the increasingly brightening sky. He would soon have to be at the stables, readying the royal horses for whatever they would be needed for that day. I followed his gaze, feeling the sun’s rays touch my face. It felt like someone’s warm fingers against my cool, slightly damp cheeks.
At the thought of my cheeks, I gasped as I realized they were probably covered in muddy streaks left by wiping away my tears with dirty fingers.
“Oh!” I cried and ran to dip the corner of my apron in the pond. I scrubbed my face until I was sure it was clean. I pulled the apron away from my face, and sure enough, it was covered with dirt from my cheeks. I never cared too much about my appearance, but I certainly didn’t want to look like someone who never cared.
“What’s wrong?” Will asked, slightly alarmed by my erratic behavior.
“I’m covered in dirt and you’ve just been standing there looking at me not saying anything!” My once dirt-covered cheeks were now blotched red in embarrassment.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t notice.” He seemed sincere, but I shook my head, a touch of disbelief in my expression. Either he had noticed my mud-streaked face and was just trying to be nice, or he truly hadn’t noticed and it was just another example of how Will could look past the bad and see the good. Either way, I was grateful for his kindness. I bent to pick up my basket of berries. Will looked down at his own basket and pitcher of cream and back at me.
“You’re a good friend,” we said at the same time, and then we laughed out loud.
“Then it must be true,” I said.
Will’s smile softened and he nodded, recognizing one of my father’s sayings. He opened his mouth to say something, but hesitated, seeming to change his mind before the words actually came out. “Are you going into town today?”
“I don’t think so. I have so much to do at home.” I thought of the soap I had to make before Sunday, the worn-out dresses I had to weave into yet another rug, the butter that had to be churned … but then I observed the too-innocent expression on his face. “Why? Is anything important happening?” I smirked at the unlikeliness of that.
“You know I don’t pay any attention to what they talk about inside the palace. It’s just a lot of tedious royal blather.” Will was rarely reluctant in hiding his distaste for what he saw as royal haughtiness and snobbery, but I noticed that it was Will who had brought up the palace, and not I. Something must be happening, but I pretended not to have noticed and tucked his comment away to think about later.
Will looked down in thought; then his brow puckered. “Ella, where are your shoes?”
I followed his gaze down to my bare feet peeking out from under my frayed hem. I was about to make a joke about it but couldn’t quite manage. I kept my eyes on my feet as I shifted my weight between them. “I have to save my shoes for when I really need them. They’re almost worn through. Besides, I can feel every pebble and twig through the soles anyway, so why bother putting them on?”
I tried to laugh, but it turned into a labored sigh. My shabby shoes were just another reminder of how much had changed in my life since Father’s death. It had been long enough since his death that the drastic changes had now become commonplace and usually weren’t shocking anymore. But on days like these, when I missed Father so much it felt like I couldn’t breathe, it was impossible to ignore the differences. They practically screamed in my face.
I tried to read the expression on Will’s face, but he abruptly turned away from me. We stood for a moment in silence, and then as if one of us had spoken it aloud, we knew it was time to go and we turned away from the rising sun. I waved good-bye and Will touched the brim of his hat, and we walked away in opposite directions.
Suddenly a shrill voice pierced through the stillness. “Ella!”
My head snapped up, my eyes widened with terror, and my heart filled with dread. My eyes darted to Will, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was glaring in the direction the voice had come; the voice that could carry over the yard and through the trees, and yet, most often, would whisper menacingly in my ear and fill my heart with the same amount of fear.
In Will’s eyes, I saw the resentment I could never allow myself to feel, the resentment that he had been trying to hide a moment ago when I had told him about my shoes. I closed my eyes for a moment. The pain I had let myself feel for Father dissipated back into the dull fog, and any lightheartedness I had felt while talking to Will faded. All I allowed myself to feel now was resignation.
I turned away from Will and started walking quickly toward the house and breathed a sigh that only the birds could hear.
Chapter 2
I BROKE INTO A RUN AS SOON AS THE ENORMOUS, IVORY-colored stones of Ashfield appeared through the clearing in the dense trees. This wasn’t the carefree scamper of my childhood as I returned home after playing in the woods and into the arms of my father. This was a terrified run, fear moving my feet to the rhythm of my frantic heart. Instinctively, people usually run from danger. I had to run toward it.
