The Ugly Stepsister (Unfinished Fairy Tales Book 1)

by Aya Ling

  “That emerald brooch Madam gave you on your birthday?”

  It was a birthday present? “Um…yes.”

  Elle looks as worried as though she lost the brooch. “Certainly, Miss Katriona. Where might you have misplaced it?”

  I tilt my head and pretend to think. “I found my ball near the river. It could be somewhere on the bank.”

  She bows her head and leaves.

  I have an absurd desire to laugh—to think I am actually acting like an evil stepsister. A few minutes later, I think I hear a tiny splash.

  Krev must have done his job. I head toward the river, and sure enough, there is Elle in the middle of the waters, coughing and spluttering. The river is shallow enough that it only reaches her shoulders. I mutter an apology and run back to the croquet lawn.

  Edward is still surrounded by fawning women, all of them cooing or giggling or batting their eyelashes. Yeah, he is definitely the fairytale version of a rock star.

  I halt in my tracks. I’ve gotten a lot bolder but I don’t have the courage to yell across the lawn. But if I don’t act fast, Elle will have hauled herself out of the river. All my painfully engineered efforts will be lost.

  So I start toward the prince again. He must have sensed my approaching, because he looks up just when I am a few paces away. Bianca is leaning toward him, a coy smile playing on her lips, her generous bosom practically gleaming under the sun.

  Without thinking, I stride over and elbow Bianca out of my way. She lets out a squawk that sounds so unlike her usual elegant self that I could have doubled up with laughter if I weren’t so desperate about getting the prince to notice Elle.

  “My maid has fallen in the water! Quick, get her out in case she drowns!”

  The prince raises his eyebrows—for a split second, I fear he might refuse.

  “It’s Elle,” I add. My tone cannot be more desperate—though it’s more to do with him agreeing to rescue Elle, rather than for her safety. “Please help me; I don’t know how she slipped, but when I found her, she’d fallen in.”

  The prince gives me a long, searching look. Then—thank God—he strides toward the river without another word. Too bad Elle isn’t wearing white; the servants’ dresses are always dark, due to the dirty work they do. But at least I hope the water has soaked her thoroughly so that her dress will cling to her body and accentuate her curves.

  “Katriona, what’s the meaning of this?” Bianca shoots me a look mixed with anger and surprise.

  I just shrug and follow the prince. My heart beats wildly; I just hope that my little maneuver will at least make the prince notice Elle. He has to.

  When we reach the river, my jaw drops. A gasp escapes from Poppy as well.

  Duke Henry is sloshing his way out of the river; in his arms he carries Elle, who is completely dripping wet. Edward stands on the bank, arms crossed.

  Henry has rescued Elle from the waters. It should have been Edward!

  Noooooooooo!

  Damn. Of all the things that could have gone wrong…why did this have to happen? When did Duke Henry extract himself from his boring conversation with the professor and come across Elle in the river? Why did he have to be at the wrong place at the wrong time?

  I pace in my room, seething with fury. I can’t forget that look on Elle’s face when he carried her—while she was clearly embarrassed, she didn’t put up as much of a struggle as she should have. I want to blame her, but I can’t. Henry had taken off his coat when he waded into the waters, and his white shirt clung to his body almost Darcy-like. I mean, Henry may have a hobbit’s face, but his body is well honed enough for an athlete. After all, he was a cricket player.

  Finally, I get tired of pacing. I sit by the window and gaze outside. There isn’t anything to see except for the lights winking out of the townhouses across the street, but at least the air is fresh and cool, making it easier to figure out what to do next.

  I put my chin on my hands. Elle will NOT fall for Henry. She might be a wimp, but she isn’t stupid. She must know that there’s no way she can marry Henry. Unless Adam Snyder is found and proves that she really is Earl Bradshaw’s daughter.

  “Dreaming of the prince, girlie?”

  “Krev!”

  He appears on the window sill, an annoying grin plastered on his stupid face.

  “So the plan has backfired, eh?”

  I have a mad urge to throw the seashell on the mantelpiece at him. Even though Duke Henry’s rescuing Elle wasn’t Krev’s fault, he has no business looking so gleeful about it.

