Five Glass Slippers: A Collection of Cinderella Stories

by Elisabeth Brown

  5

  Auguste tipped his glass to one side and watched petals of wine furl from the rim. He did not want to look up at his father, because acknowledging his presence would mean a reconvening of conversational doomsday: marriage. The one and only topic on which kingdom business currently bungled.

  “Auguste, it’s no use. We’ll have it out now.”

  His father’s brisk tones brought Auguste to a straighter position, and he fastened his eyes on the king’s lean, intelligent face. “As you say.”

  King Henri rose and clasped his long, thin hands behind him, pacing the floor before the breakfast table. “I don’t wish to be awkward, but seems to me you’re playing the bally pouting child.”

  Auguste rubbed his eyes and pushed the wine goblet away, feeling the tax this whole business was taking on him. “Is it such a terrible thing to want a normal life?”

  “The people haven't given you a normal life,” his father said. “They've chosen us as kings.”

  “And I suppose it's their business?” Auguste spat.

  His father ran his lean hand over his lips, interrupting the start of a smile. “It is their right. No, don't argue whether it's a wise system. Wise or not, it is ours to abide by. I'll warrant a nation's happiness depends less on the wisdom of its system than on the wisdom of its ruler.”

  Auguste growled low in his throat. “Then it's my duty to be a cunning leader and dispense with my dreams of a simple life in order to save our heads from a mob of displeased subjects?”

  Henri’s chin jutted as he laughed. “Duty and dreams are so often mistaken for each other.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel tolerant of the kingship?” Auguste asked.

  “You could try.”

  “Mmm.” Auguste’s wry smile came before he had a chance to smother it.

  Henri pointed a finger at him. “Ahhh, you see my point, don’t you? The crown is not just homage and glory. It’s a trade itself. The carpenter has his hammer and nails, the sculptor his chisels, the merchant his ships . . .” His voice trailed off in a thoughtful pause. “And we our thrones,” he resumed. “A funny business, but I was born to it.”

  “And me?” Auguste scraped his initials with his thumbnail into the wooden tabletop. “Why do I lack your passion?”

  “You’re a Blenheim,” Henri said with a wink. “A stubborn fool.”

  With a sigh, Auguste hauled himself out of the chair and clapped his father on the shoulder. “I wish I had your courage.” He laughed, a bitter enough sound. “I seem to have inherited will without valor. Quite frankly, the idea of being locked up in this castle with servants watching every move I make gives me the creeping ghosts.”

  Henri laughed. “It’s for your own good. As is a wife.”

  “Excellent segue.”

  “Your Accession is in three weeks. Find a sweet girl and marry her. Give them a bit of pageant and a future queen.” King Henri's mouth eased into a lopsided smile. “All will be well.”

  Auguste knew his father considered the topic closed. He watched King Henri leave the breakfast room and wished to high heaven that he could want the crown.

  But when an inconclusive cough from the hallway heralded the approach of Belkin, Auguste’s blood rebelled. He would not live his life under the public eye with every movement recorded in the royal chronicles for posterity. And he was currently far from interested in one of Belkin’s motivational speeches on how overcoming one’s fears was the way to manhood.

  Stuffing one muffin in his mouth and a second in his pocket, Auguste slipped into a side passage and away. He’d just take a wander ’round the city and hope some assassin made a merciful move.

  6

  I did as Ellen told me, and my heart dared hope again. There was nothing left but to wait and trust that Lord Humphries was rich enough to gamble his money on my ability to take my throne. I'm sure he'd wagered it on more useless things in the past.

  It was three o'clock on Tuesday when the doorbell rang. I knew destiny and treason were on the other end of the bell rope, but those aren't things you rush toward as if you were glad to see them; you're likely to end with your neck in a noose.

  These thoughts playing herald to the summons, I removed my apron in dead calmness and hung it on the coat peg, then wrenched open the door. Bright, city sunlight glared into my eyes, and I had a hard time seeing the person on the steps.

  “Message from Lord Humphries, miss,” a voice said. Through the blaze I could make out a red feather curled over a purple velvet hat and a fat face adorned with a bit of mustache.

