Christmas Cinderellas

by Sophia James

  ‘You did that on purpose!’ Great-Aunt Violet’s face contorted with rage. ‘I watched you throw it!’

  ‘I tripped on the rug.’ The other woman shrugged, unrepentant. ‘It was an accident.’

  About as much of an accident as the uncharacteristic glass of wine her aunt had insisted on drinking to calm her nerves this evening, when she rarely drank at all. She’d planned this. For the first time in her life Eliza had been genuinely looking forward to attending a ball, and her spiteful aunt had ruined it.

  Unable to form words, because she couldn’t breathe, she stared at the damning stain in shock.

  ‘Hurry and put something else on, Eliza. We don’t want to be late.’

  The smugness in Aunt Penelope’s voice confirmed her suspicion. Slowly she lifted her eyes from the devastation to stare at her, undecided whether to launch at the witch like a banshee or cry.

  ‘She doesn’t have anything else and you know it!’ Great-Aunt Violet went on the rampage for her, practically spitting in the other woman’s face. ‘Of all the mean-spirited, dirty, jealous, disgustingly low things to do, Penelope! How could you?’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Auntie. It’s not as if it matters. It wasn’t much of a gown in the first place and Eliza can wear anything—nobody ever notices a companion.’

  ‘He noticed her. That is what this is about, isn’t it? Do you seriously think that by sabotaging Eliza the Duke might switch his allegiance to your daughter?’

  ‘I do not like what you are implying, Aunt, but I am not going to spoil my evening by arguing with you.’

  Penelope wrestled her hands into evening gloves, checked the position of the laurel crown which matched her pristine trailing silk toga costume, just to rub salt into the wound, then idly flicked one silk-clad wrist in Eliza’s direction.

  ‘It’s only a bit of wine. I’m sure one of the maids will be able to get it out. If that fails, feel free to borrow something of Honoria’s. You don’t mind, do you, Honoria?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Her faerie-themed cousin, complete with protruding translucent wings, smiled, her gaze quickly taking in the size of Eliza compared to her, troubled in case she was wrong in her assumption that absolutely nothing she had in her overstuffed trunk would fit.

  She looked distraught when she finally managed to work it out. ‘My pink gown might do. It’s a little bit long for me.’

  In forlorn desperation, Eliza dabbed ineffectually at the enormous stain with her handkerchief, praying for a miracle even when she already knew nothing short of an act of God himself could save her poor dress.

  ‘That is very kind of you, Honoria.’ She would not lower herself to sniping at the poor girl in her frustration, any more than she would give her cruel aunt the satisfaction of seeing how much her malicious actions had hurt her. None of this was Honoria’s doing and the child meant well. ‘I shall give it a try.’

  Bravely, she forced herself to smile past the lump in her throat. Aside from the fact that the gaudy cerise colour of her cousin’s most capacious gown really would not suit her at all, even if the garment was too long for Honoria, it would be a good six inches too short for her—and probably a good ten inches too narrow. She and her petite cousin were cut from different cloth in every sense of the word.

  ‘There—a solution has been found.’ Aunt Penelope’s eyes were cold as they stared back at her triumphantly. ‘Eliza will change and we will see her shortly downstairs. In the meantime, we cannot leave Their Graces waiting. As honoured house guests, it would be very poor form for us all to arrive late.’ She strode to the door. ‘Come, Honoria!’

  ‘I would rather wait for Eliza, Mama.’ Incapable of artifice of any sort, her cousin rushed to her side. ‘I am sure Their Graces will forgive us any tardiness under the circumstances...’

  Pride had Eliza smiling brightly, ridiculously glad that her papier-mâché mask hid the sudden tears swimming in her eyes. ‘It’s all right, dearest. I shall be down as soon as I can.’ The quicker they were gone, the quicker she could mourn the death of her silly dreams about tonight. ‘You go. Have fun.’

  ‘But what if my pink gown doesn’t fit you?’

  They all knew it wouldn’t. Like reality returning with a bang, it was a foregone conclusion.

