“Excuse me.” Drusilla heard a deep voice behind her shoulder. “I believe you honored me with the promise of a dance?”
She turned to see the prince waiting, hand outstretched. She dropped a graceful curtsey. “The honor is mine, Your Highness.” She allowed him to lead her to the center of the room.
It was indeed an honor for her; this was the beginning of her fourth season in society, and she had never boasted any serious beaux. In the opinion of most young men, her fortune was not enough to offset her awkward height, plain face, and flaming hair. Thanks to her stepsister’s charm, however, she was now dancing with the crown prince.
I believe this is one of those stories spinster aunts tell their nieces ad nauseam, she mused. “Did you hear about the time I danced with the prince?” Drusilla felt sorry for her future nieces.
The prince was charming in every way. His dancing was impeccable, and his smile made her heart beat faster, even though she knew it was on Arella’s account. She could see why all the other girls in the room tittered foolishly at him.
Frederick forced himself to focus on Drusilla instead of letting his eyes wander to her lovely stepsister. “I trust you and your family are in good health this evening?” he began courteously.
“Very good health, Your Highness, I thank you. I trust the same for you.” Drusilla didn’t know if what she had just said was technically true; Arella seemed rather unwell, actually. But Drusilla was never one to be remiss regarding etiquette.
Frederick nodded an acknowledgment to her good wishes. He was tired of conversations such as this—polite tidbits that interested neither party. At least this girl didn’t simper. And she danced well—very well, in fact. No great beauty, but quite acceptable for a stepsister-in-law.
Tired or not of such conversation, such conversation must be had. They spoke courteously throughout the rest of the dance. With the closing chord, he made an elegant bow, matched by her equally elegant curtsey. “I thank you for the dance,” he said. “It was a pleasure.”
“The pleasure was all mine, Your Highness.” If she had lied a bit earlier regarding the health of her family, at least this statement was entirely true.
Another man claimed her. Though not sought after as a wife, Drusilla was a good dancer and had sufficient partners.
Frederick smiled. Now he could finally speak to Arella.
4
As soon as the music began, Arella found herself in high demand as a dancing partner. She hated it. But what could she do? She quietly submitted to dance with all the young men who lavished attention on her, but did not deign to grace them with smiles.
Across the full room she saw the prince approaching Drusilla. That means I’m next, she thought, her hands growing clammy inside her gloves. She had more difficulty than usual following her partner. Her mind was sick with worry over the next dance, the one when the prince would claim her. Her partner, a stout man with a freckled face, didn’t notice her abstraction. It was enough for him to be close to her.
The dance passed silently. The ending chord sounded.
The prince threaded his way to her.
Frederick bowed low to the woman he had been thinking about all evening. “Miss Abendroth,” he said, his eyes shining, “I believe you promised me the great honor of a dance?”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Her words were barely audible, but Frederick didn’t notice. He took Arella in his arms and whirled away to the strains of the new song.
Arella could feel her heart pounding in her chest. Her hand in the prince’s was cold. Prince Frederick gazed at her admiringly. She, however, looked down, unable to meet his eyes.
“It is an honor to claim you as my partner,” Frederick said.
She hesitated. What was the polite reply to this? “Uh . . . it’s my pleasure.” A bald lie, if one counted lies at times like this. But she couldn’t very well say, “I’d rather not dance with you, if it’s all the same,” so the lie would have to do.
Frederick could scarcely lift his gaze from her lovely face. The curve of her cheek, the light on her hair . . . She was irresistible, so he did not resist. “You look very nice tonight,” he said with a hint of bashfulness. “But I suppose you look very nice all the time,”
A deep blush spread its way across Arella’s downcast face. I wish you could see me when I’ve been helping Alfie muck out the stables, she thought defiantly. Tell me then how nice I look!
They were silent a moment, but silence did not bother Frederick. He felt he could happily admire his timid partner for hours without her ever speaking a word. “Did you know you deprive society of its most beautiful jewel when you are absent?” he asked her softly.
