Just Like Magic (6 page)

What did I want? That wasn’t hard to answer. I wanted to take my place in society, regain my wealth, and marry well. I wrote “
Debut. Become Wealthy. Marry Well—Prince? Or someone else of High Rank.
” on a clean sheet of stationery and embellished the capital letters with many splendid curlicues.

But how could I do it? To enter society, I needed to dress well, to stay out of the kitchen as much as possible, and to keep my distance from all persons of low position (dogs included).

Yes, I had been much too familiar with Henry. He had been an ear to talk to, and his chatter was entertaining. But no longer! And no more walks with Archibald. He could exercise in the back garden. I wrote on my paper, “
Dress well. Kitchen, Henry, and Archibald—Avoid.
”

Lifting an eyebrow, I considered my next desire: becoming wealthy. That was more difficult. Unfortunately, all I could do was be as frugal as possible (which I was already doing) and persuade Stepmama, Lucy, and Gerta to do the same (which was impossible). I wrote, “
Frugal. Day-old bread? Stepsisters—Ha.
”

As for my third wish, marrying well—it would certainly solve the other two problems, but how to do it? I stared into the fire again and read my list over. There was no inspiration anywhere. I quickly scrawled: “
To marry well, I must debut and become wealthy—See Above???
”

Which brought me back to where I had started and was no help at all. I made a face, then crumpled up the paper and threw it into the fire.

Next morning I slept late, but it didn’t matter. Stepmama, Lucy, and Gerta didn’t trail down to the sitting room until one o’clock the next afternoon, demanding breakfast with a distinctly headachy tone to their voices. The ball had been bright, yes, brilliant, absolutely—but altogether barren of beaux.

“Of course, I danced with the prince.” Lucy looked down her nose at Mon Petit, who was sniffing her slipper. She gave him a little shove with her foot, and he scurried off toward Stepmama’s chair.

“He couldn’t get out of it, with Princess Seraphine pushing you on him like that,” said Gerta, snatching up Mon Petit and cuddling him, much to his dismay.

“How dare you!”

“I, for one, am sick of the royal family. They’re nothing but a pack of snobs.” Gerta tossed her curls, and Mon Petit wriggled out of her arms.

“Gerta! Our own dear prince and princess—how could you say such a thing?” Stepmama protested faintly from the armchair where she had sunk, her feet propped up on a footstool.

“Jealousy,” said Lucy. She moved over to the little piano that sat in the corner and started playing a tinkly minuet. “Nothing but spite and jealousy. Simply because Her Royal Highness mentioned that Gerta’s dress did not enhance her complexion, and because I danced more, and nobody noticed her—”

“Nobody! I danced three times, and you only four!”

Lucy raised her hands from the keyboard and pondered. “I beg your pardon! Oh, that’s right, I was forgetting that soldier—a lieutenant, wasn’t he?—who danced with you. I was only remembering the bald little man, Baron Chumbly’s cousin, I think, and Great-Uncle William.”

“Well, who did you dance with? Prince Gregory, because Princess Seraphine made him, and Arthur Atherton, because his mother made him because we used to be neighbors, and that fellow with a hearing trumpet, probably because he was also blind—and Great-Uncle William!”

Lucy sniffed. “My conversation was greatly admired!”

“My headdress was the most fashionable!”

“Girls, girls!” moaned Stepmama, who had covered her eyes with a handkerchief soaked in lavender water. Lucy and Gerta subsided into a sullen silence broken only by Gerta’s “So where’s breakfast, Ella?”

I gave them tea and toast, and they weren’t too happy about that, either.

The worst part of the Season, though, was the callers. I had been absolutely right. Opening the door turned out to be a major headache at Seventeen Queen’s Way. Stepmama would never have thought of doing it herself. Lucy and Gerta refused absolutely. So did I, bullying Henry into it when he was there until one day Baron Chumbly’s cousin came to visit on Henry’s day off, and no one answered the door at all. Then I was called into Stepmama’s room, where she sat, flustered, flanked by her daughters, and informed me that from now on, I must answer the door.

