Midnight Falls: A Thrilling Retelling of Cinderella (8 page)

When he’d approached Ella the previous morning, he’d worn the skin of control and composure. He didn’t need to remind her of his power, for she saw it every day, along with everyone else. No, Thurlow needed her to see that he was strong enough to manage his intoxicating ardor. He needed her to believe that he was the gentle, caring man that she preferred. For he was …. or could be.

But the self-possession was becoming more of a facade with each passing week. He was losing control. Having her body so close to his had sent a surging rush through his veins. It was an inferno that Thurlow did not want extinguished. He wanted it spread over his body and Ella’s together. Only then would their union be consummated by the same insatiable energy that propelled Thurlow every day of his life. The same force that drove him to be more than he was; an intangible entity that threatened to destroy him should he ever choose to ignore it or compromise the vision they’d created together.

Chapter Six

“Your Uncle Peter was a womanizing scoundrel on his best days, Ella,” Marion announced, throwing piles of clothing onto Ella’s bed with overzealous grunts. “I don’t even know if he is still amongst the living. I can’t express strenuously enough my opposition to this madness!”

Ella smiled, trying to catch Marion’s discarded clothing articles. She did not take frivolously Marion’s objection to Gabriel’s plot. On the contrary. Ella, in her logical mind, doubted that so wild an idea could bear fruit in reality. But assurance was not her motivation for cooperating with Gabriel. It was not even her sincere desire to have Thurlow removed from her life that prompted her. Her true stimulus to take such risks evaded her. But the urge to please Gabriel was indeed present and Ella could not deny it. She could also never confess as much to anyone, not even her dearest friends. To do so would reveal weakness and, even worse, recognition that a man could breach her will power at all. Instead, she would exert her energy to the persuasion of those whose compliance was imperative to the plan.

“Marion, Gabriel is assuming Peter’s name, not his reputation,” Ella said, hanging a long maroon dress on a hook from her canopy. “Even if I didn’t really have an uncle, he could still pretend as much. It is not as though anyone really knows anything about my parents’ extended family.”

“Might I remind you that have a living, tangible relative named Isolda who is quite abreast of such information?”

Ella hadn’t considered her aunt before that moment. But she didn’t see the great obstacle that Marion predicted.

“Isolda and Henry met Peter for less than a second more than twenty years ago at my parents’ wedding, or so Father told me. Henry was most likely drunk and for all we know, Isolda completely ignored Peter. After all, he was just a teenager at the time, right? Remember too that Isolda was never too keen on frequenting our home when Mother was still alive and Father would never have brought such disgrace to our name by introducing Peter to anyone outside of this home.”

“I still don’t like it,” Marion grumbled.

Marguerite entered the chamber, carrying various articles and accessories in her arms. Ella recognized several of the items and they made her nostalgic for her mother. Isabella Delaquix was the most beautiful woman Ella had ever known. She was tall, regal and ageless. She was the daughter of Sir Martin and Rodmilla Summerly, the Duke and Duchess of Ebersole. Isabella’s marriage to Ella’s father was less than pleasing to her parents. Thomas Delaquix was no more than a baron’s son. He was still an aristocrat but one of lower station; too low for their daughter. The duke and duchess did everything they could to dissuade Isabella from marrying the baron’s son, but to no avail. They had not counted on their daughter’s ability to love someone irrespective of station. Such a phenomenon was foreign to Martin and Rodmilla Summerly and they both went to their deathbeds believing their daughter had settled for less than she was worth.

“I won’t lie,” Marguerite said, taking special care to place the items gently on surfaces where they would not wrinkle, “I was tempted so often to sneak out of my bed at night and try on one or two of these dresses on myself. They are one of a kind!”

“You never would have been able to squeeze into any of them,” Marion chortled. Marguerite glowered at her.

“I was going to say that myself,” Marguerite retorted. “And I could have if you ever let anyone finish a sentence!”

“This one was my favorite,” Ella said, convinced that distracting the two dueling tigresses would be advantageous for all though not nearly as comical, “Mother would wear this when she would visit the duke and duchess. It is extraordinarily beautiful for something so simple. I think that was why she chose it.”

“Of course it was,” said Marion.

“It is fun that we can pull these all out again,” Marguerite chanted, holding a silver, jeweled headpiece up to her messy hair, “now that you have an excuse to wear all of them!”

Marion sighed, louder than necessary, to reiterate her disapproval of the entire state of affairs. She found it almost a disgrace that her late friend’s fine apparel would be worn with the sole intent of enabling deception and subterfuge, even if it were Ella who would be donning the garments. Marguerite did not seem to notice.

“I don’t know why you did not start wearing these gowns long ago,” Marguerite said, too distracted to look in Ella’s direction.

“I did,” Ella stated. Marguerite’s eyes shot over to Ella.

“Why did you never show us?” she asked. Ella shrugged.

“They never fit quite right,” she replied, “a little too small here or a little too big there. They did not flatter me.”

“The story of my life,” Marguerite said with a giggle. She went back to rummaging and did not notice the look exchanged between Marion and Ella. Marion knew Ella was lying. She had indeed worn her mother’s dresses not long after Isabella had passed away. They fit her marvelously! Even Isabella herself did not radiate the splendor that Ella did when she donned the stunning apparel. But Ella would not look in the mirror. She’d taken off each dress after wearing them for only seconds, crying like a lost child the entire time. But she never stopped putting them on, one right after the other.