  “I'll take it,” I said.

  “It's for Lady Alisandra Carlisle, miss.”

  “I'll take it.”

  “For her hands only, miss.”

  By now my eyes had adjusted to the white light, and I glared at the fat man on the doorstep; he was so short as to require me to tilt my chin downward. “If you must know, I am Alisandra Carlisle. What have you for me?”

  The jowls quivered like an unstable blancmange, and two beady eyes took the measure of me. At last the man put a plump hand into his pocket and brought it back out grasping a velvet sack and a letter.

  I grabbed the sack, and my pulse quickened at its weight and the dull clink. These were not silver coins; Lord Humphries had lent me gold.

  “Any reply?” the messenger asked.

  “A moment, Sir Imperative.” I broke the heavy amber-colored wax and unfolded a single sheet upon which were scrawled the following words:

  Lady Carlisle: For the love of king and country, don't delay. Or, in your case, for the hatred of king and astonishment of country, make haste. Women are expensive; hence, I have never kept one. There should be enough money here to supply you with a dress or two and a bit of lace. Jewelry too. Don't look shabby; I hate shabby women, as do all anarchists. I expect to see you Wednesday when I attend your stepmother at dinner. You will be present and you will have made your purchases. That is all.

  Until I See Fit to Excuse Myself,

  Lord Humphries

  I folded the note with a quick glance at the messenger. “You may tell his lordship I thank him and am his humble servant always.”

  The man nodded, turned on his heel, and waddled away to a cart and pony waiting in the street. Emblazoned on the side were what I knew to be Lord Humphries’s arms: a sleeping cobra harassed by a flock of blackbirds, one large bird leading the attack. The cobra, I supposed, was the King, and the head of the flock, Humphries of Sandisturn: a house notorious for leading Ashbians in their frequent bouts of anarchy.

  Watching the pony cart wheel away in the dazzle of sunlight, it seemed to me I'd done right to choose this man as my ally, for he was bred for mischief-making. I needed a man of this temperament on my side.

  I needed a flock if I was to crush the serpent.

  Wednesday, the day appointed for Laureldina’s dinner, dawned bright and fair with a hum of pigeon wings and cartwheels filling the streets.

  I left the house by a back street and breathed deeply the scents of baking bread and steaming carriage horses, trodden hay, and the fermented-apple undertones of manure. All these scents were familiar to me from Cock-on-Stylingham, and it was a pleasant reminder that I was still in possession of a bit of my normal world.

  I made short work of the maze of back streets and, before the tower clock showed eight-thirty, had gained the shopping district of Weircannon. Though I’d come uptown every year with Laureldina and her daughters, I had more often than not been relegated to housework and had seen very little of the city. Still, not prone to timidity, I was confident that I could accomplish my goal of setting up as a Society girl.

  I paused a moment to fix the neckline of the blue gown I’d taken from the girls’ wardrobe. It was too short in the waist, too large in the bust, but Ellen had pinned me here and there until I looked presentable.

  With a smile and a deep breath I stepped into the first shop, setting off an officious bell. A pale, pinched-in woman emerged from her lair
behind the counter. She smiled at first, but the expression froze over, and I could see her mind at work behind the icy glaze.

  “I am here to be fitted for several gowns,” I said, raising my voice so it was not so throaty and making an effort to conduct the words at a drawl. “La, but it’s a beautiful morning. I had thought to do my shopping before anyone came abroad. The crush is suffocating.”

  The woman presented a tape-measure and a vicious pincushion. “Indeed, Lady . . . ?”

  “Carlisle.” I thought against extending my hand and yawned. “Egad, but it is early, though.”

  The woman smiled. “Never too early to serve m’lady. I do not recall seeing you before. Are you a great traveler?”

  Curiosity will kill you yet, old cat. “La, all over. My uncle, Lord Humphries, thinks it a prerequisite for accomplished women.” In my mind I defined “all over” as the width and breadth of Cock-on-Stylingham, in which case I lied not.

  “Your uncle is Lord Humphries?”

