Cinder-Ugly

by Laura Strickland

  “Who might you be, then?”

  Nathan had little to recommend him beyond a wide smile. Nearly as ugly as me, he’d been newly taken on by the man who supplied kindling to the local houses.

  My first glimpse showed him shabby from head to scuffed shoes. Surely no older than I, he had a squat, broad body, a crop of brown hair liberally sprinkled with bark, gapped teeth, and a face like a potato.

  When I stared up from the patch of basil, failing to answer, he asked, “You the cook?”

  I shook my head.

  He juggled the bundle of sticks on his shoulder. “I were told to bring the kindling, miss.”

  Miss. Very rarely did I get such a sign of respect.

  “Um,” I said brilliantly. I got to my feet and brushed the dirt from my knees. His bright blue eyes followed my movements with unseemly interest.

  Cook, I conjectured, must have an agreement with his master.

  “Come along,” I whispered. “Bring the bundle inside.”

  “Not so quick. You work here, right?”

  I did, and so I nodded.

  “Well, what’s your name?”

  Cinder-Ugly. The appellation had followed me into the kitchen. I lowered my head and voiced it not.

  He took a step closer. “Shy, are you? I’m thinking we can be friends. You ever been kissed?”

  I stared at him in wonder. No one—not even the likes of the boot blacks—would want to kiss me.

  Yet his eyes, actually very nice blue eyes, inspected my distorted face frankly before dropping to my bosom. His stare made me feel very odd indeed.

  “Want to…” he had begun, when cook bellowed from the kitchen doorway.

  “Get in here, girl. Who’s that, then?”

  Nathan—I did not know his name then—grinned at me before turning to the doorway. “Kindling, Missus.”

  “Leave it there beside the door and be on your way.”

  After that, Nathan returned every couple of days. A large kitchen requires a good amount of kindling. I figured out he usually appeared around mid-afternoon, and I tried to be in the garden, though I could not have said why.

  He always paused and paid me some attention—a word or two, a grin or two, and a flattering assessment of my body. I liked the way the attention felt, addictive as Cook’s cherry tarts.

  Before long, though, she noticed. She waited till the maids were occupied elsewhere before sitting me down for a frank talk.

  “Cindra, I’ve seen you with that lad.”

  “What lad, Cook?” Though I knew. Only one lad then occupied my world.

  She said brutally, “He’s not for the likes of you.”

  Why not? Was it because I was too ugly even for a boy who gathered sticks in the forest? One whose toes were coming through his shoes?

  Every instinct told me he liked me. Feeling like I’d been slapped down, I said nothing.

  Cook sighed. “Girl, you know nothing of the world. Or boys. How could you? But boys like him, they’re after only one thing. You give it to him, you could end up with a brat in your belly. And then what would your parents say? They’ll blame me, that’s what.”

  I wasn’t sure I understood. I whispered, “We just talk.”

  “I know, lamb.” For once, Cook did not sound angry with me. “And who could blame you? But let me tell you: it always starts with talking. Then a kiss and a cuddle. Next thing you know, your skirts are over your head.”

  “Not me,” I cried. “I’m…” I didn’t want to speak the word, not even to Cook, herself no beauty.

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said roundly. “Many a plain girl’s found herself caught out. Men don’t care, see, once your skirts are up over your head.”

  Well, that was a revelation. I thought my appearance always mattered, as did my mother’s and sisters’. Their lives revolved around their beauty.

  “Take my warning,” Cook insisted. “You’re not my daughter nor, in truth, my employee. But I’ll tell you like I’d tell my own—do not let him talk you into anything. Has he kissed you yet?”

  I shook my head wildly.

  “Well, you be a good girl and keep it that way.”

  “Yes, Cook.”

  “Might be best if you stay in the kitchen when he comes round.”

  My disappointment must have showed, for she hastily went on, “Now, I know it must feel nice having a beau, even one such as him. But you’ll thank me some day, you will.”

