by Sky Sommers
Fiancée?!? It sounded like a proposal… I kept thinking, so that’s how proposals happen?
When I told him that I had never felt like this before - nobody had slobbered all over my lips before - his eyes lit up. He started telling me that I was beautiful and how he would wait until I was ready for the next step - which I thought surely, would be dinner with his parents. Except it wasn’t. He told me how wonderful my hair smelled and how I am the most gorgeous girl he has ever seen anywhere - and that he has travelled lots - and that I don’t even come close to Betty and how he has always been in love with me, ever since our hands touched over my satchel. Which he was sure I had done on purpose. He told me all of this while kissing my lips, my neck and further down my décolletage. I kept thinking that he would know what was acceptable behaviour between fiancées and let him. Somehow, I had gotten very warm from all the compliments and kissing and when he picked me up, the feeling of being airborne and in the arms of a gentleman who was holding me tight was so riveting, yet safe. After all, I had known him most of my life and pined after him for half of it. So, I let him lower me gently onto my bed.
It didn’t take him long before, in the heat of the moment he was on top of me. He kept kissing me EVERYWHERE and whispering sweet things and I didn’t feel the least bit threatened or afraid or worried. I felt exhilarated! Cherished! Safe and warm. Loved, even. Desired.
I could feel the need coming off him in waves and I felt the same. I wanted him! It felt nice to be desired and loved. The way he looked at me, his eyes, they were on fire. I felt I was melting in his arms, which is how I had pictured it would be when the person was the right one for me. Which is the only way to explain why I let him…you know…go further than that. But not before I asked him if he would marry me afterwards and he said ‘yes, yes, of course’.
When I cried out and he realised I was still intact, he stopped. Except it was too late and he had already...discharged. He apologised and said he couldn’t stop himself. Probably due to the surprise. So here I am, all icky and bloody and...oh, the shame...
When the deed was done, instead of holding me tenderly, like I expected him to, John gathered his pants about him and wanted to leave. When I asked him when his family would announce our engagement he looked shamefaced and said his engagement had long since been announced. To another girl. When I asked why he had promised to marry me then, he smirked and told me he would have promised the moon and stars to ‘get a taste of me’ and didn’t I know ‘let’s study together’ was code for ‘come on over and let’s do it’.
That may very well be his and Betty’s code, but how was I to know?
He proceeded to tell me that I have a few things to learn from Betty. That the whole reason he was with Betty, a wholesome farm girl was because SHE puts out and helps him last longer. And aristo girls don’t because they are expected to be virgins when they marry.
How was I to know that he was not going to keep his promise of marrying me? I thought that what we were doing meant he wanted us to be together. He called me his fiancée!
And if Betty had known he was betrothed to another, why did she agree to be with him...that way? Did she know about his fiancée when they were together or had he kept Betty in the dark as well?!?
The final nail in my coffin was John comparing me to Betty. He said that even during their first time, she had been one hundred times better than me and tons more enthusiastic.
I threatened to tell my parents and he just shrugged and said that my parents couldn’t force his parents to do anything. That they couldn’t acquiesce to our marriage since there was a previous engagement that must be honoured. I reminded him that my stepmother is related to the king and he does have the power to make him and his parents ‘acquiesce’.
Then I thought - do I want to be married to someone so dishonourable, who knows he is engaged and yet seduces girls (plural!) anyway. And the answer was - no, I don’t.
So I told him that if he doesn’t keep quiet about this torrid affair, I would tell the king, who is my favourite and only uncle. Well, if Grace is his bastard sister - as I suspect - then that makes the king my uncle.
The rat’s eyes widened as he probably imagined a beheading or being jailed or something equally horrible. His lips tightened and I think I saw a flash of anger in his eyes, but he nodded and scurried off with his tail between his legs.
I feel so icky and he is so…so…small somehow. Not worthy of my love at all.
My first…encounter…and such nastiness. How could it have felt so right, just like the romance books describe and yet turn out so wrong? How could I have been so stupid as to let him do…all those things? And in the end, IT didn’t even feel nice! I felt icky all over, so I took a long long long shower, scrubbing my skin raw amidst tears of regret and anger. But not before I had hidden the bed covers so I could burn them later.
Nobody will know this happened.
It didn’t happen.
It simply didn’t.
Chapter 8. The Food
Grace
After a sleepless night - Henry must be coming down with something and I’m the go-to parent he accepts - I shuffle downstairs, the toddler on my hip. My husband and the twins are eating their porridge.
Good. Everybody else has already eaten, I’m only going to have to feed Henry and myself.
I walk over to the pot.
It’s empty.
That’s what I get for not being the first one up as per usual.
Ok, I’ll quickly make some more, I think groggily and wander over to our jars.
Those are empty as well.
No oats.
No corn.
No semolina.
I just bought all of those things a week ago!
Basically, the three people at the table have eaten everything they could find, with no consideration for anyone else.
Great.
