Midnight Falls: A Thrilling Retelling of Cinderella

by Jeanette Matern

  Ella laughed though she felt somewhat in the wrong for mocking Aislinn. Bethany looked back out on the crowd, ready to target another unsuspecting debutant for her witty retort. Instead, she saw her mother. Isolda looked at Bethany and Ella together and her face grew sullen. Bethany was still deeply upset about the argument she’d had with her mother days earlier. She did not know just how she was going to re-enter her good graces, but standing there conversing with Ella was not going to do it.

  “I’m sorry, Ella,” Bethany said abruptly, “but I just remembered I promised to visit with Baroness Eldon and her daughter. Please excuse me.”

  It happened so quickly that Ella did not have a chance to respond. She watched Bethany walk away and felt as though she’d just been hit in the stomach. Bethany’s excuse to depart was more than acceptable, yet Ella had felt as surely as she’d ever felt anything that Bethany was particularly anxious to get away from her. Ella stayed where she was and continued watching the crowd from the solitude of what had previously been Bethany’s hideaway.

  Isolda was pleased with Bethany’s display of obedience to her mother’s wishes. She scanned the room and saw Aislinn busy with another young maiden in a hideous orange frock and her idiot husband was mingling with another equally idiotic and adulterous baron. When she saw Peter across the way, calmly sipping a glass of wine while one of the female guests and her daughter yakked away in his ear, Isolda could not help but chuckle. She had met Peter once, many years earlier at the wedding of Thomas and Isabella. He had been only a teenager and of the most insatiable sort. The years had been good to him, even too good. Was it possible that a person could change so much from boy to man? He was hardly recognizable.

  Isolda was beginning to regret not having given a young Peter more notice at the wedding than she had. But at the time she was engaged to be married to Henry Armitage. Isabella, even at her own wedding celebration, was very mindful of her little brother. Isolda had no choice but to notice the attention that Isabella was paying to every person with whom the young Peter conversed.

  Peter looked nothing like his niece. That was not shocking to Isolda, as many people bore little or no resemblance to their family members. Ella, for example, carried few physical traits of her father. All Isolda could see when she looked upon the girl was the spitting image of Isabella. Why, Isolda wondered to herself, could she not resist looking at the man and trying to unearth something that might not have even been there? She decided to let Peter answer the question himself, indirectly though it may be.

  When she reached him, the two blathering females were still going strong. Isolda could see that Peter was trying to stay politely focused on what they were going on about, but even she, a woman whose entire day was spent musing on the inane whims and nuances of her peers, knew he could bear no more.

  “My dear sir,” Isolda said over the words of the younger woman, “I was wondering if I might speak with you a moment in private. It pertains to our mutual niece, ladies, and is therefore of utmost importance.” The older woman conceded, whether pleased or not Isolda did not know nor did she care, and pulled at the sleeve of her daughter. Both women walked away promptly.

  Peter did not appear overly grateful for Isolda’s having rescued him from death by trite conversation. Still, she was pleased to have the private time with him.

  “How are you this evening, Baroness?” Peter said kindly, taking Isolda’s gloved hand in his own and kissing it gently.

  “Better now,” she replied sweetly, “for it has been almost intolerable to have a relative so close by and not be allowed to speak with him. We are family, you and I.”

  “Indeed we are.”

  “And I must say that it is such a relief to my senses to know that you are here now to restore order to this lovely estate. You have no idea how difficult it has been for me to sit back and watch inexperience gnaw away at the foundation my brother and your sister worked so hard to build.”

  “Oh? Well, that is very kind of you to say, Baroness.”

  “Call me Isolda.”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you not remember me?”

  Gabriel looked into her eyes. “Of course I remember you. You were quite the loveliest of all maidens at the wedding of Thomas and Isabella. If I had been only a few years older, perhaps I would have asked you to dance.”

  “But didn’t you ask me?” Isabella said with a flirtatious giggle. Peter smiled in return but remained completely unmoved by her silliness.

