“Take it slow and easy, Julie,” said a woman in uniform standing next to the car, “It’s over. You’re safe. He can’t hurt you now. Let me cut you loose from this and we’ll have a medical person check you. Okay?”
Julie nodded, and was freed.
The next several weeks were a blur of meetings with police officers, doctors, counselors, and lawyers.
Each one had Julie reliving at least part of the most unpleasant experience of her life. She moved in with her grandmother for about a year and a half to avoid the public attention that stemmed from her story hitting social media and becoming national news. Some people considered her a hero and many offered support of one form or another. Yet there were also frightening messages saying it was a shame she’d escaped. It was all too much at the time. Eventually her family moved to a different state with a new last name for a fresh start.
It took months before a court ordered that Richard Jarvis, Jr. be confined to a secure mental health facility. It was almost a year before federal agents had Richard Jarvis, Sr. in custody for a range of allegations including kidnapping, rape, and murder.
Julie had nightmares from time to time for decades. She considered each one a way for her mind and spirit to work through all the what-ifs without them taking over her conscious thoughts. She was grateful for her escape and determined not to let even her own mind keep her a prisoner.
Pamela McNamee worked as a computer systems specialist at Boston area colleges specializing in distance learning. She transitioned to working as a home-based independent contractor when her first child was born. She enjoys camping, gaming, and learning to cook ethnic foods.
I opened my eyes to near pitch darkness. That was not unusual in and of itself, though. The faded velvet curtains of my four poster bed were always drawn tightly closed to ward off the morning chill of the manor house, since any fire laid in the fireplace grate at night was always out come morning no matter how well I’d banked it. But it was sunrise; my internal clock told me that.
Under the large patch-quilted coverlet that had kept me warm as I slept, I rolled onto my back and stretched out my arms and legs to banish the sleep cramps and bring some energy back into them. My fingers brushed the yellow linen covered pillows beside mine, and my eyes filled with slow tears as they had on many previous mornings. My darling Stepfen, the older country gentleman who had swept me off my feet just three years ago, would never sleep beside me again.
Our marriage of two and a half years had been wonderful, marred only by Stepfen’s three children from his previous wife. Well, actually, marred only by one of them. His two youngest children, Drussella and Anastaizella, had taken to me right away and made me feel like one of the family. They had even gone so far as to call me ‘mama’, and I loved them for that and for many other things. His eldest, Cindiella, was far less welcoming. She’d never forgiven me for being only five years older than herself, for replacing her mother in her father’s bed, for being treated like a grownup lady when she wasn’t, and many other such things beyond my control.
But with Sir Stepfen dead these past six months, I was left a very young widow with three stepchildren of whom I was determined to take good care.
Crash!
I sat bolt upright, heart pounding. My oaken bedroom door had been slammed open with a resounding thud. But as nothing else happened after that, I knew what sight would greet me when I opened the curtain. I wiped my eyes free of tears and then poked my head out, pretending unconcern.
Cindiella stood on the door’s threshold with a mendacious grin. “Good morning, Stepmother Trelainne. Sleep well?” she asked with a false sweetness.
She was already dressed for work in a grey shirt, a short brown over-frock, and a grey apron dirtied from the day before.
“Why, of course,” I replied pleasantly. “How could I not, seeing that I am so well loved that my beloved step-daughter comes to start my fire for me every morning?”
She lost her grin at that. If she were to come to my bedroom early every morning, she would have to clean and light my fireplace. She didn’t have to come, but she liked scaring me awake more than she hated tending the fire. She had reveled that first week after Stepfen’s death in my shrieks of fear each morning, which had led to our current arrangement. I had supposed it was some sort of way of getting her grief out, which is why I didn’t put a stop to it. That’s why I tried to wake up before the inevitable every sunrise now.
Cindiella, mad that I hadn’t screamed today, stomped over to the fireplace and started cleaning out the ashes. I slid out my red velvet wrap from under my coverlet where it had retained my body’s warmth, and pulled it around me before getting out of bed to retrieve my work clothes from my armoire. Lady or no, an estate didn’t look after itself. We all worked hard to keep it prosperous, even though Cindiella often had other views of what was proper for her to do as her part.
In Cindiella’s defense, though, Stepfen’s first wife and the girls’ biological mother had been the spoiled daughter of a Count from the court. Stepfen had left her alone for much of the children’s younger years while fighting in the wars of the kingdom. The girls’ mother had taught her children that they didn’t need to do anything for themselves; that they would be provided for because they were nobility. That all changed when she had broken her neck from a fall down the main steps of the manor house and Stepfen had come home to take care of his family and his estate. He had been horrified when told flat out by a then eight-year-old Cindiella that she was too good to do work. Stepfen immediately had dismissed the extra servants that had somehow accumulated in his absence and instituted a radical change in how the household ran.
Under his direct supervision the estate had grown even more prosperous. Over the following years the girls had grown more used to the new regime, especially the younger ones, but it was a fact that Cindiella, now at fifteen years of age, still needed a firm hand directing her to do the work she was assigned. Stepfen had married me not only because he liked my looks and my personality when we’d met at a May Day celebration, but also because I was a farmer’s daughter and well used to doing chores.
