“Thank you, Will!” I called as he drove away. He touched the brim of his hat and disappeared behind the bend.
On my short walk home, I daydreamed about the ball to distract myself from thinking about all the chores I had left undone. It wasn’t difficult. It didn’t matter if the prince had noticed Jane and not me. I was determined to go to the ball and have a wonderful time. I had never been to a ball or even had any reason to dress up since Father’s death. When he was alive, there had been countless parties around the kingdom to attend, including many at our own home. I had worn adorable, ruffled dresses made with yards of material that hung just below the knees with starched petticoats underneath that made me look like a little bell. Grace, my governess, would spend hours getting each of my ringlets just right. But I wasn’t completely ready until I was able to twirl and twirl and watch my skirts ripple around me.
I wondered how different it would be going to this royal ball compared with the parties of my childhood. I sighed longingly at the thought of wearing beautiful clothes and eating rich, delicious food. My mouth watered and my stomach grumbled. I frowned slightly, thinking of the food that awaited me at home. But the food was instantly forgotten as I tried to imagine myself in my most, and only, prized possessions—my gown and glass slippers.
Suddenly I was running. Not running with fear, but with giddy anticipation. If I got home as quickly as I could, I would be alone, alone long enough to try on my dress and slippers, to try to imagine myself at a royal ball. Then perhaps this dream would feel like a reality.
The sun was low in the sky when I saw the stately exterior of Ashfield in the distance, its towers glowing white like a beacon to me in the fading blush of sunlight. I bolted into the house, dropped the packages in the doorway, and ran through the foyer and dining room and into the kitchen.
I stood silently for a moment, making absolutely sure I was alone. Normally I never would have imagined that anyone would be in here, but knowing that Victoria had entered the kitchen that very morning made me extra cautious.
She had been right. I was hiding something from her, had been hiding something from her for ten years. From the first moment I met her, I could never imagine telling Victoria about these gifts that had once belonged to my mother. It started out as a reluctance to share something with this intimidating woman who had married my father, and it grew into a need to protect the things that connected me to my parents. I had been told that I had my mother’s eyes, her hair, her feet, and her hands; I had my father’s dimples, his laugh, and his love of music and horses. I was grateful for those things, but the dress and slippers were things I could touch and hold, and they helped to remind me that those people I loved were once real enough to touch and hold too.
I walked to the counter that stood in the middle of the kitchen where I prepared the meals and knelt down. Under the counter were cupboards where I kept the pots and pans. I opened one of the doors and pulled out three heavy cast iron pots and set them on the floor, revealing a small wooden crate that had been hidden underneath them. I paused once more to make sure I was alone, my fingers trembling. I gingerly lifted the crate out of the cupboard and set it on the floor in front of me. I pried open the lid and smiled.
Wrapped delicately in brown paper were the only material possessions I had left from my parents. It had been months since I dared to look at them. Lately, Victoria had never left the house long enough for me to risk it. It seemed especially providential that Victoria was out of the house today on the anniversary of Father’s death. Today, I would get to spend time with him, in a way, and remember when he gave me my gown and glass slippers.
I pulled back the paper and let it fall, revealing the perfectly folded, incandescently shimmering dress that had once belonged to my mother. In the crate next to the dress lay the box that contained the precious glass slippers. I closed my eyes and tried to remember how clear they were, but also how they caught the sun and reflected a whole rainbow of colors. I lovingly untied the now-discolored satin ribbon and lifted the lid to reveal the glittering glass slippers. The falling sun shone in through the west window, casting a rosy hue on them both.
I had never tried on the gown or the shoes, knowing that I was too small for them until recently anyway, and not wanting to risk their discovery, regardless. But the knowledge that they were there for me whenever I might need them had always been reassuring to me. I had only occasionally touched them, but usually I simply looked at them and that was enough.