  ‘Eliza is a resourceful girl. I am sure she can sort it out to everyone’s satisfaction without us getting in the way. Are you coming, Aunt? I would hate you to miss out on one of the chairs.’ She shrugged when Great-Aunt Violet violently shook her head and glared at her through narrowed eyes. ‘See you downstairs.’

  The decisive click of the door closing as they left sounded like a death knell. That was it, then. Eliza would never discover if the Duke had actually intended to kiss her in the carriage. She had been sure he had wanted to, she’d felt it overwhelmingly in her heart. Until she’d spoiled the magical moment by losing complete control of the carriage and the precious, poignant moment had been lost.

  Stupidly, she had been too embarrassed to broach the subject last night. But, after lying awake for hours chastising herself for her cowardice, she had tried repeatedly all day to catch him alone and pluck up the courage to ask him about those strangely loaded moments last night as the snow had begun to fall. But there were too many other ladies clamouring for his attention. Not to mention Aunt Penelope, who had stuck to her like glue.

  Had her snooty aunt seen her longing glances? If she had, she must have also caught him staring back at her. Their shared smiles... Was she reading too much into them too? But Great-Aunt Violet was convinced Marcus had singled her out for special attention and, whether it was vain or not to think it, something told her that her new, complicated and giddy feelings for him were reciprocated.

  The masquerade was her last chance to find out, and now that was gone she would likely never know. In the circles she walked in, she would never collide with the Duke.

  ‘I’ll fetch a maid.’ She felt Great-Aunt Violet’s arm come about her slumped shoulders. ‘Perhaps she’ll be able to get the stain out. A quick rinse and an iron and it might look as good as new.’

  ‘We both know that’s hopeless. The dress is ruined.’

  ‘Then we’ll find another dress, Eliza! A better one! There are enough gals at this soiree—surely one of them must be your size?’

  They both also knew those same gals would be as ruthless as Aunt Penelope in doing all they could to keep Eliza out of the equation tonight. As far as they were concerned she had dominated more of his time these past few days than a lowly lady’s companion ought to, and they would have no sympathy for her plight. She couldn’t walk past any gaggle of girls without feeling their hostility. All day it had been positively palpable.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Really,’ she said, even though it did.

  Pragmatically, she reluctantly acknowledged that this was doubtless for the best. Especially when she was destined to be disappointed by it all in the long run.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for a chance to finish Don Quixote.’

  With decisive fingers, she undid her mask and tossed it on the dresser. It was hardly as if she had seriously expected Marcus to pay her special attention tonight, when he was technically the host and she was still very much just a lady’s companion and a bookkeeper’s daughter. If she’d gone to the ball, they might have exchanged a few pleasantries in the crush, but ultimately she would have ended up wandering back to the tiny room next to this one, feeling miserable that nothing had come of her silly daydreams after watching him dance with young lady after young lady.

  And even if he had paid her special attention, then what? He would only have wanted an oasis of undeferential conversation to keep him sane for the duration of this house party. She had witnessed first-hand how difficult he found it all and could hardly blame him for seeking sanctuary from all the madness. To assume, to dream he wanted anything beyond that was as fa
nciful as a child’s fairy tale, and Eliza was not prone to flights of fancy—not when in truth he would likely wave her off with all the others tomorrow without so much as a backward glance.

  This way was for the best. Harder, certainly braver, but the sooner she accepted what might have been had never really been a possibility in the first place, the better and the quicker she would get over it.

  ‘I might even ask for a bath to be drawn and make the most of the peace.’ Then she could weep to her heart’s content and lick her foolish wounds in private.

  ‘Out of the question!’ Great-Aunt Violet stomped to the door, then wagged her finger decisively. ‘You are due an adventure! Do not get in the bath! If it is the last thing I do on this earth, I will find you a dress, missy, and you shall go to the ball!’

