Five Glass Slippers: A Collection of Cinderella Stories

by Elisabeth Brown

  Stockton lowered his brow. “What did you do stupid, Alis?”

  “I asked William for his help.”

  “In claimin’ your rights?”

  “No!” I cast a nervous eye over the several entries to the kitchen, afraid William might be lurking in one of them. “I told William nothing except that I would like to correspond with Lord Humphries about certain points of the law I did not understand.”

  “And William wasn't suspicious?”

  I held my breath and offered another prayer that, please God, he was not. “William thinks me amusing and was all too glad to recommend me to Lord Humphries as ‘a fine little woman.’”

  “Did he say that to your face?”

  “If only.”

  Stockton flashed his impish, knowing smile. “Alis, you steamed the seal open and read William's letter before sending it, didn't you?”

  I felt my face go hot. Stockton was too keen. “And was I supposed to let him write to his uncle accusing me of treason? 'Lord Bickersnath Carlisle' is an invention, but who invented him? For years I have been stowed away as an orphan, put here by someone who did not want me to keep the throne. If Laureldina and William suspect me of plotting anything, they won’t expect me to fly into danger’s face.”

  “Danger’s face?” Stockton ground his boot in a bit of flour spilled on the floor. “I’m not following.”

  I tried to sort the mayhem of my brain. “Let's suppose I am who we think.”

  “Right.”

  “That means I was deposited here as a baby. Laureldina was considered trustworthy enough to keep me—heaven help the man who made that mistake! The story says she made a third unfortunate marriage in my widowed father. This would account for my presence, would it not?” I backed into the doorway, ticking the points on my fingertips.

  “Aye . . .”

  “Oh, Stockton, you aren’t listening.”

  “I am listenin’! But you're going on so long and complicated, I can’t keep up with you!”

  Still standing in the doorway, I folded my arms and leaned my forehead against the low lintel, feeling the whole world teetering. “I was given up. For some reason Laureldina took me. She must be aware of who I am and, having concealed it this far, must mean to continue to conceal it forevermore. If she thought I knew anything, would she expect me to reach further into the family, contacting her uncle to aid me?”

  “No . . .” Stockton drawled his reply as if still muddled and only trying to give the answer I desired.

  I pushed away from the doorframe, fingers pressed against my temples to still the dizziness. “Well, I am safe. For now.”

  “Safe from what?”

  William’s sudden, lazy voice sent a jolt up my spine, and I wished for one moment that I was the kind of girl who fainted.

  2

  The earliest tinge of autumn spread over field and wood, and the hounds would soon be rallying for a foxhunt. Pheasant and quail would hide in the hayricks, and every brook forget its summer stupor and chuckle in a self-satisfied manner as it danced over rocky streambeds. All nature was alive and beautiful and free.

  Except the one man who was to rule it all.

  “Prince Auguste, if you would only attend.”

  Auguste shoved off the stone windowsill with a moan. “I don’t want to attend, Belkin.” He ran a hand through his black, wild hair till it stood further on end. “I don’t want to hear about the state of my nation or listen to one more suggestion of a suitable wife or do anything that is my duty. I’m a man, Belkin, not a pig-headed scarecrow.”

  “Such language, Your Highness!”

  “Hang my language!” Auguste snapped. “And hang you, Belkin.”

  The secretary blinked from behind his glasses. “Do you mean that, Your Highness?”

  Auguste crossed his arms and offered a wry smile. “I think I do.” He made the mistake of looking out the window again onto the rich oil-painting of field and forest. “Oh, blast it. Do you know what I want to do? No, you would not guess; you’re much too refined.” With a quick step Auguste grabbed Belkin by the jacket and shoved him toward the window, pressing the man’s nose against the pane. “I want to go out there and find myself a plump village lass and kiss her—hard. Y’understand? I want to dig my hands in a furrow and bring up a fistful of potatoes and . . . and cook them myself. I want to ride Feather-Fellow at a gallop and risk breaking my neck if I take a fancy for it, and I want to miss every cabinet-meeting from here till kingdom come!”

