Disenchanted

by Susan Carroll

  With the excitement over, I shepherded my sisters back toward the house. As I closed the garden gate, I was dismayed to notice Amy’s eyes shimmering with tears.

  “What is the matter, Amy?” I asked. “I hope I did not hurt your feelings when I prevented you from swooning. Truly, my dear, you would not want to attract the prince’s attention in such a foolish way. All those other girls did was make themselves appear ridiculous.”

  “I will never be able to attract the attention of the prince or any man so magnificent.” Tears trickled down my sister’s cheeks. “B-because I am so fat!”

  “Amy,” I groaned.

  Netta also began to cry. “At least you can work on becoming slimmer. There is nothing I can do about my height. I am as tall as Ella’s wretched weed.”

  “I can’t get any slimmer,” Amy wailed. “I have tried so h-hard, but—but I like food too much.”

  “And I can never shrink,” Netta sobbed.

  “Oh, my dears.” I spread my arms wide and gathered both of them to me. With a sister weeping on each shoulder, I understood how the prince must have felt when he had been beleaguered by the swooning Misses Hanson.

  Imelda was a loving mother, but in her zeal for the success of her daughters, she had no idea how damaging her criticisms could be. I wracked my brain for words of wisdom and comfort.

  “No girl is ever satisfied with her reflection when she regards herself in the mirror,” I said. “I believe it is a failing of our sex that we always search for flaws and are sure to find them because no woman is perfect.”

  “You are, Ella,” Netta sniffed.

  “Yes, p-perfectly beautiful,” Amy added.

  “No, I am not. My feet are too large and apparently my attitude requires adjusting, along with my smile.” I squinted my eyes and twisted my mouth into a horrible grimace that elicited reluctant chuckles from both of them. As usual, I did not have a handkerchief on me. Using the hem of my apron to dry their tears, I continued, “My friend Mal says that a woman’s true power lies not in the perfection of her features, but in her confidence, how much she believes in herself.”

  “Yes, that is what he told me as well,” Netta confided shyly. “He said a real man would not be in the least troubled if his lady was a bit taller than him.”

  Amy nodded. “And Mal told me that men greatly prefer women who are as buxom as me.”

  “Truly?” I stared at my sisters in astonishment. “When did Mal tell you all of this?”

  “Two days ago, the last time he came to call,” Amy said. “The day he brought us the chocolates and Mama said I should not have any.” Her lips tipped in a sheepish smile. “When Mama wasn’t looking, Mal swiped a chocolate out of the box and popped it into my mouth.”

  Amy giggled. “Mal whispered in my ear that surreptitious chocolates are not as fattening as the regular kind.”

  I laughed as well. Since the day he had brought the ball tickets, Mal had been coming to call upon my family almost every day, mostly to snatch time alone with me to further our plans for stealing the orb. One afternoon he had needed to take my measurements for the ball gown. Em would simply die if she knew that. She would be even more outraged to learn Mal had been feeding Amy chocolates and complimenting her on the size of her bosom.

  I was pleased to discover Mal had been kind to Amy and Netta. Indeed, when we had last parted, Mal had conceded, Maybe the silly stepsisters are not as bad as I thought. At least the younger one appears to have some spirit.

  “You may certainly trust Mal’s opinions,” I told my sisters. “I believe he has had more than a bit of experience with women. Now we have wasted enough of the morning gawking at the prince and being lachrymose. Time to return to plying our needles. Those ball gowns are not going to sew themselves.”

  Both of my sisters groaned.

  “I wish they would,” Amy said. “I wish we could enchant Pookie and Pippa to do the sewing for us.”

  “Or perhaps some obliging field mice,” Netta suggested. “They would be so clever at it with their little paws.”

  I joined in their laughter at the picture that created. Their spirits restored, my sisters returned to the house. I started to follow them when someone cried out, “Hey! You there! Lady!”

  Looking about for the source of the sharp little voice, I spied an urchin hovering outside of the garden gate. When I regarded him with puzzlement, he beckoned to me imperiously. “Yes, you, the lady with the yaller hair. C’mere.”