My grandfather six generations back, Franklin Blakeley, had had the house built for his wife, Teresa. Ashfield had been in my famil
y for hundreds of years and I took great pride in that. Though, it hadn’t always been called Ashfield. It had originally been named Rosewood, for its beautiful roses and its close proximity to the ancient forest surrounding it. But, about one hundred years ago, it had burned almost completely to the ground and had to be rebuilt.
It took years to reconstruct and once it was finished, it was more grand and more majestic than it had been before. My great-grandfather had been so pleased with how the house had overcome a potentially devastating situation to rise from the ashes and become even more beautiful than it had been, that he had changed the name to honor the role the fire and ashes had played in its refining process.
“Ella!” My name reverberated through the tranquility of the morning once more from one of the upstairs bedroom windows, and I knew the fury that awaited me. I would have normally entered the house through the old servants’ entrance in the kitchen, where my stepmother never was and where I now felt more comfortable entering anyway, but I knew the detour would only delay me more, and Victoria did not like to be kept waiting.
I reached the front yard, raced past the vividly colored roses that stood in brilliant contrast to the pristine paleness of the house, and hurled myself up the six steps of the porch two at a time. I pushed open one of the two heavy oak front doors of Ashfield—the one place I loved more dearly than anywhere in the world, yet it was also the one place where I was treated with harshness and hatred one moment, and in the next, with apathy and coldness. I tried to catch my breath as I carefully and quietly closed the great door behind me with a resounding thud. I could see no one at first, but I felt eyes watching me. With my eyes fixed on the marble stones at my feet, I untied my shawl and carefully arranged it across my shoulders, my hair falling loose around me. I set my basket of berries down on the floor and tried in vain to smooth my rumpled dress. Reluctantly, I raised my eyes to where my stepmother stood poised at the top of the grand staircase.
Victoria had one hand placed firmly on her hip while the other hand gripped the banister that had once gleamed white. Now, the paint was faded and the wood was warped and cracked. But the woman standing at the top of the stairs was a pillar of stone—cold, hard, and unbreakable. The contrast was chilling.
I waited in silence. I knew better than to speak out of turn and I also knew that Victoria liked to build the suspense by keeping me in fearful anticipation. I stood with my head high, feet firmly planted on the floor, eyes clear and direct without even a hint of bitterness or antagonism, but my hands trembled.
Victoria’s perfectly set hair quivered slightly in her anger and her lips were a tight line. These were the only clues that told me how upset she was. Victoria always prided herself in being a lady and ladies never showed their anger, she would tell her girls. Her daughters, Mabel and Cecelia, had not quite mastered Victoria’s carefully guarded façade. Nor had they given it much practice.
“Welcome home, child. Did you have an enjoyable ramble through the woods?” Her voice had returned to its normal volume now that I was back inside the house. It was almost too quiet—intentionally quiet—so that I was forced to really focus on her words. She spoke slowly, yet with subtle sarcasm, masterfully reining in any fury she felt. Victoria was not one to scream and shout, but the malice in her voice was enough to send a chill down my spine. I clenched my teeth and resisted the urge to shudder.
I jumped slightly at the sound of the bolt being locked behind me, but I didn’t turn around. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mabel walk past me, a sly smile across her lips. She went to rejoin Cecelia, who had also been standing at the bottom of the stairs, watching the whole scene with satisfaction, matching expressions of abhorrence mingled with arrogance on their porcelain faces. I felt a trickle of fear in the pit of my stomach. But almost immediately, the cold fear was replaced by burning hot anger—anger that I had forbidden myself to feel. Did they really think that locking the door would keep me from escaping if I wanted to?
I silently chastised myself for allowing a few tears earlier. That sadness had opened the gates for the anger I now felt, and that was unacceptable … and dangerous.
By this time, Victoria had descended the stairs and was standing directly in front of me. I worked hard to keep my face blank and emotionless—like a mask—knowing that if she saw any anger or bitterness or even fear, she would use it against me to humiliate or punish. I silently cursed the flame that was coloring my cheeks. It felt like a betrayal.
Up close, I could see the wrinkles and creases that lined Victoria’s once lovely face. It still would have been a lovely face, wrinkles and all, if her ugly thoughts hadn’t crept their way out of every line, permanently mangling their owner.
But there was something in Victoria’s face lately that showed a different kind of strain than ugly, angry thoughts. Her skin looked slightly sallow, her eyes sunken, the bones on her hands more pronounced, her collar bone jutting out from underneath her blouse. She had always been a slender woman, but this gauntness hinted at something more than the effects of a disagreeable temperament.