  “No, Isolda,” he said, “you know it would have been quite unacceptable for me to have asked you to dance. You were already engaged.”

  To Henry Armitage, Isolda thought to herself, a man hardly worth anything.

  “Well, then” Isolda said, “you must promise to dance with me sometime tonight and all will be forgiven.”

  “It would be my great pleasure,” Peter said, taking Isolda’s hand for the second time and kissing it. As he did so, he glanced up and saw Ella watching him from the farthest corner of the room.

  Peter made no reaction to her look of puzzlement and even sadness. It was not his job to cater to the insecurities of his long lost niece. Gabriel, on the other hand, hated that Ella was displeased. She had facilitated a perfect evening at great time and expense for the sole purpose of helping a man she knew so very little about. Part of him wanted to go to her right then and express his gratitude to her. But that is not what Peter would have done, and so Gabriel could not. Peter, the man Marion had carefully described, was a man of many words and little integrity. He used people without a second thought and, as Gabriel learned, had no problem exploiting women in his fraudulence. With all of that, Marion seemed to pity the man somewhat. Gabriel could not waste the time to do likewise. Few if any of the guests that evening knew anything about Peter, so Gabriel might have been free to create the facade exactly as he desired. But he could not take the chance that someone there knew the real Peter. So Gabriel remained where he was, holding the hand of a woman whose disdain for their “mutual niece” was written all over her face. What was he to do then? How valuable was Isolda’s role in Queen Arabella’s societal network? Was it essential for Gabriel (or Peter for that matter) to cater to the compulsions of a woman who reviled the one person who had so far been his only champion?

  Chapter Ten

  After the last child finally closed her eyes, Gonla stepped outside and took a seat alongside her husband. The night air cooled her face from the perspiration of wrangling four children who were either too overtired to process their mother’s threats of the most excruciating discipline or the children were experienced enough not to quiver over something they knew would be neither excruciating nor deterring.

  Gonla scooted up to her husband, Ante’ and nudged him with her forehead, hoping to titillate the man into snuggling up to her in kind. Ante’ simply burped and took another swig of his brandy. Gonla huffed in frustration and skimmed several inches away down the wooden bench that rested several feet in front of a roaring fire. Ante’ was not yet drunk and read his wife’s less-than-subtle communiqué in confusion.

  “What? What did I do?” asked Ante’, a stout man with a black beard and a band of salt-and-pepper hair that curled like a horseshoe around the surface of his bald head.

  “Nothing,” Gonla said, perturbed. “That is the problem. We get so few moments to ourselves and you would happily spend each of them drinking and scratching your arse instead of spending it with me.”

  “What are talking about, woman?” he said, leaning back in preparation for a heated argument with his spouse. “Every time I do want to return your advances, you seem to be so wary that you will get pregnant again and then you remind me that your last baby almost killed you and suddenly, much to your surprise, a cold beer seems much more romantic to me than a tussle with you.”

  “Well forgive me for not wanting to almost die again and risk leaving my four children to a drunken louse for a father!”

  “You’re forgiven,” Ante’ said, p
atting the wooden surface next to his seat invitingly. He then took another enormous gulp from his dented silver tankard. Gonla’s lividness peaked in her veins but dispelled quickly. She was exhausted already from four children; she did not need to burden herself with a fifth. Furthermore, she adored Ante’, in spite of his numerous imperfections. Truer words, to Gonla, would have been if her husband had articulated: “I’m forgiven, again…thank you.”

  Gonla rolled her eyes, smiled, and slid back along the bench until she was nestled against him, quite contentedly. But happiness did not alleviate her stress and as much as she longed to enjoy the respite from their children, she knew their privacy was the best setting for her to voice her nagging worry.

  “What are we going to do, Ante’?” she whispered, her face still tucked into the wool of his winter coat. “It is getting too cold to leave now and what if—“

  “We will not leave until we are good and ready,” Ante’ declared, his voice elevated enough to attract glances from other residents, who were engaged in the menial tasks of daily retirement. “I have always taken care of my family and no royal edict, from the king, the pope or even God will change that. We are staying right here!”

