The Ugly Stepsister (Unfinished Fairy Tales Book 1)

by Aya Ling

  A crumb falls on Bianca’s saucer. “Henry? You are referring to the duke?”

  “Precisely. I just had tea with him yesterday. Do not appear surprised, Bianca, it was a request by the duchess. Apparently His Grace is smitten with your former maid. Apparently he met her when he treated her sick brother, and then developed a strong attraction.”

  Bianca shoots me a sharp glance, full of incredulity. All this time I was supposed to seduce the duke, yet I had never told her that he might be interested in Elle. Oops.

  “Can you imagine that? It is no secret that Henry is prone to falling in love, but this time a lowly servant? Really, I cannot reiterate enough how appalling it is that our society is deviating from the established precedent. Titles bought and sold. People behaving out of their place. Rules broken, ignored, abolished. Next thing you know, Poppy will be marrying below her station.”

  Poppy chokes on her sandwich. Claire gives her an exasperated look—one that is remarkably similar to Bianca’s whenever “my sister” is appalled by my gauche behavior.

  “Um…Poppy?” I pour her a glass of water. “Would you like to come up to my room? There is this…er…dress pattern I want to show you.”

  It’s a lame excuse, but instinct tells me she needs somebody to talk to. Besides, I’m dying to get away from Bianca and Claire.

  Poppy looks relieved as well. I steer her toward my room and do what I usually did when my best friend, Tara, came to my house with a guy problem. I ask Martha to bring us two cups of hot chocolate—chocolate always does wonders for a girl. Then I kick off my shoes and snuggle on the bed. It’s time for a girl’s talk.

  Poppy looks a bit surprised when I tell her to follow my example, but she does it. We sit side-by-side, knees drawn up to the chin, the fire roaring in the grate, and sip hot chocolate. Despite it being summer already, it has been raining today and the room is still chilly and damp. Several minutes later, she starts to speak.

  “Mr. Davenport...you saw us at the flower show.”

  “Yes.” My breath catches in my throat. “He didn’t cheat on you, did he?”

  “Oh no,” Poppy quickly says. “But it might have been easier if he had. Oh Kat, I thought I had found the man for me. Even if he’s annoying and always challenges me and isn’t the best-looking of men...I can’t bloody do without him.” Her hand flies to her mouth. “Pretend you didn’t hear me swear.”

  “That’s okay,” I assure her. “Sometimes I swear as well, if it makes you feel better.”

  Poppy giggles, but soon returns to her sober expression. “He proposed to me, Kat. He said he couldn’t imagine a life without me either. Sounds dreadfully fast, but Papa and Mama got engaged after meeting each other for only three days. But I KNOW he’s the only person I wish to marry, Kat. No one else will do.”

  Ooh. The power of insta-love.

  “For a few days, I thought I was the happiest girl alive,” Poppy went on. “But Aunt Fremont says my parents would never approve of him. She says affection is all very well being imagined, like a romantic fancy, but marriage should be based on practical purposes in order to last longer.”

  “Yeah, I imagine she’d say that,” I say dryly. Lady Fremont is unlikely to approve of a love match.

  Poppy looks ready to cry. “Oh Kat, what can I do? I don’t want to marry someone else. Auntie tried to introduce me to Algernon McVean, but I can’t stand him.”

  “Me either.”

  We giggle. Still, it isn’t going to solve things. I lean back in the pillows and take a sip of chocolate. Life is so complicated, what with the stagnant state of my mission, the rejected eight-hour bill, and now Poppy’s problem.

  “Don’t you have any suitors, Kat?” Poppy asks. “I mean, anyone who you also find acceptable? I thought you looked real pretty at the flower show. That rose you had pinned to your head was striking.”

  “You know Bianca always attracts all the attention,” I laugh. Still, an image of Edward caressing my cheek in the dimly lit stairway pops up in my mind. I push him out of my head and grope wildly for something else to say. “Have you thought of eloping?”

  Poppy’s eyes bulge. Thankfully she has just put down her mug, or she would have spilled chocolate on the sheets. “Katriona Bradshaw! I thought you…you were a lady.”

