Just Like Magic (9 page)

“A pity,” said Lucy, aiming another venomous glance at me before attacking her egg.

But worse, somehow, than their plans for dressing me like a scullery maid were their lively conversations about the balls, parties, and picnics that they were attending. For it was September now, and the Little Season had begun.

Gerta described an evening party at the Countess of Clatham’s. “Boats on the lake, you know, and lanterns in the trees! Of course it was horrid damp, but the gentlemen were so attentive—”

“You mean Viscount Allen asking you to dance?” Lucy interrupted. “He could hardly refuse after you bumped into him like that!”

“It was an accident!”

“No, your real conquest, I think, is that lieutenant. The big one with hair like a haystack that you met at the Duke of Reynham’s. He danced with you twice, didn’t he? And how many times did he step on your feet?”

“Well, what about you? Dancing with the Minister of Finance! He must be eighty-two!”

“At least I wasn’t wearing a headdress like a feather duster!”

“I’ll have you know my plumes were greatly admired!”

“Then there must have been a bird fancier’s club at the party!”

Another day Lucy went on and on about a musical soirée. “Simply everyone was there. Her Royal Highness noticed me, of course. She was wearing mauve silk, and I must say my pale green set hers off to great advantage.”

Gerta yawned. “It’s a pity it didn’t set
you
off to great advantage. And that pianist! I thought he’d never stop. He nearly put me to sleep.”

“My dear! You have no taste! That was the divine Ferrini!”

“He must have been divine, the way you kept saying ‘I
pray
you, Signor Ferrini’ all evening.”

“I beg your pardon! I merely wanted to discuss technique.” She simpered. “Viscountess Feldon has asked me to play at her little party next week.”

“Not another musicale!”

“What, doesn’t your lieutenant like music? Afraid you’ll miss him?”

Gerta threw a pillow at her.

All in all, it wasn’t easy to listen to. If I had gone, I would have enjoyed it! I wouldn’t have spent my time being bored or looking for things to criticize. Just to go to one ball, or party—I could still dream, couldn’t I?

But it got worse. Prince Gregory’s ball was getting closer. Lucy found out the exact date and time from Princess Seraphine a day before it was announced and was unbearably smug for a week. Wednesday, October twenty-eighth, the prince’s birthday, was the date set, and my heart couldn’t help beating faster when I first heard it, although I continued to tell myself I had absolutely no chance of going. Positively none.

Then why did I still catch myself looking over our back fence toward the palace? Why did I find my mind slipping back into all my old daydreams as I washed dishes and swept the floor? I knew it would never happen, I knew it, but—

Day by day, Henry got the inside news from the palace via Lottie. In the mornings, when the dishes were done, if Henry was out working in the garden, I couldn’t help going outside and listening to him. Preparations at the palace were ongoing and apparently staggering. Menus had been planned, baking had begun, and wagons were unloading more supplies every day: barrels of Veronian wine, crates of exotic fruits from the islands, and huge chunks of ice from the mountains, packed in straw.

And my dreams wouldn’t die. While scrubbing the dishes, I would find myself imagining that this time Stepmama would have the final word and say “yes.” Somehow I could get a new dress or even an old dress of Gerta’s. Perhaps, perhaps on that special night I would find myself at the palace, dancing in the arms of— 

Wake up, Ella!
I would then tell myself furiously.
Don’t get your hopes up! You’ll spend that night at home, banking the fire and starting the bread dough as usual.
And I’d plunge my hands back into the dishwater and scrub the dishes till my hands were red and wrinkled.

One afternoon, just as I had finished the dishes and was hanging the dishcloth near the fire, a formal rapping sounded on the front door, and the servant’s bell jangled in the kitchen.

I hurried up the kitchen stairs, wiping my hands on my apron, and yanked open the door. Standing on the step was a tall man in red and gold livery. Removing his hat, he said, “I have a message for the Dowager Duchess of Derham, if you please.”