  “Ante’,” Gonla entreated, sitting up, “I will never doubt your devotion to me and our family but you know more than anyone the danger these men impose. They have terrorized us for nothing more than our existence! They destroy our crops, beat our children and imprison us for crimes they assume we will commit. What do you think will happen now that they have an excuse signed by the king himself?”

  “We stand our ground. We are a landless people, Gonla, we always have been. We are evicted from society with each breath we take. By edict or by decree, by scowl or by fist, we are bullied and prevailed upon to vanish from the face of the earth. This is no different. We will leave Kersley, next spring, as we, and our people, agreed from the start. That is the last I want to hear of it.”

  Ante’ was not a domineering husband; Gonla was not a submissive wife. The discussion was over though neither spouse felt placated. Still, Gonla knew her husband’s words represented her own life, his life and the lives of all of their people. She had married his wisdom, bound herself to it. She had never felt it ineptness on her part to heed her husband’s counsel; on the contrary, she felt the courage that only comes from faith in another human being. One she loved so very much. Gonla rested her head back against Ante’s body, his carriage now rigid and alert, and whispered her love into his ear.

  When the first scream pierced the darkness, Gonla had been close to falling asleep on her husband’s shoulder. It was a heart wrenching shriek and Ante’ jumped from his seat, nearly knocking his wife to the ground.

  “Go get the children and hide, now!” he commanded his wife and ran toward the clamor, now accompanied by an ensemble of yelling, crashing, and the distinct cry of horses fully engaged. The gypsies had no horses; the Hussars did.

  King William had been a healthy man until one morning, many months earlier, when he was unable to stand from his bed. On that horrific morning, his chest felt like it was being stomped upon and the left side of his body lost all strength. He cried out for someone to help him, but he failed to create any sonance. Some elusive force strangled his heart and whenever he moved or even imagined uttering a sound, the noose became tighter. It was sometime before his nursemaid looked upon him in distress and summoned his physician, for King William had always preferred to sleep alone. By then, death was already taking room inside his body and merely waiting for the cue to strike. Until then, it was lounging within him and depleting his livelihood like an unwelcome guest consuming amenities.

  Now, right as his son had returned home, King William was bedridden. His mental faculties were still in place, but his body was an albatross to both his mind and his kingdom. He managed some affairs from his bed, but delegated most of his authority to Thurlow, the man who was his protector, his friend, and deliverer. William knew how much dubiousness it caused many of his subjects that Thurlow, a man who’d been raised in poverty and rose through the ranks of the military with brazen, even suspicious methods had become second to only the king in supremacy. Thurlow was like a son to William and everyone knew it; still they were not resolved in the overt misplacement of class and the distilment of power. William did not take the counsel of his advisors and trusted confidants flippantly. He did not consider himself an arrogant man, especially in his age and health. But his relationship with Thurlow was one the king defiantly maintained. The man had saved his life, yes, but it was more than that; it was more than any living soul even knew.

  Miles Gamely waited patiently to speak with his king but his patience could scarcely even be deemed a façade. He was restless and paced the hallway like a cat in the midst of the hunt. Gamely did not rattle easily but going over the head of his direct superior to the supreme ruler of the land, and the one who with a lift of his chin could end Miles’ life, was not a routine task. He was nervous, even a little afraid. He was not sure of his actions in that moment though he’d been more than resolute hours earlier, when it became clear that Thurlow was more interested in oppressing a small, inconsequential population of people than maintaining diplomacy with Hedensburg. The alliance between the two sovereign nations was not fragile, but it was destructible. It was supposed to have been Thurlow’s duty to see to it, along with a great many things, that the political marriage was sound. Even more disconcerting, Miles was losing confidence in the captain and that was not an easy thing for him to admit.

  Thurlow was the hero; Thurlow was exceptional. If it had not been for Leopold, William’s flesh and blood, Thurlow may very well have been the man who would be king.

