Disenchanted

by Susan Carroll

  As the countess dragged herself out of the mud, looking like some sort of swamp troll, Mal and I erupted into such giggles, we did not make our escape as stealthily as we should have done. Despite the mud water dripping into her eyes, the countess had no difficulty identifying us as the culprits.

  That same afternoon, Her Ladyship called upon my stepmother in a state of high dudgeon, declaring that I was the most evil monstrous child she had ever encountered and demanding that I be whipped. I expected Imelda to cringe before this harridan as she usually did. Maybe she would even hand me over to the countess for punishment.

  To my delight and astonishment, she stood up to the countess with a ferocity that would have done credit to Queen Anthea leading her army of women onto the battlefield.

  “How dare you!” Imelda had cried in such furious accents, as the countess took a wary step back. “How dare you accuse my daughter of such a thing! Ella is the sweetest, most darling little girl you could wish for. A perfect young lady who would never dream of behaving in such an awful way.”

  By this time, my mouth was gaping as wide as the countess’s. If Imelda had not mentioned me by name, I would have had no idea whom she was talking about. I folded my hands in front of me, doing my best to look all innocent and demure.

  My stepmother concluded by ordering the countess to leave her house at once and consult her doctor. “Because if you think my dear little Ella was the one tossing toads at you, it is clear Your Ladyship needs spectacles.”

  The countess regarded me with suspicion, but she no longer looked so sure of herself. She had no choice but to leave with what dignity remained to her. I am ashamed to say I was feeling quite gleeful about escaping the consequences of my mischief unscathed. I thrust my tongue out at the countess’s retreating back.

  The countess did not see it, but unfortunately Imelda did. As my stepmother rounded on me, I realized I had not fooled her at all. Hands on her hips, she eyed me sternly.

  “How could you, Prunella! I do not know what I am ever going to do with you. You truly are a horribly wicked little girl and—”

  Imelda’s voice broke and I cringed thinking I was about to make my stepmother cry again. Instead I was dumbfounded when she burst out laughing and enveloped me in a hug and for the first time, I tentatively hugged her back.

  That day marked the beginning of a curious kind of friendship with my stepmother. Although I could never call her “Mama,” I dubbed her “Em,” a term I still used with greatest affection.

  As I bustled about the kitchen, making Imelda a cup of tea, I continued to fume about Madam Dearling’s treatment of her.

  “Just wait until the next time I see that shrew,” I growled.

  “Oh, Ella, no!” my stepmother cried in alarm. “Please promise me you will do nothing to avenge me.”

  When I remained stubbornly silent, she clutched at my sleeve. “Promise!” she insisted. Gazing down at her anxious face, I finally said, “Very well. I promise. No toads.”

  My wry remark coaxed a smile from her, but it quickly faded. She looked somber and pensive as I placed the steaming cup of tea before her, fixed just the way she liked it, with an extra dollop of honey even though our supply was running low.

  She made no move to taste it, her brow knit in a heavy frown that was rare for Imelda.

  “Matilda was right about one thing.”

  “She confessed she is really a troll in disguise?”

  Leveling a stern look at me, Imelda continued, “I do need to start being more sensible about securing a comfortable future for my girls. I was thinking about it the entire way home.” She fetched a deep sigh. “I believe Mr. Bafton will do for Amy.”

  “Do what for her?”

  “Make her a good husband.”

  “Fortescue Bafton?” I scoffed. “He is a complete idiot.”

  “Amy seems to like him.”

  “Amy would like any young man who brought her flowers and chocolates. She is hardly old enough to worry about marriage.”

  “She is sixteen, Ella. Many girls are wed by that age and even have children.”

  I shook my head, unable to think of Amy as anyone’s wife or mother. She was still my little sister who dreamed of castles and princes, who loved her sweets and braiding her ponies’ manes.

