Dearest Cinderella
Sandra Said
To Tiana, you’re the greatest writing buddy a girl could ask for. Your patient in the face of all my nit-picking, doubts and questions was incredible.
For my heart, my soul, Nona. The woman who annoyed me into finishing this story. You will forever be in my heart and prayers. This story is a testament to your will. R.I.P.
Thank you also, to Axel Antas-Bergkvist for the beautiful art work.
PROLOGUE
In life there are single moments that can determine a character. Shining fragments of time, blindingly beautiful to behold. They are cherished for a lifetime and become a beacon of hope during times of despair. These are not the moments that define us. Darkness and fear, the creation of doubt and sorrow. Times when you fear that all hope is lost but are nevertheless capable of arising from the darkness, striding in the sun, walking towards the future. These were the moments that plagued Cinderella's early childhood.
Indeed, it seemed that Cinderella's fate had been chosen for her before her conception, borne by her mother’s cruelty and her father's deception. She was born in the middle of May, on a thoroughly inconsequential day, faded from the memory of most who attended. Her mother, Mademoiselle Bouchelle, a courtesan involved with Cinderella's married father, an Earl, had been engaged in an affair for months before Mademoiselle Bouchelle discovered that she was in love. Driven mad by the idea of the Earl at home with his saintly wife, she became with child in the hope that he might be taken with running away with her. Escaping from English society and raising their new-born babe in Italy, away from his wife and together. The notion of his refusal or even his amusement at the idea had never occurred to Mademoiselle Bouchelle but nevertheless she continued growing. Ignorant that as her womb expanded, so did the spaces between each of the Earl's visits.
On the day of Cinderella's birth the Earl didn't appear. As her mother cradled her child in her arms she wept, the baby hadn't worked. She knew, Cinderella was without point if her mother was without the Earl. She stilled the baby against her breast and motioned to her nurse to leave. Cinderella's mother lowered her naked babe onto the bed and crossed over to her dresser where she opened a drawer and slowly retrieved a small switchblade. If it had have not been for the intrusive knock on the door Mademoiselle Bouchelle might have carried through with her nefarious actions. Alas, the door swung open to reveal the Earl, immaculately dressed and regal. His features tightened at the site before him.
"What the devil, woman" he strode over to his daughter and protectively held her to his chest. "Put the knife down!" Mademoiselle Bouchelle, sensing her immediate danger at the wrath of the Earl's hands, artfully burst into hysteria.
"I didn't intend to hurt her, I-" her voice wobbled as she attempted to steady herself by placing her palm on her chest. "My love?"
Without a response, the Earl turned on his heel. Sweeping the now crying baby into his arms and carrying her out of the fashionable town house, away from the wailing mother. It was perhaps the only gentlemanly deed of his life. He paused to look back at the small townhouse he'd often frequented and then down to consider the child in his arms before hurrying into the carriage quickly. Praying that nobody had seen him exiting a known courtesans home with a child in tow. Later, when the Earl returned to the townhouse to request Cinderella's mother's immediate departure, he found that she was gone. She'd found that there was no point to her life if there was no Earl in it.
At the Earl's insistence, he couldn't bear the idea of his daughter roaming the city beyond his control, or worse, working in a brothel, the Earl's wife was forced to welcome Cinderella into her life and acknowledge her as a distant cousin. She was heralded off to a young maid of five and twenty to be raised away from the family. On the occasion of her birthday Cinderella was granted the brief attention of her father before being deprived of it for another year. When Cinderella had reached her fifth birthday the Countess announced her pregnancy, of which Cinderella heard from her only friend and mother, Nurse Fairgem. The Countess birthed two healthy girls that she named Anabeth and Rebecca, after the Earl's two sisters. The arrival of Cinderella's sisters filled the young child with excitement of others her age to play with. However, it was soon made very clear to Cinderella that her dream would remain unfulfilled. Her orders stipulated that she was not to see her sisters. She was to address them by Miss Anabeth and Miss Rebecca and under no circumstance would her naming them as sisters ever be condoned. As they grew up it became increasingly obvious to Cinderella that she did not have an ordinary childhood. She ate her meals with the servants whilst the rest of her family ate together in the grand dinning room. While her sisters took lessons in Latin, singing, dancing and etiquette, Cinderella was taught English and how to keep a house by the servants that took pity on her.