‘Couldn’t you at least have left a little bit for the toddler?’ I snap at my husband.
‘What? Why?’
‘You and the twins have eaten all of the porridge, there are no oats, corn or semolina to make more. What am I supposed to give Henry?’
The kid starts whimpering.
I bounce him up and down on my hip, a bit more vigorously than I should.
‘Now I have to go to the market on an empty stomach before WE can eat,’ I try to keep the anger out of my voice and fail miserably.
‘Hans took two helpings. If he had taken only one, there would still be some left…’ Greta pipes up.
Great.
It’s at times like these when I have epiphanies about what the stepmother in the original Hansel and Gretel fairy tale must have felt like.
Sure, kids are growing organisms.
Growth spurts, Peter always says when I complain they are eating us out of the house.
But growth spurts ALL the frigging time?
Like they’re eating for England and there is a famine coming.
Sure, kids need food.
They also need a lesson in being considerate.
Imagine…what if the stepmother in Hansel and Gretel made the porridge for the entire family of four and turned her back for just one second. Oh, I don’t know, to go to the well and get everyone fresh water. And came back to an empty pot. Now, imagine you were the stepmother and you had expected to sit down to breakfast with the entire family. Translation: you went to get the water on an empty stomach. Now you’re staring at an empty pot and dirty dishes on the table and YOU’RE STILL HUNGRY. Or worse, you have a baby on your hip and the baby’s hungry.
I get it, when you have loads on your mind and two pipsqueaks demand food and then a spoon and then something to drink and you’re worrying about your livelihood and how to manage the household, it might get too much trying to keep an eye on whether EVERYBODY has enough food left AFTER you three are d
one eating.
Men, they focus on the matter at hand.
You have two hungry kids at the table, you concentrate on feeding the two hungry kids.
Peter looks at me, his head lowered, as I fume and stomp around.
I’m so mad I could scream!
I can almost hear him saying ‘Who are you? You are NOT the woman I married.’
Yes, I hardly recognise myself as well anymore, thank you very much for reminding me!
A sleep-deprived groggy mommy with a hungry wriggling toddler bawling on her hip may be a common, but certainly not a pretty sight first thing in the morning.
I breathe in and out.
In and out
In and out.
Until I stop seeing red.
I need something to calm me.
Maybe Reiki will help?
Let’s try.
What were the five mantras, again?
1. Just for today, I am free from anger.
Riiiiiight.
How am I not supposed to be angry about the kids AND my husband being inconsiderate towards those who have had a much worse night than them?
They bloody slept for eight hours!!!
2. Just for today, I am free from worry.
Uh-uh, uh-uh, but how quickly can I march to the market to feed Henry?!?
3. Just for today, I am grateful for everything.
Including for what just happened?!?
Riiiight.
4. Just for today, I will do my job with integrity.
Even if it is not appreciated or even noticed?!?
5. Just for today, I will be kind to every living thing.
Well, I didn’t annihilate anyone on the spot, that’s kind, I guess.
On some days remembering these five simple principles and setting my daily intent helps me focus.
Today is not one of those days.
I send the twins to tend to our garden, put Henry down next to some pots and pans and fry the one egg that I discover in the one place where my hungry horde did not think to look. Under our only hen in the backyard.
Thankfully, Henry eats the egg-white I feed him, which leaves the yolk for me.
‘My-my, aren’t you hungry?’ I crouch down to kiss the top of Henry’s head as he plops back down and reaches for his favourite spatula. His hair still has that sweet new baby smell. Even though he’s almost three.
Almost.
Almost, but not quite.
He smells like sunshine and fresh linen and laughter.
I survey our stocks and swear out loud.
Not only is porridge material gone, so are all the fruits, sweets and even vegetables I was planning to use for the ratatouille tonight.
Come on! The twins have only been here for two days!
They are like hungry wolf pups, eating everything in sight!
Market it is.
Again.
In a bit.
Twice in one week.
I guess I’ll have to get used to buying food for a small army every week.
At least we’re not in the famine-ridden Germany of the Middle Ages when if someone takes second helpings and the stepmother goes hungry, say, repeatedly, she wants to do something about it. Oh, I don’t know, like take the kids out to the woods to gather wood or pick berries and leave them there.
By the way, in the original Grimm version, it wasn’t a stepmother. It was their own mother.
Aren’t you glad we live in the time and place where everybody is up at six in the morning, so if you need to, you can go and borrow something from a neighbour or go to the market with a screaming hungry baby on your hip?
Just as I head out, Grizelda appears.
I groan inwardly.
She licks her lips. ‘I noticed young Hans and Greta are staying at yours again.’
I shrug.
Maybe if I don’t speak, she’ll go away?
‘Do you ever wonder why Mellie sends them your way so often?’
I shrug again.
‘Because at the tender age of ‘unwed 32’ she is still waiting for her prince?’
Grizelda chuckles.
‘Is there something I should know about your keen interest in those kids and Mellie? Why are you spying on them?’
