“Captain Thurlow!” Leopold hollered.
Thurlow turned and faced him. “Yes, Your Highness?” he replied politely.
“He was a bad father.”
“I’m sorry?” Thurlow was in complete shock.
“During my last conversation with my father,” Leopold went on, “he said he was a bad father. I don’t know if it will assist you in your duties as you hoped, but there you have it.”
Thurlow bowed a second time and turned, quickly entering the hallway and all but sprinted down the main staircase. Once well outside the castle walls, he spotted Halsty and made his way toward the man who’d been waiting anxiously for word on how the well-rehearsed meeting with Prince Leopold had gone down.
“Well?” Halsty said as Thurlow approached.
“For the most part, Sergeant, it went as I had expected,” Thurlow said, his eyes drawn and fuming, darting about at the surrounding area and each wandering passerby. “The pompous imbecile all but confessed that he will be disbanding the Hussars once he becomes king. He even had the gall to insult me with sarcasm and act like he was trying to help me. Damn it!”
Halsty was alarmed by Thurlow’s angst. The captain had approached the prince knowing full well that he was baiting the would-be-monarch to learn the breadth of his arrogance and ascertain his agenda. It was not supposed to have been the other way around.
“Sir,” Halsty said, “as your predictions have come to fruition, you should be more than pleased. Our plan is in place, its wheels put in motion, and before you know it, you will never have to pretend to heed one more impotent command of that ‘pompous imbecile.’”
Thurlow was pleased; but that was not to say there weren’t nagging pebbles in his shoe. “Leopold said that the last thing the king and he discussed was that William believed himself to be a bad father,” Thurlow said out loud, but without direction, as though he’d meant Halsty to hear it only as an audience to the dramatic monologue.
“A bad father, you say?” Halsty commented on Thurlow’s cryptic soliloquy, “That is strange. Who knows what bizarre and ridiculous conversations exist between those two. It is of no concern to us.”
Thurlow shook his head. “That is where you are wrong, Halsty,” he declared forcefully. “It is of great concern.”
“Why?”
Thurlow contemplated long and hard on his answer. He had to make Halsty understand that nothing could be left to chance; no minute detail was insignificant. Small stones were but vital pieces of the whole mountain.
“It was a deathbed confession,” Thurlow said plainly. “Williams’ demise may come without our help after all. That makes for the possibility of accelerating our plans even more. I want our candidate prepared for this evening.”
“Tonight?”
“Absolutely.”
Halsty grinned. “Certainly, sir. I will see to it immediately. Will our candidate himself be attending the royal ball?” he asked, laughing quietly. Thurlow responded with subdued gleefulness, as though he was still entwined in the exhilaration of uncertainty and chance.
“Yes, I suppose he will,” Thurlow replied. “He has a dance with destiny.”
Of all nights for Bethany to have a conniption and lose complete equilibrium, why did it have to be this night? It was a special night even for a non-believer of whimsical fairy tales. But she could not get the image of her mother kissing Peter—or that man who might have been anyone except Ella’s uncle. Bethany was not entirely certain why she was so irked by the prospect of her mother’s indiscretions with a man besides her own husband. Henry Armitage had been guilty of that and much worse on multiple occasions. Why shouldn’t his wife be able to satisfy her own appetites if their marriage was deemed worthless by the spouses themselves? Bethany had been at odds with her mother’s actions as of late, but it still was not in her nature to be unfair.
Still she could not shake the disappointment in her heart. Bethany had struggled so very long with almost every element of Isolda’s characteristics as a mother, an aunt, and a God-fearing woman. Perhaps if her mother had at least valued virtue, there would be something Bethany could respect. As much as it pained her sense of feminism to proclaim such an archaic ideal to herself, Bethany did believe in the sanctity of marriage and monogamy. If she ever chose to marry, she wanted the exact opposite of what her parents had.
While Isolda and Aislinn had been fluttering about the last several weeks with talk of royal balls, dresses that the prince may or may not have liked, and the triumph of securing the entire kingdom of Gwent for their posterity, Bethany had withdrawn herself to her own dreams and ambitions. Did it even occur to her mother that her other daughter might have had hopes, as deluded as they might have been, to find true love—even at the royal ball? Even with a man like Prince Leopold? Bethany was no stranger to the appeal of the Prince of Gwent. Each and every maiden she knew was titillated with Leopold’s charm and decorum. Bethany was not without her own predilections toward a handsome prince, a royal wedding, and living as a queen in an enchanting castle. What was so very wrong about that? She’d asked herself that many times.
Bethany chided her childishness and continued in her preparations for the royal gala. Truth be told, what she dreamt for her life was not all that enchanting: love, marriage, family… joy. Well, enchanting yes, but far from an illusion.
After several more minutes passed, Bethany began to panic. She could not find her jeweled tiara nor the yellow gown. Her heart was racing. It was not hanging in her wardrobe or anywhere in her chamber. The tiara had been tucked away in her jewelry box just that morning. Now it was nowhere. When Bethany asked Grace if she’d moved it, the maid shrugged her shoulders. Bethany hated to be paranoid, but she sensed from Grace’s reaction to the inquiry that there was something the maid was not revealing. There were only a few short hours till the carriage would arrive ready to take the Armitage family to the castle. There were other gowns she could have worn but Bethany did not consider it. She had loved the bright yellow dress from the moment that Aislinn had hurled it to the floor. She’d adored the tiara since Isabella had placed it atop her head like she was a princess, so many years before.