No. Don’t start the foolish compliments! “Uh, thank you, Your Highness.” She grimaced and wished Drusilla were there to hide behind. She surely would know what to say to a prince!
He seemed not to notice her awkwardness, her reserve, her hesitant dancing. He knew only that this girl was remarkably beautiful.
And he was going to marry her.
“You—you have many beaux, of course?” He tried to sound nonchalant.
She bit her lip. “Not many, Your Highness.” She did her best to freeze away any would-be suitors. But how did one freeze away a prince’s romantic advances? Had any other girl ever wanted to do that before?
“I would happily fight them all for the chance of a smile from you,” Frederick said.
“That is . . . kind of you, Your Highness.” Arella gulped. How long would this song last? The music whirled on, heedless of her discomfort.
“Not just kindness,” Frederick replied, his gaze full of meaning.
Why me? Arella thought desperately. She cast about in her mind for a change of subject.
“I saw you dancing with my stepsister Drusilla,” she blurted. “She is a wonderful dancer, is she not?”
“She dances exquisitely,” Frederick agreed. “But she has not your charm.”
“And you are promised to dance with Anastasia?”
“Yes. But when I have done”—he looked at her with pleading in his dark eyes—“will you favor me with another dance?”
No, she said inwardly. “Of course, Your Highness,” she said out loud.
Frederick’s smile lit up his entire face. What had he done to deserve such joy?
Arella glanced at the large, ornate clock at the end of the room. Ten o’clock. Two more hours.
As the evening progressed, Drusilla watched Arella with concern. Once he had gotten through his obligatory dances, the prince had paid attention to no one but Arella. Her poor stepsister looked miserable, though she was hiding it fairly well from the general assembly. They were too busy gawking at her beauty to notice any discomfort anyhow.
Drusilla sighed with compassion. Poor girl.
Arella felt panic beginning to well up in her heart. Prince Frederick insisted on paying her attention. Marked attention. No shyness dissuaded him; no awkwardness discouraged him. What could she do? Whirling across the crowded floor in his arms, she forced herself to keep down her rising desperation.
The clock struck midnight. Arella stopped suddenly in the midst of the dance. “I—I must go,” she told the prince, pulling to escape from his arms.
“Go?” Frederick echoed with bewilderment. “Where? Why? The night is yet young!”
But Arella had borne as much as she could stand. “You must let me go,” she begged. “I cannot stay any longer.” Slipping from his perplexed grasp, she turned and hastened through the crowded room.
“Miss Abendroth! Arella!” the prince cried, following close after her. “Don’t go!”
She moved faster in her frantic efforts to get away, weaving through the dancing couples, ignoring the prince and his undignified pleas. Breaking through the last of the dancers, she glanced over her shoulder.
The prince was still pursuing.
Arella ran through the doorway, through the entrance hall. Yanking open the heavy front door with effort, she sped down the outside sta
irs, nearly tumbling in her haste. Bother these glass slippers! She kicked them off then thought better of it. They were her stepmother’s heirlooms, after all. She found one . . . Where did the other go?
Too late now; the prince was at the top of the stairs. The other shoe would have to stay here. She ran through the darkness, down the long avenue, vanishing into the midnight. Anywhere to get away from the unwelcome favor of the prince.
Frederick hurried down the steps, stopping at the bottom. “Miss Abendroth?” he called, stupefied. Why had she run away from him? He gazed into the darkness, searching for her.
She was gone.
“Arella,” he whispered, clenching the fist that had so lately held her dainty hand. Turning, he started back up the stairway, pausing midway. Her slipper lay forlorn, kicked aside. He picked it up, cradling the delicate piece in his hand. It was dainty, beautiful—just like its owner.
His eyes darkened with determination. Frederick had always liked a good challenge, and winning the heart of this charming girl seemed like a challenge of the best variety. But not just now. He couldn’t very well leave his own royal ball to comb the palace gardens.
“But I will see you again, Arella,” he vowed. “And next time, I won’t let you run away from me.”