  Belkin wriggled out of Auguste’s grasp and adjusted his spectacles with a pale finger. “Now, Your Highness, let’s not get ourselves into a foul humor.”

  Auguste raised one eyebrow and stifled a sigh, lapsing into the royal speech: “We are not in a foul humor, Belkin. We are in a corrupt-tempered mood. There is a difference, you know.”

  “Is there?”

  “There blasted better be.”

  “Your Highness, if you would only attend—”

  “Belkin!” Auguste put every crumb of his considerable frustration into that bellow, and the mouse-colored secretary trembled under the weight of it. Smiling a bit wickedly, Auguste patted the man’s shoulder. “We only want you to know that nothing you can say or do will make a difference. You might save your breath, or we’ll have to consider this prospect of having you hanged.”

  “Very well.” Belkin made a desperate effort at a display of authority. “I shall have to inform your father of this unseemly outburst.”

  “Do,” Auguste said, feeling pettish in the extreme. “Then he might have an ‘unseemly outburst’ himself, and we’ll all be in perfect agreement.”

  “You are twenty-four years old, my prince. You ought to start behaving like a king.” Belkin’s face was even paler than usual, which was quite an accomplishment.

  Auguste cast his himself into a red chair and crossed his legs. “Tut-tut, Belkin. That could be construed as an assassination plot. My father is the king.”

  “And you will be someday—if you aren’t killed beforehand for being a bone-headed woodpecker.”

  Auguste clapped his hands, stood, and made a bow. “Bravo, Belkin. Standing up in the face of supreme royalty? I should have thought you’d have fainted before daring to do such a thing. I only wish you would—Oh, hang the fellow. He has fainted.”

  So saying, Auguste dragged Belkin to the doorway and called down the hall, “Someone! You there, soldier. Come get the man. He’s fainted.”

  A clattering fool in pie-pan armor bent to administer smelling salts. Auguste pulled on a fistful of his hair again, wondering what he ought to do. He was feeling giddy himself, what with the closeness of the hall and Belkin stretched pale and senseless on the sweating stone floor.

  He needed a ride on Feather-Fellow, that’s what. Auguste saluted the soldier with two fingers, turned on his heel, and exited his chamber by a side staircase—one of many secreted in the castle walls like providential rat tunnels. He wanted to go riding and, if at all possible, never return.

  3

  After that unfortunate episode of William walking in on the conference between me and Stockton, I thought it best to refrain from letter-writing and had Stockton deliver a verbal message to Lord Humphries that all communication between us should be finished until he heard otherwise.

  We were scheduled to travel as a family from Cock-on-Stylingham to Weircannon, the capitol of Ashby, at the end of the month. I would no doubt see Lord Humphries in person while we were in town for the Season, and he could attach a face to this bold schemer playing with the crown.

  I was little troubled by the thought of my treason: Ashbians are never over-particular about their loyalties. As far as they’re concerned, one monarch is as good as another provided taxes don’t rise. In addition, I was doing them rather a favor by booting that swarthy imposter off his regia solia. Satisfied, I went about the yearly business of the Season’s preparations in as good a humor as one could wish.

  This lasted one week.

  “
I hope Lord Grosvenor breaks your hearts!”

  I ran downstairs, fleeing my stepsisters’ company, bundling the gowns they’d flung at me. William met me as usual at the foot of the stairs, but this time I was grateful when he eased the heap of dresses from my tired arms into his own.

  He clutched the bundle to his chest and gave me his loose fool’s grin. “Why’re you smiling like that, Alis-mine?”

  I shook my head and took the gowns from him. “You look like a tomcat gone to play in the laundry line. News might get around that you’re a washerwoman, then where’d you be?”

  “In no less of a ruddy hash than I am now.”

  I seemed to have stolen William’s confidence. He ran his fingers over his cheek with a preoccupied hum then put a hand against my back and steered me toward the end of the hall, out toward the wash house.

  “Alis, it’s a horrid business,” he said in a despondent and confidential tone. “Laureldina insists I’m married by the Prince’s birthday; or I've at least chosen my wife.”