As my eyes shifted from my gown to my slippers and back, I was filled with the memory of when Father had given them to me. That memory was infused with light. Light from the gown that glistened as it caught the sunlight. Light that shattered off the translucent slippers and the rainbow they cast on the wall. Light from Father’s eyes as he watched me accept my precious gift. And light and pure joy from the knowledge that these lovely things had once belonged to my mother, Eleanor.
My hand was poised, aching to hold the contents of my little hidden crate, but slowly, I let my hand drop onto my lap. Maybe I felt too dirty after such a long day and a walk on a dusty road. Maybe I was worried that the rest of my family would be home soon. Or maybe it was the feeling that brought tears to my eyes that spilled down my cheeks—that as I contemplated putting on the dress and slippers, I felt unworthy of such beautiful things.
I suddenly realized I no longer felt like the joyful little girl in my memory. That child was young and fresh and clean. She hadn’t a care in the world, except that she would have to wait years and years to wear the exquisite gown and slippers.
I looked down at my chipped fingernails that still had dirt in them from that morning when I had dug up carrots and cabbages and squash. I looked down at my unruly hair that now dangled on the floor. It was tangled and dull with dust from the road. I felt my cheeks that were covered in grainy dirt, and now tears.
Roger had been cruel, but had he been right? I knew better than anyone that the years had not been kind to me, but I had never wondered what that unkindness looked like to anyone else. The few people who saw me anymore had seen the change gradually, but to him, to see me after so many years … I suddenly saw in my mind what he saw, and I could understand the way he looked at me.
It was Jane, and not me, who the prince had winked and smiled at. I had let myself get so caught up in the idea that the prince had somehow singled me out. He hadn’t even noticed me. The foolishness and wounded pride I had felt came rushing back and though no one was there to see me, my cheeks burned.
I fought desperately against the self-pity that was threatening to overtake me because I had learned that once I gave myself permission to feel it, it was like falling into a bottomless pit where I could always find something to be miserable about. I had trained myself from the time I was ten years old that whenever that wave of hopelessness began to creep up on me I had to immediately think of something good so I could pull myself out of that pit; or I had to at least go numb so that I wouldn’t have to feel anything at all.
But this time, sitting in a darkening kitchen as I looked over the edge of that pit, I found I didn’t have the strength, or even the desire, to pull myself out. I wasn’t going to go to the ball. I would feel like a fraud in that dress and fancy slippers. And by not going, I wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore. I wouldn’t have to struggle with who I was or if I was worthy. I wished I never heard about the ball. Will was right to try to keep it from me, whatever his reasons.
Through eyes blurred with tears, I carefully replaced the lid on the shoes and tied the ribbon. I gently wrapped the dress back in its covering and placed the lid back on the crate and slid it back into the cupboard, covered by pots and pans. The few tears I had shed were already dry and I stood and got to work preparing the evening meal for Victoria and her daughters.
I went back to the front door and retrieved my sack of flour. I wanted to make bread, but I knew I didn’t have enough time now. There was no way to know when everyone would be home and the
y would surely be hungry. Fortunately, there were a few biscuits left over from that morning and some of the berries and butter. I gathered them all up and set them on the table. I then returned to the kitchen and started a fire in the fireplace.
As soon as I felt the warmth from the fire, I realized I was freezing. The thought of leaving the delicious heat sent chills through me, and I couldn’t bear to abandon it. I stretched out my weary body on the hearth, not caring about the cinders and soot that clung to me. I untied my shawl, placed it under my head, lay down, and watched the flames dance to a song I couldn’t hear.
Chapter 6
AS I LAY ON THE HEARTH, MY EYES DROOPED AND I BEGAN to dream, or at least I thought I was dreaming. Perhaps it was just a dream of a memory—the memory of when Father had died.
I sat in the wide hall just outside Father’s bedroom, waiting for the doctor to come out and tell me Father would be better soon. Victoria, Mabel, Cecelia, and I, as well as what looked like half the village, were waiting for the doctor to emerge. We all feared the time was drawing near; the illness that had taken Father’s health so rapidly would soon take his life too.
