The Fairy Stepmother Inc.

by Maggie Hoyt

  She nodded with a little smile.

  Ella had run off and I was debating over whether I could afford sage—if I could just get Ella one spice—when I heard a voice that wanted to be noticed.

  “Now then, son, help your old mother with the purchases.”

  “Of course, Mother. It is my pleasure.”

  It’s almost like they rehearsed it, I thought as I turned around to face the Kindlers.

  “Why, Evelyn Radcliffe, as I live and breathe!”

  Joanna greeted me like an old friend, which I wasn’t, of course, but I could hardly be offended, as this was how she treated everyone. She was one of those women who insisted on a hug plus a peck on each cheek when a handshake would do. She liked to clap you on the shoulders, like she was going to hold you in front of her until she’d inspected you thoroughly. If you were young enough, she’d pinch your cheeks.

  “It seems to be market day for everyone!” she boomed in her low, gravelly voice. “Reginald is such a good helper.” She patted him on the shoulder, and he smiled impatiently under the weight of a collection of hat boxes and shopping bags. I was fairly certain he’d never been shopping with his mother before.

  “You know Reginald, of course. Reginald, this is Evelyn Radcliffe. And how are your daughters, love?”

  “They’re quite well. Growing up so quickly.”

  “Isn’t that just the way of it!” Joanna’s throaty laugh seemed to echo in the marketplace. “It seems like yesterday they were taking their first steps; now, they’re walking toward matrimony!”

  As pickup lines go, Joanna’s wasn’t bad. She must have worked on it. I smiled and murmured my agreement.

  “Now—how funny is this—if you can believe it, Reginald and I were just discussing your daughter, Fanchon. What a delightful young woman! Reggie and his father have such respect for her father and the company he managed to build. Fanchon will no doubt inherit, I’m sure …”

  I was no stranger to this meandering way of discussing Fan’s inheritance, so I waited patiently for Joanna to mine her information. Before we could find out what Fan’s future husband ought to do with her money, Ella returned.

  “All right, Stepmother—Oh, sorry.”

  “That’s all right, Ella. Joanna, Reginald, this is my stepdaughter, Ella. Ella, Lady Kindler and her son.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Ella said, curtsying as best she could with a heavy bag of rye in her arms.

  Joanna stared wide-eyed for a moment, as if Ella had grown horns.

  “How nice to meet you, love,” she said finally.

  “I’m sure you met Ella’s father, Henry,” I said. “He was a partner in a shipping firm, and he raised a wonderful daughter. Absolutely no credit to me, but Ella’s the most talented seamstress. Her quilts are as good as anything you could get in the Capital.”

  “Mmm,” Joanna murmured politely. Reginald, however, sighed impatiently and tapped his foot.

  “You know, these are a bit heavy, Mother.”

  “And we certainly ought to be going,” I said. “If you can carry the rye, Ella, I can take the rest.”

  Ella nodded and handed me the sack with the cabbage and the cheese.

  “You go on,” I said. “I’ll catch up with you.”

  “Well, it’s been so lovely chatting with you, Evelyn,” Joanna said when Ella was out of sight.

  “You too, Joanna. And so nice to meet you, Reginald.”

  “You take care. I’m sure we’ll be in touch,” she said, winking. “We mothers are in this together,” she whispered as she leaned in conspiratorially.

  I’d only turned the corner, separated from the Kindlers by a row of new stalls, when I heard Joanna’s always too-loud voice.

  “Do you know the other daughter?”

  “Penniless,” Reginald replied. “Not worth it.”

  “She is pretty, though.”

  “She’s the type a man has on the side. You see it all the time. Marry the rich daughter, and spend her money on the pretty one. That one’s going to be somebody’s mistress someday. Mark my words.”

  I’m sure the woman selling little sachets of potpourri wondered what she’d done to infuriate me. He would plan to cheat on my daughter? Really, he’d use Ella like that? He couldn’t find any other reason for her to exist? I was so full of rage, I forgot to put on a happy face when I caught up with Ella.

  “Is everything all right, Stepmother?”