5
Drusilla watched in horror as her sister broke away from the prince and fled out the doorway. What was the girl doing?
“Arella!” she cried, making her way to the far side of the room where she saw her sister disappearing through the entrance. Weaving through the plethora of voluminous, twirling skirts, Drusilla finally arrived at the doorway. Neither Arella nor the prince was in the large entrance hall. Had her sister run into the midnight darkness outside?
Drusilla, skirts clutched in her hands, hurried to the open door. She met the prince at the top of the stairs. He held one of Arella’s slippers. “Where did she go?” she cried breathlessly.
Frederick looked at her, his face a calm mask. “I don’t know. She ran down the avenue.”
“You didn’t follow her?” Drusilla stared at him, aghast. What kind of prince was he?
Frederick looked slightly surprised. “Even I can see that she isn’t exactly asking for my attention.”
Drusilla clenched her jaw. He had let her little sister run into the night alone? Her good breeding kept the upper hand, however, so she did not tell him what she thought of him at the moment. Instead, she forced her voice into a prim, respectful tone. “I must look for her. I fear she is not well.”
“There is no need for you to go out. I will send a footman.”
“She needs me,” Drusilla replied shortly. “If I have your leave?” She paused.
“Of course,” the prince nodded. Somehow he felt rebuked as Drusilla bobbed a brief curtsey and hastened down into the gloom of the palace grounds. She had been polite—yet at the same time, she had almost imperceptibly chided him for his lack of action. But what was he to do? Leave his own royal ball to find a girl who inexplicably ran from him? It wasn’t as if she were in any danger, save dampness. The gardens surrounding the palace were immense; she surely wouldn’t leave them.
He sighed. None of the etiquette books he studied addressed this situation. Maybe he could write one: How to Behave When the Girl You Adore Runs Away from You at Your Own Royal Ball. Perhaps it would assist future generations of princes faced with this same conundrum. Frederick smiled wryly.
He beckoned to one of the footmen standing at the door of the ballroom. “Miss Drusilla Bessette is trying to find her sister, who is strolling in the gardens somewhere. Take a lantern and assist her.”
The footman bowed and left to do as he was bidden.
The ballroom filled with whispered gossip. Many people had witnessed the sudden flight of the prince’s favorite dance partner and the immediate pursuit of the prince and of her stepsister, and those who hadn’t seen jealously wished they had. Behind fans, ladies murmured.
“Did you see the way she ran out? She was deathly pale!”
“See her! I felt her! She trod on the hem of my new dress and tore it.”
“Maybe Prince Frederick will dance with me now.”
“I think she took ill suddenly.”
“Maybe she’s an imposter and the prince discovered it.”
“Perhaps there was a beauty spell on her and it faded at midnight!”
This royal ball would not be soon forgotten.
Drusilla ran down the long avenue, calling her sister’s name. She was almost to the gate when she finally saw Arella sitting on the side of the road, sobbing. “Arella!” Drusilla knelt beside her stepsister, putting her arms around her. “Are you all right?” she asked.
Arella cried harder, hiding her face in Drusilla’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Drusilla,” she moaned between sobs. “I couldn’t stand it any longer. I had to get away.”
“Shhh now,” Drusilla comforted her. She put a hand to Arella’s forehead. “You’re warm! Do you feel ill?” She gazed anxiously into the girl’s teary face.
“Yes,” Arella replied, hiccupping. “I feel—terrible.”
“Come now,” Drusilla said, rising to her feet. “We’ll go back to get the carriage and return home. You’ll feel better tomorrow.” She put out her hand to help her younger sister to her feet.
“I can’t go back there!” Arella wailed. “I’ve disgraced Father—and Stepmother—and everybody.” Her sobs, which had slowed under Drusilla’s comfort, returned with greater vehemence.
“We can worry about that later,” Drusilla answered calmly. “For now, you just need to go home. No one can fault you for being sick.”