It broke Marion’s heart. Ella had confided in her, days later, that she could not bear to see herself in the gowns. Her mother had worn them proudly, with resplendent confidence. Ella knew she could not do the same or even try. Ella saw in her mother courage to love life and love herself. Others saw no such thing. Many did not approve of Isabella’s poise and easygoingness, believing it to be the most insufferable form of conceit. Even Isabella’s sister-in-law, Isolda, was insatiably critical. But it did not matter to Isabella. What Isolda and so many others did not know, or bother to learn, was that Isabella did not even think herself pretty until she saw her daughter for the first time and was told later that the child was her spitting image. Only then did she grow to value her appearance, though it never became more than that. Isabella truly questioned why God would allow something as fleeting and objectified as the human body to be the face of a person’s soul.

“If you will excuse me,” Ella said, leaving her mother’s items strewn on the bed, and walking toward the door, “I must see to it that Gabriel, or Peter, is settling well into his quarters. Is that quite all right?”

“As long as he is as far away from the rest of us as possible!” Marion shouted.

“He is,” Ella called out, already in the hallway.

Marguerite, as if by routine, began chiding Marion for her patronization of Ella, but Marion did not hear it. She scuttled over to Marguerite as hastily as she could and took the woman’s elbow.

“Marguerite,” Marion beseeched, startling her friend, “you have to help me dissuade Ella from taking part in this fanatical scheme. She will get hurt.”

Marguerite looked toward the door, checking that Ella had indeed departed.

“Marion,” she asserted, “try to calm down. I know your fears and they are quite justified. But this is not up to us.”

“But if we both tell her what a mistake it is, she’ll—“

“She’ll what? Denounce Gabriel and go back to hibernating here till she is an old maid? Or maybe she will go back to spending ridiculous amounts of time and energy devoted to friends who might turn around and leave her at any given moment. She is not going to do that, even for us.”

“Why can’t she see the error in her judgment?”

“Because she is excited! She has seen little excitement in her entire life, Marion.”

“Excitement, yes. But what of the danger?”

“To the young there is little difference.”

Marion took a deep breath and stepped back from Marguerite. She took a seat on the adjacent window ledge. Marguerite sat down beside her.

“My friend,” Marguerite said, warmly, “you are so afraid of losing Ella, you are closing your eyes to the truth. Ella is not so very safe here, even in her isolation. You know that heathen, Thurlow, fancies her and his harassment is getting frighteningly frequent. He is capable of hurting all of us without fear of reprisal. Gabriel may not have Ella’s happiness on his mind, but he certainly has much to lose if she is harmed. Furthermore, he wants the bastard stopped and that only benefits Ella.”

“But what if it is Gabriel who intends on hurting her, before or after his plan is over? You have not been here as long as I have. You have not seen the way that poor girl has been ogled her entire life, driven almost to shame by men and women who judge her in whatever manner most served them. The men judge her for pleasure. The women do it to relieve their envy or nullify their own self-contempt. Ella has known such arrogance her entire life. I fear she would not recognize real love if it ever did come to her.”

“Even if you are right, Marion, I don’t see Gabriel affecting her recognition of love either way.”

“But I think you are wrong. Gabriel is just one more person that does not care for Ella the way she deserves. He is using her, Marguerite. How is what he is doing all that different from what the rest of them have done?”

Marguerite bowed her head in thought. Neither woman said anything for several moments.

“Marion,” Marguerite said, almost a murmur, “as I said before, all of your fears are justified. And they are rooted in nothing but love and devotion. You must know those same roots run deep in me too.”

“Of course I do,” Marion said, frustrated she even had to confirm it.

“Well, then. Let us allow this decision that Ella has made of her own free will to flow on its own current. We will be there, as we always have been. Don’t forget, we were her original protectors. We have some fight in us left!”

Marion smiled, but only briefly as anxiety racked at her mind and heart. Marguerite touched her friend’s shoulder tenderly, then stood up and sauntered back to her original project.

“Marguerite?”

Marguerite turned.

“Do you think he will try to hurt her?” Marion asked, her eyelids heavy and her lips frowning.

“I truly don’t know. But my intuition suggests that he will not. He just needs her help.”

“No, not Gabriel,” Marion said. “I mean Thurlow.”

The color in Marguerite’s face drained as she realized her misinterpretation of Marion’s question. She felt her heart tremor. There was no point in wasting a white lie on a woman who already knew the true answer to her own question.

“I’m afraid I do, Marion.”

Bethany Armitage crossed and tucked her ankles under her knees on top of her mother’s bed. She was quiet as her twin sister modeled yet another evening gown. Bethany liked the first exhibition a great deal. It was bright yellow silk dress and it seemed to evoke a cheerfulness that Bethany did not experience often in her home. When Aislinn had spun around in the gown, it was like the room lit up in a circular glow around the flowing hem. Neither Aislinn nor Isolda seemed that taken with it. When the time was right, and Aislinn needed to rest her blessed feet, Bethany intended to try on the yellow dress for herself. It was silly to Bethany that so much pomp was being placed on an event that no one knew for sure was even going to happen. Nevertheless, she still wanted to participate in all the festivities either way. Even the idea of going to a royal ball was enough to make any girl twitterpated.

“Darling, quit dancing around and just trust your mother. Pink is not your color. The last one looked much better.”

Isolda was seated comfortably in a large, cushioned chair. She reflected on the miracle that a woman with hair as black as her own could give birth to two daughters whose hair was so rich a chestnut brown. Isolda loved Aislinn’s hair. Bethany had the same lovely color but her hair was thinner than Aislinn’s and far less amiable. Isolda had often scolded her second born (by only five minutes) that if she tended to her hair more, she could have hair like Aislinn.

“But Mother,” Aislinn whined, “pink is my favorite color!”

“Tell that to the prince when he looks right past you, child,” Isolda scolded. “Now quit arguing and try on the last one.”

“Very well,” Aislinn conceded.

“Greta,” Isolda called out to her chambermaid, “hang these dresses up carefully. My daughter does not know better than to throw them to the floor when she is finished.”