The Ugly Stepsister (Unfinished Fairy Tales Book 1) (17 page)

Andrew McVean’s voice, loud and raucous, carries to us on top of the other voices.

“…keeps them away from idleness…nothing wrong with cadets of dukes and earls seeking positions in farming, mercantile and trading houses, as long as there’s profit to make!”

I narrow my eyes and try to move stealthily toward McVean. Lips dry, heart pounding, I wonder how I should broach the subject of Jimmy to him.

But before I can reach him, a hand clamps firmly on my elbow.

“Katriona, dear.” I jerk my head back—since when does Lady Bradshaw call me ‘dear?’

Then, seeing the young man near her, it becomes painfully obvious.

“Mr. McVean,” Lady Bradshaw says, her tone dripping with honeyed sweetness. “I don’t believe you’ve met my daughter, Katriona.” She pulls me close and whispers, “Ten thousand a year.”

Randall blushes and stammers, “In…in fact, I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Miss Katriona previously.”

I fight hard not to giggle. The whiskers sticking out of his mole quiver as he speaks.

“Really? How delightful,” Lady Bradshaw beams. “When was the occasion? I believe it must have slipped my memory.”

“At the croquet party given by the Fremonts,” Randall says. “Your sister was also there.” He glances at Bianca, who is conversing with several men by the fireplace. From the look of longing on his face, I know why he is so certain we have met before.

“There you are, lad!” Andrew McVean bears down on us, clamping a hand on Randall’s shoulder. “Getting to know the ladies, eh? About time, I’d say. Though it seems only yesterday that you were crawling on the floor, shaking a rattle!” He lets out a bark of laughter, and Randall looks like he wants nothing better than to jump out the window. However, I’m glad I don’t have to weave my way over to McVean. Here I am presented with a ready chance to question him.

“Mr. McVean,” I say as politely as I can. “I understand that you are a manufacturer of textiles and own a cotton factory. Several, in fact.”

“My word! Is the lady interested in trade?”

Lady Bradshaw’s hand tightens on my elbow.

“Yes, very,” I say, before she can stop me. “What I am curious about is that you employ children to work at your factory.”

He looks slightly bemused. “So I have. Everyone does, anyway. Children are cheaper to employ, lighter on their feet, and small enough to be around the machines.”

“You mean risking their lives in the process.” I can’t keep my temper any longer.

Randall has successfully slunk away.

But I’m not done yet. “Just yesterday a little boy no more than ten got his head smashed when he was crawling under a machine still in motion. Surely you are aware of such accidents? Haven’t you thought of taking safety measures?”

“Katriona!” Lady Bradshaw hisses, throwing me a withering look.

McVean looks suspicious. “Lady, I’m giving these children jobs so they won’t starve on the streets. Accidents sometimes happen, but it’s nothing to get so worked up about.”

“So you don’t care that a child has been nearly killed?” My voice rises.

McVean shrugs. “You exaggerate, young woman! Calm down, there’s no need to get your feathers so ruffled.” He takes a goblet of wine from a passing waiter and hands it to me. “Here, have some champagne. It’ll calm you down. A young pure-minded lady like you shouldn’t concern herself with unpleasant matters. A woman’s place is in the—”

I take the goblet and dash its contents over his neatly-pressed white shirt.

EIGHTEEN

Time stands still. Then an anguished yell—

“My hundred-pound shirt!”

McVean’s face is priceless. He stares, dumbfounded, at the alcohol running down his bulky front. Everyone is staring at me, horrified, like I’m nuts.

“Katriona.” Lady Bradshaw looks ready to murder me on spot. “Apologize this instant!”

I bite my lip. I don’t want to apologize, especially when he is the one who should be repentant, but I sense that there’s no point being obstinate.

“Soooorry, Mr. McVean,” I say slowly, my tone indicating anything but.

He is dabbing at his shirt with an enormous napkin that a servant got him. Dissatisfied with the result, he thrusts the napkin on a table and stalks off without a backward glance. To the men’s dressing room, probably.

I slink away as well. If I were a man, I’m pretty sure I’d be tossed out.

The very next morning when I go down to breakfast, Lady Bradshaw grabs my arm and pushes me into an armchair.