  “Hm? Oh, I was hoping for some fish, but the seller refused to come down from his exorbitant price,” I lied.

  I can’t find you any kind of future, I should have said. I’m looking everywhere, and no one wants you. I’m beginning to see why those girls in the stories always need fairies.

  “That’s too bad,” Ella said.

  “Yes. Let’s go home.”

  The last nobleman’s son on my list was Ethan Kingsley, of the pockmarks. I trudged up the hill to the Kingsley manor, visiting more out of a sense of thoroughness than out of any actual hope. The Kingsleys were one of the oldest families in Strachey, and their home was one of those vast mansions that had a name, like Stoke Membley, or Badger’s Old Hall. I wasn’t expecting much in the way of empathy.

  “Evelyn Radcliffe!” Lady Kingsley chirped matter-of-factly as I entered her sitting room.

  “Lady Kingsley,” I began in my usual tone of deference.

  “Oh, please. Call me Francesca. Have a seat.”

  Francesca Kingsley was older than I, but despite the wrinkles on her face and neck and her thin, arthritic hands, she had a grace and elegance her younger neighbors lacked. She had foregone the middle-aged habit of shaping one’s hair into a bowl around the head, and instead wore her long gray hair piled on her head. Becoming Francesca Kingsley would not be such a bad thing, except that she’d had ten kids, which was about nine more than I could have handled—well, honestly, evidence was suggesting I couldn’t even handle one. Ethan was her youngest, the last to leave the house.

  “I do hope you’ll join me for lunch,” she said. “I won’t be offended if you don’t, as long as you’re not offended that I’m going to eat in front of you.”

  Francesca, I decided, had reached that age where she could say whatever she wanted. I graciously accepted her offer, because I was hungry, and I was immensely gratified to learn that her appetites did not run toward dainty watercress sandwiches.

  I didn’t begin my spiel right away because to be honest, I wasn’t at all sure I had a read on Francesca. However, I had to steer the conversation toward marriage somehow, and I assumed flattery was a pretty universal tactic.

  “How are—” I started but was quickly interrupted.

  “You know, I’ve always had a lot of respect for you, Evelyn.”

  Uh-oh. As conversation starters go, that one felt ominous.

  “I didn’t know you knew much of me,” I said.

  She raised an eyebrow. “This is Strachey, isn’t it?”

  I conceded the point.

  “No, I am impressed with your resilience. And it seems to me that you know exactly who you are and have never tried to be anyone else. I like that.” She took a sip of tea while I sat there, flabbergasted. “You know, I met your first husband when he was working with mine.”

  I prepared myself to listen once again to a grand eulogy for Husband #1, but that seemed to be all Francesca wanted to say on the matter. I overcame my nervous bewilderment long enough to actually make eye contact. Her raised eyebrow and tight lips suggested she had a very different opinion of my first husband than most of the nobility. I smiled to myself.

  “Anyway, my point is, I respect you too much to sit here and ask you how you are, which would be a slap in the face, or force you through the rigmarole of nudging the conversation in the right direction. I mean, really, the minute you left Glennie Quincey’s home, her smug mug was in every manor this side of the Stout practically inviting us to the wedding. Don’t see the point in playing dense.”

  I let out a little snort
-giggle, trying not to give in to hysterics over the image of Glennie Quincey preening. I didn’t know why—well, no, I knew exactly why I’d never really met Francesca. I moved in a very, very different social class.

  “And you should have seen the look on her face when she learned you went to Annalisa!” Francesca giggled and sighed. “At any rate, I’m going to be honest with you, Evelyn. I—”

  She stopped abruptly as we heard the front door shut. “Is that him? I swear I didn’t orchestrate this. Ethan?”

  Ethan Kingsley popped his head into the room. “Hi, Mum. Oh! Sorry, I didn’t realize you had company.”

  “That’s all right, dear. Come in. This is Evelyn Radcliffe. Evelyn, my son Ethan.”

  “You’re Fanchon’s mother, right? I remember she used to hang around with my older brother, before he got married. Nice to meet you.”