  “Er…” I gesture to the novels on the shelves. “I read a lot. Maybe more than I should. But seriously, if you can’t gain your parents’ approval, isn’t there a place…” I rack my brains—what was that name again? “A place called Ruby Red, up in the north in Lochden, where the rules for getting married aren’t as strict?”

  “Oh my.” Poppy straightens her back, her eyes bright. “You must be joking, Kat. I couldn’t do that. Mother would skin me alive and Father would hang me from the roof.”

  “Your parents are that scary?”

  Poppy laughs and shakes her head. “I’m exaggerating. They do have volcanic tempers, but their anger rarely lasts long. It’s like a thunderstorm—lasts for a short time and then sunshine is out.”

  “So what is the worst that could happen, if you aren’t afraid of risking your parents’ wrath?” I ask.

  “Father might not allow me a dowry. Jonathan says once he gains a few days off, he’ll accompany me home and try to convince Father that although he may not earn much, he comes from a respectable family.” Poppy chuckles. “If we elope, the local paper would finally gain some readers. Sensational material always does.”

  “True.” Sounds like our school paper. It would take a super-hot guy like Gabriel to boost the readership. “Bad news always travels fast. Um, not that your eloping is bad news, well, if you do decide to elope…”

  Martha comes in. “Pardon me, ladies, but Miss Claire is waiting downstairs for Miss Poppy.”

  “Oh dear.” Poppy reaches for her shoes. “I’ll have to go.”

  “I hope it’ll work out for you, Poppy,” I say, giving her hand a squeeze. “Sorry I can’t do much for you, but if you do decide to elope, I’ll be happy to stand witness for you.”

  Poppy laughs and squeezes my hand back.

  When she’s gone, I sink onto the bed and gaze at the ceiling. So many difficulties the people have to face in this world. Then I imagine Poppy eloping. Considering both she and Davenport are pretty fearless (on the croquet lawn anyway), if they are so certain of marrying, who is to say no?

  At least that would be easier to take care of than the eight-hour bill.

  Then I sit up. Local paper…sensational news…bad news travels fast.

  An idea brews in my mind. A daring, possibly stupid plan that Edward, Mr. Wellesley, Ponytail Godfrey and the others would never approve, but I want to give it a try.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Krev calls. He’s flying in the air, invisible to everyone except me.

  “No,” I answer, “but I don’t know what else I can do.”

  Actually, I’m beginning to have my doubts now. After I waylaid a few people and asked directions to Andrew McVean’s cotton factory, I now find myself in a dirty, dank, gloomy area. Heavy plumes of smoke waft from chimneys and tiny wisps of cotton that escaped from the factories float in the murky air, which reeks of horse manure and coal fires. A huge wagon rattles by, loaded with bricks and hay. The building looms ahead—the original color of the bricks barely visible beneath the blackening and soot. Some of the workers loitering nearby already cast me strange looks.

  “Hello, sweetheart!” A man with icky teeth calls. “Lost your way? I can help you!”

  I shake my head and pull my shawl around me tighter. If Krev weren’t with me, I wouldn’t have the courage to venture any farther.

  My idea is simple. I’ll write a story about the factory children and have it printed and distributed. Mr. Wellesley will help, I’m sure of it. I know he owns a printing press, so he could produce those petitions. I don’t have any experience interviewing, but that’s okay. None of the writers on the school paper have interviewed child laborers who look straight out from the 19th
century.

  Krev wasn’t interested in the plan, but I bullied him into coming with me. If anything happens to me while I’m in the book, the king will miss his show. From what Krev has told me lately, the king and his subjects have been avidly watching my progress just as Mom follows her Sunday soaps.

  Since the huge iron door is closed and I don’t dare walk up and knock, I skirt around the building. My boots squelch through a muddy area—it just rained a while earlier. I also hear the humming and whirling of machines inside. I think there’s a man shouting, but no one replies (or I can’t hear anyone replying), and soon it’s only the humming and whirling.

  “Girlie!” Krev zooms toward me. “This way. I’ve found a smaller door that you could try.”