  He looked so stricken I began to feel sorry for him.

  I steadied the pile of silks in one arm and squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t be a goose; someone will have you.” We were all accustomed to my stepmother's whims; if she wanted William married by October twenty-first, so be it. “You must make shift as you can, I suppose.”

  As we walked, a plan burbled in my flow of thought like the shallow bends in the streams that fed River Lin. I wanted to make my claim to the throne sometime before Prince Auguste’s birthday, which would double as his ceremony of accession. An extra day in Weircannon would only pave my way smoother. A week would help enormously.

  Hope buoyed the rest of my steps to the wash house. William stayed outside, one hand pressed against the low stone lintel, his face speckled with shadows from the alder tree.

  I tossed the gowns over a rack and returned to him. “Listen, old fellow—”

  “You’ve got that clever look in your eye. Tell me what the deuce I’m to do, pretty Alis.”

  Though the words presented flirtation, they lacked assurance. I gave William a smile and picked a few leaves off the alder, rubbing them between my fingers. “If you persuaded your mother to leave early, there would be an extra fortnight for courting the lasses,” I said.

  William tugged his eyebrow. “Alis, you’re the only one I want, you know that. Can’t y’do something?”

  I tossed the leaves aside. “You can’t have me, William, so there’s no use pressing there.”

  He shoved off the wash house and kicked at the turf. “I wish I were the prince.”

  My heart flipped at the word prince. “Why the blazes?”

  “’Cuz I’d not have trouble finding a wife. You’d marry me if I were prince, wouldn’t you?” His brows drew together in a churlish look. “You’d take my hand.”

  My only desire as far as the prince was concerned was to give him a rousing kick in the derrière. I contemplated kicking William instead, but that would hardly put him in a temper to agree to going to town at the earlier date.

  I thrust my chin in the air to make a point of how little I cared. “I should not take your hand. You know me, William! If you were the prince, I should take your throne. A crown fits better than a ring any day.”

  Realizing how close I’d come to confessing my plans, I knocked my stepbrother under the chin. “Don’t fret, old bean. You’re handsome enough and decently rich. Girls don’t usually worry over the dose of brains.”

  It had been a mistake to come that close to him. William wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me close, resting his chin on my head. “Alis, what’s a man to do?”

  Struggle was useless. I folded my wings like a stubborn bird and made my head as much like a stone as possible. “Do about what? Ask Laureldina for the extra two weeks. We’ll go up to Weircannon. All will be well. Your sisters know lots of people. I’m sure they could find you a nice girl.” My voice sounded rather squashed, my face pressed against William’s chest as it was.

  William released me and pushed me ahead of him toward the house. “I don’t know. Girls don’t like my sisters, y’know. Men-trouble and all that.”

  “Oh.” God bless them. I had forgotten the girls’ vicious reputation as beau-stealers. “Whatever you do, William, don’t fret. Demand those two weeks and”—I might as well try my own strategy here—“if the deadline looms, I’ll find you a scullery maid and dress her in silk, and you can present her at court. No one would know the difference.” I pray most fervently, Lord.

  William’s lazy eyes shone inquisitive blue. “Bless you, Alis; you are a clever girl.” He laughed to himself and threw an arm around my waist.

  I swiftly moved out of reach, speaking lightly, “I try.”

  “Could you try to love me?”

  I hurried toward the kitchen on the south side of the house. “Afraid not; standards and all that.”

  William took a couple of leaping steps ahead of me then turned, both eyebrows raised. “You have standards?”

  “I’ve heard people do.”

  “Aye, but you’re a maid.”

  “The only thing that divides me from the rest of the world is my occupation. Clean me up, dress me in silk, and I could steal the prince’s heart.”

  He drew close. “You’ve stolen mine.”

  I ducked into the safety of the kitchen, pushing a surprised Ellen in front of me as a guard. “How clumsy of me! Remember, I don’t deal in hearts—diamonds, yes. Have you diamonds? Then please leave me alone and ask Laureldina for those two weeks.”

