Oh, how Cinderella would love to run out the door and demand Prince to try the slipper on her own dainty foot. The urge was most overwhelming. But fear held her back. That, and Stepmamá’s violent temper. It could prove a deadly, foolish mistake.
Cinderella let out a soft breath of relief and settled her gaze toward Esmeralda. Prince bestowed the same ritual, slipping off her one shoe to replace it with the glass one.
Awe turned to dreaded astonishment, then stunned horror when the slipper slid on with surprising ease.
Cinderella choked on a gasp and fled from her veiled place at the window.
*****
Prince felt a surge of panic when the slipper in his hand glided neatly onto the foot he still held. He could not be certain, but like unmelting snow in the highest of mountains, he froze. With a mental shake he cast a cautious glance to the face belonging to said foot. Conscious of efforts that would otherwise allow his mouth to hit the ground he steeled himself to meet the eyes of this new and unexpected affianced. The color was quite impossible to discern with such furious blinking. Bright copper curls blew in a brisk breeze that were not all that unattractive. It’s just that they were not deep rich mahogany.
In sharp sudden precognition he realized this is what he been bred for. That nineteen years of self-possession, impassive expressions and reinforce tactful negotiations were imperative when one wrestled with a terror building so deep within one’s chest, one might expire on the spot. “It appears to be a fit,” he said, not at all surprised at the composure he was able to project.
“Well, of course it fits!” The hideous mother said, benevolently.
Sainthood. After this disastrous journey, he’d surely qualify for sainthood.
“Do quit batting your eyes, Esmeralda. You could stir up the soil,” her mother snapped.
Just beyond her shoulder Prince caught sight of a slight movement of cheery red and white curtains at the window.
Amazing. Her eyes did seem to create a wind. It took every ounce of concentration to fix an impassive gaze on his new betrothed, Egeld…Este…well, her name escaped him at the moment—to contemplate the situation at hand. A sense of dread settled over him along with a picture of his mamán’s pained expression leaping through his mind.
He was not a religious man, by any means, but divine intervention would not be amiss in this moment.
*****
Cinderella, fist at her mouth, darted from the window gasping for air. She should have heeded Stepmamá’s direction for the basement as she’d been commanded. How could it have not occurred to her that Esmeralda’s foot would fit her slipper? The pain in her chest threatened to slay her. Could one die of a broken heart? When Papá passed gently from this world to the next, Stepmamá had confiscated all of her belongings.
Even on the rare occasion when Cinderella found herself lucky enough allowed to her own devices, did she not steal into Esmeralda’s closet to try on her shoes? Both Esmeralda and Pricilla had lovely slippers. Esmeralda’s fit Cinderella perfectly. Her gaze swept the darkness in a terrifying panic. Who was she to turn to for help? It was not possible to confront them now. Her shoe fit Esmeralda. Deflated, she realized, there was no one.
Frustrated tears spilled forth in defeat. Should even Fairy Godmother be willing to help, why should she? Cinderella berated herself. She was the ninny that slipped out of the blasted shoe in the first place. She paced the dingy basement floor unable to stem the flowing river of tears. It was all so hopeless.
She spun from the bottom of the stairway to retrace her steps dashing a hand across her face. Her little friend in the corner squeaked in sympathy.
“What am I to do?” she beseeched of him.
He only shook his head in forlorn compassion.
She gave him a watery smile. “Merci beaucoup,” she sniffed. “I suppose I deserve my lot in life. My deceit has caught me cold. ”
Seconds later a tingling whisper wafted through the shadows, bits of glitter giving off a candlelight glow. Suddenly, the dark basement shimmered in a shower of sparkles that swirled upward in agonizing slow moving motion.
A gown of the softest pastel pink chiffon shifted into focus like an artist drawing from a blank page. Soon, the gentle face of an angel appeared before her, tapping one foot in all of impatience. She snapped a shiny stick toward an old black kettle in the corner, whipping it into a high-backed padded chair fit for…well, a Fairy Godmother, of course.
“Hello, dear.”
Her voice held little sympathy, Cinderella could not help but note.