“Whatever possessed you last night?” she demands, her eyes full of fury. “What were you thinking, throwing your drink all over Andrew McVean? This is the most appalling, disgusting behavior I’ve ever had from you!”

“He’s a monster,” I grit my teeth. “He deserved what he got.”

That look on his face when the champagne splattered over his shirt—I can’t help giggling at the memory. Unfortunately, I’m only aggravating Lady Bradshaw further. She grabs my shoulders and gives me a hard, forceful shake. “Impudent girl! You have disgraced the family with your incredibly uncivilized behavior. I had expected repentance from you, but here you are as stubborn as a mule.” She summons one of the footmen. “Take her to her room and lock the door. You, young lady, are not going to leave the house until you promise not to make such a public disgrace of yourself again.”

I march up the stairs in stony silence.

Oh yeah, this is just as dramatic as a modern-day soap opera. The goblin king is probably loving the show.

For the next week, I am confined to my bedroom, only going down for meals and such. Lady Bradshaw has given orders that I am not to be let out, and that anyone who sees me leaving the house must either stop me or report to the household, or risk a substantial dent in that month’s salary. Elle is sorry for me; on one occasion she even musters the courage to ask Lady Bradshaw to relax the rules, but of course my “mother” doesn’t listen. Bianca gives Elle a stern lecture about how servants ought to be seen, not heard, and that she should be mindful of her duty and limit her visits to her family.

I’m fine with the arrangement, really, apart from the etiquette lessons that are increased to “drill some sense” into me. I am tired of the incessant social activity of the Season and worrying about how to complete the story, so staying in the house means I get to take a break.

One day the etiquette master is laid up with a cold. Yes! Once breakfast is over, I retire to the bedroom, kick off my shoes, strip down until I’m dressed only in my chemise and petticoat, and climb into bed with a new fat volume titled
Lady Alexandra’s Secret
. I spend the next hour in bed, snuggled up with the book, and just when I am beginning to reach the part where the secret is revealed, a knock comes on the door and Martha enters.

“You’ve an invitation to a party, miss,” she says, holding out a cream-colored envelope.

“But I’m grounded. Er…I’m not allowed to go out?”

Martha drops the envelope on the velvet bedspread. “Seems you’re allowed for this one.” Then she lowers her voice. “I can’t let you out, but if you want another book, some food…anything brought up, don’t you hesitate to let us know.”

I blink.

Martha presses a hand on my shoulder. “What you did to that factory man ain’t manners, but we’re glad you did it.” She winks, stokes the fireplace, and leaves.

I eye the envelope suspiciously, wondering what kind of spell it possesses to be an exception. Maybe it’s bewitched like my book. Maybe it contains a death threat.

The paper inside is as smooth as water, cool to touch, gilt-edged, and scented. On the top is the letterhead, an ornate drawing of roses entwining a sword. I saw this emblem when I went for the presentation and to seek Galen. It’s from the palace, the royal family.

The Duke of Somerset would like to request the pleasure of the company of Miss Katriona Bradshaw on Tuesday next at nine o’clock. A favorable reply is anticipated.

At first I’m stupefied—who the heck is the duke of Somerset? Then, recalling some conversations at the soirees and parties I’ve been to, I realize it’s Henry. Duke Henry.

“Katriona.” Bianca’s sharp gaze rakes over me the second I come down for lunch. “Did you really receive a personal invitation from the duke?”

I fork a huge piece of potato dipped in garlic-and-rosemary sauce and chew slowly, savoring each bite. By now, I’ve figured out the best way to respond to Bianca’s verbal attacks is to keep silent.

“I suppose the duke believed it was a polite thing to do,” Lady Bradshaw says. “You’d do well not to misbehave this time, do you hear me?”

“But why would he send us separate invitations? Clearly, he wants her to go, even after that atrocious public display.”

Lady Bradshaw leans forward, her eyes gleaming. “Katriona, how often have you conversed with the duke?”

Whoa. Just last night she was still giving me the Evil Eye and today she’s acting like I’m her favorite daughter. Of course. A daughter’s worth is determined by the men she attracts. The thought doesn’t sit well with me.