“It’s only because you haven’t debuted yet, dear! It wouldn’t be right for Lucy and Gerta, would it?”

Her tremulous voice and piteous look kept me from snapping at her or my stepsisters, but nothing kept me from simmering with anger every time I had to open the door. Fortunately, it wasn’t often. Stepmama had few callers, Lucy and Gerta almost none.

But worst of all were two for me.

The first was a fleeting visit from Anna Cameron. I had sent her a note explaining that I couldn’t debut this Season, and she had sent a few sympathetic notes in reply, but she hadn’t visited yet.

“Ella! You’re looking well—of course you always do.” She hugged me.

Anna was looking well herself, animated and happy. And why shouldn’t she be? She was going to all the parties and having a wonderful time.

“It’s so nice to see you,” I said, and it was, but—

“I was so sorry when I heard you wouldn’t debut this Season. Remember how we always used to plan how we’d debut together? I miss you!”

I missed me, too. “Stepmama says perhaps in the fall,” I said. “What’s it like?”

“Exhausting! But fun. And I’ve met—some very nice people! One in particular, in fact—oh, I really shouldn’t say anything, Ella, but I do like him, and he seems to like me! Actually we first met before I went to the island—perhaps you remember him? James Totley?  And now we’ve danced together and talked together—”

I sat stunned. This was Anna, the plain one who had always followed my lead? I remembered Mr. Totley vaguely as a young man whose admiring eyes I thought had been following
me
. Next I knew Anna would be engaged, and where would I be? Still stuck in the kitchen? I smiled and chatted, and when Anna left I went downstairs, threw myself on my bed and cried.

But she wasn’t my worst caller. One cloudy afternoon in late April when all four of us were reading in the sitting room, a knock sounded at the door, and I stomped off to answer it after several glares from Lucy. Yanking the door open, I found a short, graying woman in a long brown cloak looking at me with a question in her eyes.

“Godmother!” I gasped.

5

Lower and Lower

“Ella! So good to see you, dear,” said my godmother, smiling tentatively and handing me a bunch of yellow and white daffodils. “These are for you, from my garden.”

“Oh!” I stood paralyzed at the door until Stepmama’s feeble “Who is it, Ella?” reminded me of my manners. “Please, come in.”

As Mrs. Wilkins stepped into the sitting room, Lucy stood up, wrinkled her nose, and said, “Charmed, I’m sure. But I’m afraid I must get ready for the party tonight.”

“Equally charmed, Lady Lucinda,” said Mrs. Wilkins, bowing slightly. I blushed. Gerta looked up from her novel, murmured a polite nothing, and buried herself back in the book.

“Dear Mrs. Wilkins! How do you do?” Stepmama sat upright, offered Mrs. Wilkins her fingertips, and waved her to a chair and a box of chocolates as I poured a cup of tea.

“Quite well. Business is good. I’ve been living here in Kingston for the season, to be near my clients, and I had a spare moment today, so I thought I’d visit.” Godmother took a sip and gazed at me inquiringly. “How are you doing, dear?”

I was arranging the daffodils in a vase and was glad I wasn’t facing her, because I was still blushing. Talking about business! What if someone else came to visit while she was here, what would they think? “I’ve been fine, just fine. I think town agrees with me.” I turned and smiled brightly.

“That’s good,” said Mrs. Wilkins, eyeing me closely. There was silence.

“And how is our house, dear Merton Manor, do you know?” Stepmama finally asked. “Are our tenants treating it well?”

“I think so. I was in Little Owlthorpe just last week, and from what I saw, Merton Manor looks quite nice, gardens kept up and all.”

Another silence. I stared out the window.

“Anything I can do for you, dear?” Godmother asked, leaning toward me.

“No! No, everything’s fine,” I said hastily.

“Mmm. Well, that’s good.” Mrs. Wilkins put her teacup down as the silence thickened. “Guess I’d better be off, then. It’s been lovely to see you all.” She stood and looked across at me. “Goodbye, Ella.”

“Goodbye, Godmother.” I didn’t even look her in the face.