Behind me I heard a gasp. Gerta had come into the hall and squealed, “It’s the Royal Footman! Mama, our invitation—it’s here!”

8

Two Invitations

The Royal Footman bowed deeply, and Stepmama, in her haste to reach the door, nearly tripped over Mon Petit, who was scurrying around her feet, busily waving his plumed tail.

“Your Grace?”

“Yes! Yes, that is me—I—myself—I mean, won’t you come in?”

The footman bowed again. “I thank you, Your Grace, but I must finish delivering the Royal Invitations.”

“I knew it!” shrieked Gerta.

“Hush!” hissed Lucy.

“Invitation, how charming!” babbled my stepmother, grasping at the creamy envelope the footman extended toward her. “I—you must convey to the king how pleased we are—how honored—”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” And the footman bowed again and was gone.

“Perhaps I should have offered him some tea?” Stepmama looked blankly out the door after him.

“Shut the door, Mama! We want to see the invitation!” Gerta was bouncing with excitement. Lucy was acting bored and sophisticated, but I noticed it was her fingers that twitched the envelope out of Stepmama’s fingers. She then opened it maddeningly slowly, glaring at Gerta, who was bobbing at her shoulder to get a look.

“Now, girls!” said Stepmama, feebly trying to retrieve the invitation herself.

“I’ll read it aloud,” said Lucy, holding it away from everyone else. “If you would give me enough room!”

Gerta, scowling, allowed her mother to lead her away. Lucy strolled into the sitting room, read the invitation to herself, and frowned as Gerta whined, “Mama! She’s delaying on purpose!”

“Really, Gerta, it’s only an invitation. Anyone would think you’d never been invited anywhere before,” snapped Lucy. “Here, read it yourself.” She thrust the paper and name cards into Gerta’s snatching hands. I tried to get closer to read it, too, but Gerta pulled away, her lips moving as she read. “Well, for heaven’s sake, why was she invited?” she said hotly.

“My feelings precisely,” said Lucy, glaring at me.

Stepmama pulled the invitation away from Gerta and read, “‘Their Royal Majesties would be honored…ball on the twenty-eighth of October, nine o’clock in the evening—’”

“But look who the cards are addressed to!” wailed Gerta.

Stepmama peered at the names. “‘Her Grace the Dowager Duchess of Derham, Lady Lucinda Stenleigh, Lady Gertrude Stenleigh, and Miss Merton.’ Well, my dears, I see nothing wrong. Did they misspell your names?” She handed us each our cards.

“They invited Ella!” snapped Lucy.

“Why, so they did,” faltered Stepmama. “I wonder why? Probably because she had been on the list to be presented at court this spring. Of course she wasn’t presented, but—”

“Mama! Since she hasn’t been presented, how could she go to the palace now?” Gerta was pink in the face.

“But if she was invited, my dears,” Stepmama protested weakly, “oughtn’t she to go?”

“It must have been a mistake,” said Lucy swiftly. “They must have used the wrong list!”

“Do you really think so?” Stepmama’s brow wrinkled.

“It would be ridiculous if she went!” said Lucy, being careful not to look at me. “She hasn’t been presented! She wouldn’t know how to behave!”

“And she hasn’t anything to wear!” added Gerta.

“But
none
of you have anything to wear,” said Stepmama plaintively. “For a ball at the palace we shall all need new gowns, and how we shall get them I still do not know!”

“You see?” Lucy pounced quickly. “There’s barely enough for us, who have a right to go. If
she
went, we’d all be in rags!”

Stepmama sighed unhappily. Gerta jumped in. “It’s not that we think that Ella should
never
go to a royal ball, Mama—”

“Well, certainly not—”

“It’s just that it’s not her turn yet! We’re older, and it’s only fair that we should have our turn first. Isn’t it so, Lucy?”

“Of course! After all, there’ll be many, many more balls, won’t there, Mama? So you see, it’s just a matter of—of being sensible and prudent!”