Fairy Godmother swung round, and all but plunked into the chair like a sullen child. Her silver stick clattered to the floor. With an irritated huff, she snatched it up. She brushed small elegant hands over her skirts before meeting Cinderella’s gaze. She shook her head with a sad smile and soft sigh.
The dejected sound filled Cinderella with so much frustration and despair; she sagged to the floor in self-acknowledged failure. “I vow, I know not how this happened. I…I suppose when the tower clock struck twelve I tempted fate one step too far. I was overly enthralled, you see.” Then defended quickly, “But I ran as fast as I could.” All was lost. She could see it in Fairy Godmother’s unsympathetic eyes. Cinderella dropped her head, and confessed, “I lost my shoe.”
“Oui, I know, dear,” Fairy Godmother said, her voice much more gentle than Cinderella knew she deserved. That gentle tone proved her undoing, and she burst into uncontrollable tears.
“It ne’er occurred to me Esmeralda’s foot should fit my slipper.” She hiccupped. “He never saw her face. I’m his mysterious princess. What am I to do?” she wailed. Unable to hold back any longer, anguished tears poured rivulets down her cheeks.
It was all somewhat dramatic but she was past the effort of constraint.
“Cinderella, my sweeting, this is more than just about you.” Fairy Godmother said this kindly.
Cinderella blinked, puzzled. “Pardonnez-moi, what do you mean?”
“Hmm. How shall I say this?”
Cinderella flinched under her piercing gaze, one that sent tingles racing up her spine. “Well, dear. I have been chatting with the queen.”
Confusion wrapped Cinderella in a thick cocoon while Fairy Godmother continued a matter-of-fact…tirade. “Frankly, my dear, she is thoroughly appalled by her son’s lack of imagination in pursuit of his…ahem…mysterious princess.”
“But…but, he does not have to be,” Cinderella assured her quickly, rising on her knees, poking herself in the chest with her thumb. “I am her. I am his mysterious princess.” Hope filled her.
“I know you are, ma chére.”
“So, all will be well?” Relief assailed her, and Cinderella bestowed Fairy Godmother with her brightest smile. But it faded just as quickly as Fairy Godmother appeared to have not heard or seen her.
With continued reasoning, or what Cinderella could only assume as reason, Fairy Godmother pressed on. “Honestly, I can certainly understand the queen’s disconcertment. What had he hoped to expect when he took that slipper to try on every maiden in the kingdom, hmm?” The premonition that stole over Cinderella did not bode well.
Fairy Godmother’s exasperation surprised Cinderella into silence leaving her suddenly bereft of coherent words. Fear mingled with something she could not define. And, though Fairy Godmother proceeded in her bizarre ramblings, she seemed to be speaking more to herself.
“Did he truthfully believe only one person in all the land should wear a shoe that size?” Irritation colored Fairy Godmother’s features, her impatience now reigning full force. “How the human race has survived as long as it had with such lack witted intelligence in charge is quite beyond my comprehension.”
Cinderella’s mouth gaped open. She was too stunned to speak.
Fairy Godmother pinned her with a sharp gaze. “The queen would like my, um, cooperation,” she said.
“I…I beg your…your pardon?” Fear had her words choking out on a whisper.
; “As much as it pains me to put you through this, dear, I do believe the larger picture takes precedence.” Fairy Godmother stood then, and a certain panic soared through Cinderella. “I’ve agreed to help her out.” She lifted Cinderella’s face by the chin, nodded sharply once, then dissipated along with her chair, leaving the black kettle in its wake. Dust and all. The stick clattered to the floor once more in her hasty departure. It rolled to a complete stop at Cinderella’s feet. She stared at it in a stunned silence, but only for the beat of a second.
“Fairy Godmother, arrêter. Wait. Don’t go,” Cinderella called out, any pretense of control deserting her. To her immense relief sparkles filled the air as Fairy Godmother reappeared. "Oh, thank goodness, Fairy Godmother, you’ve come back."
Only a quick smile, before she snatched up her silver baton. "This thing! 'Tis nothing but a nuisance, I vow," she muttered and melted away once more.