“You have kept us waiting this morning,” Victoria accused in a menacingly subdued tone. “We are hungry.” The very idea had Victoria trembling even more with rage. “I, the lady of the house, had to go into that horrid kitchen and actually search for food.”
She had been in the kitchen! She never went into the kitchen! I felt my stomach turn icy, and I tried as hard as I could to hide the fear in my eyes, but I knew she had seen it.
She observed my reaction closely, probably not expecting it to be so intense. It was rare for me to show any emotion in her presence; I was rarely caught off guard since her anger and dissatisfaction with me were usually so predictable. But now, I stood there, hoping desperately that she would interpret my reaction as guilt for making her wait and not for the fear it really was. Whatever she saw on my face didn’t prevent her from continuing. “And once I got there, can you guess what I found?”
I knew it was a rhetorical question, and I remained silent. I didn’t know what she had found, and I fervently prayed it wasn’t what I thought.
“Nothing!” Victoria spat the word out with venom. “Where is all of our food? Are you hiding it? Saving it for yourself as we starve to death?” She took one step closer and lowered her voice so that her words were meant only for me. “You’re keeping something from me, I can see it. Whatever it is, I will find out.”
Despite her threatening words, relief washed over me. She hadn’t found anything; she hadn’t discovered my secret. I never dropped my eyes from Victoria’s vicious glare. After my initial panic, I kept my face as impassive as if Victoria were talking about the unseasonably warm day or whether the price of yarn had gone up again. My objective was not apathy or aloofness or disrespect. It was self-preservation.
“Please forgive me, Stepmother. You usually aren’t awake yet.” I pursed my lips and winced slightly. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. I was only stating a fact, but in my stepmother’s ears, I had just called her indolent.
Without looking away from me, Victoria reached into her pocket. When she pulled out her hand, her long fingers were clutching the notorious stick she kept there for such an occasion as this, and I held out my hands. It wouldn’t be the first time I prepared a meal with freshly whipped palms, and I had stopped hoping long ago that it would be the last.
What Victoria didn’t know, what she refused to see, was that the only reason we had any food to eat at all was because I got up before dawn every day and milked the cow (our one cow), gathered eggs from the chicken coop (which now housed only two chickens), and picked berries. Then I would return to the kitchen and try to make a decent breakfast.
I would scramble, fry, poach, or boil the meager harvest of eggs. I would separate the cream from the milk and churn it into butter to put on the biscuits that I would make with whatever flour I could scrape out of the bottom of the barrel. Victoria was right. There was no food in the kitchen, unless one kn
ew how to make something out of what they found there and was willing to do the work to put it there in the first place.
Victoria had accused me of wanting them all to starve to death, but it was because of me that they were even alive at all.
Still studying me sharply, Victoria pointed a bony finger in the direction of the kitchen and I was all too happy to escape. I quickly gathered my berries, trying not to flinch as I grasped the handle, and hurried to the kitchen, Mabel and Cecelia’s soft cackles echoing in the barren foyer. Once I entered the kitchen doorway and was safely hidden behind the stone walls, I glanced over my shoulder to make sure I hadn’t been followed. I carefully surveyed the kitchen to see where Victoria might have been searching for food while I was gone. A few bowls had been moved and some pans were out of place, and it appeared she had thrown a spoon across the room, but other than that, everything was where it should be. My heart slowed and I was able to prepare breakfast as usual.
When their meal of eggs, berries, and biscuits was ready and set out on the formal dining room table, Victoria and her daughters sat down grandly to eat. I was always amazed, and not in an admiring sort of way, by how she could act like nothing was the matter when something obviously was the matter. She had just given me a sound whipping and accused me of trying to starve them to death. And now she sat before me like this was the first time we had seen each other all day. It made my head spin.
As was expected and ordered of me, I stood in my usual spot in the corner of the room, waiting for the other three to be finished, so that I could clear their plates and take them to the kitchen. As I waited, I observed the fading yellow wallpaper that was peeling away from the walls in all four corners of the room and at the edges of each strip. If anyone looked at the wallpaper now, they would never know that there had once been dainty white flowers painted into the pattern. I daydreamed about tearing down the wallpaper and imagined how it would feel in my fingers. Would it crumble to dust or would it be stiff like tree bark? I would have torn it down years ago, but I was afraid of making it worse.
Ella: A Novel Page 2