  He shook my hand and kissed his mother on the cheek. Cora had exaggerated the pockmarks—he’d had a few skin blemishes as a teenager, but they hadn’t left too many marks, and he had a nice smile that made up for it. His hair was dark and a bit shaggy, long enough to keep falling into his eyes. He looked as though he would have broad shoulders if he didn’t hunch them—probably a side effect of having so many older siblings.

  “What have you been up to?” Francesca asked.

  “I’ve been working on my project for school. I’m at Furnival’s Halle for Sounde Business Procedures,” he said to me. “We’ve got a big summer case study. I’ve got to advise a yarn company that’s seen all their sales drop off after expanding into a big warehouse-sized storefront. I know they need to narrow their business plan—they started selling fabric, and that was a big mistake. But I don’t know what to do with the warehouse. Their market just isn’t that big!”

  This time, the little part of me warning not to engage was even less effective.

  “Is renting the warehouse an option?” I asked.

  “I thought about that, but I’m worried they’ll get overshadowed.”

  “Not if they rent to something like a salon. Or one of those overpriced oils and perfumes vendors. After all, who buys yarn? Women who need to knit make their own. But bored noblewomen who want a hobby, they’re your target consumer. Find another place they’ll sink their disposable income.”

  Ethan’s eyes lit up. “Oh! Of course! And if I think about it like that, there are so many changes they should make to their marketing strategy. Thank you, Madam Radcliffe! I’ll go write that up. Bye, Mum.” He bowed his head to me. “Tell Fanchon I said hi.” Ethan stepped out of the room.

  “What a considerate young man,” I said after he’d left. And how well he’d get along with Ella, I thought. “Have you met my stepdaughter?”

  Francesca sighed. “That’s what I’ve got to be honest with you about, Evelyn. I know you’ve got to get both girls married, and I sympathize. And I don’t care one whit about whether someone’s an orphan or a stepchild or anything, as long as they’ve got good breeding. But I can’t let Ethan marry Ella.”

  The bluntness of her answer stung. “But … you’ve got to meet her, Francesca. They’d make a wonderful match.”

  “I know, and that’s why I’m glad he’s never met her. I’ve seen Ella, and he’d be head over heels so fast, I wouldn’t be able to talk any sense into him. You’ve got to do what’s best for your girls, but I’ve got to do what’s best for Ethan. He’s the youngest of ten, and what with dowries for the girls and inheritances for the older boys, Ethan will get next to nothing. That’s why he’s putting himself through business school. It’s a hateful thing to say, and I’m sorry I have to, but Ethan needs a match that brings just a little bit more than a good wife. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I said otherwise.”

  My reaction at first was pure fury, that she was so callous—toward other women! That she was so controlling, she wouldn’t let her son decide himself what would make him happy. But aren’t you doing the same thing? I asked myself. Wouldn’t you do the same thing, in her position? At least they’d consider Fanchon, I thought, and Ethan was conscientious enough that he would hopefully not let Ella and me starve. If only I had any ability to make Fan marry him, because it was going to take coercion.

  “On the other hand,” Francesca said, “if I remember Fanchon rightly, it might take a … change in character for Ethan to be her type.”

  I smiled wryly. That was a gentle way of putting it. “Well, I shouldn’t take up more of your time,” I said, rising to leave.

  “I apologize for being blunt, but I thought it ruder to string you along.”

  “I do appreciate honesty,” I said. She put out her hand, and I shook it.

  “Can I interest you in taking some of the extra food to the girls? My cook still prepares meals as though all the children were home.”

  I regret to admit that I wanted to tell her to stuff her charity, but the larger part of me knew that would be stupid and pointless. She’s actually trying to do something for us, I thought. And this is probably the only thing she can do that wouldn’t utterly humiliate us.

  “Well, we’d hate to be wasteful. If it would help, we’ll take it off your hands.”

  I brushed away a tear or two as I walked home with my cloth-wrapped chicken pies. Oh, come off it, Evelyn, I thought. So you’ve failed to marry Ella to a nobleman. That isn’t the end of the world. People have it much worse than you. You’re a chemist’s daughter—you know Ella could be perfectly happy with a tradesman.