“But…but” Cinderella’s voice trailed in stunned disbelief. She longed to scream out her frustration. In her heart she knew Fairy Godmother would not be returning. Tears filled her eyes as she cast a forlorn gaze about the room. Free of shimmers, glitters, or any other sign of her graceful presence. Helpless despair settled over her as she scanned the room for any obvious evidence. Marcel sat perched in the corner. She could be thankful that at he’d been spared.
Cinderella sniffed back her tears and mustered up a weak smile at his encouraging peep and wondered what was to become of her now.
*****
Almost forgetting the matron of the little group, Prince spun round. He clicked his heels together and bowed over the swollen appendage of his future mother-in-law’s hand in a grand gesture that only a charming prince could maneuver. At the very least he knew his strengths.
“Please make ready by the end of a fortnight, Madám. A carriage shall be conveyed to transport your family at that time.”
When she inclined her head in acquiescence, he kissed the air above his newly betrothed’s hand, slightly in awe of the breeze that touched his brow. “Until later, my lady.”
Odd, how those eyes flurried in anticipation, or could it be apprehension? Is this what his life was to become? Married to a…a woman who…he had to pull himself together. There had to be a way round this development. No matter that he was the culprit that set the disaster in motion. His own worst enemy.
He mounted his horse. A great, brute of a stallion, something a man could take pride in.
The frightening mother cast her daughter one final look of exasperation and rolled her eyes. She somehow remembered protocol in her deep curtsy, prodding her daughters to do the same. Prince managed to hold back a groan. He was appalled. At himself, no less.
He raised a hand in farewell. Somehow he and Arnald would claw their way from this scrape. They always had before. Surely, they could once more.
With a quick nod, he signaled the Royal party to follow. Once they’d made distance he shook his head, numbed by the turn of events.
A sharp gust of wind burst out of nowhere, making him unable to resist one last glance behind. He watched the mother’s robust figure disappear into the cottage, the blonde with the over-large feet following with her nose in the air. Even from this reach he could see her back stiff and fuming with resentment.
The stunning outcome of the events had him on the verge of hysterical laughter. It would not do, however, to terrify his party. The state of bewilderment had Prince turning to the entourage, and citing calmly—because that is how one’s leader was expected to carry oneself, “Well, I believe we have accomplished our search.” He would never know how he contrived to not strangulate on the words.
He motioned to the footmen and trumpet player to lead on, but narrowed his eyes on his right hand man. Who swiped a suspicious smirk from his face, not quickly enough, however. “Do you find something amusing, cousin?”
“Oh, oui, cousin. I believe I find thought of the next few weeks highly entertaining.”
He cast Arnald a scowl. Mayhap, he would seek help elsewhere.
*****
At a loss to what appeared a completely hopeless situation, Prince guided his men through to the courtyard stables and pitched the reins to a waiting groom.
It wasn’t her. Where was his mysterious princess? He’d searched everywhere. ’Twas as if she’d vanished into thin air. And what was he to do now? He could not conceivably marry Elspeth. Non, non, that was not right. Erasma.
And, those eyes. Mon…Dieu! Determining the color? Impossible when they hammered like a thousand horses in an Indian desert in the midst of a dry spell. Nor could he remember the color of her hair, her dress, so distracted was he by the wild and out-of-control flapping of her lashes. Another hysterical urge to laugh almost escaped. It was an obvious sore point with her mother. He shook his head to clear the picture of Erlinda, and growled in frustration.
So intent he’d been on his one focused goal that when the petite and surprisingly elegant foot slid right into that blasted tiny slipper—well, it was clear he had not thought the idea through with any sort of clarity. He needed advice and he needed it now. From anyone but his blasted cousin.
Papá? Possibly, he thought frowning. But even at his best, Papá was somewhat simple minded. He would have to do. He had not much choice. Abruptly dismissing the footmen, he stormed the castle and aimed a determined stride for the library.
A roaring fire blazed in the enormous hearth that gave the room warmth despite the high-reaching, frescoed ceiling and large windows. Heavy mahogany bookcases overflowing with books covered two walls from top to bottom. Freshly waxed wood scented the chamber. Prince had loved this room as a child, partially due to the heat it provided in this monstrosity of a castle.