  William went into the main hallway off the kitchen, shaking his head. He turned and saluted me. “Alis, you’re a marvel. I’ll do it, by Ashby: I’ll find myself a wife.”

  “That’s the stuff. A wife.” And the sooner the better if he didn’t want a blackened eye.

  4

  I dragged the last of the girls’ trunks into the house at Weircannon and thanked God Laureldina had agreed to William’s pleas for more time. Not that I hadn’t paid for my brainchild—sleep, of which my body requires little, had vacated my life for the last ten days—but here we were now, and no harrowed, slumberless nights could dampen my spirit.

  The cabman took his fare, and I slammed the door on the city street, gold-specked as it was with lanterns here and there. Time enough for the beauties of the royal city later. Now, I must help Ellen get Laureldina’s infernal tea and feed her obese cat a bowl of liver paste sent up by Lord Grosvenor.

  The house in Portfellow Street was one of those residences one finds within cities where convenience buckles to the owners’ sense of fashion. I took the six turns of the kitchen staircase.

  “Charlotte Russe!” I yelled for the cat and took the last two steps as one. The kitchen was bare and at-odds, wearing that affronted expression of a room left empty for six months. Charlotte Russe waddled to my feet and batted the hem of my skirt as if to demand solace after being deposited unceremoniously in a basement kitchen by a dirty cabman who swore and smelled like sardines. Shoving her away, I dumped the liver paste onto a white china plate and clacked it on the flagstone floor. “Compliments of a trifling reprobate. I hope you enjoy it—your mistresses seem to find anything a la Grosvenor delicious.”

  “Has her royal highness stooped to talking to the cat?” Ellen squeezed out of the small pantry and reached out to me for a hug.

  I wrapped her plump frame in my long arms, resting my head on her gray topknot. “I can’t believe we’re here.” I laughed nervously and pulled away, hugging myself now. “I have just three weeks to discover why I was dumped and how I can make my claim for the throne. Lord Humphries will help me.” I pray. “But Ellen, it might not work.”

  “I've known that since the start. Hadn't you thought of it?”

  “I prefer to assume myself right till proven wrong.” Finding my hands shaking, I busied them with prying open wooden crates and distributing the contents throughout the kitchen. “How will I ever pass for a princess?”
r />   “You don't have to pass for one. You are a princess.”

  “Yes, and wouldn’t that be a joke: show up at the royal birthday feast in these rags, making social blunders right and left.”

  Ellen took the precarious stack of crystal saltcellars from my trembling hands, and pulled my face downwards. “Alis, you haven't much to go on, but if you are meant to rule, then rule you will. Neither man nor throne in this world can stand against the plans of our blessed Lord.”

  “I know.” I took the tea tray from one of the crates and slammed it too hard on the butcher-block table. “I wish I had a fairy godmother. Taking the throne would work like a charm.”

  “And you’d lose half the pleasure of it. You should listen to an old woman: A fairy wand has never done anything money can’t.”

  “You’ll recall I’m a pauper.” I reminded her.

  Ellen scoffed. “You're a king’s daughter! You'll have plenty of money come your crowning time. Lord Humphries’ll lend you whatever you need in the meanwhile, if you ask him for it. Simple logic.”

  I leaned against the table, hands pressed on the cool wood, and stared at Ellen. “You are a conniving devil!”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m a woman . . . which is much the same thing.”

  “It is a brilliant scheme, really now.”

  Another shrug, and her black eyes snapped with intelligence and humor. “Just give me the tea things and get yourself to writing letters. Lord Humphries will be needing to make haste if you're to be outfitted in time. And when are we going to meet this high-and-mighty coxcomb?”

  “Laureldina is having him to dinner Wednesday.”

  Ellen dug both fists into her hips. “Joy and jubilation. I suppose she'll want a grand to-do?”

  I sighed. “Three courses at least.”

  Ellen pointed a knife at me with a warning eye. “You'll be helping serve. You're not a princess yet, for all your aspirations.”