Authors: Elizabeth Townsend
Pushing back my chair, I snatched up a copper pan and started to polish it, but soon banged it down on the table. Restless, I strode to a window and stared unseeing through its distorting, diamond-shaped panes. What on earth was the matter? I wanted to avoid Mrs. Wilkins, didn’t I? She thought I was a selfish snob, didn’t she?
And she was right. Hadn’t I always treated her that way?
A maple tree over the back fence had a few yellow leaves on it, and I watched one drop and whirl to the ground. It was true. I’d been horrible. But by avoiding and ignoring her today, I was simply continuing to be horrible. I pressed my hands against my face. I didn’t want to be that way anymore, but neither did I want to go upstairs and face Mrs. Wilkins.
Archibald, who had been lying by the fire, got up, padded over to me, and looked up. I knelt down and put my arms around his neck. “Oh, Archibald, how can I do it?” His brown eyes peered at me warmly, and he gave me a quick lick on the cheek. “Yes, I know you love me. And I’d better go now, before she leaves. But how on earth am I going to say that I’m sorry?”
He gave a short bark. I sighed, then stood and scratched him behind the ears. “I suppose I’ll think of something.”
Slowly I took off my apron and tried to smooth back some wisps of my hair. I wondered for a moment if she’d even recognized me at the door, looking like a servant. Perhaps—perhaps it didn’t matter.
I tiptoed up the stairs and peeked into the hall. Voices came floating from the sitting room, Lucy’s and Gerta’s predominately. Grasping the doorknob with resolve, I pushed the door open quietly.
A noisy squabble was going on as I slipped inside. Lucy and Gerta were arguing over fabric swatches.
“So have we decided, then?” Mrs. Wilkins asked as I entered. “The violet satin for Lady Lucinda and the pink silk for Lady Gertrude?”
“Well, I think so. What do you think, girls?” Stepmama hovered over them worriedly.
“We all know that Lucy can’t wear pink,” said Gerta, sitting back on the sofa with a satisfied expression. “I can, of course, since I’m such a natural blonde.”
“Yes, I think that pink will look perfect on you, Gerta dear,” cooed Lucy. “It’s that sweet little fabric that was so modish a year ago, remember? Whereas it takes someone dashing to handle this new violet satin. It’s such a striking fabric.”
“All right, then. Good,” said Mrs. Wilkins as she rose to her feet with a sigh. “I’ll have them ready a few days before the ball, but I’ll need to see you for fittings next week.”
“I’m sure you’ll have to make adjustments,” said Gerta, pouting. “Those measurements you took couldn’t have been correct. I think your tape must have shrunk.”
“It’ll all work out in the fittings,” said Mrs. Wilkins as she packed her things away. Gerta said “Humph,” and Stepmama, catching sight of me, raised her hand weakly and said, “Ella! There you are! Could you show Mrs. Wilkins the way out? Dear Mrs. Wilkins!”
Mrs. Wilkins turned and gazed at me, then cocked her head and said, “I can find my way out myself, you know.”
“No, no, it’s no trouble.” I blushed again, opened the sitting room door, and said, “Please.”
Mrs. Wilkins preceded me into the hall. “Such a fuss,” she said. “Ah, well, I hope they enjoy themselves on the day.”
I smiled nervously. We were at the door. I reached for the latch, hesitated, then spoke.
“Godmother, I wondered—if you might come here that night—the night of the ball?”
“Come here?” My godmother turned in the doorway and a curious look flitted over her face. “I’ll be delivering the dresses before that.”
“Yes—no, I mean—” I took a deep breath and went on in a rush. “Would you pay me a visit? Otherwise, with the ball going on—I’m afraid I’ll just sit around feeling sorry for myself! But if you came—I could bake a pie, and—and perhaps you could tell me more about my mother? About when you and she were young? I—I don’t really remember her much at all.”
While I paused, a little weak in the knees, Godmother looked at me thoughtfully. Then she smiled and adjusted her cloak around her shoulders. “I should like some pie,” she said. “When shall I come?”
I felt myself go limp and spoke in a rush. “Stepmama and Lucy and Gerta aren’t leaving till eight, and I know they’ll need my help to get ready. So if you could come over a little after that?”
