With the calm resolve of nobility, he turned his attention to the woman he could hardly put from his mind—Ersilia’s mother. A face worthy of nightmares. Her features could only be described as robust, topped with an undercurrent of permanent dull flush, her body, broad and intimidating. Prince pulled himself to his full height of over six feet and bestowed her his most congenial, and princely, smile.
“Madám,” he murmured, lifting her clammy hand to his lips. He moved off swiftly to the two younger women. They were not near as frightening. But for the life of him, only Elverdine’s name sprang to mind, so unlike him. His mother taking a surprise pity on him, said, “You remember Pricilla, dear?”
The young woman before him had flaxen hair, almost white in its blond, piled high in elegant curls atop her head. Her evening gown, a pastel yellow billowed over full petticoats was trimmed in white lace. Full and fashionable, though the bodice seemed cut somewhat lower than necessary. Not that he didn’t appreciate the sight, he was a man, after all. Her manner appeared quite direct; gray eyes…almost…accusatory, met his full on.
Her lips stretched into a thin smile, giving her a surly appearance. Once again, the word angry popped in his head.
“Ah, yes, of course. Pricilla.” He bowed over her outstretched hand. There was a reason he was called Prince Charming—and gave her the benefit of his full, mesmerizing smile, drawing an audible gasp and deep blush to her cheeks. He was very happy the shoe had not fit her.
“And, Esmeralda, darling.”
“Ah, Esmeralda,” he whispered, committing the name to memory. Lowering his lips to a hand that visibly trembled, her eyes bat so furiously he feared she would take off in flight. The current in the air was amazing.
“Dinner is served.” The perfectly timed announcement resounded.
*****
Outrageous.
Cinderella stomped her foot in frustration. How could Stepmamá pass her off as a servant! Because she was the evil stepmamá and this was a blasted fairy tale, she fumed.
Her ugly brown skirt whipped round, vicious in its attack to any unlikely cobwebs as she maneuvered about her elaborate chamber. She wanted to scream. Despite its spaciousness, Cinderella felt as if the walls were closing in. She felt lost in a jungle, all alone and unarmed. She spun, stubbing her toe through thinly made, and worn, slippers on the leg of an overstuffed chair.
In an unusual fit of violence, hopping on one foot, Cinderella swung open the door where it bounced against the wall. She winced, appalled at her lack of manners. She strived for calm through a deep breath then crept forward and peered out with caution.
The hallway loomed large and airy. Daunting. Wide beeswax candles in perched sconces were measured in perfect placement along both sides of the corridor. A soft pleasant scent of linseed oil teased her senses.
Cinderella glanced to her left toward the end of the hallway and saw a window as large as it was tall where she could see dusk had fallen quickly. The moon would be bright in another hour. To the right the hallway wound into the depths of darkness, the silence, ominous.
She felt—forgotten. Tears filled her eyes but she blinked them away. On the bright side, the solitude offered a reprieve from Stepmamá, Pricilla and Esmeralda where she could surely count on being adhered to by way of an unnecessary screech or slap.
She shook away the gloom. “Leastways, I can always depend on you, oui, Marcel?” Cinderella smiled to her friend, who peeped his undying loyalty. “Come,” she said. “Let us explore.”
She had doubts on seeing her evil stepsisters or Stepmamá in the confines of this area, regardless. She’d revel in this opportunity. ’Twas an opportunity too great to pass up. Raising her chin, she stepped from the safety of her generous chamber and tread softly toward the window.
Feeling much like a thief in the night she glanced over her shoulder as she went. Her slippers sunk into a deep rug that did not quite stretch the width of the hall. Not a speck of dust could be detected. Of course, as the home of the Royal Family there wouldn’t be any dust. Marcel squeaked in the eerie hush, drawing her smile.
What would become of her when Esmeralda married Prince? The thought had her swallowing a pained cry. She reached the tall window and found it to be door leading out to a balcony. Another glance over her shoulder, making certain no one snuck up on her, she braved to test it. It opened with nary a sound, but the cool night air had her pulling it quickly closed and to settle for gazing out at a full moon.