The Earl passed away on a Monday night to Cinderella's utmost despair. She cried for weeks over his death and the lost opportunity that she hadn't tried harder to see him more often, accepting that she should wait for him to seek her out. Her sisters also cried. Everyone cried bar her stepmother who masked her tragedy with a stoic silence.
When her sisters practiced the pianoforte and etiquette in the hopes of catching a husband, Cinderella spent her time cleaning, singing and dreaming. For she found that dreaming was the surest route out of the darkness. Often, when her sisters took their lessons in the parlour she would sit in the sitting room directly above them. On a day when the acoustics were particularly loud Cinderella could almost pretend that she sat next to them, asking questions and learning, seen as an equal.
By the age of one and twenty Cinderella had been demoted to the work of a servant. Her stepmother treated her horribly, delegating degrading chores to complete that even the lowest of servants were exempt from. Forcing her to sit before the fire, her head within such proximity that it scalded her cheeks and turned them a fiery red. Tasked to make certain that not one cinder licked the carpet, a job easily accomplish through the purchase of a fireplace gate. However, when Cinderella asked why her stepmother would not procure one, she simply laughed and said,
"Good heavens child, why should we buy one when we have you?" To which any sane person with some degree of resentment in their heart would surely respond with anger and vehemence. Cinderella simply smiled politely and bowed her head. She paid specific attention to her stepmothers exact words so that she could remember to copy it down in her diary the next morning when the rest of the house were still asleep. It was only there comforted in her solace, she found contentment. She'd found that even solace, the one enemy of her childhood, was still preferable to the grim shame and humiliation she was forced to endure every day. Her diary did not insult her, nor did it demand its breakfast or tug her hair. It listened, recorded and remembered. Often she wrote letters, never addressed with the intention of distribution. She wrote correspondence to her birth mother, wishing she could have met her. Letters to her father, wishing she could have known him. Most frequently, she wrote letters to Nurse Fairgem, wishing that she had not been sent away. Cinderella relived that horrid day every time she wrote to her Nurse. The day filled with sunshine, where laughter was in abundance. Cinderella had been taken with the notion of delivering flowers from the garden to a nice elderly lady in the village who had recently taken ill. As they promenaded through the garden, Cinderella picking flowers and depositing them into the basket her Nurse held, they entertained each other with small, clever riddles. Amongst the giggles they both heard the distinct sound of a thick twig being snapped beneath a boot. They turned around to find Cinderella's stepmother.
"Nurse Fairgem, is this why I pay your salary?"
"No your ladyship, we were merely taking a constitutional. It is a lovely day for it."
"I should think not." Her gaze traveled to the basket in Nurse Fairgem's hands. "What is that you carry?" she asked, though she knew well. "Are those your flowers?"
"No, my lady." Cinderella recalled the slow sinking feeling in her heart as she mutely watched the conversation unravel before her.
"So you acknowledge that you are taking that which is not yours"
"No my lady-"
"That it is theft to pluck the flowers of my garden without consent"
"No-"
"Excellent. We are in agreement. You shall pack your things, communicate with Cinderella no more and be gone of this house. Before afternoon tea, without papers and this weeks salary as compensation for damages. Is this clear?"
"Deceitful woman! I have done nothing wrong by you. You cannot separate me from my daughter"
"She is not your daughter" her words harsh and formidable. "You will quit this house immediately before I alert an officer to your insolence and he assists you in quitting this house. Good day." She hadn't seen Nurse Fairgem in four years. Often, when Cinderella was given the task of purchasing ribbons from in town, she would imagine happening upon her old friend again so that she could ask her to take her away and be rid of this house.
