Midnight for Morgana (2 page)

“Oh, Morgana,” Nola gushed, “you should have seen the beautiful young woman at the fair! Such a grand lady!”

“On a white horse with a gold saddle and bridle,” Alana chimed in. “Just like a princess. All the young men wanted to talk to her, but she would have nothing to do with them.”

Nola gave her a hard look. “You did press our dresses, didn’t you, because if you didn’t–“

”They are pressed and hanging in the kitchen.” A good enough reply, even if someone else had pressed them.

“Very well, then.” Nola shot her a sullen look, as if sorry she’d been deprived of an argument or a chance to berate her sister.

Her sisters chatted about the fair for long minutes, as if to taunt Morgana with what–they thought–she had missed.

“But of course, you wouldn’t understand how much fun it was,” Alana derided, “seeing as you’ve never been to a fair.”

“Nor likely ever to go to one,” Nola added with a snicker. The two sisters giggled as they left the parlor and headed for their bedchambers, the stench of cheap perfume trailing behind them. The house was large enough that each sister had her own bedchamber, although Morgana’s was a cubbyhole, a room formerly used for storage. The house had three storeys, but to make the housework easier, Morgana had closed the doors to all the upstairs rooms and suggested the family use only the downstairs as their living quarters. Her sisters had protested, but for once, their father had supported her in this.

* * *

“Papa!” Alana reached for a slice of fragrant oat bread, warm and fresh from the oven, at the kitchen table the following morning after church. She neither passed the wooden bread basket to others, nor did she return the cloth cover that kept the bread warm. The family ate all their meals in the kitchen, since the furniture in the dining room had been sold years ago.  “You should have seen the grand lady at the fair last night. She wore the most beautiful clothes!”

“Yes!” Nola stirred a spoonful of honey into her steaming cinnamon tea. “Papa, we must have new clothes, too, Alana and I.” She cast a dismissive glance at Morgana, who had just sat down after taking up a bowl of bean soup for everyone. “Please, Papa, please give us money for new dresses.”

Morgana crushed her napkin in her lap. “Now just a minute. How can Papa buy you–“

”Girls,” Kelwyn Muir scolded. “You know I can’t afford to buy you new clothes. Why, we can’t even afford servants.” He glanced at Morgana, his expression of part guilt, part appreciation. “Your sister has to do all the work.” Tall and thin, with gray hair sprinkled among the brown, he had the look of an esthetic, and indeed, that was partly true, for he spent most of the time in his library. His blue linen tunic, although mended in many places, was clean, the long sleeves rolled up past his elbow.

“But, Papa,” Nola persisted. “Surely you can sell a few of your books. You’ve told us more than once those books are worth much money.”

Not Papa’s books!  Morgana knew how much each volume meant to him, how much enjoyment he derived from his library. She’d like new clothes, too, she fretted, trying to stifle her resentment. She must dismiss the bitterness that dragged her down, must not surrender to the anguish that oftimes threatened to overwhelm her.

Kelwyn scratched his chin. “Well, I suppose I could sell a book or two.”

Oh, no! Morgana clenched her hands in her lap, suppressing heated words that threatened to spill. Just once, why couldn’t their father stand up to the sisters?

“Oh, thank you, Papa!” Alana clapped her hands while Nola beamed with satisfaction, then directed a gloating expression at Morgana.

Morgana wanted to kick Nola’s shins, not only for her smug expression, but also because of her sisters’ careless regard of their father’s feelings.

Her father gave Morgana a warm and tender look, as if to say, Your turn is coming. Or did she read too much into his look?

Shortly after the midday meal–a light repast since it was Sunday–the two older sisters left to visit Lady Dunreith, giggling and chattering as they stepped into the family cart, headed down a narrow side road toward the Dunreith mansion.

After washing the dishes, Morgana found her father in his library, studying the rows and shelves of books, the volumes old, the parchment crackling, the titles scarcely readable. A wide multipaned window permitted ample illumination, for the day was sunny with no clouds in sight. He looked her way as she entered the spacious but shabby room, where the once-thick carpet felt like thread beneath her heavy work shoes, and the draperies showed holes and patches, a blatant reminder of the family’s poverty. He fingered one thick volume at the end of the middle row, a thoughtful expression on his face.

His hand lingered on the book. “Don’t know which books to sell. They all mean so much to me.”

A fresh spurt of indignation churned inside Morgana. “Then don’t sell any, Papa. Alana and Nola don’t need new clothes. They can make do with what they have.”

“Ah, well,” he said, sliding a book from the shelf, holding the others in place so they wouldn’t fall to the floor. “It’s the least I can do for them. But you, Morgana, I don’t do nearly enough for you.”

“Papa, I–“

”No, let me say it, daughter. Your turn is coming, I swear. Once your sisters are married . . .” The sentence remained unfinished, and she recognized that even if her sisters found husbands, it would change nothing for her. She would still be stuck in the house, cleaning, baking, sewing.

Her father sat down in an easy chair, the velvet worn, its cushion lopsided, the springs broken so that it made a creaking sound whenever he moved. He clutched the book in his hands as if it were a rare jewel, which it was, to him. “If only your mother were alive,” he said with a look of deep sadness.