“Ella! You can show Mrs. Wilkins out, can’t you?” said Stepmama anxiously.

“Oh, I can find my way out. No bother.” Godmother was already at the sitting room door, and a few seconds later we heard the front door open and shut. I let out my breath.

“So nice to see dear Mrs. Wilkins. And what lovely flowers…” Stepmama trailed off.

“Trying to drum up business, I expect.” Gerta glanced at me over the top of her book with a patronizing smile.

And I couldn’t think of anything to say or do except to flee to the kitchen with red cheeks.

My stepsisters did their best to keep me too busy for much brooding. The Season was in full swing, and parties, balls, and picnics were the stuff of everyday. I was in great demand for drawing baths, doing hair, holding mirrors, and waving good-bye as they drove off. Still, when the carriage was gone and the house was empty, it was hard not to indulge in a few tear-stained hours.

But spring was here, with delicate peonies and pink hydrangeas out back, besides feathery carrot tops and leafy lettuces. As May grew warmer, I had Henry set a little iron table from the shed in the garden, and I often ate solitary meals outside in the sunshine with a vase of flowers. Henry didn’t like that much (since I still wasn’t talking with him), but the sitting room was usually occupied by my stepfamily, and I hated eating in the kitchen.

Slowly I had Henry work on the rest of the house. One sunny June morning, he cleaned the dining room, and as he took the dusty cloth off the crystal chandelier, dozens of tiny rainbows danced across the striped wallpaper. I took it for a good omen, but Henry only sneezed violently and glowered. I had stopped inviting him into the kitchen for breakfast, and my hopes were high for the Little Season in the fall. True, Lucy, Gerta and Stepmama kept spending all of the little cash they had on fashionable
objets d’art
and sheet music (Lucy), cheap trinkets and sweetmeats (Gerta), and cashmere dog sweaters (Stepmama). True, I avoided the kitchen as much as possible, so our meals were plain, monotonous, and possibly scurvy-inducing. But the Season was all Lucy and Gerta could think of, and they were in the thick of it, dining with Viscount So-and-So, dancing and partying and sleeping late and most definitely ignoring me except to call for help.

And what did I care? I didn’t need their company. Or Henry’s. That fall I would debut, I simply must. Stepmama would agree. I practiced curtsies to the hall mirror and daydreamed elaborate fantasies of myself being presented at the palace, dancing at balls, captivating every man’s heart, but myself noticing only one.

Oh, that one! I’d seen the royal family when we lived in town for Lucy’s debut and had liked the prince on sight. Now he grew taller, blonder, and handsomer with every daydream—my Prince Charming, clever, witty, kind, strong, and rich. My daydreams were usually jolted to a stop by Lucy’s snappish tones, Gerta’s whines, or Stepmama’s moans. Occasionally it was Archibald’s paws as he tried to persuade me to take him for a walk. But I wasn’t having any of that. Henry walked Archibald when he went shopping now.

Then came July, an unexpected sunflower bright against the kitchen door and fragrant heliotrope perfuming my outdoor teas. But with the summer came the end of the Season, not at all to my liking, for Lucy and Gerta now spent much of their time lolling about in the sitting room, Lucy driving everyone to distraction with her piano practicing, and Gerta fanning herself with back issues of the
Court Gazette
and complaining.

“I wish we could have gone to Branscombe Beach. Everyone else has gone,” Gerta would moan, alternately eating toast triangles and feeding them to Mon Petit, who sat begging by her chair.

“I’m sure Mama would have taken us if it hadn’t been for you-know-who!” Lucy would add, playing a few sharp chords and glaring at me.

Henry spent a lot of time sulking, too, but he still occasionally tried to talk to me. “Did I ever tell you my sister got that job in the palace, miss?” he asked one day in August, peering through the kitchen door as I poured some hot water into a teapot, trying not to splash myself.

“No.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Well, she did, miss—been there only a couple of months and already’s Chief Assistant to the Assistant Chef! She’s right pleased about it, and so’s our mum and dad.”

“Don’t you have some garden work you’re supposed to be doing? I need fresh lettuce for dinner.”