by Carma Lynn Park
I just wanted to go to the ball. To have a pretty dress, to see everyone in elegant clothing and jewels, and to watch the dancing. Nothing more. Except, maybe I wanted to forget for a little while that I was of no importance and lived with Stepmother and my stepsisters only on sufferance.
You have to understand that my father died several years ago, leaving the house and a bit of money to his new wife. I felt grateful that Stepmother kept me, especially since she had two daughters of her own. I remembered Camilla, whose parents had died, and she had had to beg for her food. She died within a year, poor thing.
I tried to make myself useful by taking on more and more of the chores as I got older, to save the cost of servants and repay my upkeep. Sometimes Stepmother teased me and called me Cinder-Ella, because I sat by the kitchen fire and sewed when my other chores were done. I didn’t really like the nickname, but never said anything, because I didn’t want to seem ungrateful.
Even though I hated crowds, I started doing the marketing every Thursday. Stepmother asked me to, and it wasn’t so bad, really, after I got used to it. I parted my hair down the middle and let it hang in two curtains over my face. Keeping my eyes on the ground, I went to stalls where I knew the vendors. Stepmother and Priscilla and Lavvy would take the opportunity to visit with friends and to shop for themselves.
Stepmother needed nice things because she was the head of the family. So did Priscilla, because she was the elder of the two girls. She was also beautiful, with ruddy-gold hair and eyes the exact blue of a summer sky, and Jack, the baker’s son, was already coming to visit. I saw him every week when I did the marketing, and he seemed nice, always polite when he was waiting on customers. But Stepmother said there was plenty of time to be thinking of marriage. Lavvy wasn’t as beautiful, but she looked quite pretty in colors that set off her pale-gold hair and skim-milk skin.
Anyone could see I didn’t really belong with my stepfamily, with my dark-brown hair and brown eyes. In fact, Father used to look at me and sigh and say I was the picture of my mama. She died when I was five years old, and all I can recall is a woman with gentle arms who wore a white rose in her hair.
We always had a white rosebush, tucked in a back corner of the yard, and it was my special job – and joy – to tend it. One day I tried to drag a log from the barn over to the rosebush, so I could have a place to sit and rest. On his way to visit Priscilla, Jack saw me from the walkway and came around back to help. He was a strong, stocky boy and soon had the log in place.
“Thank you,” I murmured, dipping my head so that the curtains of hair fell over my face.
“You can ask me to help you with the heavy work, Ella. Think of me as your brother.”
He glanced inside the house, where Priscilla could be seen in the window, taking lazy stitches in her embroidery. I said, “Stepmother won’t have you, you know,” then put the back of my hand to my mouth, biting the skin to keep from blurting out any more.
Jack sighed. “I know I’m not good enough for her.” He headed to the house, and I almost giggled, he looked so moonstruck. A window banged upstairs, and I caught sight of the bow in Lavvy’s hair whisking away.
That evening Lavvy sat in the kitchen kicking the table leg as I washed up after supper. “Jack offered for Priscilla.” She kicked the table leg harder. “Mother refused him. I can tell she aims for Priscilla to marry a rich title. When Priscilla’s taken care of, Mother might look for a husband for me, or maybe she won’t be bothered. I’ll be an old maid. You too, Ella, because you’ll have to stay and keep house for us.”
For the first time she was confiding in me, and I was touched. “I don’t mind keeping house. But you’re pretty as a picture. You’ll be snapped right up, like a delicious dessert.”
“A dessert,” Lavvy giggled. “What kind of dessert?”
“A soupir, one of those meringues that are so light and airy.”
“If I am a meringue, what is Priscilla?”
“Cake, rich and golden.”
“And what are you?”
I paused, cup in one hand, dishrag in the other. “A wholesome loaf of bread.”
More giggles, and Lavvy spread out her skirt. “I want a blond braid on this skirt. Mother said to tell you to sew it.”
“When do you want it?”
“For market tomorrow.”
I sighed, knowing I’d be up late by the dying embers of the fire straining my eyes with needle and thread. “Very well. Bring it down to me, and I’ll do it after the washing-up is done.”
But instead of fetching it, Lavvy sat watching the fire, chin on two clasped hands. “What do you think boys – oh, Jack for instance – what do you think they look for in a girl?”
I rubbed a plate with the towel and stacked it in the cupboard. “They want a girl who’s pretty and sweet. But I reckon Jack has some brains in his head, and eventually he’ll be looking for someone who can be a helpmeet.”
Lavvy fingered the hem of the skirt. “You just sew it, right?”
“First it should be pinned into place.”
“Never mind, Ella. I’ll sew the braid.”
The next morning Lavvy stomped downstairs in a temper, a curl to her lips that dared anyone to speak to her, eyes heavy with lack of sleep. The braid had been sewed, but it dipped up and down like ripples in the river, and I knew without being told she had forgotten to pin it. Stepmother raised her eyebrows. Priscilla, already spooning her oatmeal, didn’t look up. I dished up a bowl for Lavvy and said tactfully as I put it in front of her, “The stitches came out nicely.”
“Could you help me re-sew it?”
“I’ll get started on it now. You sit and eat your breakfast.” She stepped out of the skirt, and I grabbed my sewing box and took it to the garden where there was still a morning freshness to the air. Sometimes I amused myself by imagining my mama lived among the roses, and now I asked, “Please let me finish Lavvy’s skirt in time for market.” The roses rustled, and I bent over the linen and sewed as if my fingers were on fire.