Will was there too, having loved Henry like a father. His eyes were red, and he tried to hide his face in his hands that were too large for his fourteen-year-old body. It took me a long time to realize that he had been crying. I sat on the cushioned chair, my feet dangling above the floor, my eyes looking straight ahead but seeing nothing.
Everyone stood as the doctor quietly opened the door. Victoria rushed to him, but the doctor softly said, “He wants to see Ella.” Victoria’s eyes flashed angrily, but she quickly composed herself and returned to her chair.
I stood and walked slowly into the room. I wanted to see Father more than anything, but not like this. Not dying.
The room was dark, lit by only a few candles and a small fire in the fireplace, casting an ominous glow. It was as if the fire knew that death hovered in the air and it refused to give off any more light. I walked slowly toward Father’s bed and saw the chair next to the bed, but instead of sitting in it, I used it as a stool to gently climb up onto his bed, careful not to jostle him.
Father’s eyes opened slowly and his kind face lit up when he saw me sitting next to him. I looked over to his arm on the other side of his body and found that it rested on a bowl of his own blood.
“Don’t worry about that, Pumpkin. It doesn’t hurt,” he said in a strained whisper. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled, and he reached up his good arm to touch my cheek that was wet with tears.
“Papa, I don’t want you to leave me,” I whispered. My ten-year-old heart was ready to break.
“Oh, my angel, I don’t want to leave you either,” Father whispered back. He paused and a faint twinkle lit his eyes. “And do you know what? I never will.”
“Really, Papa? You’re going to stay?” I covered his hand that rested on my cheek with my own, trying to help him stay with me by holding on to him.
“Not in the way that we’re used to. I’ll be here, but you won’t be able to see me, Ella. You’ve been my angel your whole life. Now I will get to be yours.” Father spoke with a little more vigor, wanting to help me understand. “Sometimes the most important things in our lives are the things we can’t see.”
“Like what?” I whispered through my tears.
“Like kindness and joy and faith and love. What would we do without those things? Where would we be? They give life meaning.”
“What about beauty?” I asked, suddenly remembering our conversation from years before.
Father smiled faintly. “What about it, Pumpkin?”
“You said you can’t see beauty in a mirror. Is it like those other things that you can’t see, but are important?”
“You are wise beyond your years, Ella. And you have a good memory.” He paused to catch his breath. “Yes, Ella. Beauty is like those things. If someone is kind and joyful, faithful and loving, they are beautiful. And beauty will be theirs as long as they keep those qualities a part of who they are.” Henry paused again and looked into my eyes … Eleanor’s eyes. “You are so beautiful.” He smiled and closed his own weary eyes. “Ella, choose someone who sees your true beauty.” I heard him but didn’t completely understand.
“But Papa, how will I know what my true beauty is?” I asked.
“You’ll know, Ella. You’ll know,” he whispered.
He lowered his hand wearily from my face, but I grasped it tightly in both of mine on my lap. I thought of how kind these hands were and how much good they had done, how they could create the most beautiful music on his violin that spoke more to the soul than to the ear—hands that not only knew when to serve but how to serve. I looked at his loving face, worn and wrinkled from laughing and crying and thinking and worrying and … living. I looked at his gray hair that covered his head and remembered a scripture he used to quote, “The beauty of the old man is in his gray hairs.” He used to laugh and say he was becoming more and more beautiful every day.
Father had loved. He had given and worked and sacrificed. He was faithful and charitable and kind.
My father was the most beautiful person I had ever known.
I laid my head on his chest and cried. I felt his hand gently stroke my hair that cascaded across my back and I heard him whisper, “Take care of them.”
I looked up into his face. His eyes were closed. I knew who he was talking about. “I will.”
He smiled and nodded as if he already knew what I would say.