  Alone at last, and feeling entirely deflated, Eliza slipped through the connecting door to her room. A room which screamed of her status as companion. It was small and neat, with the minimum of fuss, and close enough to her mistress to be at her beck and call. Then, still hopelessly stained and feeling wretched, she lowered herself to lie on the mattress. She stared dejectedly at the ceiling, trying not to listen wistfully to the strains of the orchestra wafting from the floor below and wondering what might have been regardless...

  ‘Miss Harkstead?’ The light tap seemed to come from behind the panelling rather than from the door. ‘Can I come in?’

  Before she could answer, a hitherto unnoticed secret door in said panelling swung open to reveal, of all people, the Duchess of Manningtree.

  ‘Lady Trumble said you’d had a bit of a mishap.’ She smiled kindly as she stared at Eliza’s ruined dress. ‘But now I see it’s not so much a mishap—more an outright catastrophe.’

  It had taken her almost half an hour to talk herself into a state of calm acceptance and to suppress the tears, yet apparently just one mention of her ruined gown could bring them all flooding back. As wiping them away and showing her pain to the Duchess was out of the question, she tried not blinking instead, in the hope they would not fall.

  ‘A famine is a catastrophe, Your Grace, not missing a ball.’

  ‘Oh, pish!’ She waved that away. ‘You will not miss the ball, dear. Because I have come here expressly to rescue you.’ She held out her hand and pulled Eliza to stand, then eyed her dark curls thoughtfully. ‘It is as I thought...we are more or less the same height. I’ll concede I have a bit more padding nowadays, but back in the day I was as slim as you—which is most fortuitous, for I am bound to have something suitable you can wear.’

  ‘Really...you do not need to go to any trouble...’

  ‘Oh, I do, my dear! I absolutely do! It is Christmas, and if ever a miracle is going to happen it is now. Come.’ Still holding her hand tightly, she dragged Eliza through the hidden door before she could argue otherwise. ‘Let us seize the day!’

  Too stunned by the bizarre turn of events to know what to think, she obediently followed. The world behind the panelling was astounding. As they sped along, a warren of identical narrow passageways veered off in every direction.

  ‘It is like a maze, Your Grace. So confusing...’

  ‘It is—but you get used to it. After thirty years, I think I’ve finally memorised the route of most of them. The Third Duke of Manningtree had them built into the structure as the house was built. He hid priests during Queen Elizabeth’s reign, by all account, or so my husband told me.’

  They came to a sudden halt at the end of one long lit corridor and the Duchess briskly opened the door. Behind it was the most sumptuous bedchamber Eliza had ever seen.

  ‘It comes in very handy when you need to save time, rather than traipsing along all the official hallways, or want to avoid people. It is especially good for avoiding people.’ She strode straight to an enormous oak wardrobe. ‘Now... Let’s find you a nice dress...’

  She almost disappeared as she rummaged through the shelves, then emerged with a heavy garment wrapped in a long garment bag made of calico which she lovingly laid out on the velvet comforter on an enormous carved and canopied bed.

  ‘This one should be perfect!’

  As the gown emerged from the bag, Eliza sucked in a breath. Even in the dim lamplight of the Duchess’s bedchamber the pale sapphire silk shimmered. Yards and yards of fabric emerged, full skirts and sleeves exquisitely embroidered with bold peacocks, their intricately iridescent tails fanned out on glimmering shafts of golden thread.

  ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’

  ‘Stunning...’

  Eliza had never seen anything so fine. The way the fabric moved was like water, and the lace on the fluted elbow-length sleeves was as delicate and sparkling as a spider’s web kissed with dew.

  ‘My dear papa was a merchant who specialised in importing silks from the Orient. When he discovered this fabric he bought it for me, because he knew I loved blue. My mother’s modiste turned it into this magnificent gown, which I wore to my first ever masquerade. Oh... I was so excited—and this dress made me feel like a princess...’

  She sighed at the memory for a moment, then snapped back to efficiency and business in the blink of an eye.

