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Authors: Cameron Dokey

1416934715(FY) (9 page)

BOOK: 1416934715(FY)
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“Then why did he marry her to Etienne de Brabant?” I asked.

Amelie sighed. “That is a very good question,” she said. “I think it is because he is the leader of the queen’s faction at court. With the queen’s brother on a throne of his own now, who can say what brother and sister might plot? But if Etienne de Brabant were married to someone loyal to the king, someone he trusts . . .”

She broke off and shook her head. “But my new stepfather is clever. As soon as the marriage festivities were over, he packed us up and sent us off. My mother can hardly keep an eye on him from this great distance.”

“So the king has accomplished nothing,” I said softly. “Save betraying your mother’s trust.”

“That’s it exactly,” Amelie replied. “She’s stuck in a loveless marriage, and we’re all stuck here, so very far from home.”

“Spring is coming almost any day now,” I said. It seemed paltry consolation, but surely it was better than none. “Things will get better then. I promise.”

My stepsister gave me a trembling smile. “Thank you, Cendrillon,” she said. “You are really very kind. But for obvious reasons, I think I would prefer it if we avoided making promises, at least for the time being.”

Before I could answer, she drew in a deep breath, and stepped back from the door. “But what am I saying?” she said, as she turned away. “Of course things will be better when the spring truly comes. Spring works wonders everywhere, don’t you think? And naturally you will not mention the conversation we have had today to anyone.”

I opened my mouth to give an assurance, but Amelie had already set off down the hall.
I am back to being a servant,
I thought. At the landing at the head of the stairs, Amelie halted abruptly.

“Where is Constanze d’Este buried? Do you know?”

“In her garden,” I answered. “On the far side of the house. I can take you there, if you like.”

“I believe I would like that,” Amelie said slowly.

“But not today. Today I have discovered quite enough.”

“In April, when the daffodils bloom,” I suddenly blurted out.

Amelie’s eyebrows rose. “That sounds lovely, thank you, Cendrillon. I am fond of daffodils. There are great fields of them where I grew up.”

“Where is your home?”

A strange expression flashed into Amelie’s eyes. There and gone so quickly I didn’t quite have time to figure out what it was.

“This is my home, now, Cendrillon,” she said.

Then she turned and was gone.

E
IGHT

Spring came in a great and colorful rush. In April the daffodils bloomed. In May, the peonies. In June, the roses. The fruit trees in the orchard gave every sign that this would be a year when they would behave themselves and provide the kind of fruit they were supposed to.

As the weather grew warmer, both Amelie and Anastasia began to spend more time out of doors, often in my mother’s garden. Amelie in particular seemed drawn to it, even beginning to go so far as to work
in
the garden herself. Since the day I had taken her to see Constanze d’Este’s grave, the same day I finally finished the seemingly endless task of going through Anastasia’s dresses, as it happened, it seemed to me that Amelie was working hard to make her peace with the circumstances that had brought her to the great stone house.

Even Anastasia seemed calmer now that the weather had improved. She would sit on a stone bench in the shade, her own sun hat firmly in place upon her head, chiding Amelie for the fact that hers had fallen off and that her hands and nails were filthy from working the soil. To which Amelie always replied that some young men found freckles attractive, and dirt could be
washed off. But it was a gentle sort of teasing, as if the warmth of the weather had mellowed them both. Now that she was finished torturing me with the endless examination of her wardrobe, Anastasia seemed content to leave me alone. Neither of us mentioned Raoul again.

The only one who did not seem warmed by the change in the weather was my stepmother. She roamed the house and grounds like a phantom as if unable to settle, to find peace anywhere, her skin still as fine and pale as the winter’s day upon which she had first crossed our threshold. More and more often, I was reminded of my first impression of her: that she was like a spring in full flood with its surface still encased in ice.