  “Mr. Bafton is the son of a prosperous tailor. If Amy married him, she would never want for anything. I am sure she would be quite happy,” Imelda said, although she sounded as though she were trying to convince herself as much as me. She looked even more forlorn as she continued, “Finding Netta a proper husband may prove more difficult. She is so shy and awkward. But Mr. Hackersmith has expressed an admiration for her.”

  “Hackersmith! The frap merchant?”

  “Ella!” My stepmother regarded me reproachfully. “My dear, what have I told you about using that vulgarity? Mr. Hackersmith owns the manufactory that refines the…er…waste products of the mating mountain elks. As such he is a man of wealth and position and Netta would certainly never want for fuel to stoke her hearth. You know how your sister gets cold so much easier than the rest of us.”

  “But Hackersmith must be at least thirty years older than Netta and he always smells like fr— like mountain elk droppings.”

  “I agree he is not an ideal candidate. Perhaps we can think of someone else.” Imelda emitted another deep sigh. “And then of course there is you.”

  I stiffened, dreading to hear whom Imelda might have settled upon as my prospective spouse.

  She fidgeted with her spoon. Not looking at me, she said, “Commander Crushington has become very fond of you.”

  I gaped at her. “You know about that?”

  “My dear Ella, everyone in Midtown knows about that.”

  Everyone but me apparently. Ever since the day that Crushington had confessed he “really liked” me, I had been doing my best to avoid the man. I was dismayed when my stepmother added, “I met the commander on my way home and he inquired after you so civilly I—I—” Imelda stole a nervous look at me. “I invited him to call upon us.”

  I sank down into the chair opposite her, groaning. “Oh, Em, you didn’t.”

  “The commander does appear to be a very stern man. I confess I find him a little alarming, but you have always been so much braver than the rest of us. Even such a grim husband would be better than you running off to marry that horrid young man. You cannot know how much I have worried that you will do that.”

  “You need not be. I have not seen Harper for years. I have no idea—”

  “Not the bard,” Imelda interrupted. “I am talking about that Hawkridge villain.”

  If Mal despised my stepmother, the feeling was more than mutual. Imelda had always regarded Mal as a hobgoblin’s spawn. She considered him an evil influence on me. The day the Hawkridge family moved to Misty Bottoms, I believe Imelda performed a little jig in the garden and my stepmother never indulged in such undignified displays.

  It distressed me that two people I cared about so much should regard each other with such loathing. But trying to defend one to the other was nothing but a waste of my breath. Instead I reassured my stepmother, “You know I would never run off and wed Mal. We are just good friends, that is all.”

  “So you always insist, my dear.” The look Imelda directed at me was skeptical.

  “I insist because it is true. I daresay I will never marry anyone. I will likely end up as one of those eccentric old women who live alone and keep a dozen cats.”

  “I fear that even more than you marrying that horrible Malcolm. Such a great waste of all your wit and beauty.” Imelda’s eyes filled with tears again.

  I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I was only teasing. I don’t even particularly like cats.”

  “I know.” Imelda blinked back her tears. “It is just that—oh, Ella, I had such dreams, such hopes for you girls. If only we could go to that ball. You cannot imagine how wonderful it would be. After all these years, I still remember my first tim
e attending a royal ball.”

  “I am sure you must have been the most beautiful girl there, Em.”

  My stepmother’s lips curved in a misty smile. “I do not know about that, but I managed to turn a few heads. I still recall the gown I wore. It was the loveliest confection of white satin and pink ribbons and lace. The great hall of the castle was ablaze with hundreds of candles, the air perfumed with the flower garlands that decorated the arches. And the music! All those violins and silver horns and harps. My Netta would be in ecstasies.”

  “I am sure she would,” I murmured. “But there is no sense even thinking of—”

  “My heart was beating so hard,” Imelda continued, pressing her hand to her bosom. “You cannot fancy how nervous I was when I was announced. After all, I was only the daughter of a mere knight. Among such a brilliant assemblage, I dreaded that I might be ignored and become one of those maidens left languishing for a dance partner. But no sooner had I descended the grand stair than I found myself surrounded by so many handsome young men clamoring to be the first to lead me onto the floor.”