  Of course, I had absolutely no idea which young men of the village were eligible, and the only things I’d get by asking were suspicious stares and vague answers. This was the part I’d been dreading. Time to involve the girls.

  “Is anyone home?”

  “Hi, Mom,” Fanchon said, lying on the sofa reading a book.

  Ella entered from the back, her gardening gloves and apron spotted with dirt. “Hello, Stepmother.”

  “Ella, I brought home some leftover pies from my luncheon. We can do something with these, right?”

  Ella nodded emphatically.

  “What kind are they?” Fan shouted. “Please don’t be kidney, please don’t be kidney …”

  “They’re chicken.”

  “Yes!”

  Ella took the package from me and went into the kitchen.

  “Who were you visiting today, Mom?”

  “Francesca Kingsley.”

  “Are you actually expecting a noblewoman to hire you? Are you asking for a loan?”

  I shrugged. “It’s always good to keep up your contacts. Women like Lady Kingsley have more influence than you think.” I paused for a length of time that I thought would make my next statement seem innocuous. “I met Ethan while I was there.”

  “Who? Oh, the youngest, right. He’s a weenie.”

  “What? He seemed very thoughtful and polite.”

  “Exactly. He’s spineless. His brothers would always josh him, and he’d never, ever fight back.”

  “Walking away from a conflict is not a bad thing. That says to me that he knows how to pick his battles.”

  “But that doesn’t impress anyone. You were impressed with him because you’re a mom. He impresses moms. But he’s never going to be anybody. He’s not going to move up anywhere. Dad would never have been successful if he’d avoided conflict. You know I’m right.”

  “I just know that it’s also nice to be around people who are considerate.”

  “Yeah? Let me know how that goes for you. Look, Mom, I’ve already thought about it, and I’m never going to marry Ethan Kingsley because he will never take me where I want to be. I want a rising star.”

  “A change in character” was putting it mildly. I left Fan to her lurid romance novel and went to find Ella.

  I found her on her neatly made bed, holding a worn rag doll and staring out the window. I knocked on her door softly. “Could we talk?” I asked.

  She nodded, so I sat down on the end of the bed.

  I very nearly asked her how she was, but that wa
s as stupid a question for her as it was for me. Might as well borrow a page from Francesca’s book and come right out with it.

  “You know, you’re getting old enough now, it’s maybe time to think about marriage.”

  She hugged her knees to her. If she could have shrunk any farther away from me, she would have. I felt too large for her delicate bedroom, and for a moment I thought I saw myself as she did—a looming giantess. What had I done? She had liked me when we first met. How had I lost her? How had I lost her so quickly?

  “It would be a good way to get you a better situation than we have here.”

  She simply stared miserably at me, so words kept tumbling out of my mouth, as if I could ease the situation by talking it to death.

  “Since you don’t really have an inheritance, it might be hard to find a nobleman who would want to make such a match. But I’m sure there are plenty of nice young men in town, I just don’t know any of them. Do you know many of the boys who work in town?”

  She nodded and shrugged.

  “Are you friends with any of them? One you have your eye on?”

  She shook her head.

  “No one? Really? I’d really like to help you make a good match, darling. A happy one.”

  She shrugged again. “Whatever you think is best, Stepmother.”

  What I think doesn’t matter, I wanted to say. You’re the one who needs to be happy. You have the whole rest of your life ahead of you, and that’s a lot of years where you’ll want to be loved and fed. Trust me. It’s a long time to be miserable—my mind stopped its rant. Well, I’ve come this far, I thought.

  The girls needed to be happy. But I didn’t.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HE WAS WHITE HAIRED and stooped, chewed with his mouth open and slurped when he swallowed. He’d made his money the old-fashioned way: inheritance. He was a widower with a son and a daughter, both older than my girls. I wore the funeral dress.

  “Tell me about your estate,” I said, pushing food around on my plate. It wasn’t very appetizing after I’d seen it chewed.

  He didn’t answer right away, but glowered at me. I blinked.