At first, I had believed that this was a sign of the strength of her own will, her refusal to give way to the turmoil and despair which filled her mind and heart. But, as the days and weeks went by, I began to wonder whether or not Chantal de Saint-Andre had made herself a prisoner of what she felt. If my father’s heart was empty, then my stepmother’s was too full. And I wondered what would happen when the ice finally broke.

“Poor lady,” Susanne sighed while preparing dinner one night. She was chopping vigorously, the knife thunking against the cutting board. Susanne had made getting my stepmother to eat her own personal crusade. To that end, she tried a different dish each night. Tonight’s attempt involved chicken and
vegetables cooked on top of the stove. The smell of it filled the whole house.

“Forced into a loveless marriage, then packed off like a piece of furniture that’s gone out of style. She’ll waste away to nothing, you mark my words, and then Etienne de Brabant will have what he wants.”

“What do you mean?” I asked from the far end of the table, where I was preparing a great pile of green beans. I had kept the conversation I had shared with Amelie outside my mother’s door strictly to myself. But there wasn’t one person in all the great stone house who believed my father had married Chantal de Saint-Andre for love.

“What does he want?” I asked now.

“Why, to be rid of her, of course,” Susanne snorted. “Why else would he send her to the ends of the earth and then leave her alone, without any kind of word, for five whole months? It would eat me alive with frustration and fury, I promise you that. If you ask me, unless something happens to change the way things are going, that man will be a widower before the year is out.”

“Then it’s fortunate nobody did ask,” Old Mathilde’s voice suddenly sliced through the room, sharper than any kitchen knife. Susanne dropped hers with a clatter and pressed a hand to her heart.

“Gracious, Mathilde,” she exclaimed. “Don’t you know better than to startle a body like that?”

“I know better than to indulge in idle gossip,” Old Mathilde replied, and I saw the way she
glanced at me out of the corner of my eye. “You may hold whatever opinions you like, Susanne, but in the future, I would appreciate it if you kept them to yourself. This house is troubled enough without your wild surmises.

“Our mistress would like a cup of tea,” she went on in a more quiet voice. “Cendrillon, perhaps you would be so good as to make one and to take it to her.”

“Of course I will,” I said, as I finished the last of the beans, gathered them up, and dumped them into their cooking pot. I set it on the back of the stove and put the tea kettle on to boil. Susanne was chopping once again, the sound of the knife informing all who heard it and knew how to listen that her nose was out of joint.

“Susanne didn’t mean anything, Mathilde,” I felt obliged to say. “Nothing bad, anyhow. And she’s right, you know. Chantal de Saint-Andre does not look well. Do you think she has an illness?”

Old Mathilde shook her head. “Not one that comes from any outside cause. As for the inside one, well . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Steam began to rush from the spout of the kettle. I took it from the hob, poured a little water into the teapot to warm it. Then I emptied it out, added the tea, and poured the boiling water over all. I set it on a tray, then wrapped the pot in red flannel to help keep it warm. Once upon a time, I had been kept warm in much the same manner. The thought brought a sudden smile.

“Didn’t you make seed cake this morning?” I asked Old Mathilde. She gave a nod. “Chantal likes that, doesn’t she? Perhaps I’ll take some of that along as well.”

“That is very thoughtful of you,” Old Mathilde said, as I found the loaf of cake and began to slice it. “She is in the sun room.”

The sun room was small and filled with light, even in winter. Tucked into a far corner of the main floor of the house, it had windows on two sides. One looked straight out over the ocean, the other, toward the tops of the trees in the orchards. Chantal often spent time there. It was her favorite room in the house.

I cut two thick slices of seed cake and put them on my favorite plate, one with sunflowers painted on it. I fetched the cup and saucer to match, placed both upon the tray beside the teapot. Sugar in its bowl came next; milk in a sturdy little jug. I added a blue napkin, then hefted the tray.

“That’s nicely done and no mistake,” Susanne said, her tone approving. “Lovely looking tray like that would cheer anybody up. Look sharp she doesn’t eat too much and spoil her dinner, mind you.”

“I will, Susanne,” I promised.