  “I did as you said,” Krev continues, his grin growing wider. “But that dashing cousin of the prince just happened to notice Elle, even from half a mile away. In fact, he was heading in her direction before she fell.”

  “He was? Oh crap.” I slam a fist on the window sill. “Do you think he fancies Elle?”

  Krev lets out a cackle of laughter. “As if it isn’t obvious, girlie! That look on his face when he rushed into the river—he might as well have forgotten the water only came up to her shoulders.”

  “It’s just an infatuation,” I insist. “Elle is a perfect damsel-in-distress. He can’t seriously mean to court her; she’s only a servant.”

  “A servant you’re trying to set up with dear Eddie.”

  “Don’t call him that!”

  By this time, Krev is lying on his back, clutching his stomach, doubled up with mirth. “I told the king about your latest effort, and he was laughing his head off and saying your progress is more entertaining than 21st century soaps, what with the prince falling for you instead and Elle attracting his cousin.”

  “That’s not how it’s supposed to work!” I clench my fists. “He isn’t supposed to pay attention to the stepsister. It’s all wrong.”

  “Too late.” Krev lets out a witch-like cackle. “He was looking at you like you were his favorite dessert when you let down your hair.”

  This time I can’t take it anymore. I snatch him up and toss him into the street below. Taken by surprise, he yells and plummets a few feet before he collects his wits and stops in midair.

  Then I slam the window shut. Of course he could magick himself back in if he wanted to, but I guess he’s had enough as well, because he doesn’t appear again. I haul myself to bed and try my best to fall asleep.

  Elle is unusually quiet when she comes to help me dress in the morning. I should be sorry for making her fall into the river, but I’m not. I know it’s not her fault, but I’m mad that she messed things up. I tried so hard to get Edward to notice her.

  When she laces me up in the back, I snap. “Loosen it up. Are you trying to squeeze all the oxygen out of me?”

  She flinches as though I’ve struck her face.

  “Sorry, miss,” she whispers.

  A pang of guilt hits me briefly. I keep silent for a moment, but I have to ask her about Henry.

  “Has the duke visited often at your house?”

  A dull flush creeps over her face. “Sometimes. He says he needs to check up on Mamsie.”

  “Do you like him?” As soon as the question is spoken, I wish I had bitten my tongue. How could I be so blunt?

  Now she turns scarlet. Her hand trembles as she brushes my hair. She doesn’t even have to answer; it’s that obvious.

  “It doesn’t matter what I feel,” she says quietly, her head bowed. “I know well my station in society.”

  And then I stare down at my feet, wishing I hadn’t said anything at all. What a mess. I can’t tell Elle to stay away from Henry but try to develop feelings for Edward instead.

  All I can do now is wait until there’s news from Galen. I need the fairy godmother. Desperately.

  However, long before Adam Snyder is found, a disaster takes my mind off finishing the story and returning home.

  That day, when Elle leaves me, still in low spirits, I go downstairs for my drawing lesson. I’m sketching this boring bowl of fruit, wishing I could just curl up in my room with the latest novel from The Bookworm, when E
lle rushes in.

  Her face is deathly pale, white as a ghost.

  “Mr. Wellesley sent a message. Jimmy got his head crushed by a moving machine in the factory.”

  SIXTEEN

  The first thing I do is throw my paintbrush on the floor. I’ve always wanted to do that.

  “Let’s go.”

  Van’s reluctant to drive Elle again, so I bully him into doing it. Once on the hansom, I ask Elle, “How did you get the message?”

  “Billy came.”

  “Is Jimmy...alive?”

  Elle nods dully. “But he’s hurt really bad.”

  “Has a doctor been sent for?”

  “Mr. Wellesley sent for one.”

  Elle relapses into silence, but her tears keep falling. I hold her hand; it’s all I can do as we sit in agonizing silence, dreading to see Jimmy’s condition when we arrive.

  The door is left open. Inside, Mrs. Thatcher is weeping by the bed, while near her is a young boy in a patched, frayed, and oversized shirt. The hems of his trousers are jagged, suggesting that they were originally too long for him. The bundle on the bed must be Jimmy, but I hardly recognize him. Half of his head is swaddled in bandages with great red patches soaking through the pillow, which is almost dyed red. A choked cry escapes Elle—she staggers over and puts her arms around her mother. Billy joins them, his expression still numb and in shock.