Bethany made her way to her mother’s dormitory and found nothing but an empty room with laundry strewn across the floor that two maids were beginning to pick up. Quickly, just to be sure, Bethany rummaged through her mother’s closets to see if somehow the yellow dress had found its way there.
It had not.
As Bethany sped down the hallway toward Aislinn’s bedchamber, she could hear female voices echoing from behind the closed door. Both Isolda and Aislinn’s voices were very recognizable. She approached the ornate, carved partition between the hallway and Aislinn’s dormitory and lifted her hand to knock. She stopped suddenly, however, and was suddenly possessed by instinctive curiosity to catch her mother and sister in an element of surprise without time to neither secure pre-thought nor align their equally self-serving and all-too-convenient agendas with one another.
Bethany entered the room and both Aislinn and Isolda shot their faces toward the unannounced intruder. Bethany’s wind was knocked from her diaphragm. She could not, with mind or body, comprehend what she was seeing.
Aislinn stood proud and brilliantly stunning in a bright yellow gown that featured a form-fitting bodice with a yellow sash that draped from the top, underneath the right arm, down to the left side of the waist and short sleeves that flowered high up on her arms and settled loosely just below her shoulders. On top of Aislinn’s beautifully gathered golden hair: a tiara.
“What are you doing?!” Bethany exclaimed when she saw her mother adjusting the jeweled accessories on Aislinn’s ears and across her neck.
“Bethany,” Isolda said, nervously, “don’t overreact and just listen to me! This is important for all of us. As lovely as you are, it is someone like Aislinn that both the queen and prince prefer. We must cater to their whims even if we may not like it. But you stand to inherit as much as any of us.”
I could fight both of them! Bethany thought to herself. I could rip my precious tiara from her tiny pinhead and tear that dress to shreds so no one can wear it. Why can’t you just do it? It is not like you can express the equivalent of your wrath with mere words. It is not like you will ever be able to hurt them like they hurt you.
“Take that off this instant or I will rip it from your head along with a fistful of your hair!” Bethany yelled, her fingers clenched.
“Bethany!” Isolda countered, “It is coarseness like that that makes you so undesirable to a man like Prince Leopold.”
“Oh, and you know him so well do you, Mother?” Bethany riposted.
“I know what he wants,” Isolda retorted, defensively. “Grace and respectability.”
“Is that what you call what you were doing in the hallway at your party the other night with Peter? Respectability?!”
Isolda’s eyelids dimmed and for all the rage within Bethany’s breast, it was beginning to find competition with her mother’s fury.
Aislinn’s curiosity was piqued and she looked over to her sister first, then to her mother. “What is she talking about?” Aislinn asked, mortified.
“You listen to me,” Isolda declared, ignoring Aislinn. “I am still your mother. You will not speak to me like that now or ever! I have half a mind to throw you out of the house for your disrespect. I have been tempted to do it for the last twenty years!”
Bethany was too angry to cry, but the heat beneath her skin burned her eyes and they begin to tear up anyway. “For twenty years, really, Mother?” Bethany said, wounded. “So even when I was a baby you could not bear me?”
“Even when you were a baby you liked her more,” Isolda replied, now crying herself.
If it weren’t for her hateful words, Bethany might actually have been glad to see her mother showing signs of humanity. “Who?”
“You know damn well who.”
“Isabella?” Bethany said, in complete shock. Isolda did not respond.
Aislinn was still completely stunned by what she was witnessing. She did not utter a syllable.
“You know what, Mother?” declared Bethany, determined to have this be the last time she was ever made to entertain the maniacal notion of Ella’s mother being the personification of wickedness. “It’s all yours. All of it. You win. The dress is yours, the tiara, the prince, even the crown. And most of all, you can have your hatred all to yourself. I want nothing more to do with your mad delirium about Ella’s mother. You are just jealous. You were jealous of Isabella and now you are envious of her daughter.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Bethany! Stop it right now!” Isolda spat.
“I am,” Bethany replied coolly. “That is what I am doing right now, in fact. I’m stopping this. As soon as I can, I will find a way to leave this house and your sight forever. I would never want to burden the future royal family of Gwent by bearing any kind of likeness to your mortal enemy, now would I?”
“Bethany, stop!” Aislinn pleaded.
Bethany had never once seen her twin sister so confounded and she did not know what to make of it. “Good luck, Sister,” Bethany said, an all-but-dormant affection for her one and only sibling finding its way into her heart and voice. “Consider the tiara my parting gift to you. If you end up becoming the queen, be a good one.”
Bethany turned, her cheeks flushed with tears, and walked slowly toward the gaping doorway. Even her father, who’d been drawn toward the commotion and stood outside the room discreetly, seemed in a complete daze.