  “Does it trouble you?”

  She paused with a strange smile. “None, m’lady—though I have never heard him mention your name.”

  What had I done, claiming Lord Humphries as my uncle? I skirted the unspoken questions with a giddy laugh. “Does he frequent this shop?”

  “He does. My husband is the tailor; I do the fancywork. We specialize in men’s and women’s clothing.” Her eyes were sharp and inquisitive, and I all but saw the end of her nose twitch like a rat’s.

  “How very modern.” I closed my eyes for a second and prayed Lord Humphries would not take it into his head to pop into his favorite tailor’s for a morning fitting. We had yet to meet, my co-conspirator and I. How awkward.

  I yawned again, hoping to disguise any betrayal of nerves. “If we could proceed with the measurements, I should be grateful. I have only just arrived on the continent and have many more errands.”

  The shopkeeper took my measurements, and I gave directions for three day dresses and one ball gown to be made up according to her taste. The total sum due the woman frightened me, but I found that “Uncle” Humphries’s cash was more than adequate. Bless the old traitor; he’d dealt me a generous hand.

  Assured that the gowns would be ready and delivered by the end of this week or the beginning of next, I continued on my way.

  Each shopkeeper stared at me in the same glazed fashion, and I soon recalled that my greatest claim to the throne was how very much I looked like the royals. What a puzzle for Weircannon. Far from feeling at ease with this notoriety, I finished my errands in haste.

  Hands occupied with my purchases, I shuffled the lid from the topmost box. Nestled inside was a pair of blue slippers and a receipt for the order of another pair to be formed in glass to my particular measurements. I had not forgotten how much Clarisse hated the sight of my feet. I wanted to see her eyes when I descended a staircase in those glorified rowboats.

  Congratulating myself on my clever jest, I turned down a side street and from the corner of my vision saw Stockton barreling toward me on a pony cart.

  “Alis, move!” he shouted. They were but ten yards away. Stockton jerked the reins to steer away from me and shouted to his pony, but it was too late for me to contemplate grace and dignity. I threw my purchases onto the sidewalk and leaped after them, not caring if I ended face-down on the flagstones so long as I escaped getting trampled by Stockton & Kin.

  They flashed by in a blur of yellow wheels as I fell, but rather than rough stones cutting into my face, my landing place was . . . human.

  I opened my eyes and found my cheek pillowed on the waistcoat of an unshaven, wild-haired young man.

  “Forgive me.” My voice had gone throaty again. Of all the stupid things to do, colliding with handsome gentlemen was the stupidest.

  “No harm done. Are you well?”

  I refused to look at the man as I pushed myself upright, focusing instead on Stockton, who had managed to stop his cart farther down the street and now ran toward me. “I am not hurt,” I muttered gracelessly, brushing off my skirts, and flashed a timorous glance at my savior.

  Stockton grabbed me by both shoulders. “Alis! Oh, Alis, you've got to be more careful. You're lucky you're not dead by now, or at least bleeding.”

  Humor flowed in as the shame flowed out. “No, my fall was cushioned by a gallant knight.” I gestured toward the young man who had, by now, got to his feet.

  He made a bow and smiled, though without looking me in the eye, and then set about picking up my boxes. Somehow this bashfulness on his part put me at ease. “At your service, dear lady,” he said. “I hope always to be conveniently near when princesses collide with cart-horse dragons.”

  My heart skipped three beats at the word princess, but I realized he could not know who I really was. When he straightened from gathering my packages, I took a good look at his face. My heart thudded once more, and this time I felt sick before it beat again.

  “Prince Auguste.”

  He jumped at the name as if scared of it and gave a shame-faced smile, still not meeting my eye. “I had hoped I might go unnoticed, not being in the palace and all.”

  This was not how I’d planned our meeting. I gathered my hair back into a bun. “I’m afraid you’re a terrible hand at making yourself inconspicuous, standing on street corners just waiting for hapless girls to fall into your arms. What do they teach young men these days?”

  Auguste’s eyes snapped to my face, and immediately the blood rushed into his cheeks. “Jove,” he breathed. “You . . . you . . .”