“That will do very well.” Suddenly she chuckled. “You don’t mean to tell me, child, that your stepmama and sisters are planning to get to the ball early? That doesn’t sound fashionable to me!”
I laughed a little hysterically. “Oh no! They’re going to their cousin’s house for supper, their cousin the duke. He’s in town, and he offered to take them to the ball in his carriage. I don’t think they’ll arrive at the palace till midnight.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” said my godmother, fastening her cloak securely. “It wouldn’t do to have
too
many people acting differently at once. I might become confused!”
I blushed and pulled open the door. “So I’ll see you then?”
“A bit after eight. Oh—” She turned as she went out the doorway, the last bits of daylight peeking around her. “What kind of pie?”
I thought of all the garden produce out in the shed. “How about pumpkin?” I said.
9
Just Like Magic
Three weeks later, I woke as usual to Archibald’s snores. The kitchen was dark, and the windows showed pale gray diamonds of light. I took a moment to shut my eyes again and stretch, then sat up, hugging my quilts around me in the morning chill. I could hear the clock ticking in the shadows, but otherwise everything was quiet. I held my breath. Nothing moved.
And then I remembered. It was the day of the ball. The ball! And I wasn’t going. For a moment I wanted to lock the kitchen door, snuggle back in bed, and stuff my fingers in my ears when my stepsisters called for help. Instead I sat up, grabbed a shawl and slippers, shuffled over to the back door, and opened it a crack.
There was a glow in the east; the cathedral tower was silhouetted against rosy clouds. Such cold, clean air! I took a few deep breaths and looked around the garden. There was the shed—I needed to get Henry to repair and paint it—and inside were pumpkins and potatoes and who knew what all else. Pumpkins. Pumpkin pie. Mrs. Wilkins would be coming tonight. I took a few more deep breaths of that cold air, squared my shoulders, and turned back inside to my work.
And so much work! There was the fire to rekindle and the lamp to light and the bread to punch down for a last rise. I had to mash the pumpkin I’d cooked the day before and mix up pumpkin muffins for the upstairs breakfast. Then I quickly rolled out a pastry crust and mixed the rest of the pumpkin with cream and eggs and honey and spices. I put on the kettle for tea. Then I got dressed.
But there was still more to do! I whisked the fragrant muffins out of the oven, whisked the pie in, poured tea, set out the butter and jam, put on a nice apron, and carried the steaming breakfast tray up to Stepmama, Lucy, and Gerta. As I made up her fire, Stepmama dabbled at the butter and moaned, “How I shall get through this day I do not know! How I miss Marie!” She took her cup of tea with a trembling hand and sipped woefully.
“We’ll get through it,” I said, plumping up her flattened feather pillows. “Just think how you’ll enjoy the ball!”
“It’s all for the girls!” She shook her head and gloomily took a large bite of muffin. I lugged the tray into Lucy’s room. “Breakfast,” I said, setting her plate on her little table. She stirred and stretched and poked her head out from under the blankets, then squinted and made an unpleasant face at the light from the window.
“Tonight’s the ball,” I said.
She stopped in mid-squint and opened her eyes. “My bath!” she said, waving her hand regally.
“Yes, Your Ladyship,” I replied, doing my best impression of a pert fourteen-year-old housemaid and helping Lucy into her robe as she sat up. But she didn’t even notice; she stared into space, picked up her teacup, and sipped distractedly.
“I shan’t want my hair curled until this evening,” she said, and waved her hand again. I bobbed a curtsey and took the tray in to Gerta.
Gerta was gently snoring. “It’s a beautiful day,” I said as I set down the tray and pulled open her curtains. She snorted, groaned, and turned over. “And tonight’s the ball!” I added. A half snort. Then she turned over again and blinked at me.
“The ball? The ball’s tonight!” Struggling, she sat up, pulled a shawl about her shoulders, and smirked. “Isn’t it a pity you’re not going,” she added airily, then took a bite of muffin and nearly choked. I pounded her on the back, gave her her tea, and escaped, but not before she had made me promise to iron her cloak, curl her hair, and find her hand-painted pearl and ivory fan.