Cinderella's journal was hidden in the forest, for fear that her stepmother might find it in the house. At the base of an old oak tree was a small burrow, just large enough to store her journal and a pen. Every morning, before she prepared breakfast and her family was up to order her about, she would sneak out to record the events of the previous day. She hid it meticulously, every morning. Except once.
CHAPTER
ONE
Prince Mark was blessed in many ways that Cinderella was not. He had an abundance of wealth, respect and the ability to do as he pleased without a care for others. The only times in which their lines crossed was when it came to companionship. The Prince wasn't lonely, rather he had too many people around him and not enough that he cared for or trusted particularly. As he led his platoon into the depths of the forest, he listened to them all joking with each other. Laughing and shouting, actions they'd never consider doing with the Prince. There seemed to be some type of impenetrable wall between himself and everyone else.
They came across a particular area that offered them shade enough to be protected from the glaring sun, sparse enough to be able to conduct movements without fear of bumping into a tree. Mark positioned himself in front of a great oak tree, his small platoon organising themselves into three orderly lines of six. He led them in new military moves, relishing the morning exercise and the level of coordination between him and his men. They didn't question his orders nor did they say anything when he pushed them beyond their limits. They took his orders and implemented them. When Mark grew weary he allowed his men to rest and walked over to sit at the base of the oak tree. He sat there silently, controlling his breathing, refusing to show weakness or fatigue, when a glimpse of blue caught his eye. Almost directly beside him sat the corner of what looked like a book. It was almost fully immersed in soil and took him more than a minute to dig out of a small hole that reached underneath the tree itself.
Dear diary, it read. Immediately it occurred to Mark how unethical it was to read the thoughts of another, but as he flicked through the pages he found a drawing that stopped him immediately. It was quite possibly the poorest drawing he'd ever seen. He chuckled as he looked down at the image. It depicted a robust cow with a sharp nose, dressed in red and with straight hair that reached the floor. Behind her stood two sheep, each fouler than the last. The Prince sat there laughing until he made a decision.
"I wouldn't suppose there's any chance one of you has led on their person?" He was faced with the blank looks of fifteen of his men and a chorus of "No, your Highness" as a reply. He groaned and looked down at the journal again. Perhaps it was for the best that he had not written in it, it would most certainly have resulted in anger from the author. It was a good thing that he did, however, notice the pen inside the hole as he went to place the diary back where he'd found it. Unaware of the questioning look his soldiers where giving him, he turned to the next page of the book and penned two sentences.
I commend your beautiful illustrations. Might I ask who it was and what grievous act they committed against you to incite such cruel punishment?
He smiled to himself and carefully put the book back in its place with the pen, taking care of the way he hid it unlike the author. From the penmanship he suspected the author to be a female. He supposed that he'd never know the answer to his question, it wasn't likely that she'd keep her diary in the same spot now with the knowledge that her hiding place was compromised. Prince Mark led his men through a few more drills before leading them away and back into the kingdom where he continued, to his slight vexation, to think about that ugly drawing and the detail poured into that poor pig. During dinner he found himself smiling and when they all sat down to listen to Marius Darle, a renowned composer who'd travelled specifically from Germany to perform in front of the king, he couldn't stop his mind from wandering back to that tree and imagining her reaction to his words. He hoped she would reply but logic reminded him that he was being fanciful and that certainly wasn't a desired trait of the future king.
The next morning, when Cinderella arrived at the tree at the same hour as every day before, her heart stopped as she noticed the way the soil covered the burrow. There was something different that she couldn't quite recognise, this was confirmed when she read the alien words on the next blank page. She paused for a moment,
"Surely not..." She studied the handwriting, was it possible that she'd forgotten writing those two sentences? She asked herself. "What an odd thing to write to myself." She didn't write anything in her journal that day, instead she penned a hesitant reply.
I so hope that I have been forgetful and it was indeed I who penned the words above, but in the unlikely case that I am in fact mistaken, then I would like to inform you that you are being dreadfully rude. It is impolite to read another woman's journal.