Would that change anything? Morgana fretted, for they would still be poor. She was only four when her mother had died, but a memory of soft hands and lavender water hovered in her mind. As much as she loved her father, she realized that he was weak. He should have put his foot down years ago, should have shown backbone instead of spoiling her sisters as he had done throughout the years, giving into their every wish and whim. Seeing that her father was lost in his reading, she left the room and made her way to the parlor to catch up on her mending. In vain, she struggled to suppress her bitterness, aware that dark thoughts would only drag her down.

Seeking a happy diversion, she recalled the fair last Saturday, the music and colorful stalls, the esteeming glances of the young men. Oh, she wished she could relive that time, yearning to get out more and meet other young people, not just for one night, but for all the years to come. Face it, she longed to leave the house, get out and see the rest of the world.

* * *

The next Saturday, Alana and Nola left for the fair, sporting their fine new clothes. Morgana stood in the kitchen among the dirty dishes and pans, resolved to look on the sunny side. Perhaps Papa was right; maybe Alana and Nola would find husbands and then at least they wouldn’t be home to badger her. Why, they might even meet eligible men this night, and then Morgana would have her own life to live. She headed for the wide stone fireplace, where a trammel held a pot of boiling water above the embers. Time to do the dishes.

A knock on the door caught her off-guard. It surely couldn’t be the same–

Morgana opened the door, and sure enough, the same woman stood there.

Dressed in a similar manner as last Saturday, Gwenith stepped inside. “Why aren’t you at the fair?”she asked with an accusing look.

Morgana shrugged. “I had such a good time last week, but I still have no clothes, no money, no way to get there. Besides, my sisters will beat me if I don’t do the housework.” A spurt of anger at her sisters erupted inside her but she squelched her wrath.

“Tut, tut.” Gwenith waved her hand, as if Morgana’s reasons were of no significance. “The work will be done by the time you arrive home, and you will have a horse and fine new clothes to wear. But remember, as I told you last week, you must not speak to anyone, and certainly not your sisters. And you have to leave at twelve o’clock.”

A lavish swell of happiness consumed Morgana. “Yes, anything you say!”

Gwenith’s gaze ran over her. “Now, what clothes would you like?”

She didn’t even need to think, for this very thought had occupied her mind all week. “A red satin dress and shoes to match, a white satin cloak.”

“Done!”

Morgana caught her breath, her fingers skimming the lustrous satin of her gown. What beautiful clothes, lovelier than anything she had ever imagined, finer than anything she could have wished for. She smoothed her hands over the satin cloak and raised the hem of her dress to see her new shoes, the red velvet studded with tiny pearls. This time, instead of wearing her hair loose and flowing, the strands were swept atop her head, gold pins holding the locks in place.

Gwenith handed her a red velvet purse, with coins jingling as before. “And don’t worry about the housework.”

“Thank you!” Morgana wanted to kiss and hug her, tell her how much all of this meant to her. But for now, her simple “thank you” would suffice.

Outside, the same snow white horse with a gold bridle and saddle of the same waited for her, munching on the grass that crept up to the house.

Gwenith clasped her hand. “Remember, you are not to speak to anyone.”

“I’ll remember.” Off she rode to the fair, covering the miles as if they were but a short walk, reveling in the scents of late spring, the chirping of crickets, the silver moon overhead and the multitude of stars that brightened the heavens. Nearing the fairgrounds, she heard the music, the horns and violins. Her heart pounded with anticipation.

When she arrived on the fairgrounds, the people looked at her in surprise, and the young men pushed each other out of the way to get a better glimpse of her. They doffed their hats and bowed, but she merely smiled in return, mindful of Gwenith’s warning. She rode from stall to stall, admiring the souvenirs, the pretty ribbons and jeweled brooches, the dolls and stuffed animals.

“She must be a princess!” everyone around her said.

A princess! If only she were.

A short distance away, a vendor was selling candied apples. She eased her horse among the throngs, then reached into her purse for a copper coin. Careful not to say a word, she smiled and handed the coin to the vendor.

He handed her the apple. “Thank you, madam.”

She smiled again and gave him a mock salute, wondering if the crowds thought she was a mute, or possibly too haughty to speak. She shrugged, refusing to worry about such a trivial matter. Biting into the apple, she savored the caramel coating, the tart taste of the fruit. She rode from booth to booth, taking in all the sights and sounds, the music that still boomed in the background.

A cool breeze sprang up, dark clouds scudding across the sky. Finished with her apple, she tossed the core into a bin and drew her cloak closer about her. A few strands of her golden hair loosened from their pins, so she gathered the stray locks and tightened the pins in her hair.

Much later, the bell tolled twelve times, and once more, she turned around and headed for home. Everyone stared after her, and she realized they must wonder why she always left promptly at twelve. Wouldn’t they be surprised to discover the reason?

Morgana barely reached the house and dismounted when the horse disappeared, and she was back in her tattered clothes, her old scuffed shoes on her feet. Taking the back door into the kitchen, she found the work was all done for her, the room spotless.

With no work to do, she settled herself in the parlor and resumed her reading, for too soon, her peaceful isolation would end, and her sisters would return home with their usual gab.

A few minutes later, Alana and Nola burst into the parlor, slamming the door behind them. Full of chatter about the mysterious woman, they interrupted each other, their voices grating on Morgana’s ears.

“You should have seen her, Morgana!” Nola unpinned her cloak and tossed the garment onto a chair, leaving it to Morgana to hang up. “Who could she be? Surely a princess!”

“But a princess from where?” A puzzled look crossed Alana’s face. “I fear she will forever remain a mystery.”