  I approached him cautiously. He was a grubby lad with a thatch of unruly brown hair tumbling into his eyes. His scrawny arms and legs jutted out from his coarse woolen garb. I could not gauge his age, perhaps nine or ten, judging from his size. Yet there seemed something much older about the shrewd eyes that peered at me through his thicket of hair.

  A beggar, I thought with a pang. I stole an anxious glance up and down the lane, fearful of what could happen to this boy if he were caught. He and his entire family, if he had one, would be exiled, driven into the wild fenlands across the Conger River.

  Leaning over the gate, I whispered, “It would be better if you sneak around back by the kitchen door. I’ll be able to slip you some bread and a little coin with no one the wiser.”

  The boy reared back on his heels, glaring at me. “Eh? What you take me for? I’m no beggar. I’m a man of means with reg’lar employment.”

  He puffed out his thin chest. “Just so happens, I’m the trustiest deliverer you can find in all the Misty Bottoms and the Midtown if it comes to that. My service is in great demand and I am well renum—renum—paid for it.”

  “I do beg your pardon,” I said, biting back a smile. “What do you deliver?”

  “You hafta answer my question first.” He swept back his hair to peer at me more closely. “Be you Miss Ella Upton?”

  “Yes.”

  “You swear to that? If you be lying, may the fairies curse you and goblins eat your liver.”

  “Indeed, I am Ella Upton.”

  “You hafta swear.”

  I sighed and held up my right hand. “I do hereby swear and affirm that I am Ella Upton. If I am lying, may the fairies cover me in boils and goblins cook my liver. Satisfied?”

  He stared at me fiercely for another moment before nodding. “Then this be for you,” he said, producing a small brown paper–wrapped parcel from beneath his tunic.

  I blinked in surprise as he handed it to me. “What is this?”

  The boy rolled his eyes. “Well, it’s a package, innit?”

  “I can see that. But where did it come from? Who sent it?”

  “Can’t tell you that. My only ’structions were to deliver the box.”

  “But who instructed you?”

  “Nope. I’m mum.” The boy motioned with his fingers as though sewing his lips closed. “I get paid extra for my ’scretion. Now if you’ll ’scuse me, I got other ’portant affairs to tend.”

  He made a quaint bow and then tore off running back down the lane. I stared after in bemusement before turning my attention to the parcel. I peeled away the paper wrapping to reveal a small, plain wooden box. When I lifted the lid, my breath caught in my throat. There, nestled against the silk lining, were my mother’s emeralds.

  Recovering from my shock, I bolted out the garden gate, hoping to summon the pert lad back and oblige him to answer my questions. The urchin had already vanished down the lane. Upon reflection, I decided it did not matter. There was only one person who would have employed such a messenger and returned my earrings in this anonymous fashion. Mal.

  He would have been well aware if he had proposed buying the earrings from Withypole, my pride would have prevented me from accepting his offer. I worried about how much coin and effort he’d had to spend to redeem the emeralds. It could not have been easy or cheap to persuade the fairy to surrender the “twinkles” he had so obviously coveted.

  I would have ordered Mal not to do it, but I was so grateful that he had. Deeply moved by his gesture, my eyes filled with tear
s. The man was a complete rogue, but how I did love him. Malcolm Hawkridge was truly the best friend a woman could ever have. As I wended my way back to the house, clutching my precious parcel, for the first time, I allowed myself to wonder.

  Was it possible for friendship to develop into something warmer?

  After all the excitement of the morning, I had difficulty getting Amy and Netta to settle down to the task of working on the gowns. Neither of my sisters was fond of sewing. Netta could set a neat enough stitch, but Amy was so restless and inattentive that her seams frequently had to be picked out and redone.

  As a girl, I had never had much patience for needlework either, but necessity had obliged me to master the art. Making clothes for my family had turned me into an accomplished seamstress and now I rather enjoyed the task.