She tore the page out of her journal and dropped it alone into the hole. If indeed there was some mad person going around and writing in other peoples journals then she'd rather them not be able to read all of her thoughts for a second time. Cinderella quickly hurried home to hide the journal before the house woke up. She was not so fortunate; waiting on the doorstep was one of her two twin sisters.
"Where have you been?" asked Rebecca, her sharp voice mirroring that of her mother's perfectly.
"Just buying some eggs from the village to break our fast," Cinderella said, uttering the first thing that dashed into her head.
"Where are they?" Cinderella looked down at the ground, berating herself for coming up with such a silly excuse.
"I forgot them." The look of suspicion on Rebecca's face was her answer as she turned on the spot and strutted into the house, seemingly having decided that it wasn't worth her time. Cinderella groaned and walked through the house behind her, straight to the kitchen where she picked up the eggs she'd bought the previous day.
"Fool, fool, fool," she muttered under her breath as she stored her diary in the cabinet above the fridge, behind some boxes. She wet her fingertips at the dripping tap and patted her hot cheeks. As she went about making food her head swam with embarrassment. Embarrassment over someone coming across her utmost personal thoughts, reading about her and her letters, flicking through her drawings. She wondered who it might be, how they'd even found her diary, why they'd been in the forest. There were many questions that she couldn't answer for herself. The most important one, who were they and would they use the information in her diary against her? The next morning, earlier than usual, Cinderella hurried to her tree to see whether the mystery person had replied to her. Her heart beat in her throat as she dug her piece of paper out from the soil and read.
CHAPTER
TWO
His royal highness, Prince Mark, was acting very strange. Over breakfast, of which he ate very q
uickly, he didn't utter a word. His eyes, they observed, seemed very eager. After breakfast, when one of the royal carriages had been drawn, he travelled to the stables where he took one of his many horses and rode into the woods. He wondered, as his horse drew closer to the tree, why he was taken so by the diary and whether it would still be there. Indeed, whether the author might have even seen his reply. He dug through the soil and to his dismay could not find the diary. At the bottom of the hole however, sat a single dirty and crumpled sheet of paper. He unfolded the paper to find a small message written at the top of the page. It hadn't occurred to him that she might assume she'd written the message. Perhaps he should have signed his name. He laughed at the thought, if she'd been upset over the idea of another finding her journal he could only image her reaction to finding out her future King had read it.
"Clever girl," he muttered under his breath when he realised that she'd taken the diary with her and left the pen.
Mark read over the words several times before sitting next to the tree to process them. Two facts immediately presented themselves. The author was a female and she most certainly was not pleased. Mark drummed his index and forefinger against his thigh as he considered how he should reply before settling on something and placing the led on the paper. He wrote,
I apologise for my rudeness, it was very ungentlemanly of me. Please accept my humblest apologies. If it is to be any consolation I assure you that I only glanced briefly when I happened to be assaulted by your drawing. At which point I was compelled to congratulate you on your mastery of the art. Tell me, what situation could lead a woman to hide her diary in the woods?
The Prince returned the paper to the tree and lent against it once more, tilting his head up to the sky. He stayed there for an hour, watching the clouds slowly drift across the sky behind the branches of the tree. He told himself that he was reluctant to return to the castle because of the girl, that she might return and they could meet. On some level it might have been true, but if he was honest the Prince was more eager to avoid his mother and father. As of last month, when he'd turned five and twenty, they'd been berating him to find a Princess. The task of finding a girl suited to becoming the future queen was one that Mark did not relish nor did he particularly care to hurry. A conversation didn't go by without their constant reminder that he was the heir and needed to secure the royal line. He could see the disappointment in their eyes. Every time they asked him to host a ball, he would stand in the corner and watch as others conversed joyously around him. When a female with enough courage asked him to dance he would of course grant one to her, but there was a limit to how long he could fake cordiality before his family noticed. The Prince had no tolerance for prancing about, pretending to have fun, when he found nothing remotely amusing about dancing and balls in general. Try as he might to hide it from his parents, he was more than aware of his failure as a Prince and a son.
Dearest Cinderella Page 1