  “We must stop the bleeding,” I hear myself say.

  The little boy turns, and I realize I’m looking at a girl, only that her hair is shorn even shorter than a boy’s. In fact, it looks like a crew cut.

  “Any clean cloths around here?” I ask. “We’ve got to stop more blood loss.”

  Elle shakes her head slowly. I spot Mrs. Thatcher’s scissors lying on the kitchen table, which gives me an idea. I get the scissors, flip up my long skirts, and start cutting away on my white cotton petticoat. It’s newly bought and probably the cleanest item in this room. Elle lets out a gasp, but I silence her with a wave. Then I hurry toward Jimmy and apply the cotton to his head. My fingers are trembling—I’ve never seen so much blood before—I take a deep breath and pray.

  Pounding footsteps reach us. Henry bursts in, followed by Mr. Wellesley.

  “I—I’m trying to stop the bleeding,” I stammer.

  Henry’s face is terribly grim; it’s a stark contrast to his boyish, almost adorable features.

  “You did the right thing,” he says. “Let me have a look at him.”

  While Henry bends over Jimmy, my gaze meets Mr. Wellesley’s.

  “You sent Billy to get Elle and went for Henry yourself,” I say.

  He nods. “It’s Molly here who alerted us.” He indicates the girl with incredibly short hair. She can’t be more than ten.

  “How did Jimmy get injured in the first place? Don’t they have any safety cautions?”

  The blank look Molly gives me is evidence enough. Maybe the word “safety” doesn’t exist in her vocabulary.

  “He was crawling on the floor to pick up the leftover cotton bits,” she says blandly, like she is reciting what she had for breakfast. “The machine was whirlin’ and hissin’ on top of him—he came up a second too early—and got crushed. We hauled him out as soon as it passed, but it was too late.”

  The image is too horrifying. I take a deep breath, trying to calm down. “Why must he dive under a machine that’s still working? Can’t he wait until it’s stopped?”

  Molly gives me a wide-eyed look. “Cotton’s too precious, miss. Mr. McVean says not a single scrap should go to waste. ‘Sides, if we don’ pick them up, they’ll all go flying round the place and clog up the machines.”

  “Surely there must be some other way,” I insist. “It’s still too dangerous.” Not to mention that they are children. Not being at school is bad enough, but putting their lives in danger every day? If I had known about Jimmy’s working conditions, I’d have tried to get him out ASAP. I thought Billy had it bad when he was scavenging broken bottles by the river, but Jimmy’s job is simply a nightmare.

  Molly shrugs. Again, I’m struck by how calm she is. “‘Tis rotten luck he got, but it ain’t surprising. ‘Tis too easy to get hurt. Some of us loses fingers too.” She scratches her head. “My hair got ripped off when I started workin’, so now I cut it like a boy’s.”

  A savage pride underlies her tone, like she’s boasting about the trials she undergoes. I don’t get it. She ought to be indignant, not relishing her ability to survive in that gruesome factory.

  Henry rises from the bed. Elle untangles herself from her mother and brother and rushes toward him.

  “Ned…is he…?”

  “I’m doing my best,” he says. “I just stopped the blood flow, but it isn’t enough. He will require stitches.”

  Mrs. Thatcher wipes her face. “D’you mean, stitch him up like a puppet?”

  Henry nods and takes up his briefcase. “I’ve got to ask a surgeon to perform this. Keep the cloths pressed so as not to let any more blood leak out.”

  Elle bites her lip and dabs at her eyes fiercely with the back of her hand. “Of course, Mr. Henry.”

  Henry raises his hand to her face and wipes her tears away. From the way his fingers linger on her cheek, he looks like he wants to take her into his arms, but doesn’t dare. “I shall return soon.”

  He disappears. I go over to Elle and put an arm around her. We cling together for a moment; I wish I could find words to comfort her, but the horror of Jimmy’s injury is too raw, too shocking.

  “Well, I’d best be going,” Molly says. “Mr. McVean’ll give me a whipping if he finds I’m gone past the hour.”

  McVean. The name sounds oddly familiar. I close my eyes for a second, and an image of a paunchy middle-aged man, double chins quivering as he speaks, pops up in my head. He was at the croquet party, but being too focused on Elle and Edward, I barely remembered meeting him.