Loud banging noises came from behind me in the direction of my fireplace. I winced at them as I quickly slid into my dress and did up the buttons on the front. At least it seemed I didn’t have to nag Cindiella about finishing the job this morning.
“Done!” she snarled behind me as I heard her hurl the fireplace poker back into its holder.
I turned around and forced a smile to my face to thank her but gasped instead. “Cindiella! What on earth …?”
She was all over ashes, like she’d dumped the contents of the fireplace on herself.
“The stupid scuttle tipped and spilled all over me, and I dropped it,” she whined, and kicked the empty brass ash bucket on the hearth accusingly. “But what do you care? You never even so much as turned around to look!”
My face and neck flushed red with guilt. She was right.
“I’m sorry,” I started to say, but she interrupted me.
“Don’t offer me your false apologies!” she said, angry tears leaving trails in the smut on her face as she stomped her foot. “You don’t care for me! You don’t care about anything except how to figure out how to make my life even more miserable! I could have had my foot broken when the scuttle fell on it, but you would never have even noticed! You would have probably left it to heal deformed! You are a horrible old witch that somehow enchanted my father to turn against me and then to die and leave me, and I hope you will pay for it someday!”
She turned and ran out the opened door, leaving me speechless. In the hallway I heard giggling from Drussella and Anastaizella, who must have opened their bedroom doors at all the racket. I heard them tell their sister she looked more like a Cinder-ella than a Cindi-ella. As I took a step towards my door, incoherent screaming sounded from the hallway. I rushed out to protect the girls from each other and heard a slam before I even crossed the threshold. I found poor Anastaizella sit
ting on her rump in her doorway, bawling, with Drussella crouching beside her, arms around her sister’s shoulders. Cindiella’s door was firmly shut. I sighed and went to the younger girls.
“Mama! Mama! Cindiella pushed me down!” Anastaizella cried through her tears.
“She did! She did!” confirmed Drussella.
I picked up Anastaizella and hugged her. “I know, darling. Cindiella is going through a rough patch at the moment, that’s all. We just need to give her time.”
“She’s always going through a rough patch,” observed Drussella with a sour face.
“Go get dressed, girls, and I’ll meet you in the kitchen for breakfast,” I said with as straight a face as I could manage at Drussella’s observation as I put her sister down.
The two girls scurried away when I went to my eldest step-daughter’s door and knocked on it.
“Cindiella!”
No reply.
I tried again. “Cindiella? How could you do that? Drussella is younger than you by a good bit. You need to open the door now and apologize for pushing your sister, young lady.”
Silence was still my answer.
I waited several minutes before raising my voice and saying, “Fine! Then as punishment for your behavior and attitude, you are to sweep and wash the grand hall and then take down the curtains and beat them free of dust, all by yourself, in addition to doing your regular chores.”
I heard a crash inside the room against the door and guessed Cindiella must have thrown her pewter vase at it again. The poor vase was quite dented from its regular abusive treatment at the hands of its owner, but I was unwilling to replace it until my stepdaughter outgrew this particular phase.
“That’s so unfair!” she screamed from within.
“Had you ignored your sisters’ words, this wouldn’t have happened. The punishment stands,” I replied with firmness. “Come down and eat when you feel you can be more civil.”
I swept down the stairs to assist Cook in getting breakfast on the table for everybody, leaving Cindiella to shriek in anger in her room behind me.
Things went downhill from there. Cindiella needed much more oversight than usual in doing her chores, which severely cut into my own. My throat grew dry constantly reminding her how to best sweep and mop the grand hall, and by the time she’d gotten around to taking down the curtains I was gritting my teeth. At least I could do some of my own work, such as mending clothes and teaching the younger girls how to darn socks, while supervising Cindiella out in the garden with the drapes.
To my surprise, sometime later a hunting horn sounded out in front of the manor house. Reminding Cindiella to continue what she was doing and cautioning Drussella and Anastaizella to not prick themselves while I was gone, I ran around front. A royal messenger on his big bay horse sat there waiting to be met by someone from the estate. He threw an envelope at me like it was a discus as soon as I rounded the corner. He took off before it was halfway to me, the horse’s iron shod hooves spraying the dirt and sand of the drive in his hurry; a leather bag full of similar envelopes slung across his shoulders banging at his side. I caught the heavy, gilt edged missive before it hit the ground and opened it right away, guessing it was important. I scanned it, gasped, and ran back to the garden.
“Girls! Girls! There’s to be a royal ball tonight in honor of Prince Albert’s coming-of-age!” I said with excitement as I got back to them.
The two younger girls jumped up and clapped their hands enthusiastically, and Cindiella, a smile on her face for the first time in quite a while, dropped her rug beater to the ground.
I frowned at her. “You’re not done with the curtains yet, young lady. Pick that up. Before I will even consider allowing you to go, you need to be done with everything.”
The smile fled from her lips. “What?”
Drusella and Anastaizella hid behind my work skirts at the mutinous expression on their sister’s face.
“You heard me,” I replied, staring her down.
She deliberately ignored both the beater and my words, turned around, and marched with a stiff back towards the house.
