Just Like Magic

Just Like Magic

by

Elizabeth Townsend

Copyright © 2012 by Elizabeth Townsend

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, or recording—without the prior written permission of the author. The only exception is brief quotations in reviews. For more information, visit www.justlikemagic1.blogspot.com.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or localities is entirely coincidental.

Designed by Elizabeth Townsend.

First ebook edition, July 2013

To Charles Perrault

and all the other storytellers over the years

who have told Cinderella’s tale

throughout the world

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 – A Dark Descent

Chapter 2 – Dishes and Dogs

Chapter 3 – Roast Beef and Ashes

Chapter 4 – The Season of Madness

Chapter 5 – Lower and Lower

Chapter 6 – A Visit to Little Owlthorpe

Chapter 7 – Cinders for Ella

Chapter 8 – Two Invitations

Chapter 9 – Just Like Magic

Chapter 10 – At the Ball

Chapter 11 – Slipper, Slipper

Chapter 12 – Who's Got the Slipper?

Chapter 13 – In the Library

Chapter 14 – Happily Ever After

Acknowledgments

About the Author

1

A Dark Descent

Why, oh why, weren't the servants here yet?

As I stood frowning in the hallway, brushing cobwebs off my long skirt, I could hear the coachman and wagon driver hollering back and forth as they unloaded my family’s trunks, boxes, and barrels.

“Hey, you! Make yourself useful. Go in and get that kitchen door open!” called the coachman.

“Right!” The scruffy wagon driver trudged past me down the hall, tried a few doors, then called, “Down here, mister!”

“Then come and give me a hand!”

I stepped aside quickly as they marched past me with a trunk—heavy, brassbound, and—familiar? Looking more closely, I cried, “Wait! What are you doing?”

They paused, and the coachman growled, “Yes, miss?”

“That’s my trunk! It goes upstairs, not down!”

The coachman groaned and slowly set my trunk down. “The young lady told me particular, miss, this one was for the kitchen.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! What young lady?”

“The one givin’ orders when we loaded.” He waved through the open doorway. “Kitchen’s down there, miss. Smell the onions? Here we go now—” He and the wagon driver hoisted my trunk back up and creaked down into the depths.

“Bring that back! I told you—”

“Sorry, miss, I got my orders!” His voice echoed up the stairway.

Who would have told him that? My stepsister Lucy, of course. This must be another one of her insults, like sending me ahead with most of the luggage. As I stood frowning, I heard another voice from the open door say, “Ella!”

I turned, surprised, and forgot about Lucy in my joy at seeing a familiar face. “Anna! Is that really you? I thought you were still on the island!” I hadn’t seen my best friend and former neighbor, Anna Cameron, since her father had been appointed acting governor of the tiny island of Moretti Major nearly two years ago. I flew down the hall to where she stood with her maid.

Anna gave me a warm hug. “It’s so wonderful to see you! We just got into town a few days ago. We haven’t even been home to Little Owlthorpe yet.”

“Oh, it’s good to see you, too!” She looked taller. More lively. But her shy smile and curly brown hair were just the same.

Her smile disappeared for a moment. “I know you received my letter about your father, Ella, but I just want to say again how sorry I was to hear about—about his passing, and everything.”

Everything. Yes, there had been a lot of everything. My smile faded, but I nodded my thanks and changed the subject. “So you’re here in Kingston for the Season?”

“Oh, yes. Papa’s been giving all sorts of reports to the King’s Council, and Mama’s been house-hunting.”

“Any luck?”

“Yes, this morning. It’s on Fortner Crescent, on the other side of the palace. I’ll be so glad to finally unpack and be living somewhere permanent, instead of on a boat or in a hotel, like for the last month!”

“I can imagine. But how did you find out where we were?”

“Mrs. Wilkins told us. Mama was ordering some dresses from her, and she gave us all the news.”

I winced. Mrs. Wilkins was my godmother. My parents had asked her to be my godmother when I was christened as a baby; she had been my mother’s best friend. But how many other young ladies about to make their debut into society had godmothers who were dressmakers? None, that’s how many. Other young ladies had godmothers who were titled, or the wives of King’s Counselors, or—

Anna was looking around. “How big is the house? What are the rooms like?”

“I only arrived a few minutes ago. The main impression I’ve received is that it needs a good cleaning.”

“I’m sure the servants will take care of that when they arrive. It looks like the house has been closed up for a while.”

“But why didn’t Lucy send the housemaid earlier?” I sighed and tried a door off the hallway as the coachman sidled past us balancing three boxes.

“What’s that, the sitting room?” asked Anna, peering over my shoulder as I glanced inside.

Grey shadows filled the room. One shaft of daylight slipped between the heavy burgundy drapes, catching thousands of dust motes. I sneezed. Across the patterned carpet stood the furniture we had rented with the house: heavy, dust-sheeted chairs and divans. Gilt-framed paintings of someone else’s ancestors looked at me silently through the gloom.

“Now, look at this mess,” I said, gesturing around the room. “Can you imagine Lucy and Gerta in here?”