  I agreed, though it was just lip service. Henceforth all I seemed able to contemplate was kissing Nathan. How would it feel? How would he taste? Would it be so terribly wrong?

  Soon after that, the kitchen became very busy. Following a series of arguments between Mother and Father, most of which could be overheard, Mother won her way and planned a reception for Prince Rupert. A flurry of activity broke out through the household, people coming and going endlessly. Inevitably, Cook lost track of me.

  The house seemed impossibly hectic that afternoon. Not one but two seamstresses had arrived with their entourages—I myself had admitted the second batch. Mother called Cook away to discuss a menu for the event and, knowing what time it was, I stepped out into the garden.

  Nathan might well have been waiting for me. He came in through the gate as soon as I reached the herb bed and approached me directly.

  “Well, lass, things seem busy here today.”

  “There’s to be a grand reception,” I told him, pleased to have something interesting to say. “The Prince will be here.”

  “The Prince, eh?”

  “Yes. Everyone’s most excited.” I asked curiously, “Have you ever seen the Prince? The girls say he’s ever so handsome.”

  Nathan stared at me. “Handsome’s not everything. A boy can be pretty, sure. A man needs more than handsome.”

  Different from women, then. All a woman needed was to be beautiful.

  “Come here and I’ll show you,” Nathan said, and lowered his bundle to the ground.

  I shook my head.

  He ignored my refusal. “A man needs to know how to please a girl.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes. So, you never said—have you been kissed?”

  My lips parted involuntarily. I’d certainly given it a lot of thought these past days. And I’d read about it: sweet, chaste things, kisses were, between the pages of books. Marks of devotion.

  “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  Nathan seized my hand and towed me to the back of the garden, where fruit trees grew in front of the wall. What came after was lewd and sloppy and had no relationship whatever to devotion.

  I suppose as a first kiss it was thorough. Nathan squeezed my breast through my gown for good measure before he asked, “You like that?”

  I didn’t. But having no wish to be rude, I nodded.

  He bent forward to whisper in my ear, “It gets better.”

  His breath smelled like his mouth had tasted. For an instant I wanted to gag. I froze where I stood, like a hare in the shadow of an owl.

  His eyes gleamed. “Maybe next time you’ll let me touch you—up under your skirt.”

  My instincts shouted no. By then I just wanted to escape him. I drew away, gave him an uncertain look, and henceforth never went out into the garden again, at least not when I thought he might arrive.

  Chapter Five

  The night of the reception came with astonishing speed. Preparations overtook the household from highest to lowest, which included me. We were up from four in the morning on the day. I peeled mountains of vegetables, thinking all the while how the Prince might eat what my fingers had touched. Then I was put to work stirring gelatins and sauces, filling tiny tartlets just so, and generally being run off my feet.

  Mother never came to the kitchen, though Father stopped in several times to ask if Cook had all she might need.

  On one of those occasions he focused on me. “All right, Cindra?”

  “Yes, sir.” I never called him “Father” here.

  He seemed
to contemplate my appearance for a moment. “I suppose you are very excited.”

  I felt a lot of things, including too warm in the kitchen, but I nodded obediently.

  “Have you no better clothes to wear?” he asked me inexplicably.

  Cook stepped up. “Master, Mistress has given us all new clothes for tonight—just in case someone should catch sight of us. But we’re not going to get them all dirtied up with cooking.”

  “No,” he mused. “Hard work, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “I expect Cindra would like to see the reception. She will help serve tonight, Cook. See to it she’s properly groomed.”

  “Her? Serve?” Cook and the girls gasped.

  “See to it,” Father repeated and walked out.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Cook declared.

  “Why her?” Prudence whined. “I’m senior girl.”

  “Never mind,” Cook said quickly, apparently recalling just who I was, of a sudden. “She’s no clumsier than the rest of you.”

  Henceforth I became a bundle of nerves. Cook sent me off early to tidy myself and change. Nurse, getting wind of it, emerged from the nursery and helped me do my hair. I wore a black dress with a frilly apron and a matching bonnet, and felt quite grand.