  Bianca had mentioned he made his fortune in cotton manufacturing. Yup. I’m sure that this is the same person. Rage surges in my chest when I glance at Molly’s scrawny frame and Jimmy’s blood-soaked bandages.

  “I’ll go with you,” Mr. Wellesley says, putting his hand on the small of Molly’s back. “He won’t lay a finger on you if I’m there.”

  My hands tighten on the folds of my skirt. “She’s going back to that bloody hell hole?”

  A tiny gasp escapes Elle.

  “Ain’t no worry, miss,” Molly says, tilting her head. “Long years I worked there. I know well how to avoid the thing. ‘Specially with my hair shorter than a boy’s. Look, I really gotta go. Even if he doesn’t whip me, I’d be quartered.”

  “Quartered?”

  “Aye, if we’re a quarter late, he takes a half penny off the wages, miss. I’m only allowed an hour away ‘cause I had to get Jimmy outta there, but now I must be going back.”

  “Lass,” Mr. Wellesley says. “I understand your concern, but for Molly it’ll be the worse for her if she’s late. Come on, girl, let’s get you back in a jiffy. Billy, stay here with your mother. You may have the rest of the day off.”

  When the door shuts behind them, I know exactly what I’ll say to Edward next time I see him.

  Krev doesn’t appear when I get back to the house. Good. I’m not in the mood to be taunted. Maybe he is also shocked by the turn of events. At the moment, I can’t focus on completing the story. I can’t think about anything but Jimmy’s bloody, mutilated appearance.

  Elle returns to the house with me, though I told her she should stay with her mother. Mrs. Thatcher obviously needs her support.

  “I can’t, miss,” she says, a pained look in her eyes. “Now that Jimmy cannot work, I mustn’t neglect my own. Martha already covered for me many times while Mamsie was ill.”

  Since Elle is forced to remain at work and I have nothing to do, I decide I’ll do what I can for her. I don’t feel like visiting Jimmy—I’m not a doctor, so I doubt my presence will help—but I tell Van to drive me to The Bookworm.

>   Mr. Wellesley isn’t behind the counter, but there’s a large silver bell sitting on the edge of the table. I ring it, and presently he emerges from the back room, dusting his hands on his green apron.

  “Ah, so it’s the Bradshaw lass.” He smiles at me, but there’s a tired look in his eyes. No trace of the roguish, playful expression he usually wears. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. I was setting up my printing press in the back room.”

  “How’s Jimmy doing? Did you get any news?”

  Instantly, a dark shadow passes over his eyes. “Henry was here earlier. Jimmy isn’t worse, but neither has his conditions improved. A good chunk of flesh was removed by the machine.”

  I shudder.

  “But that isn’t all.” Mr. Wellesley’s mouth is a grim slash. “Molly ran down to me before breakfast and told me that Jimmy has been dismissed.”

  My elbow hits the wall and I wince. “What do you mean, he’s fired?”

  “The owner found a replacement already,” Mr. Wellesley says. “The factories wait for no one.”

  “But...” I am no longer surprised, judging from how Molly spoke of her treatment. “What about Jimmy’s compensation? Mrs. Thatcher will need it, now that he can’t work.”

  Mr. Wellesley shakes his head. “Apart from the last day’s wages, no. It isn’t customary for the owners to hand out compensation, or that’d be a serious dent in their pockets. A friend of Henry’s says one-third of the accidents at the hospital he works at are due to factory work.”

  Christ. I can’t freakin’ believe this. “So you mean that he got his head crushed for nothing?”

  Mr. Wellesley avoids my eyes. If you don’t take his bright piercing eyes into account, he looks older than he seems, with his dry, papery skin and tufts of silver-white hair behind his ears.

  “My dear young lady, you have been sheltered and kept from the ways of the world—”

  “I don’t care what you say about my ignorance,” I say. “There are some horribly unjust things about this world, period. I can’t believe you so calmly sent Molly back to that awful place.”

  Mr. Wellesley sighs. He takes his glasses off and cleans them slowly. It is then that I notice the corners of his eyes are glistening with unshed tears. “We are striving to change things, lass. But changes don’t occur overnight.”