  At least I did when I was allowed to stitch in peace and quiet, absorbed by my thoughts as my needle dove in and out of the fabric in a soothing repetitious rhythm. Alas, such was not the case with all four of us crowded into the parlor. Imelda had returned from a morning visit to Madam Dearling, the woman’s previous unkindness forgotten. My stepmother tended to forgive easily so the two were fast friends again. Consequently, Em was full of the latest gossip and my sisters no less eager to discuss the prince’s morning ride.

  All the chatter and the state of the parlor rather grated on my nerves. I preferred to work in a tidy, organized space and our sitting room was a total disaster, sewing boxes, scissors, stray spools of thread and bits of fabric scattered everywhere. Netta’s green silk and Imelda’s mauve brocade were still in pieces, the garments slowly taking shape. Amy’s pink gown was nearly done, or it would have been if I had not had to pick out her gnarled stitches from the hemline.

  The conversation shifted from the prince to his brothers. I only half paid attention as I struggled to pick out the knots without damaging the delicate silk.

  “Florence Bafton says the reason that Prince Florian’s brothers never visit Midtown is because they are far too snobbish,” Amy said. While waiting for me to undo the mess she had made, she played annoying games with thimbles, clacking them together on her fingers.

  “I do hope not,” Imelda replied. “I remember them as being such sweet little boys, well except for the twins who could be a bit naughty.”

  “I have heard that the next oldest brother, Kendrick, is very sweet and charming,” Netta said. “Never disagreeing with anyone, never cross, always smiling.”

  “That could get really tedious,” I grumbled as a stubborn knot refused to yield. The silk was fraying from my efforts. Likely, the entire hem would have to come out and be redone. I hunted for my scissors and discovered Amy had appropriated them again. As I retrieved my shears, I plucked the thimbles from her fingers and dropped them back in the sewing basket. In too good of a humor to pout, she playfully thrust her tongue out at me.

  “I was told that the twins, Dall and Dashiel, are the charming ones,” Amy said. “Full of fun and mischief. They like to fool people by pretending to be each other.”

  “Surely they are too old for such childish pranks,” I said as I resumed my seat.

  Amy continued, “And then there is Prince Ryland who is reputed to be so brave, going on quests and slaying dragons.”

  “What did some poor dragon ever do to him?” I muttered.

  “Ella!”

  I looked up from threading my needle to find my stepmother frowning at me.

  “Attitude, my dear,” Imelda reminded me gently.

  I pasted a simpering smile on my face, which caused Amy and Netta to giggle and Imelda to heave a long-suffering sigh. As the conversation resumed, I tried to listen without offering acid remarks.

  Conspiring with Mal had caused me to forget the true purpose of the ball. Like my sisters, I would be expected to look over the field of men in search of a future husband, a prospect I found more daunting than the theft of the orb.

  Imelda had gone off into rhapsodies again, assuring us all what a magical night the ball would be, when a knock sounded at the front door.

  “I’ll get it,” Amy cried, leaping up with such alacrity, she knocked over her sewing basket. Glad of any diversion that would get her away from the needlework, she rushed from the parlor before my stepmother could protest.

  While Netta and I righted Amy’s basket and set about gathering up pin cushions, thimbles and stray spools of thread, Imelda fretted. “Oh dear! I do hope that is not your friend Mr. Hawkridge calling again with more gifts of chocolates.”

  Despite his gift of the tickets, Imelda remained uneasy about Mal, and we had had quite a heated discussion about the propriety of him providing me with a gown. Mal had insisted it was nothing, merely an early birthday gift for an old friend. According to Imelda, proper gentlemen did not give young ladies anything as intimate as clothing, no matter how long they had been acquainted.

  That is why I had said nothing about the return of my mother’s earrings. Imelda would be delighted that I had them back, but she would be distressed to learn that Mal had been lavishing more money on me.

  Netta spoke up timidly. “But, Mama, we all enjoy Mr. Hawkridge’s visits. He is so kind and amusing and I am sure we should all be grateful enough to welcome him at any time.”

  “So I am,” Imelda replied. “I concede that he is vastly entertaining. But the sad truth is, my dears,” she added with a pointed look at me, “no matter how charming, rogues do not make good husbands.”