“It wouldn’t be sensible if we weren’t dressed well!”

“It would be such a disappointment if—”

Stepmama raised a quivering chin and said, “Oh, my dears, I know how special this ball is to you, and I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed—”

“Then it’s decided!” said Lucy, shooting a triumphant glance at me.

“Darling, darling mama!” Gerta embraced her.

And me? I stood by the window with my arms folded, about to burst. To be this close, and to see the dream snatched away again! But I took a deep breath, kept my mouth shut, and fled down the kitchen stairs, slipping my invitation card into my pocket as I went. Whisking my woolen shawl on, I banged my way out the back door into the garden.

The sky was gray and the garden was dying. The first heavy frost had come the previous night. Tomato vines were brown and drooping; dry cornstalks stood rustling against the fence, and giant ghostly sunflowers leaned over me, their heads bent, staring at the ground, a few sparrows picking at their seeds. Around them lay a mat of dead vines, punctuated every few feet by round, orange pumpkins. I looked around, my anger still bubbling. There was a brown potato plant next to me, and its dead leaves were slimy. The whole garden looked disgusting. I marched over to the shed, yanked out a gardening fork and pruning shears, and went to work.

By four o’clock there was a giant heap of cornstalks, tomato plants, dead sunflowers, and tangled vines on the compost pile, and three bushels of potatoes and sixteen pumpkins sat on shelves in the shed. I hung up the gardening fork, winced as all the muscles in my back protested, looked down at my hands, and groaned. They were stained and dirty, three nails were broken, and my right palm had the beginning of a blister. Next time I would have to wear gloves.

As I closed the shed door and headed toward the kitchen, I couldn’t help pausing for a minute. The whole garden looked tidy now, not neglected, and a strange feeling stirred in me. Not anger any longer, though I still felt grim when I thought of the ball. But underneath was a sense of satisfaction. I looked a few moments longer, then returned to the kitchen.

When I took Stepmama her tea tray, she asked me anxiously, “Ella, who was the dressmaker who made Lucy’s first ball gown?”

Ball gown? I groaned inwardly and set down the tray. “Do you mean Mrs. Wilkins?”

“Mrs. Wilkins! That’s right, it was your godmother. I’ve decided to have her make dresses for the girls. Lucy says if I sell my rubies, we shall manage. I can make do with what I already have, if perhaps there were a few alterations.”

I decided to make one last desperate try. “Stepmama, couldn’t I go, too? I have my mother’s jewelry and…and I could sell some, just one piece, maybe—and I
was
invited.”

Stepmama caught my arm and said, “Ella, you know I dislike all this so much! By rights—” She caught up her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “By rights, you
should
be going. But
this
time, there will only be enough for the girls. I won’t have you selling your mother’s things—your dear papa wouldn’t have heard of it!” She lost her voice for a moment, then continued, “Your time will come, dear!” And she patted my arm.

I sighed. How long would Stepmama believe that? But true to her word, she sent a note to Mrs. Wilkins the next morning. When my godmother knocked two afternoons later, I was dusting in the hall.

“Ella! Get the door!” Gerta shrieked.

I glanced out the window and wanted to disappear. Perhaps I could hide in the kitchen. “Can’t you? I’m busy!”

Gerta flounced over to the sitting room doorway and glared at me. “It’s a pretty pass when charity relations won’t even do as they’re told! Now open that door!”

I gritted my teeth and stalked to the door, handing Gerta my feather duster as I passed her. As I opened the door and asked Mrs. Wilkins to step in (while avoiding her eyes), Gerta squawked, “What did you give me this for? I don’t want this! Take it back!”

I shrugged, plucked the duster out of her hand, and whispered, “It’s Mrs. Wilkins! Say hello nicely, now!” And I slipped away down the kitchen stairs.

As I sank into a chair, my face felt warm. I put my chin in my hand and stared into the flames dancing in the fireplace. I had escaped from Mrs. Wilkins, thank goodness. Why didn’t I feel relieved?