“Barely,” I say. Let them puzzle out the mystery of why Duke Henry would be interested in me. Actually, I’m kind of puzzled as well. According to Pierre’s definitions, we are merely acquaintances. I don’t even address him as Henry, just “Your Grace.” Surely there is no need for Henry to send an invitation that expressly conveys his desire for me to attend his dance. He can’t have suddenly taken an interest in me, not if it’s true when Krev described how frantic he was getting Elle out of the pond.

Bianca pins me with a stare, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m lying. But it’s true. I haven’t spoken to Henry that much. Elle has a lot more interaction with him—with Jimmy’s injury, Henry probably has gone over to her place every day. Oh God, how am I to stop them falling for each other? Right now the only thing that stands in the way is Elle’s lowly status as a servant. And who knows if Henry might overlook Elle’s humble beginnings…he definitely looks capable of it. Not to mention that Elle could be an earl’s daughter.

“Do I have to go?” I say. “Nine o’clock seems awfully late.”

Both of them look at me like I’m crazy.

“Refuse an invitation from the duke?” Lady Bradshaw’s voice is as shrill as a whistle. “Katriona Rosalind Bradshaw, are you out of your mind? You must never refuse an invitation from the royal family, especially when you have the good fortune to receive it.”

“She probably worries about her two left feet on the dance floor,” Bianca says nastily.

I’d love to stick my tongue out at her.

Lady Bradshaw puts her fork down with a decisive clink. “Although I’d rather not let you appear in the public so soon—apparently your punishment hasn’t been enough—one does not refuse an invitation from one of the royal family. Go you must, but make sure you behave yourself, or this time you’ll find yourself locked up in the cellar.”

Like Cinderella was in the fairy tale. But I’m just the ugly stepsister and have no godmother to save me. A rather effective threat, I admit.

“May I have the next dance, lady?”

“You may,” I respond automatically like an answering machine. First rule of ballroom etiquette:
do not refuse a partner unless you have a prior engagement or are truly fatigued
.

Lady Bradshaw’s idea of ensuring that I would behave with propriety was to create a list of ballroom etiquette that consisted of a hundred rules. She made me recite every rule before every meal, which was tiresome for me, but the servants found it entertaining.

“A refreshing change from saying the same old grace every time,” Martha whispered. I rolled my eyes.

Actually Pierre had taught me these rules earlier, but I never bothered to commit them to memory. Now, having recited them numerous times, the rules are etched in my mind like the carvings on the border of my mirror.

I sip on fruit punch, slowly, glad for another rule:
dance only every other dance, as over-fatigue will follow from excessive dancing
. Duke Henry’s house isn’t as fancy as I imagined—it’s nowhere near as huge as Lord Manfield’s, but the location is smack in the city center, only a short walk from the royal institute. I suspect that in order to attend the medical lectures, he chose convenience over comfort.

Still, it’s a reasonably spacious room with a select group of guests. I don’t know if it’s fortunate, but there are more men at the ball than women. I’m glad I’m spared the humiliation of being a wallflower, but on the other hand, I’m a fright when dancing. Most of Henry’s acquaintances look great in formal suits of black velvet and white silk shirts, and are also stiff and formal and polite—enough to make me nervous. I’ve trampled on quite a few toes. Well, at least I am adhering to another rule:
let your manner in the ballroom be quiet, modest, and reserved
.

Looking at the bright sparkling lights glinting from the chandelier above, I reflect on what to do with Elle when THE BALL is held. If I, with my daily dancing lessons, am reduced to a clumsy idiot at my first ball, Elle can’t do much better. She looked super nervous at the croquet party. Should I give her a crash course in dancing?

Bianca waltzes past with some young man I don’t recognize. She seems to be darting glances around the room, her attention barely on her partner. I suppose she’s curious if Edward will be present.

About an hour later, I’m hungry enough to eat a horse. My partner offers to accompany me, but I decline. It has been difficult enough trying to dance on high heels and carry on a conversation with him. I want a moment to be alone. So I enter the refreshment room and help myself to sliced chicken, cucumber sandwiches, unsweetened biscuits, and a gelatin dessert that tastes of almonds and milk—the butler tells me it’s called a blancmange. When I reach for a cup of iced tea, a few young men near me recoil, as if I plan to dash the liquid over their pristine white shirts.

Whatever. I don’t regret for one second what I did to McVean, even if it costs me my reputation. I am just finishing my second glass when Henry appears.