  “How fortunate it is then, that none of us are planning to marry him,” I said as I returned to my chair and resumed my work on the hem.

  Imelda said nothing, merely regarding me with a sorrowful skepticism. I wished I could have told her that the reason for Mal’s frequent visits had far more to do with plotting larceny than romance, but I doubted that would have afforded Em much comfort either.

  Amy returned, looking flushed, her eyes dancing with suppressed merriment. Before she could speak, Imelda said, “If that is Mr. Hawkridge, dear, you must inform him that we are far too occupied—”

  “It is not Mal. It is another gentleman come to call upon Ella.” Amy giggled. “Commander Crushington.”

  I was so startled, I jabbed myself with the needle. Beyond the parlor door, I could see the tall shadow of Horatio Crushington looming in the vestibule. For one panicked moment, I thought, He knows. Somehow the commander had found out what Mal and I were plotting and he had come to arrest me. I calmed myself, remembering that I had given the commander permission to call. I had been so occupied with preparations for the ball, the invitation had completely slipped my mind.

  Imelda sprang to her feet with a dismayed glance at the parlor’s disorder. I leapt up as well, feeling equally flustered and conscious of my own disarray. I was wearing one of my oldest frocks, my hair scooped back from my face by a scarf knotted around my head.

  I had an urge to fly to the nearest mirror, yank off the scarf and attempt to finger-comb my unruly tresses. I brought myself up short. Since when have I ever fussed over my appearance? Not since the days I used to steal away for trysts with Harper.

  Amy grinned. “Shall I show the commander in?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “No!” Imelda exclaimed. “Oh, what is that man doing here?”

  “I invited him to take tea with us some afternoon,” I said.

  “Why ever did you do that, Ella?”

  I regarded my stepmother indignantly. “It was you who first invited him, when you suggested the commander to me as a possible suitor, remember?”

  “But that was before—before—”

  “Before we had tickets to the ball and now you no longer think the commander good enough? For shame, Em!”

  Imelda reddened. “It is true that I hope you will have better prospects, but that is not my only reason. The commander harbors a dreadful secret. Matilda Dearling warned me only this morning.” My stepmother clasped her hands together and announced dramatically, “Commander Crushington is a foundling.”

>   My sisters gasped and even I was momentarily taken aback. It was considered enough of a stigma to be born out of wedlock, but it was far worse to have absolutely no idea of one’s parentage. Any woman desperate enough to abandon her infant along the roadside must have done something truly wicked like mating with a monster or other nonhuman creature. According to popular belief, such a child would inherit their sire’s evil tendencies.

  Netta dropped her voice to an excited whisper. “Commander Crushington is a foundling? Who would have thought it?”

  “He is a very large and alarming man,” Amy said. “Perhaps he has a drop of goblin or bad fairy blood in him.”

  “Madam Dearling thinks he could be part ogre,” Imelda added in a hushed tone.

  “Nonsense,” I said. “Why do you listen to that nasty woman, Em? If anyone has hobgoblin blood, it is probably her. I happen to know that the commander has parents. I have heard him speak of them.”

  “Then where are his mother and father? Why has no one in Midtown ever met them?” Imelda asked.

  “Most likely because they live elsewhere. There are other more distant parts of this kingdom. Besides you know that most foundlings are doomed to labor in the silver mines. One would never be given such a prestigious appointment as commander of the Midtown garrison.”

  Imelda frowned. “I had not thought of that.”

  My sisters heaved disappointed sighs. They had clearly been intrigued by the idea that Crushington might be part ogre. As for Imelda, she still looked unconvinced that he was not. One of these days, I thought, I am going to strangle that Dearling woman.

  “Are we going to leave the poor man waiting in the hall forever?” I demanded irritably. “Amy, please show the commander into the parlor.”

  My stepmother made no further protest, but she appeared quite uneasy. As Amy left to fetch Crushington, Netta and I scrambled to clear away some of the sewing debris. I had just retrieved a pin cushion from beneath the settee when Amy returned with the commander in tow.