I carried the tray upstairs, careful to hold it level, then made my way to the sun room. Chantal de Saint-Andre was sitting in a chair, a shawl around her shoulders, her legs tucked under her like a child. One of her elbows rested on the arm of the chair. She
had her chin on one hand, and her
eyes gazed
straight out at nothing.

“I’ve brought your tea, ma’am,” I said from the open doorway.

My stepmother turned toward me then. “Oh,” she said. “It is you, Cendrillon. I was expecting Old Mathilde.”

I hesitated, uncertain whether I should go back or forward. “I could fetch her, if you like.”

Chantal de Saint-Andre seemed to give herself a little mental shake. “No,” she said. “Of course not. You brought the tea, you said? Thank you. Tea will be most welcome. I know that it is spring, but I cannot seem to get warm.”

I moved forward then, placing the tray on a low table near the chair. “I brought some of Old Mathilde’s seed cake,” I went on, as I began the ritual of pouring out. “But I fear we are both under strict instructions from Susanne. I am to make certain you don’t eat too much cake and spoil your appetite for supper.”

At this, my stepmother actually smiled. “I seem to recall giving my daughters similar instructions, once upon a time. Tell Susanne that I will be a good girl.”

I lifted the cup and saucer and extended it toward her. Halfway in the act of reaching for it, Chantal de Saint-Andre’s hand paused in midair.

“Oh,” she said. “Sunflowers.”

Not until then did I realize what I had done. I had prepared the tray for my stepmother precisely as I would have for myself. Choosing not the fanciest
plate or cup and saucer, but the ones that made me feel cheerful, even on the gloomiest of days. I felt the way my hand wished to tremble, but held it steady.

“If you do not care for them,” I said. “I can bring you something else.”

“Sunflowers are my favorite flower in all the world,” my stepmother said, almost as if she were speaking to herself. “In the summer, there are great fields of them along the roadsides on the lands where I raised my daughters, and where I, myself, grew up. The old folks say they have never been planted but, every year, there they are. I have seen many growing things since we came here, but not a single sunflower. I think it is too cold for them to grow.”

As if to prove her point, she shivered, and drew her shawl a little more tightly around her shoulders.

“Where is it?” I asked, hardly daring to breathe. “The place where you grew up?”

“In the very center of the country,” my stepmother replied. “They say our very first king was born there, and so it is our country’s heart. The land is flat, the fields are fertile, and the sun is warm.”

For a moment, I thought she would say more. Instead she leaned forward, took the saucer between her thumb and forefinger. I let go.

“Did you prepare this tray yourself?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” I answered.

“Then I thank you, Cendrillon.” She took a sip of tea, closing her eyes as she swallowed, as if the simple action gave her just a taste of the peace she so
desperately sought. She opened her eyes, then set the cup and saucer on the wide arm of the chair.

“Was there something else?”

“It can be beautiful here, too,” I heard myself blurt out. “You just have to know how to look, and . . .” My voice faltered but I forced it to go on. “I wish you could be happy here. All of you. I’m sorry that you’re not.”

My stepmother jerked, as if I’d poked her with a pin. I bit down, hard, on the tip of my tongue, my eyes suddenly fascinated by the hardwood floor.
Fool idiot,
I thought.
She thinks you’re a serving girl What difference could it possibly make to you whether she and her daughters are happy here or not?

“Look at me, please, Cendrillon,” Chantal de Saint-Andre said in a firm, soft voice. I lifted my eyes. For several absolutely silent seconds, my stepmother and I gazed at each other. I watched her cheeks flush, then go absolutely bloodless.

“You pity me,” she said. And in that moment, I realized that she had seen her own face, reflected in my eyes.

Before I could answer, she made a quick movement, as if to push what she had seen away. Her hand struck the saucer on the arm of the chair, sending it and the cup flying. Hot liquid arced through the air, then splashed to the floor. The cup and saucer hit the hardwood and were dashed to pieces. My stepmother gave a heartbroken cry.

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