“Cindiella! If you walk away now, you will not be allowed to go to the ball even if you do finish all your chores!” I warned.
She ignored me and slammed the kitchen door behind her as she entered the house.
I felt a tug on my skirts. “Mama? Will you really not let Cindiella go to the ball?” Drussella asked.
I sighed. “Yes, my dear. Cindiella needs to learn that work comes before play, and that I mean what I say. If she’d come back, all would have been well. But she’s, well …”
“Stubborn!” piped up Anastaizella.
I smiled and ruffled her hair. “Yes. She is. Sadly. Now, to work, girls, or you won’t be able to go to the children’s party, or I to the main ball. The same holds true for us, you know.”
“Yes, Mama!” they chorused.
Evening came, and the younger girls’ and my chores were done early enough that we’d had time to bathe and dress in our good clothes. My fancy dark grey dress and light grey head scarf were somewhat out of date, but they were still presentable enough for an occasion like this. Drussella had chosen to wear a dress of greens and Anastaizella in one of purples, and I would not have been able to pick which one was the cuter. They joined me in the front hall in front of the opened double doors to wait for the coachman to come around.
“Wait for me!” came a familiar voice from up the stairs, sounding happy and excited.
We turned and looked. Cindiella swept down the stairs wearing a hideous gown. It was quite obvious she had made it herself without any help, or even a pattern. The seams were crooked, the colors clashed, the fabric bunched, and the trim that she’d obviously added as an afterthought was already coming undone. She couldn’t have done a worse job if she had tried. But it didn’t matter, because she had no business being here. I already knew she hadn’t finished any of her regular daily chores. I had personally checked earlier.
“Where do you think you are going?” I inquired.
“To the ball, of course, and I’m going to snag myself the royal prince!” she replied gaily as she twirled on the step above the ground floor.
A flounce on her hem parted ways with her dress.
“No, you are not,” I said flatly.
Her face fell, and the customary scowl took its place.
“I told you this morning that you needed to do your chores before you could go to the ball. And when you walked away from me in the garden, I told you to come back or I would not allow you to go even if you did them.”
Cindiella tried to interrupt but I spoke over her, raising my voice. “Not only did you not come back, you did not do any of your chores. I and your father have told you more than once, young lady, that work comes before play. As you have not worked today, you may not play tonight.”
“But that’s not fair!” she cried.
She threw a temper tantrum then, which I simply watched. Drussella’s and Anastaizella’s hands crept into mine as, wide eyed, they watched their sister stomp her feet, shake her fists, and scream herself hoarse. Realizing I would not be swayed, Cindiella finally ran out of the front hall towards the garden, sobbing about how she was always so unfairly put upon. The carriage came up to the stone steps just then, and I ushered the younger girls out to it. We left for the royal ball in blessed silence.
The carriage drive up to the palace was lit by what looked like hundreds of lanterns, making the girls oooh and aaah and bounce with excited anticipation. Upon our arrival at the marble steps that led up to the ornate palace entrance, I was handed out and escorted with the two girls by a footman to the children’s section set in the East wing. We were delighted to see that it had been decorated like a country fair, with many booths of free games and food decked out in flower garlands. I was assured by the head server on duty that all the children coming would be heavily supervised, and that I could go and have a good time without a care. The girls squealed with gle
e and rushed off to join the fun already underway as I thanked the woman in charge. I was then escorted by my footman through the white stone corridors illuminated by white stone sconces to the main ballroom, where he bowed and left me.
It was gorgeous. The many large crystal chandeliers that hung low from the ceiling had been polished to a shine, their facets reflecting the multitude of their candle flames many times over. Large painted floor vases filled with fresh flowers perfumed the air. Red and blue draperies enhanced the pale pink and white of the enormous marble-tiled room. The men’s clothes were elegant, and the ladies’ dresses dazzling. I was in awe. I walked dreamily down the broad steps and lost myself in the sea of glittering humanity.
After most of the guests had arrived, Prince Albert himself entered the room dressed in a militarily inspired outfit made from white silk and satin and trimmed in red. All the ladies, myself included, stopped what we were doing, made our curtseys, and congratulated him. He was quite handsome, and many a married woman sighed because she could not be considered eligible.
Later, after accepting a crystal glass of punch from yet another server, I could see a stir being made across the ballroom floor. A crowd of people had gathered in a circle, so being naturally curious I went to see what was happening. In the center of it, a beautiful girl whom I hadn’t seen before danced with Prince Albert.
I thought she looked familiar, but the Prince and she twirled and circled constantly and prevented me from getting a good look at her face. I could easily see that the mysterious girl wore a silver ball gown that quite outshone everyone else’s, with silver elbow length gloves and a hair ribbon to match. I sighed in envy at her ensemble, wishing I had one like it. The Prince danced her out onto the balcony in time to the music of the orchestra, and footmen materialized to guard the Prince’s exit. I felt a small pang as I realized from this that the Prince would not put in an appearance again—it would have been nice to dance with him at least once. Determined to make the best of it, I went back to enjoying myself at the ball.
Stepmothers and the Big Bad Wolf eARC Page 6