“Oh, Papá,” she whispered. “How different life would have been had you not succumbed to that dreadful infirmity all those years ago.” But it had not. Papá had remarried for love. And that love included two angry sisters she’d been forced to accept. Stepmamá had seemed cordial enough at the time.
“I tried, Papá. I did.” This was her lot in life, for good or ill and Cinderella tried to see the good.
For one moment in time, Cinderella managed in dancing the night away allowing hope to fill her heart. Now, she would carry her secret to her dying day, she vowed. At least, no one could steal her memories. She was almost certain Esmeralda and Pricilla did not have a fairy godmother. The selfish thought handed her a decided measure of satisfactory glee, and she clung to the knowledge. Mayhap, she could reach Fairy Godmother.
Chewing her bottom lip, she glanced about for any sign of life. What if Fairy Godmother went looking for her? They’d left so suddenly. Non, non. She was a fairy godmother, she had powers. How else could she have turned a drab servant girl into a magnificent, mysterious princess?
Cinderella cleared her throat with a delicate cough. “Fairy Godmother?” she called, softly. “Please. S’il vous plait. I am in desperate need of your assistance, ma’am.” Cinderella paused waiting for an indication, any significance her pleas were heard. But only the ominous silence loomed in the airy corridor.
Fairy Godmother must truly be angry. Mayhap, Cinderella could seek to reimburse her for the lost shoe? How much could a glass slipper cost? Cinderella frowned. More than she had, which was nothing.
Oh, how she wished she were the strong heroine—a heroine who prevailed in the face of defeat. Rise above the ashes to…to smile as a saint. Be of a giving nature. Be one to offer her evil sister a blessed union with the prince. Show him she was above all a true princess.
But, alas, she was not. How could she when she loved Prince. She did not want to be a saint. She knew her timid nature fell more in favor of survival tactics rather than heroic efforts. Too many years of Stepmamá utilizing unreserved methods of discipline of harsh words and heavy hands had branded her soul.
Tears filled her eyes once more. It seemed to be a recurring fault of late.
“Peep,” Marcel let out. Cinderella looked down. Marcel was perched on the toe of her shoe. She leaned down and offered him an open palm, smiling through a watery vision.
“Prince deserves someone strong and beautiful, you know,” she told him. “A real princess.” Marcel let out an annoyed squeak.
“Of course,” she agreed, letting a quick surge of anger fuse through the tears. “He especially does not deserve someone as mean and spiteful as Esmeralda.”
Pushing away the useless tears, Cinderella focused on the grounds out the large glass where bright moonlight provided a crystal clear view. Perfection showed in the gardens as immaculate as the hallway baseboards, leastways from the moonlit sky. Dirt would not be allowed out there either, she sniffed.
A small grin escaped as the last of her anger faded. It was a lovely palace. “Look,” she told him, pointing. They peered through the night over the manicured gardens. Waves rippled across a small pond glittering in the streaming moon’s light. She squinted trying to make out what she thought might be a statue in its center. “It looks like one of the Greek gods,” she said, drawing another sense of melancholy over her. “If I am not mistaken, it appears Eros, the god of love, resides in that small pond. See the stringed bow and arrow?” It had to be, she thought, taking in the sinewy arms that set him distin
ctly apart from other ancient myth figures.
A sense of nostalgia settled over her. All her readings portrayed his power as potent as that of love and desire. Granted, her imagination could soar with the legends but his role in the myths was brilliantly legendary. Magnificent. Even in modern times the masses celebrated him as the darling of poets and artists. The centuries had been very kind to him. This thought made her giggle.
Marcel responded in kind, obviously happy she’d decided to revel in her new found, albeit short-lived, independence.
Somehow this particular statue at this particular moment seemed most apropos. Cinderella resolved to sneak out early on the morrow. Just for a quick and closer look. She shrugged. Who would miss her?
Mayhap something would inspire her imagination to snag Prince’s attention. Fairy tales had happy endings after all. In the meantime, she would vow to revel in this unexpected gift of solitude while she could. Alone there was no one to lash out with anger, criticism or physical violence.
