Ella, by Jessica E. Kaiser, 5/9
"There is a ball, Mistress Westwillow," Durren said to Mother over supper.
Lost as she was in her usual daze, she did not respond for several minutes. The evening meal was the only one that we all took together. Most often, the only conversation was between Durren and Ella, who always sat at his left, while Mother was at the other end of the table
After some time, Mother smiled vaguely--I wanted to weep for the woman she had once been and the shade she now was--and said, "A ball, sir?"
"The earl is having a ball to find a bride for his son, my dear."
She shifted some food around on her plate. "Are we to go?"
"We will go . . . " He looked nervously at Ella before continuing. She was giving him a narrow-eyed glare, perhaps already aware of what he would say. "And so will Gerthe and Mathilde."
"And me, of course, Father?" Ella said lightly, reaching out to stroke his arm.
The earl's son! I knew it was impossible that he would want a big, ugly woman as a bride. There was no hope. I longed simply to see him. Despite numerous visits to the copse over the last couple of months, I had not encountered him there again. I felt remembered warmth rising within me and hoped that no one could tell.
Gerthe's face was unhappy. It was difficult enough for either of us to find dresses that did not make us look ridiculous, given the current fashion of flounces and ruffles. Putting us into a ballgown would have ghastly results, and of course we did not know how to dance. But the earl's son! Thinking about him, I shifted in my seat. The time watching him in the clearing was the one thing in all my life that I had not shared with Gerthe.
Durren coughed nervously, a tense little clearing of his throat. "Well, Ella, love . . . You're not invited, you see."
"Not invited?" Her tone was one of disbelief. She shot a glance at the three of us, at the other end of the table. "These peasants are invited, and you tell me that I am not?"
His face flushed. I knew, from servants' gossip, that the reason Ella did not accompany Durren and Mother to their dinners and dances was the persistent rumor swirling around. The rumor that she was a witch who had killed her mother. The rumor that she had an unnatural control over Durren and a relationship that no daughter should have with her father. Watching her caress Durren's arm, I knew exactly why Ella was excluded from the earl's ball.
Durren likely was aware of at least some of the rumors, although the ones regarding his relationship with Ella were so quietly whispered that he would never hear them. Maybe even he knew that for a girl so determined to have her own way, a mother could only be inconvenient. He smiled at her and said soothingly, "It would not be very fun for you, love. After all, you're only twelve years of age, are you not?"
"And?" As perfectly musical as ever, her voice nonetheless had a sharp tone to it. "The younger peasant is only a year older than I am. Why should I not be permitted to go?"
She was still stroking his arm, and it seemed to me almost that there was a pattern to the stroking. Sweat broke out on Durren's forehead, and he fumbled desperately for his wineglass. Ella reached out and moved it away before his hand touched it. He swallowed, hard, and looked away from her face. "Ella, I cannot bring you if you have not been invited."
The cinder-black eyebrows drew together and I slid my chair away from the table. If Ella intended to throw a temper tantrum, I knew from past experience that I wanted to be elsewhere when it happened. To my surprise, however, her expression suddenly smoothed out, and she smiled at Durren rather than letting the storm break loose.
"Don't worry, Father. I understand your limitations."