  Miles was summoned to the king’s chamber. He entered slowly and was sobered by the king’s withering countenance. It broke his heart to see his noble monarch that way.

  “What is it, Son?” William inquired, being helped from resting position to sitting by his dutiful nurse, a middle-aged woman named Anna.

  “My Lord,” Miles said, bowing for many seconds, “forgive my intrusion of your privacy. I bring you tidings of love and devotion from your troops and from my own family.”

  “Thank you,” William replied, his guttural voice almost inaudible.

  “Your Highness, if you will forgive me, I fear for your glorious kingdom and its alliance with the Earls of Hedensburg. Hubert and David are certainly not angry with us as it were, but they have made several gestures of generosity and good faith and…” Miles hesitated for a moment. “Thurlow has not shown any interest or intention of reciprocating. Furthermore, it seems the residents of Kersley are currently being evicted on Thurlow’s command and, seeing as there are many families that are being forced from their homes with winter approaching and no specific place to go, it is damaging to the soldiers’ morale. I mean no disrespect to the captain, but I was wondering if you might shed some light on the long-term expectations of such a campaign so that I might reassure my troops.”

  Miles took a deep breath. He was aware that he’d said a mouthful to a very old, dying man without a pause, but he feared that if he stopped or wavered in any way, he would not have had the gall to continue. Now the gall became doubt and Miles waited, agitation tingling his nerves. King William looked to be ruminating deeply on the commander’s words and while Miles knew there was the possibility of him being sorely reprimanded for questioning Thurlow, he sensed by the king’s eyes that nothing of the sort was going to happen.

  “Commander,” William said, weighted with discomfort, “your dedication to your army and this kingdom is commendable. Truly. But I have looked to Thurlow for fifteen years to carry out my wishes for Gwent with fortitude and diligence. As I am now greatly encumbered by my ailing body and grieving spirit, I preserve that trust as tribute to a man that risked his own life for mine and a man that has established a stellar legacy by his hard work and integrity. Perhaps Thurlow is distracted at this time, perhaps even misguided, but his record earns him more than
a scolding from me every time he does something unpopular or even bizarre.”

  “My Lord, if I may, there is something more I wished to discuss with you.”

  “Carry on, Commander.”

  “As you know, Thurlow maintains his own garrison—a band of brothers if you will.”

  “Yes.”

  “It seems the citizens of Gwent have come up with a nickname of sorts for these men: the Hussars. I am ignorant of the name’s origins or relevance to their duties, but they are becoming well known throughout the land.”

  “Go on.”

  “Yes, Highness. There is an air of notoriety when they are spoken of, my Lord. There have been countless rumors of aggression, misuse of power, and even terrorism toward the poorer and more provincial territories of Gwent.”

  “Rumors, Commander?”

  “Well, yes, my Lord, but from sources I deem reliable and trustworthy.”

  “Once again, Thurlow’s reputation speaks more to me than rumors. Now please, Commander, I am most tired. Thank you for the information and I bid you good night.”

  Miles wanted desperately to go on; all night, if necessary, to convince the king that rumors were more than just imaginative concoctions of bored minds. They were warnings. But it would be to no avail. If anything, it would bring about the reproof that Miles had feared in the beginning.

  “Yes, my Lord. Good night to you.”

  Miles bowed, turned on his heel and made his way out of the king’s dormitory. Once he had exited and traveled many paces down the hallway, he cursed in defeat. Why couldn’t the king see it? Since when did saving a man’s life, even a king’s life, entitle a man to unfettered action with no accountability? Miles curled his fingers into a fist, positioning himself to hurl his arm against the wall. Instead, he simply thrust it forward until it was mere inches from the partition and stopped, letting it hit the ornate surface with slow, restrained force. There he stayed, as though prepping to combat the wall. When he straightened, he felt the unmistakable sensation that he was being watched. He turned his head briskly and saw, down the hallway many paces, Prince Leopold, gazing at Miles with curious eyes.