  I bridled. “If you’re going to stare at me like a pickled herring, have the good courtesy to tell me why.”

  He swallowed, and a muscle twitched in his cheek. “My apologies, but you . . .” He blushed redder and kicked the cobbles with the toe of his boot. “You look just like my father.”

  Stockton’s face was the incarnate image of tragedy, eyes pleading, jaw slack as if to say, The game’s up.

  I tapped Auguste on the shoulder and smiled at a passing cab driver so we might not look like a trio in the throes of a political drama of national importance. “Perhaps we’d better continue this discourse elsewhere. And one comment if I may: You haven’t an inkling how to speak to a woman.”

  7

  Auguste stared at the tall, thin girl who so resembled his father. He tried to suppress the urge to laugh. He had rather hoped not to meet anyone that morning, preferring to dwell on his depression without the bore of exerting himself socially. But he’d never thought to meet someone who looked for all the world like she’d stepped down from the Hall of Portraits just to jerk him into an alleyway.

  “Are you enjoying it?” she asked, a taut edge to her voice.

  “Enjoying what?”

  Her eyes bored into him like gimlets, and he watched the lad beside her tense as if waiting for the girl to explode. “The throne,” she spat.

  Auguste stretched his arms and tipped his head from one side to the other to loosen the muscles in his neck. “The throne? Deuces, no.”

  “Oh.”

  She sounded disappointed, and Auguste looked at her with fresh curiosity. “Who are you?”

  “That isn’t the proper way to introduce yourself to a lady,” she said.

  He smirked. “No, but I don’t suppose it’s proper for a lady to throw a gentleman to the ground and land with her head pillowed on the fellow’s chest.”

  The girl straightened, chin high, shoulders back, until she stood a good inch taller than he did. She was the picture of scornful indignation. “Next time I’ll just let myself be flattened by an out-of-control vehicle, and you can mop up the mess afterward. I bleed quarts when injured.”

  A short laugh exploded from the depths of Auguste’s belly, surprising even him.“Well played, my lady. Is there a point to this interview, or may I resume my mournful wanderings in peace?” She was uncanny, this girl with his father’s eyes and that regal snap to her movements.

  Some uncertainty seemed to occupy her mind
for a moment, and while she wavered, Auguste considered all the strange qualities and questions of this meeting. One: It happened in broad daylight when such things never do occur. Two: It happened outside of the palace, certainly an oddity amid his typical social experiences. Three: The girl obviously had Blenheim blood and, if so, what sort of relation was she? And why had they never met before?

  Four: What was he to do with her now?

  By the shifting of her position and the pucker of her thick brows, Auguste knew that she had come to some decision. He clasped his hands behind his back, feet apart, and waited for her words.

  “I am the Lady Alisandra Carlisle.” Her eyes appraised him, and a flush rose in her cheeks. “I don’t expect you’ve heard of me. It’s a recent title.”

  “Then you’re married.” It came out as a statement rather than a question. Shocked by a keen sense of disappointment, Auguste could have bitten his tongue for speaking his thoughts so bluntly.

  Lady Alis laughed. “Good heavens, no. I’m not the sort of thing people go around marrying.” Her cheeks grew even redder, and Auguste thought he would be rather inclined to contradict her statement if all men felt as he did. There was something delightfully uncouth about her—something in her coltish stance and the way she moved her hands that sent a surge through his body. Keep your wits, fool.

  Auguste ran his tongue over the inside of his cheek. “Lady Alisan—”

  “Alis.” She offered a chummy smile. “Everyone calls me Alis.”

  “Lady Alis, you must tell me about yourself. I know it’s rude of me, but I do terribly want to know how we’re related. You’re so obviously kin.”

  “To you?” The question was loaded with hidden meaning, and Auguste wished he were clever enough to figure out what she meant by it.

  “Look, I don’t know who you are or what sort of charade you’re playing, but there’s not a person in Ashby who could put you and my father side by side and say you weren’t blood relatives. Who are you, then? I’ve never heard of the House of Carlisle in relation to my family. What are your arms?”