“Bethany! Don’t you dare turn your back on me!” Isolda shrieked. But Bethany was gone. Henry stood motionless in the doorway and stared contemptuously at his wife. Isolda wiped tears from her face and glowered at the man.
After several moments of unbearable, almost combustible silence, Henry turned his gaze toward his daughter. With sincerity but an air of sadness, he spoke to Aislinn for the first time in a very long time. “You look lovely, Daughter.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ella unfolded the thick ball of paper in her hands… again. She’d intended to burn the letter countless times in the last two days but she had never been able to do it. She was not sure why; the words that had been strewn so vehemently across the page many hours before bore no significance any longer. They were words of desperation; a woeful application for freedom that Gabriel would not have been able to grant even if he had wanted to.
Gabriel,
You do not need me any longer. I must part
company with you. Please continue to use
whatever I may provide by way of resources or
use of my home. Be assured that the secret of
your true identity and your intentions are safe with me.
But I can continue no longer.
Good luck to you and may some semblance of
peace find its way into your life.
Sincerely,
Ella
Sitting on her bed with her legs draped over the side, Ella handled the parchment indelicately in her fingertips. Like friction against wood ignited flame, she wondered if perhaps her relentless manipulation of the stationary in her hands would yield the fire that burned it into ash.
Once and for all.
But it was not to be. Ella re-read the letter again and then crinkled the paper. There was a gentle knock at her door.
“Come in,” Ella hollered, tucking the note underneath her pillow. Marion’s face poked out from behind the open door. The woman took one look at Ella and her face lit up. She had never seen anything more breathtaking.
Ella was donning one of her mother’s most spectacular gowns and even Isabella had never borne so stunning an image. She’d purchased it in Paris when Ella was only five years old and the little girl jumped up and down whenever Isabella wore it; from thence, pink was Ella’s favorite color.
And it was the softest shade of pink that ever existed. The fabric was silk with a brocade bodice of silver thread; its light hue made it appear almost angelic. When Ella stood up from her bedside, the long skirt fell down her legs and bounced along the wooden floor playfully. It was gathered only at one side of Ella’s waist and the lack of symmetry paid homage to the sculpted romanticism of the troubled artists of Paris. But even in its untraditional design, Ella was statuesque. From the point at which the fabric gathered at her waist, the bodice was formed by a long, narrow strip of pink silk that wrapped tightly around her waist, spiraling upwards at a slant until it reached her left shoulder; from there, it wrapped twice more, loosely, around her shoulder and upper arm. Ella’s right arm and shoulder remained completely bare. The centerpiece of the ensemble was a dazzling diamond necklace, resting contently on the pale skin of her chest. It was simple but awe-inspiring.
“Oh my goodness,” Marion said, her face lit up brightly, “I cannot believe it. It is like looking into the past and seeing your mother.”
Ella blushed. “Thank you, Marion,” she said. “I have to admit that no matter how averse I am to events like this, it is nice to finally have a reason to wear something so dazzling. I know we are commanded not to covet, but I must confess that gowns like this make me want to forget every moral objection I ever had against materialism!”
“I hear you, love,” Marion said with a chuckle as she scurried forward to meet Ella in the center of the room in front of the tall mirror. “There is nothing like a gorgeous dress to make sinners of us all!”
“Very funny. Where is Marguerite?”
“Downstairs with Louis and Frome. She said she wanted to see you come down the steps, just like a promenade. You know, neither she nor I ever got to do anything like this. We are living vicariously through you.”
Ella smiled and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Per Marguerite’s suggestio
n, Ella opted to wear her hair up in a loose bun with several tiny diamond and pearl pins strategically placed to hold the thickness of Ella’s curls in place. A few wild ringlets had escaped the coiffure, but she liked the look and did not try to re-pin them.
“You know, it’s strange,” Ella said contemplatively, “that here we are bubbling with excitement about this royal ball when only a few weeks ago, I had no intention of attending it at all.”
“It’s true,” Marion responded. “I have to remind myself that this is all in the name of subterfuge and deception.”
Ella grinned a second time but after holding the expression on her face for only a few seconds, her eyelids began to wilt and her smile twisted in a futile effort to conceal her descent into sadness.
“What is it, child?” Marion asked, trying to follow Ella’s eyes as she dropped her head into her hands. Marion knew, as well as she’d known anything in her life, the reason that her young friend was grieving so. But in her sincerest efforts to comfort Ella, Marion still asked the question why; what good would it do spouting off the predictability of Ella’s feelings toward the man she’d been living with for two straight weeks when all the girl really needed was someone to see her situation as exceptional as she did? Predictability was meaningless when it was your first time around at life.
“Gabriel,” Ella said, struggling to maintain some semblance of restraint. “I…I…”
Marion waited, her hand gently placed on Ella’s back. After one more deep breath, Ella finished her declaration.
“I love him.”
Ella released her face from her hands and threw them around Marion’s neck, clutching her friend and mentor so desperately that she feared she might squeeze the life from her aging bones. But Marion did not falter. She had looked after Ella like her own child for some seventeen years and it grieved her immensely that she had no way to ease her suffering.
Midnight Falls: A Thrilling Retelling of Cinderella Page 20