And so went the morning. Drawing baths, carrying towels, inspecting gowns, soothing tempers, taking Mon Petit for a short walk, being called back inside by Lucy’s imperious shriek from her window (“Ella! Where are my gloves? Oh, here they are. EEEEK! There’s a MOUSE!!!”), calling in Archibald to chase the mouse (more shrieking, and an overturned chair, but the mouse disappeared), cleaning the gloves, peering into shoes to check for more mice, and somehow not forgetting to get my pie out of the oven and the bread in, besides making lunch which no one wanted because of excitement and wanting to fit into their ball dresses. Archibald and I had quite a feast.
But that was only the morning! Stepmama insisted that they take naps in the afternoon (“a little beauty sleep, dears”), but Gerta declared she couldn’t sleep without first finding her fan (which I hadn’t been able to locate). Lucy yawned. Gerta’s face turned red. “I know you have it!” she burst out, pointing a chubby finger at Lucy’s face.
“What? Oh, that fan? Oh, yes, I remember now, I did borrow it for the Earl of Everett’s masquerade. One of the ivory bits snapped. Such shoddy work!”
Gerta’s pale blue eyes flashed. “I’ll tell Mama!”
“Don’t bother Mama!” Lucy snapped. “Here, baby, use this.” She slapped a little silver and lace fan into Gerta’s hand.
“It won’t match my dress nearly as well,” said Gerta sulkily, holding the fan at arm’s length. “Haven’t you got a gold one?”
Then came the naps, but they didn’t last long. Neither Lucy nor Gerta slept. Lucy was the first to get up, and she sat at her dressing table for almost an hour buffing her nails. Gerta found me and wanted me to curl her hair. Stepmama said it was too early for that. Gerta didn’t agree, so I curled her hair and pinned it up, and all the rest of the afternoon Gerta shrieked if anyone got too near her head.
And all the last minute ironing, brushing, curling, and polishing! Stepmama reclining in the sitting room with a cold compress on her forehead, Mon Petit on her lap, and the shades drawn! Lucy, dressed in her new dashing violet ball gown, strolling along the hall with lowered eyelids and a self-satisfied smirk, glancing in the mirror every time she passed it! Gerta sneaking down to the kitchen in her petticoats, eating four pumpkin muffins and explaining, when I came in from the garden and caught her at it, “Mama always said we were to eat before going to balls!”
But at last all the laces were tied, all the feathers adjusted, all the scent lavishly sprayed. All that was left was to wait impatiently in the sitting room, peer out the windows, and primp for the last time. “Ella! Where’s my reticule?” “Ella, adjust my headdress!” “Ella! Keep that dog away!” (That referred to Mon Petit. Archibald was digging in the back yard.) It was a great relief to all when the duke’s carriage arrived to take them to supper.
As they drove away, Lucy’s querulous voice overpowering even the horses’ hooves, I leaned against the doorframe with a sigh and pushed a wisp of hair out of my eyes. Finally, peace. I shut the door and slipped downstairs into the kitchen.
As I put the kettle on the fire, there was a scratching and whining at the back door. I opened it, and Archibald traipsed in, toenails clicking. “Silly dog,” I said, sitting down in the rocker and feeding him a pumpkin muffin, which he ate noisily, then sniffed around the fireplace before turning about and collapsing on his bedraggled rug. “Such a silly one,” I added, leaning down and stroking his tangled ears, “but thank goodness I don’t have to do your hair for the ball!”
A knocking sounded at the back door, and a voice: “Ella?”
I jumped up and let Mrs. Wilkins in. She looked windblown but cheerful, clutching a lamp in one hand and a large parcel in the other. “All gone?” she asked.
“Yes.” I said, taking her cloak and hanging it on a peg by the door.
“Whew!” Then before I could say anything else, she set down the lamp and parcel, inspected the kettle, and said firmly, “You sit!”
I protested a little, but she was already cutting the pie. “Sit!” she repeated.
I sat. It felt good. Godmother brought us each a piece of pie and some steaming tea, drew up another chair to the table, and sank into it with a sigh. “So,” she said, spearing a bite of pie, “tell me how your stepsisters looked.”
I considered. “Very fashionable, but agitated. I think they were both nervous.”