  ‘It’s a sack-back—or if you want to be fancy a robe à la française—they were the height of fashion and sophistication when I was a girl. I did feel very daring wearing it. I suppose the style is a bit dated now—but not for a masquerade. It will take the two of us to put you in it, though, as sack-backs are not the easiest things to put on...what with the panniers and stomachers and all the complicated hidden laces. But, oh, my goodness...’ The Duchess reached out and cupped her cheek, beaming. ‘It will look wonderful on you.’

  Chapter Ten

  Marcus scanned the ballroom frantically from his prime spot in a raised alcove for at least the fiftieth time in as many minutes, but there was still no sight of her, despite the presence of both Lady Broadstairs and Lady Trumble.

  Thanks to the majority of those present having embraced his mother’s masquerade theme to the full, finding anyone in the sea of ostentatious costumes and exuberant masks was near impossible. Added to that were the plethora of giant mistletoe balls, mere feet above their heads, hanging from the vaulted ceiling on long strips of scarlet ribbon.

  He couldn’t think where she had got to and was starting to fear she was not going to come at all.

  ‘Still no luck?’

  Like Gibson the butler, Julius had been dispatched to assist with the search—which meant they were both being remiss in their duties as hosts by flatly ignoring all the other guests.

  Marcus didn’t care if he was being rude. He didn’t have any interest in the simpering and fawning—especially not tonight—and had stomached about as much of that nonsense as he could take.

  ‘No.’

  Even sending Gibson up to her room had proved fruitless. That room, as well as Lady Trumble’s, and the library where they had first met, had been depressingly empty.

  ‘I have no clue where she could possibly be.’

  Time was running out so fast. They had already missed the first waltz, and if she failed to appear soon they were doomed to miss the second at midnight.

  ‘Something must have happened.’

  Or else he was reading far too much into their fledgling relationship. That was a distinct possibility. Just because he was completely smitten, it did not mean she was. Worse, it was quite possible she might be entirely ambivalent to him, as she was to society gatherings in general, and had chosen Don Quixote over the ball.

  With Eliza, his being a duke was more to his detriment than a bonus. She was not impressed by rank and there was every chance his had put her off. She preferred bookkeepers.

  ‘I might just check the library once again.’

  ‘Allow me,’ said Julius. ‘You’re more likely to spot her in this crush than I am.’

  No sooner had his brother left his s
ide than Lady Broadstairs replaced him, with her daughter in tow. ‘Your Grace, you have clean forgot to add your name to Honoria’s dance card and I would hate for you to miss your chance. It’s practically full.’ She thrust the card and the pencil at him. ‘But she has saved you the next waltz.’

  He stared at the outstretched card with disgust. ‘I’m afraid I am already engaged for the waltz.’

  Until the first bars were played he would cling on to hope.

  ‘The cotillion, then? Which is next, if I am not mistaken...’

  All of a sudden the atmosphere in the heaving ballroom seemed to shift, and he sensed her even before he turned around. When he did, it was as if all the crowds and chaos disappeared, evaporating like magical puffs of smoke as his eyes locked on hers.

  Not caring if he was making his intentions or his feelings obvious, he ploughed through the swirling couples on the dance floor to get to her. Later, he would liken Eliza’s pull on his heart to a Siren’s call. Completely impossible to ignore.

  He didn’t notice his mother smiling next to her. Nor his brother close behind. All he could see was her. In a magnificent gown of vivid shimmering cobalt, her dark curls piled loosely on her head and falling artfully about her shoulders, her lovely eyes sparkling behind an exotically feathered mask, she was smiling just for him. A beautiful blue beacon in an ocean of mundane brown.

  As he came nearer she dipped into an exaggerated curtsy, those same eyes dancing with mischief as they held his through the sooty fan of her ridiculously long eyelashes.

  ‘Your Grace.’

  He took her hand to help her up and didn’t let go. ‘You solemnly promised never to call me that, Eliza.’

  ‘And there I was, thinking I was incognito...completely disguised. I wanted to be a mystery for once.’

  ‘I would recognise you anywhere.’ Her hand felt so very good in his. Perfect, in fact. ‘What kept you?’