  Maybe I would see the Prince. Perhaps I would see him eat something I had touched. I could imagine nothing higher.

  “Now, do not drop anything,” Nurse told me in parting. A curse, no doubt.

  I do not know what Father thought when he gave me the nod to serve. A treat, he likely supposed it, not more hard work. Perhaps he thought that, just as when I’d been small, I’d enjoy a glimpse of all the people, the flowers, the splendor. Maybe he overlooked how the last occasion had ended.

  Truth to tell, I would have been happier keeping to my familiar domain in the kitchen. Other staff had been hired to serve. And Prudence spoke correctly—I knew nothing of the duty.

  Yet the others stared at me enviously as Cook loaded me with a heavy tray and sent me forth for the first time.

  A very heavy tray. The salver, made of silver and nearly two feet wide, had weight all its own. Mine, piled with the tiny tarts I’d helped prepare, made a significant load. Pushed into the reception room, I threaded my way through a myriad of guests—no easy task, given the way they were packed in—eyes down so I saw little but hems and feet.

  Initially, I caught no glimpse of the Prince. I was far away from the front windows, where he received guests, and he remained a distant star. I didn’t catch sight of my parents either, though I did see Nelissa preening herself and flirting with an extremely handsome young man who wore a suit of puce-colored silk.

  Jostled on every side, feet stepped on, I worked my way deeper into the room. Nelissa, who wore a gorgeous gown of sky blue, shot me a startled look, touched her companion on the arm, and hurried away without acknowledging me.

  Of course she would not acknowledge me—I looked and behaved like no more than a servant. Where had she gone? To tell Mother? I wondered if I should slip away now before something terrible happened. But the route behind me had closed.

  And now Nelissa’s former companion bent over my tray, making a selection. My arms trembled as I fought to keep the heavy tray steady, and he glanced into my face. By all the saints, he was handsome, with dark hair and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen.

  Sudden envy of Nelissa flooded through me. In truth, I envied my sisters seldom, despite all they had. I’d been raised to accept that they—and I—deserved what we received. But now I experienced a sharp pang. Why did Nelissa, with her ill temper and mean spirit, deserve a beau such as this, while the best for which I might hope was the likes of Nathan?

  Nelissa’s beau smiled at me. “Thank you. Move along, lass.”

  I obeyed, moving deeper and deeper into the room. Music played somewhere, half lost in laughter and conversation. Bodies became more densely packed, and everyone here faced one direction. I did not doubt the Prince stood somewhere ahead, and my heart began to pound.

  I passed other servers, also struggling. I resolved that when all my tarts had been claimed—nearly half were now gone—I would go hide in my room.

  Where I belonged.

  A weed does not belong in a beautiful garden, and I should not be here. I’d defy Father’s instructions and pluck myself if I had to.

  It must have taken half an hour for me to push through the rest of the crowd. Suddenly it opened up before me and I saw them.

  Saw him.

  He stood at the front of the room, a thousand candles behind him and with my family at his side. His father, the King, must have been too ill to come, but he stood with an elegant older woman I imagined must be the Queen. My mother, wearing a grand gown crusted in gold that shone like the sun, stood on his left, Father with her. Both my sisters, along with Robin and his fiancée, were with them, all in a line.

  Nelissa saw me immediately and leaned over past Father, toward Mother. With all my heart, I dreaded Mother seeing me. I tried to press back into the crowd, but I’d reached the open area just in front of the exalted guests and had no exit for the press of bodies behind.

  I did not know what to do. Used to solitude or the familiar bustle of the kitchen, I felt overwhelmed. I froze, tray still in my hands.

  I suppose no one could blame the Prince for thinking I offered the delicacies to him. Indeed, he stepped forward and, just as I’d dreamed earlier, selected a tartlet filled by my own hands. I raised my eyes to his face and—

  How can I explain the way my first glimpse of him affected me? I have no words, not even after all my reading. He looked nothing like I’d imagined. Not handsome as was Nelissa’s beau, no. Had I seen him on the street and out of the grand, sapphire blue suit he wore, I might have taken him for a horse trainer or even a broker. Some kind of businessman.