A sense of silly giddiness stole over her whole body as she stepped from the window and spun around. She’d truly happened upon a rare freedom.
Chapter 9
For the first time in what seemed a lifetime, Thomasine thought the dinner of cold cucumber soup, herb crusted lamb served with roasted potatoes would never end. By the end of the fifth course, she questioned her sanity.
The strained event marked small talk that included the royal gardens, architecture of the castle and previous royal occupants and visitors. The conversation flowed with her undeniable skill.
It must be noted, however, when her dear husband blundered how successful he thought the ball had turned out, it wasn’t just Thomasine and Prince who leaped eagerly to guide the conversation toward a more neutral topic, but the mother of the two daughters as well.
“The weather is simply fabulous this time of year, Your Majesty,” Hilda addressed Osmond swiftly. “Did you perchance order it yourself, sir?”
Thomasine was pleased to see covered giggles from Pricilla and Esmeralda. Unfortunately, their mother silenced them with a stern look halting the outburst abruptly. A shame, really. The two young women seemed almost—sweet.
Thomasine shared a curious look with Prince. She could see by his expression he thought the same, begging the need to remind her son royalty did not wear open miens. She felt most sorry for the young girls as life could not be so agreeable with such an overbearing mother, she supposed, accounting for the permanent pinched expression in the over abundant flesh of her skin.
Osmond seemed most perplexed by her question. “It was a witticism, dear,” Thomasine informed him, mildly.
“Ah!” Thomasine held back a resigned sigh as her darling, husband’s laugh, loud and booming, roared so out of place to all but him. “Oui, oui, Madam. I ordered it.”
Then, that fleeting thought that supper would never end.
To her horror, Osmond then ventured, “So when have we the big event to look forward?” He speared the two young women with a sharp gaze Thomasine had not seen in years. “Which of you did the shoe fit, eh?”
Pricilla covered an angry flash. Thomasine was sure no one noticed excepting herself.
He bore his piercing look toward Esmeralda. Thomasine would have been thrilled under any other circumstance. “Is there something wrong with your eyes, Girl?” he thundered, then stabbed a fork through a piece of lamb, oblivious to sudden surrounding hostility.
Dead silence stretched across a taut atmosphere making it absurdly awkward. How Thomasine kept from groaning aloud and dropping her head in her hands was beyond her. She had to remind herself that royalty showed no emotion.
Which was not the case for their guests.
Esmeralda’s already pale face drained of color. She bound from her chair so quickly it toppled but for a quick footed servant saving its crash.
Gasping for breath she bolted from the room. Hilda’s face flushed an even deeper shade of red than normal, and looked—well…murderous. Thomasine wished she felt justified in ordering her to the dungeon on facial expression alone. Alas, she could not, however tempting.
She could have happily killed Osmond in that moment but instead indicated to the servants that supper was, fortunately now, completed. “Shall we adjourn to the library?” she managed.
Her husband rose from his chair to assist her as was his usual custom, ignorant to the tense air which rolled over the room like a thick fog. Thank the Lord she truly loved him.
Thomasine could only be grateful when her son donned ingrained and impeccable manners by bowing and offering an arm to Hilda. “Madam, shall we?” he prompted, leaving an angry Pricilla to follow.
Mayhap, there was no need in reminding him of maintaining a blank façade, she thought, following the parade from the dining chamber.
Chapter 10
Cinderella whipped around at the sound of running footsteps. It was too dark to see—no time to reach her chamber before … Esmeralda appeared, tears streaming down her face in the steady flow of a river, flushed and contorted with anger.
Not an attractive sight by any means. Cinderella drew herself up, squared her shoulders. She found herself torn between storming to her room to slam the door in Esmeralda’s face and curiosity as to what could possibly warrant this unexpected call.
It took only a moment to realize that Esmeralda's distraught was so complete she had not realized she’d gotten herself lost.
An accidental visitor.
Cinderella allowed Esmeralda a silent cool countenance, something she would never have braved in the past.
“What are you doing here?” Esmeralda snapped. The effect was ruined by an unfeminine sniff.