“Papa … ,” I whispered.
With great effort he opened his eyes slowly to look into mine. His eyes seemed so weary, but so peaceful, and even happy.
“I love you,” our voices said in unison, mine thick with tears and his weak from clinging to life.
Father’s eyes closed as a tender smile touched his lips. “Then it must be true.”
I laid my head back down on his chest, and we both slept.
Chapter 7
WHEN I AWOKE, MY BODY FELT STIFF AND ACHY. THE kitchen was freezing, the heat from the fire having been replaced with empty coldness. I sat up, blinked, and stretched. My eyes were red and swollen from tears I must have shed as I dreamed, but I vowed today I would shed no more. Father would be disappointed in me for moping around. Today was a new day. I would focus my energy on taking care of the home I loved and I would make myself forget about the ball and move on.
I took a deep breath and forced my joints to bend and move. I swung my feet to the floor, rose slowly, and shuffled to the back door, a great yawn overtaking me. The sky was pitch-black, but it didn’t feel like night. I knew it was the inky darkness that sucked all the color from the sky in those minutes before the sun arose. And when it did, the sun would splash the world with life and color once again.
I opened the door and went about my normal morning routine of gathering eggs, milking the cow, harvesting whatever was ripe from the garden, and then kneeling for a moment at the two graves at the edge of the garden. When I reached the chicken coop, I was greeted by my little friends, Mary and Martha. They were always very happy to see me, and though I knew it was because I was the one who fed them, I liked to think they were as fond of me as I was of them.
“Good morning, ladies,” I said quietly. I knew no one could hear me, but I still liked to speak softly in the morning. Sprinkling the corn kernels over the dirt, I smiled as I watched the chickens peck and claw at the ground, making sure they got every last one. I always imagined them as funny old women, spending the days gossiping about what was happening at Ashfield.
I stroked them both on their sleek feathers and went over to the barn and found Lucy, waiting for me patiently as always.
“Good morning, girl,” I said. I grabbed my bucket from the hook on the wall and sat on my stool next to Lucy. After I rubbed my hands together to warm them, I began the steady work of milking. Resting my head against Lucy’s flank, I daydreamed and hummed songs to the rhythm of the milk splashing in the bucket.
When I was done milking, I led Lucy out of the barn so she could spend her day grazing in the pasture.
I returned to the kitchen, poured the milk into a clean jug, and took it down to the cellar. I brought up the jug from yesterday’s milking and ladled off the cream that had risen to the top of the milk. As soon as I gathered all of the cream, I started a fire, sat down, and got started on churning the cream into butter in my jar and handmade crank. My mouth watered as I imagined spreading the smooth butter on top of a thick slice of warm bread.
Once the butter was thick and creamy, I scooped it into a bowl and put it on the counter, where I kept the last of yesterday’s berries in my basket. I ate the few that were left, tightened my shawl around my hair to keep it out of the way, and headed out to the forest with my now empty basket.
I had never been afraid of this forest, or of the little animals that scurried away from me as I approached, or of the owl that watched me with curiosity in the dark gray of early morning. As I picked the berries, I passed the hollow oak tree I used to like to read in when I was a little girl. I smiled as I walked by the boulder I used to climb on and then jump off to try to fly.
The air was crisp and delicious this morning. It had the faint taste of autumn in it that lingered on my tongue and made everything feel clean and exhilarating. The warm heaviness of summer was slowly lifting and the leaves would soon be turning into brilliant versions of themselves. I loved the inevitable and dependable changing of the seasons, and it always put a little skip in my step when they came.
When I reached the pond, I knelt down on the damp grass and splashed water on my face. I gasped a little at the chilliness of the water, but it invigorated me. I started scrubbing under my fingernails and then decided it was no use. I ran my fingers through my long hair and braided it, my arms aching by the time I was done. I stood and let the braid fall to my knees and brushed the dirt off my dress.
Ella: A Novel Page 6