  He had a long face, narrow and very tan—all that traveling, no doubt. His nose might have been too long, and his cheeks held lines that bracketed his mouth. His hair, in contrast to the tan, looked very fair, light brown streaked blond by the sun.

  His eyes met mine for one long, breathless moment. Green.

  They were green.

  I’d never before seen anyone with green eyes.

  “Thank you,” he told me just as Nelissa’s lips reached Mother’s ear.

  Mother looked at me and screeched like a fire siren going off at midnight. I think she cried my father’s name but cannot be sure.

  I dropped the tray. It fell hard with a clatter that echoed through the room. The remaining tarts—still a generous load—flew everywhere, spewing their jam fillings as they went—on the carpet, on my shoes, on the Queen’s skirt, and all over the Prince’s sapphire blue legs.

  Everything froze. The music paused; everyone stopped talking. Into the resultant silence someone laughed in horror and said, “Oh, my God!”

  Mother’s face seized in a rictus; she leered at me. For an instant I could see nothing else. Not my father, not Bethessa—who, I’m pretty sure, had laughed—not even the mess that surrounded me like the fallout from an explosion.

  Just her anger. Her horror. Her disgust.

  Then the moment’s paralysis broke. Mother reached out quick as a wasp and slapped me. The blow took me on the cheek, and its force turned my head. Instant tears flooded my eyes.

  “Stupid girl!” She drew back her hand to strike again. Two things happened before she could: Father cried, “Erikka—it was my fault!” And the Prince stepped between me and my mother and seized her wrist.

  “Please, Madame, do not. It was but an accident.”

  No rebuke colored his tone. He sounded exceedingly polite. But I knew my mother took it as a rebuke, and a public one. Her face stained with ugly red, and she transferred her glare from me to the Prince.

  Even at that moment, that terrible, terrible moment, I knew she would never forgive me for this.

  Eyes downcast and now kneeling on the carpet, I tried desperately to make it right. I gath
ered up what I could, but the tarts crumbled in my fingers, and the fillings merely spread—on the Queen’s hem, her delicate slippers. All over the Prince’s boots. My efforts only made things worse.

  But the music resumed playing, and people started up talking and laughing. The world had, apparently, not ended.

  Engaged in my efforts, I missed much of what went on over my head. I thought Mother and the Prince engaged in a low conversation. Father touched my shoulder, but I couldn’t stand, wouldn’t stand. Adrift in a sea of humiliation, I wanted only to fall through the carpet.

  Then someone crouched down beside me. At first I thought he was Robin. But I caught a glimpse of sapphire blue knee beside my own and looked up directly into green eyes.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I do things like this all the time. Please don’t cry.”

  I stared in astonishment and choked out, “Your suit—”

  His lips curved in a wry smile; the lines in his cheeks deepened. “It needed a bit more decoration, don’t you think? Not garish enough on its own.”

  I moved at lightning speed from horror to delight. I adored dry wit, even if most of my exposure so far had been on the written page.

  For one priceless moment, we smiled at one another.

  Then fingers seized my ear. I was hauled up from my knees to face my mother.

  “Go to your room,” she seethed. “Await your punishment.”

  The Prince surged to his feet also. “Madame, it is a trifle, an accident. She meant no harm.”

  I don’t think Mother even heard him. She would have struck me then and there had Father not stepped forward and intervened. “Erikka, you’re making a scene.”

  Nothing could be better calculated to bring her to her senses. She drew herself together, and I fled, abandoning my tray and the mess, threading my way through the crowded chamber and thence up the stairs at a stumbling run to my chamber.

  Where I waited.

  Chapter Six

  My mother never came till the next morning. To be fair, the reception didn’t end till daylight, and I’m sure she had many other things to which she needed to attend.