  I hike up my skirts and splash through the mud. Sorry, Martha. She gave me a scolding the other day for soiling my clothes. Without washing machines, they have to schedule a washing day to do laundry by hand. Martha hates laundry day more than anything else, and considering the amount of work she already has to do, you can guess how tedious and laborious the process is.

  Anyway, I reach this part of the factory where I’ve found the small brown door Krev mentioned. It’s slightly ajar. A barrel sits near the door, catching rain water that drips from the roof. I peer at the door from a corner, then shrink back and lean against the wall. I can’t do this. I can’t open that door, stride into the factory, and demand an interview. Besides, the man who’s shouting inside must be supervising the children. Molly had mentioned she’d get a whipping if she was too late in returning to the factory.

  “Well?” Krev hovers just inches above my head. “Are you going in or not?”

  The small door opens. Is flung open, actually. A stout man with a long scar on his arm emerges, dragging a young boy by the ear. He tosses the boy on the ground and glares down at him.

  “Third time today!” he snarls. “Do you want to continue working here or not, boy?”

  The boy lies in a crumpled heap on the ground. I think he nods, but I can’t be sure, as the boy has his back to me.

  “Well, then you’d do well to stay awake!” The man leans down, grabs the boy by his nape, and drags him to the barrel. I am frozen in horror when the man dunks the boy’s upper torso into the barrel, ignoring the boy’s flailing arms, like he’s drowning the child.

  I grip my umbrella, my hands shaking. Before I step out, the man has yanked the boy back up, who coughs and splutters, his hair completely flattened from being soaked. Water drips down his front, reaching his shoes. Or a bunch of rags that look like shoes.

  “Do—you—promise—not—to—fall—asleep—again?”

  The man punctuates every word with a violent shake. I’ve got to do something. In a whisper, I ask Krev if he could do a bit of magic for me.

  “No answer? Or do you want another dunking?”

  This time the boy shakes his head quickly.

  “Then get your lazy arse inside.” The man releases the boy with a violent push. “Don’t let me catch you falling asleep again, or it’ll be twenty lashes from the belt.”

  NOW. I dart forward, my umbrella in hand, Krev floating ahead. His presence puts me slightly more at ease.

  “Okay, Kat,” I mutter to myself. “It’s now or never.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I raise my umbrella and bring it down on the man’s head. He lets out a grunt and whirls around.

  “Who are you—”

  I whack him again. This time Krev helps me—the umbrella swings with the force of an iron bat. Not that I’ve ever wielded an iron bat, but it feels like one. The man sinks to the ground, clutching his head. A third blow from my umbrella renders him unconscious. I prod him in the chest to make sure he really is out. He twitches a bit, but doesn’t wake up.

  “Um…you there.” I address the boy. “What’s your name?”

  He stares at me like I’m an alien. I repeat my question.

  “A…Angus.”

  “Okay. Angus, do you know a girl called Molly? She has super short hair and she’s about this tall.”

  He nods.

  “Can you fetch her for me? I’m Kat…a friend…of another friend, Mr. Wellesley. She knows who I am.”

  Angus takes another look at the unconscious man on the ground and then shuffles inside. If this were a movie, I would now tie him up and gag him, but I don’t have any rope.

  Molly emerges presently, a curious expression on her face. Her eyes widen when she sees the man on the ground.

  “Mr. Tolliver! Is he dead?”

  “I hope not,” I say, sending Krev a look. The goblin shakes his head. “I only knocked him out with my umbrella.”

  “You attacked him, lady?” Molly looks at my big, black umbrella, then back at me. Something like admiration shows in her face and tone.

  “The mud tripped him so I could get a shot,” I say, indicating the ground. “Anyway, we don’t have much time. I need your help.”

  “Me?” Molly stares. “For a fine lady like yer?”

  “Yes. Actually, it’s helping you all as well. I need to conduct an interview with you, and I will write up an article and publish it in the paper. Or magazine. Both, if I can manage.”

  Understanding gradually dawns on her face. “Lady, you want me to round up those hurt really bad and tell their stories in the paper, so everyone’d know?”

  “Right. I’m hoping that this way we can raise public concern for child workers, so the prince can pass a law in the parliament. This law will state you will not work more than eight hours a day.”