  Lost in her memories of long ago, Imelda closed her eyes, a dreamy expression on her face. “Every young girl should have one night like that, to feel beautiful and admired, her entire future shining before her with so many magic possibilities.”

  Imelda opened her eyes. She did not weep again, but there was such a depth of sadness in them. “That is all I have ever wanted for my daughters. Especially you, Ella.”

  “Why me in particular?”

  “Because you need it so badly. I have noticed the changes in you over these past years and it hurts my heart.”

  “I am not as sweet as I used to be?” I jested, trying to lighten her mood.

  “You were never sweet, but you were so bright and lively. And you believed in dreams, Ella. You believed in love. I wish I could give that back to you.”

  “I don’t want such delusions back. Far better that I learned to think with my head instead of my heart.”

  “Is it?” Imelda asked forlornly. “I suppose I must do likewise, but being practical all the time seems such a dreary prospect. You girls need to be settled in good marriages, but I also long for you to experience that happily forever after love, the kind of wedded bliss that I shared with your father.”

  I tried not to cringe. It always discomfited me when Imelda spoke like this about my father. Besides her unquenchable optimism, my stepmother also possessed the ability to cloak harsh reality beneath the soft mantle of illusion, especially with regard to the past.

  She never mentioned the tragic downfall of her first husband. It was as though Albert Wendover, Esq., never even existed, as though there had never been anyone except my father, the gallant hero who had rescued Imelda and her daughters from poverty and disgrace. She seemed to have entirely forgotten the number of occasions when my father had reduced her to tears.

  Not that he was ever unkind to her. My father treated Imelda with the greatest respect and civility, always addressing her as “madam.” But polite indifference to a loving heart could be as cruel in its own way as harsh words. I could not remember my father ever calling my mother by her first name either. He always referred to her as “my lady,” but never had two words been infused with such tenderness.

  The truth was that my father had never loved anyone as he did my mother. I often wondered how much he had even cared for me. Sometimes I grew impatient with Imelda’s romantic notions, but I could never bring myself to disillusion her. That would have been as cruel as my father’s neglect of her.

  I was relieved when Imelda did not pursue her rose-tinted reminiscences any further.

  “Ah, well,” she said. “It is no good dwelling on the past. We must be sensible and look to the future. All of this practicality is very fatiguing. It has quite given me a headache.”

  “You should go upstairs and have a lie-down.”

  Imelda rose to her feet, rubbing her brow. She cast a guilty look at the bowls, spoons and pans I had set out for baking.

  “I really ought to help you.”

  “No, no,” I said hastily, guiding her toward the door. “You just go take care of yourself.”

  It took a little more persuading, but I shooed her out of the kitchen, much to my relief. Mal had often complained that my stepmother and sisters were lazy creatures, leaving all of the work to me.

  This was more my fault than theirs. When I realized we could no longer afford to keep a maid, Imelda and the girls had been fully prepared to roll up their sleeves and pitch in. Netta was a tad clumsy and had a tendency to break things. Amy whisked through chores leaving half the dust behind or just swept the dirt under the rug. Imelda was so easily distracted; she spent more time chattering to me than working so that neither of us accomplished anything.

  I discovered early on if I wanted a task completed to my satisfaction, it was far easier and quicker if I did it myself. But after my conversation with Imelda, I was not as focused as usual. My stepmother was the third person recently to remark on how sadly I had changed. As much as these comments distressed me, I had to admit the truth of them.

  After that summer when Harper abandoned me and I lost my father, I bade farewell to my girlhood as I assumed the burden of taking charge of my family. My heart broken and laden with guilt over that final quarrel with my father, it was easier to block my feelings and concentrate on maintaining our household.