Arella continued crying but allowed Drusilla to help her stand. Her large eyes met her sister’s penitently. “I’m sorry, Drusilla,” she repeated. “I just . . . panicked.”
“It’s all right, Arella,” Drusilla soothed. “Don’t think about it. Just come back with me.”
They walked up the drive, Drusilla steadying Arella’s shaking frame. She felt feverish. Drusilla wondered if she had actually made herself ill. Rounding the bend in the avenue, they came back within sight of the castle.
A footman met them. “Miss Drusilla Bessette?” he asked, raising his lantern.
“Yes?” Drusilla replied.
“His Highness the prince sent me to bring you a light.”
Drusilla stared at him dryly. She had run all the way down the lane and walked back in the midnight darkness—and now a footman offered her a lantern. “Thank you, but it is no longer needed,” she answered. “Would you call our horses and carriage, please? The crest is Abendroth.”
“Yes, m’lady.”
The footman strode away to the carriage house while Drusilla led her sister to the outside palace stairs. “Why don’t you sit here while I find someone to tell Mother we’re leaving? We can send the carriage back here when we get home, and she and Anastasia may stay and enjoy the rest of the ball.”
Arella sat on the lowest step. She still held one glass slipper in her hand. “I think I left the other one here somewhere,” she whispered.
Drusilla glanced at her stepsister’s bare feet. The girl had walked all the way down the avenue and back in her stockings! She must be in pain, poor foolish thing. “It doesn’t matter, dear,” Drusilla said, her voice compassionate. “Wait here for the carriage.”
Leaving her sister sitting quietly with her hands folded, Drusilla mounted the steps. Someone had shut the front door. She hesitated a moment. Did one rap on the door at a time like this? Or simply open it and proceed in? She tried the handle; it turned. With a little shove, the door swung inward. She brushed off her dress—it was definitely not made for midnight runs—and walked sedately through the hall.
Summoning all the composure she possessed, she addressed the single footman standing at the ballroom doorway. “Will you please send a message to my mother, Duchess Germaine Abendroth? Tell her that Miss Bessette and Miss Abendroth have returned home and will send the carriage back to the castle.”
With a “Yes, m’lady,” the footman bowed and entered the ballroom. It was amazing the composure they kept, Drusilla mused as she returned to Arella. The servants certainly couldn’t be used to scenes like this—ladies running away from princes, and other ladies barging in the front castle door—but to look at this fellow, one would think it all quite routine.
The carriage was pulling up to the entrance as she descended the steps. Drusilla uttered a sigh of relief. This night had not gone exactly according to plan, but it was almost over now.
6
Drusilla shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She sat in the library, trying to read, but the words would not make sense in her head. Was it because of the late night she had kept? Worry over Arella?
Or perhaps . . . could it be the memory of the smile of a certain handsome prince?
Whatever it was, it was getting in her way. She sighed and shut the book.
The day had not gone well so far. None of the members of the household had stirred until nearly noon. Even then, the duchess ordered breakfast in bed and did not appear. Arella was even more silent than usual, which was not surprising. She had, after all, behaved rather scandalously, Drusilla remembered with a grimace.
Anastasia was tired but still would have liked to chatter, rehashing every event of last night, if the atmosphere of the house had not been so tense. As it was, she felt rather depressed; after she had looked forward to it so much, her first ball was over already. And neither of her sisters even wanted to talk about it!
Early in the afternoon the duchess called Arella into her sitting room. Drusilla hoped her mother wouldn’t be too hard on the girl.
She wandered aimlessly to the window. What I need is to stop thinking about the whole thing, she thought to herself. It’s over, so worrying isn’t going to do anyone any good.
But she could make nothing else occupy her thoughts. Perhaps she should go try to cheer Anastasia—the poor girl obviously felt repressed by everyone else’s misery. Not that I particularly want to discuss last night, she thought, a wry smile twisting the corner of her mouth. But it may make her feel better.
Five Glass Slippers: A Collection of Cinderella Stories Page 3