Keeping her expression carefully neutral, a wicked pleasure stole over Cinderella while she basked in Esmeralda’s flushed appearance. The impulse to retort back, however, subsided as long habits of passiveness prevailed.
Cinderella let out a long, tired sigh.
Aware of her own annoying passive and compliant tendencies, Cinderella surprised herself by asking, “Why do you cry so?”
“What do you care? You would no doubt be happy about it.” Her distress so absolute and out of character, Cinderella could not help but feel some pity, especially in light of Stepmamá’s recent reprimand in the carriage.
Taking Esmeralda by the shoulders, Cinderella guided Esmeralda to her bedchamber and pushed her into the overstuffed chair. She even went so far as to dampening a cloth from the sideboard. With an unhurried step back to Esmeralda, she handed it over. “Here, cool your face. Your distress is quite obvious.”
Esmeralda’s glance remained suspicious but she complied without comment, breath ragged, eyes watchful. Cinderella perched on the end of the bed, and crossed one leg over the other. She studied Esmeralda with an unnatural boldness.
The heart-shaped face and straight nose turned up at the end were really quite attractive, Cinderella decided. Even the full mouth appeared generous when it was not in its constant scowl. Rich copper locks fell in disarray across her smooth complexion.
“You know, Essie, you are quite pretty when your manner is not so licentious.”
“Licentious!” Esmeralda’s face puffed up as she flashed her eyes at Cinderella.
“Oui. Wicked. Unrestrained. Morally decrepit.” Cinderella curled her fingers appearing to study her chipped nails, yet in reality, dare not take her attention from Esmeralda. “Though, I speak in regards of human decency toward others.”
Remarkably, Esmeralda’s anger overrode her natural spastic inclination to blink. The result presented a spectacular and brilliant green most would never deign to see. “How dare—” she lashed out. But her temper deflated like a fallen soufflé. Cinderella’s matter of fact tone seemed to penetrate her wounded pride and she slumped over. Tears shimmered firing the brilliant green of her eyes. The effect quite took Cinderella by surprise.
Maintaining her relaxed posture, Cinderella bent an elbow and leaned forward on her knee, chin propped in
an open palm waiting to see how Esmeralda would respond. Instinct had Cinderella dangling her leg in a gentle swing back and forth most cautiously. She dare not let down her guard. Her calm demeanor hid a strong fear long ingrained, too many years at her stepfamily's mercy. She hoped the hypnotic motion would help forestall scathing remarks. The isolation of her chamber never ventured far from her mind. A small tingle touched the air around Cinderella, lending her a subtle confidence.
Esmeralda dragged in a shaky breath, regarding Cinderella blatantly. “You realize Mamá would be livid if she heard us speaking thus, non? In peaceful tones, no less.” Again, that unfeminine sniff.
Cinderella shrugged her shoulders ignoring the sudden acquiescent. Esmeralda was right, of course, and Cinderella had nothing to add. She pulled a kerchief from her pocket and held it out. An olive branch of sorts. Something stirred in the vicinity of her heart. Quite unfamiliar.
Esmeralda snatched it from her fingers and gave an unladylike blow into it.
The unreality of the situation struck her and she giggled, soon turning to loud guffaws. Suddenly she could not stop. It must have proved infectious, and Esmeralda giggled too. For the first time in their young years, tension fled and the two sat there facing one another.
Not as adversaries but as young women, sisters. They were the same age after all, seventeen and marriageable.
She watched Esmeralda’s glance sweep the room. Eyeing the large bed, she patted the overstuffed chair seeming to test its softness, then moved to the sideboard. Quite elegant, Cinderella thought, seeing it through Esmeralda’s eyes. She was used to a dirt floor, a straw mattress, confined spaces.
“’Tis very nice,” Esmeralda said.
“It’s the Royal Palace. Of course it’s nice.” Cinderella burst out. Silence prevailed once more.
“I have to share with Cill,” Esmeralda informed her.
“Oh.” Cinderella did not know what to say to that. “Je suis désole. I’m sorry.”
The Wronged Princess - Book I Page 6