  I was so focused on surviving day to day, I gave little thought to the future. My discussion with Imelda had jolted me into realizing that I had to think of it, if not for myself, then at least for Netta and Amy.

  Whether I liked to contemplate the prospect or not, my little birds had grown up and were ready to take wing to homes of their own. Yet it pained me to think of them marrying men like the tailor’s son and the frap merchant, merely for the sake of security.

  We could not continue as we had done indefinitely, not with our financial resources dwindling. One of us at least was going to have to marry well and being the practical one, I supposed it should be me. Would it really be such a sacrifice to wed a man like Commander Crushington?

  He was an honorable man who would certainly do his duty by me and my family. But all I could picture was an endless succession of monosyllabic suppers, of him staring at me blankly every time I made a joke. Long evenings of helping him to polish his boots and manacles, trying not to think of the latest unfortunate person he had clapped up in jail for some trivial offense. And what would I ever do if the day came when Crushington arrested Mal? Cosh my own husband over the head and steal his keys?

  No, there had to be someone else out there for me. He would not need to be rich, but astute when it came to managing money, well able to support a family. Someone who would share my sense of humor and pleasure in books, someone who would understand my affection for my stepmother and sisters and come to love them as much as I did. Someone kind and wise, steady and true, someone I could hold in high esteem, perhaps even come to love one day. But considering that most of my ventures out of the house involved trips to the greengrocer’s or the fish market, where was I apt to meet such a man? Over a tank of eels as I selected one for our supper? Highly unlikely.

  If only we could go to the ball…Imelda’s wistful voice echoed through my mind. I tried to shut it out, refusing to allow myself to be swept up in this royal ball insanity, the belief that it could somehow prove the magical solution to everything.

  But once I allowed the idea to take root in my head, I could not stop thinking about it, so much so that I kept losing track of the amount of flour I had sifted into the bowl. After I had measured it out six times, I finally gave up and left off to tackle other chores.

  I could not seem to settle to anything else either, wandering listlessly about the house until I ended up in my room, standing in front of my old dollhouse. I lifted the attic lid and stared down at my treasure box.

  I hesitated for a long time, chewing my bottom lip almost raw, before delving in
to the chest and digging out my mother’s earrings. I cradled the sparkling emeralds in the palm of my hand. I suppose I had always known the day would come when I would have to sell them. They would likely fetch a tidy sum. There were so many practical things I needed to spend that money on. Could I really sacrifice such a treasured possession in pursuit of a dream, a wild gamble on one night?

  Every young girl should have one night like that, to feel beautiful and admired, her entire future shining before her with so many magic possibilities.

  I blocked out the memory of Imelda’s voice, trying to think of what my own mother would have advised me to do. I could no longer recall how ill and wasted she had looked on her deathbed, perhaps because I did not choose to remember her that way. But my mother’s last words came to me now with a startling clarity.

  Look after your papa, my little Ella. He will need your love more than ever. And promise me you will never lose your belief in magic.

  I promise, Mama, I had intoned solemnly.

  I had not kept the first part of my pledge, but perhaps there was still time to redeem the second. I clutched the emeralds tight in my hand, fretting over the decision for moments longer. Then I bundled them up in a handkerchief and hurried to fetch my shawl before I had a chance to change my mind.

  Chapter 6

  Mal had often warned me to stay out of Misty Bottoms on days when the fog rolled in. But I was in such haste to reach Master Fugitate’s shop before I lost my resolve that I paid little heed to the fingers of mist curling about me. Not until those fingers thickened into a suffocating embrace.

  I halted in mid-step, groping my way. I tried to peer through the haze to regain my bearings. The fog had grown so heavy that if I stretched my arm too far in front of me, I could barely see my own hand. I thought of turning back, but I had as good a chance of becoming lost in the twisted lanes behind me as I did if I continued onward toward the river. Besides, it had taken a great deal of determination to get me this far. If I slunk back home, I feared I would change my mind and lock my mother’s earrings back in the chest.