  Molly and Angus look at each other.

  “Ei—eight hours, lady?” Molly says, her voice incredulous. Angus simply stares.

  “That’s the idea. Ideally, I want the law to be changed so you don’t have to work anymore, but that would be calling for an enormous change. We have to start somewhere.” Sensational news sells. “Besides Jimmy, what other serious injuries have the others received?”

  Molly takes a deep breath. “Una had three fingers chopped off. Will lost an ear. Jamie was in hospital ‘cause he had lung problems—he died last year.”

  “And Polly,” Angus cut in.

  “‘Shucks, can’t believe I forgot Polly. She’s the worst of all—got swept into a machine and half of her bones were battered and broken. We all thought she’d be killed, but she got out alive. She’s the only one among us who gets off two hours early, but we ain’t minding. She’d die if she worked our hours.”

  My stomach heaves; I grip my umbrella tight. On the other hand, my brain tells me that if I’m feeling queasy just listening to the injuries, what kind of effect will it have when I get the stories down on paper?

  “All right, Molly. Angus. Let’s get started.”

  “What about Mr. Tolliver?” Angus says. He still looks scared when he glances at the man I knocked out. I can’t have him interfering with the interview.

  “Is there any rope available?”

  “Haul him under a running machine,” Molly says. “He won’t dare move an inch.”

  “We can’t do that!” Angus cries. “Mr. McVean’ll kill us.”

  In the end, we take the keys from Mr. Tolliver’s pockets and lock the doors from the inside. I exchange a warning glance with Krev, mouthing to him that he has to keep an eye on Mr. Tolliver.

  The air is warm and humid, with wisps of cotton floating around, making it easy to sneeze and cough. The machines are huge, horrible, looming monsters. Children from six to sixteen are working with these machines, picking up cotton from the floor, adjusting the spindles, running back and forth. All of them have hunched backs, sallow skin, crooked knees, and bodies so thin that I could knock them over like bowling pins.

  A few look up when I enter, but most are too busy to notice. I can’t interview them when they’re all occupied; moreover, the sound of the machines pounding is deafening.

  I grab Molly’s arm. “Can we turn off the machines?”

  She hesitates for a moment, then shrugs. She shows me h
ow to pull the lever of the nearest machine—with some trepidation, I manage it. Angus runs up and tells the children working on the machine to move away. There’s an awful creaking noise—the wheels gradually become slower and slower—the machine stops.

  Now that I’ve turned off the first machine, the rest get easier with practice. While I work on the machines, Molly and Angus explain my visit to the other children. By the time I finish with the last machine, I wipe sweat from my brow and sink on a stool. I feel like a hero in an action movie who has just stopped a ticking bomb.

  “Um…” I make a clumsy gesture with both hands. “Hi. I know you’re wondering why I’m here. I…um…I had a friend. Who once worked here.”

  “She’s a friend of Jimmy’s.” Molly said.

  Disbelief and confusion spread across the children’s faces. They don’t believe that I, a well-dressed lady, am actually acquainted with Jimmy.

  I plug on, anyway. “Jimmy’s sister was my handmaid. When he died, I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. I asked the government to change the law, but they didn’t succeed. So now I’m trying to get the story out to the public. If the whole country is aware how awful your conditions are, then we’ll have better luck next time.”

  The kids look at each other. One of the older kids, about fourteen or fifteen, speaks up.

  “Why’re you doin’ this?” he asks, a suspicious glint in his eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

  “Nothing but the relief of not seeing broken or dead bodies,” I say.

  “Shut yer mouth, Ian,” Molly suddenly says. “A lady who felled Mr. Tolliver is a friend.”

  “She knocked him over with an umbrella,” Angus says.

  Now the kids look at me with newfound respect. Ian nudges a boy nearby and whispers something I can’t hear. But the rest seem to warm up to me.

  “Can we really stop working, if you publish our story?” A girl asks eagerly. Her left hand is a stump; I wince. Those damn machines.

  “We’ll start with shorter hours,” I say, pulling out my pad and pen. “Okay, let’s begin before that awful Tolliver returns.”