She chuckles, ‘I’m not spying. Gods, no! She’d kill me on the spot!’
And I won’t. But I can sympathise.
‘Well, considering…’
That you tried to eat those kids.
‘…your history,’ I finish politely.
There is no reason I should intentionally piss off a customer, even a cannibal.
A reformed cannibal, I remind myself.
Grizelda looks hurt. ‘Grace, out of all the people in this narrow-minded village I thought at least you would have the sense not to listen to gossip.’
‘Gossip?’ I say. ‘Are you saying bits of the story…’
Like the details of how far down the stove you shoved them or why…
‘…are untrue?’
The witch sighs, ‘It’s all untrue, darling. Come by my hut sometime and we’ll talk.’
Henry squirms at my feet and clangs a pot.
‘Bring the baby. I promise not to eat him. He smells…foreign, somehow,’ she says, sniffing the air around Henry and, to my relief, making a face. ‘Like electr…lightning…like magic…something you wouldn’t want to touch…’ she wrinkles her nose and looks at him funny. ‘Are you sure you didn’t get him at one of the magical markets?’ she asks and I shake my head. ‘In any case, I promise not to touch him. Come visit.’
Me visit a cannibalistic witch?!? With Henry?!?
‘What if you get hungry?’ I ask.
She chuckles, ‘Well, if you are that afraid, bring some of your lovely stew with meat in it and then I have a better option, don’t I?’
Arguable, but…
Before the door closes between us, I hear her mumble, ‘Once guilty, always guilty. Nobody ever wonders what two small children were doing in the woods alone or why their mother let them out without overcoats in winter or why they gnawed on a wooden frame like it was candy…’
Ella
Sunday, March 31st
Grace IS cheating on Father!
I knew it!
With…
OMG, Tom the pauper is NOT a pauper! He’s been coming here in disguise, pretending he needs soup. They have been doing it right under our noses! Disgusting!
I saw her sneaking out in the middle of the night, so I followed her. She went straight to the palace gardens, bribed the guard and summoned her lover. I pretended Grace had forgotten something and I was fetching it for her, and the guard let me through.
In the gardens, I saw Grace KISSING someone and when that someone turned, I recognised Tom the pauper. Except, he was no pauper, he was dressed in the finest clothes. Tom is a courtier!!!
I must tell Father. If he is home. I have to.
OMG.
If they divorce, where will I live?
If she is related to the king, I’m sure Grace will keep the castle she insists on calling ‘our house’.
Godmother. I’ll go back to Godmother. There is a silver lining after all…
Chapter 9. The Accusations
Grace
At our restaurant, a couple at the window is casting glances my way and keep looking down.
‘Is there a problem with the food, tonight, Lord and Lady Chatelaine?’ I ask when I reach their table.
‘No, no, everything is in order,’ the missus says, smiling through thin lips, her eyes darting around, ‘may we have the cheque, please?’
‘No dessert tonight? It’s crème brûlée,’ I try to sway them.
Lord Chatelaine lights up, but the light goes out of hi
s eyes when the missus says, ‘Not under any circumstances.’
They make a hasty exit, but not before the lady whispers something to Grizelda on their way out.
Oh, great. Now I’ll have to find out from her what happened.
‘Grizelda,’ I say and she looks up from inspecting my table linen, ’How would you like to have your meal on the house tonight?’ I whisper to her pouring her tea.
‘Is that so, Madame Grace?’ she says, smacking her lips. ‘Only if I can get a double helping of that dessert, my love.’
‘Absolutely.’
She can have both of those that I prepared for Lord and Lady Chatelaine.
‘All you have to do is have tea with me,’ I say, pour myself a cup and sit down at her table.
Even if aristos usually consider it unthinkable, the regulars of my establishment don’t. I do that often enough, mostly even at the request of my guests.
‘Pray tell, what did Lady Chatelaine say to you about my linen, Grizelda?’ I ask and she looks startled.
‘How did you know it was about your linen?’ she asks.
So it was.
I smile at her.
She waves her bony finger at me. ‘Ooh, you’re good. I’ve heard about your questions, I have. Well, I promised to have tea with you, didn’t I? And having tea involves having conversation on the side, I guess, so let’s!’ She stares at me, daring me to go on.
‘Yes, let’s. So what did she say?’ I repeat my question.
‘Nothing you’ll like, I’m sure. She said…’ Grizelda lowers her voice and her head, ‘She said…your linen was stolen!’ she whispers. Unfortunately, my other guests seem to be hanging on her every word, so I’m sure everyone in the restaurant heard.
‘Stolen?’ I carry on with my normal voice.
After all, I have nothing to fear.
I know I didn’t steal it.
I know whom I bought it from and he didn’t steal it either, I’m quite certain.
‘I bought them, fair and square from the palace’s kitchens,’ I say.
If any of my visitors were eavesdropping, I could do them the courtesy of them not having to strain their hearing.