“The duke’s daughters? No,” Anna giggled. “I doubt if they know what dust is.”

“And they’ll be here in half an hour.”

We wandered back into the hall, narrowly avoiding being run over by the coachman rolling a barrel, and soon explored the rest of the floor: grand stairs leading upwards from the front entryway; a dining room behind the sitting room, with its chandelier tied up in a cloth; and from the far end of the hall, the onion-redolent narrow stairs leading downward to the kitchen, now home of my trunk. I shut that door sharply and we headed upstairs.

At the top, three doors led from the landing, one to the front and two to the back. Anna and I tried a back door first. It led into a small bedchamber with a bed, dresser, and pink-flowered carpet. Stepping to the window, I pulled aside dusty pink velvet drapes and looked out to a view of the cathedral spire and palace towers against a background of mountains.

“What a lovely view,” said Anna, peering over my shoulder and rubbing at the window with a gloved finger. “Our new house is just over there—past the palace, on the left. Not too far, thank goodness.”

“Thank goodness.” I prowled back onto the landing. “Are there only two other bedchambers? This house certainly doesn’t have much room.”

“But Queen’s Way is a very good address, Mama says.”

“Wonderful! A fashionable address, but only three bedchambers for four people. And Lucy will probably make me share with Gerta. Though how anyone could share in these tiny rooms—”

“Oh, she couldn’t. Could she? I mean, you don’t really get along. But then, neither do Gerta and Lucy.”

“No, they don’t, and can you picture Lucy sharing with anyone?”

“No, but—but they’re sisters!”

“Of course they are, but you know how much they despise me. Ever since we first met.”

“I remember. It seems like a long time ago.”

“Forever ago!”

But it had been only six years ago that Papa had assured me that I would love my new stepmama, Her Grace the Dowager Duchess of Derham, and her two charming daughters. “Ella, my dear! Isn’t this splendid?”

No, it wasn’t, but Papa never quite understood that. He had been so happy to marry the widow of a duke and gain entrance into the highest society. But for six years, I had had to bear the snubs of my stepsisters, who had never forgiven their mother for marrying a common tradesman.

But though he was common, Papa had been undeniably rich. And how fond Lucy and Gerta had become of spending his money, all the while calling him “the merchant” in despising tones behind his back. For of course no one of fashion or title would sully his hands earning money like Papa had. And me, the merchant’s daughter, they tolerated in public and ignored in private. I was a nobody. Heavens, my mother had been born on a farm, had worked as a cook. My cheeks had burned when they spoke of such things, for I never thought of them myself. Mama had died when I was only six, and I remembered her as a beautifully dressed lady, not a peasant farm girl. And wasn’t our home the finest in the county? Hadn’t I attended Miss Edgewood’s Select School for Girls along with daughters of the nobility?

But Lucy and Gerta, by looks, avoidance, and the occasional snide whisper, never let me forget my unfashionable beginnings.

Anna and I started to look into the front bedchamber but were interrupted by the coachman.

“Miss? We’re done.”

I hurried down the stairs to where he waited by the front door. “Thank you,” I said, giving him a coin from my reticule, and he tipped his cap, trudged down the front steps, and drove away, the empty carriage rattling over the cobbles and the wagon following after.

I wandered again into the sitting room, where Anna had pulled open one of the drapes.

“It’s a pretty room,” she was saying. “You could certainly entertain here—not a ball, of course—”

I looked around again. Behind all the cobwebs, it was a fine, high-ceilinged room with delicate wallpaper and a white marble mantelpiece. Once the furniture was unsheeted and polished, the room aired, the cleaning done— “Yes,” I said. “This house might be presentable. A select evening party, for my debut.”

“And Gerta’s, too.”

“Well, yes.” Gerta was a year older than me, but her last year’s debut had been postponed by Papa’s death. “I don’t think she’s yet forgiven Papa for dying when he did,” I added, kicking at a clump of dust.

“Oh, Ella!”

“It’s true. And I do wish I could have debuted by myself this year. But I don’t intend to let her spoil anything.”

No, no one and nothing would spoil my debut! Being introduced to society, going to parties, being presented at the palace—it had been Papa’s dream for me ever since I was a little girl. How often he had spoken about me taking my place in fine society! How we had both looked forward to it, and how proud he would have been!

And now he would never see it.

I stared blankly through the streaked windows. There would be no Papa to talk to or share the triumphs of my first Season in society, for during a dark, gusty February storm last year, three of my father’s cargo-filled ships had been driven onto the rocks and sunk. Perhaps in the past he could have survived that loss, but my stepfamily’s extravagant purchases had already put him into debt. Financial ruin had followed, and his stroke, and death. Death! My hands still clenched when I thought of it.

We had dressed in mourning for a year, which meant there had been no parties for us, only more and more bad news from Papa’s steward and lawyers. Stepmama emerged from endless meetings with tears and plaintive moans of “Ruined! How could it be? How shall I live without my maid?” In the end Stepmama had taken to bed entirely, and Lucy had dealt with the lawyers. Gerta had merely sulked.