He spied his father slumped in an overstuffed gilded chair, feet propped on a matching ottoman. Reading spectacles sat askew his large nose with one hand resting over his chest. The picture was complete by the massive book that lay open across his lap. His loud snore ruffled the pages.
Always a jolly fellow, Papá had a zeal for laughter that would explode through the castle walls when the slightest humor took his fancy. “Sir?”
Nothing. This truly was not in the realm of his dear papá’s strengths, more the pity, Prince thought, as he considered the sight of his slumberous father. He pushed a hand through his wind-ruffed hair. As life would have it, and age carried Papá along, his mind did tend to wander about with an absent-minded childlike excitement, endearing in its way, at the small things life had to offer. Unfortunately, the decision became plain. He must seek assistance elsewhere.
Mamán.
Yes, she, a paragon of virtue. A very wise woman, indeed. She would counsel him; She was quite clever in her way. In most times, wanted or not, she was a fountain of advice. Oui. Now that he had a clear direction, a reasonable tranquility settled over him. He could feel the blood in his veins slow to a more acceptable level. Could feel the panic subside. He let out a steady breath.
“Have you seen Mamán,” he thundered, causing his snoozing father a violent start to attention. Prince winced. It was a very childish act, and he mumbled a hasty “sorry, Papá.”
“Ahhhhh,” Papá stammered. His booming voice filled the room even in the throes of half sleep, drawing a tender smile from Prince. “Non, non, son. As you can see I chose to pass the time reading.”
“Oui, Papá,” he agreed, unable to disguise a twitch of sudden amusement. His problem with…ah…he struggled for a moment, Efrata, took temporary leave as he studied his father’s rumpled shirt and relaxed position.
“Papá?”
“Yes, well.” Papá cleared his throat noisily, readjusted his glasses and said, “She is out.”
Prince let out a resigned sigh at the less than rewarding exchange and made his excuses for escape.
Chapter 4
Thomasine’s repetitive steps were designed to stem an impatience that would stun the masses. Reigning queens did not pace in deserted chambers that were designed to stay young brid
es from escaping binding marriage contracts they’d had no say in. Hence, the strategically placed windows near the top of the walls edging an unreachable ceiling. One could only imagine the spectacular view hearing the harsh waters crash against jagged cliffs. The only way out was to fly, if one could squeeze through the small opening, that is.
Stone walls and hard floors echoed with her steps soundly against the cold surfaces, even in her light slippers. This portion of the castle had been uninhabited for years. It created the ideal location to meet “Fairy Godmother.” Certainly her son could not possibly think to find her here. At times, that boy seemed as clueless as his father, she scowled. It had taken clever maneuvering to find a locale where some overly helpful servant or maid did not lurk ready to announce her whereabouts.
On her fifteenth or twentieth turn about the room, a ringlet of shining ripples wafted from the dusty floors, revealing the presence of an angel in pink. Angel, her foot.
“I’m worried for him,” Thomasine declared.
“Ma chére,” she tsk’d, tsk’d. “You said yourself this task should be carried to fruition; otherwise, the dear boy should never learn to concoct a thought of his own. I would remind you that this entire scheme lies directly at your feet.”
“Oh, what difference would it make, Faustine?” Thomasine sniffed with distaste. “Let him find a woman who is able think for him as I have for Osmond all these years.” She punctuated it with, “You can see from my own example it has not hurt a thing.”
“Please refrain from calling me that obscene name. You know how I detest it,” Faustine chastised.
“Well, ’tis your given name, is it not, sister? It means the highest of luck. And what I need now is luck.”
Faustine scrutinized her twin. They had the same dark curling hair, flashing blue eyes and upturned noses. The only difference in the moment was Thomasine's defensive posture, stern expression, and clenched fists. And, well, Thomasine's magnificent dress compared to her own frothy pink tulle-gown. The diamonds sewn throughout were an especially nice touch.
The Wronged Princess - Book I Page 3
