Francine was brought “out” into society when she was eighteen years old, as was Camilla—the years I was fourteen and sixteen, respectively. The Countess lavished her wealth on them, throwing splendid balls and dressing them in the very height of fashion. Despite her efforts, their success was only mediocre (this I caught from gossip in the servant’s hall). An expensive education had not bought them good breeding or intelligence, and society could not forget that their mother had been a tradesman’s daughter. Their dowries were certainly large enough to attract a few offers, but none from men of sufficiently high standing for their mother’s taste. She turned them all away, waiting for a Duke or a Marquis—but none ever came. As the girls got older both their figures and their tempers suffered, and so it happened that by the time I was nineteen, and they were twenty-one and twenty-three, they were both still unmarried and unpromised.
Which brings us to the ball, of course. All fairy tales must have a ball in them, must they not? And this is, after all, a fairy tale.
It is safe to say that every unmarried young woman (and many married) in London that season was filled with excitement over one particular event: Crown Prince Simon had returned from the wars, where he was said to have distinguished himself with great honor and bravery. He had been injured in his right shoulder—a wound of no very great moment, it was promised, but sufficient that his father determined to keep him home. Many people had murmured when the young prince went off to fight, but he had declared staunchly that he could never expect any soldier to fight and die for him if he was not willing to fight and die for them. So he had gone with the relatively lowly rank of colonel (he would not accept a position that would keep him from the fighting), and all the fighting men of England adored him, and followed him. Some had shaken their heads and predicted that his younger brother Edmund would succeed in his place, but they had been proven wrong, and now that he was back he was the toast of London.
In honor of his safe return, the king was throwing a great ball, to which all of London society was invited. The doors of the palace were to be thrown open like they had not been for many a year. There would be dancing on the lawn, it was said, as well as in the ballroom, and a lavish supper served unlike anything seen before. It was no surprise that even the servants were swept up in the excitement, and the up-stairs maids whispered and giggled together in one circle, while the down-stairs maids did the same in another. And I—I could not help but feel it. I knew, as the others did not, that I should by rights be on that guest list. I could have seen the glittering rooms, and danced in a silk dress with handsome young men, and talked with brilliant older men. I would have curtsied to the queen, and perhaps the king would have taken my hand and spoken a few kindly words to me. Perhaps the prince as well.
I really thought I had inured myself to the idea of parties and balls. I had consigned them all a long time ago to the cold world that my step-mother and sisters inhabited. But now, something stirred within me—a long suppressed longing for the life taken from me.
Less than three weeks remained before the great event. Servant’s gossip was all about the preparations already underway—coming from one household to another. I was feeling very dismal that day, and more than a little sorry for myself. Seizing some quiet moments in the afternoon when my work was all done, I fled out the door by the kitchen garden, into the lane. It was quiet there, if not pretty, and I sat down on a wooden crate, buried my face in my apron, and gave vent to my emotions by crying very heartily.
It was then that heard a soft foot-fall, and cultured, motherly voice asked solicitously, “My dear girl, what on earth is the matter? Can I do anything to help?”
Drying my eyes hastily, I looked up. There stood a very little woman, middle aged and prettily plump, and dressed in expensive, fashionable clothes. Her twinkling brown eyes met mine.
“Oh, no, ma’am,” I said in my best servant-girl tones, “Thank you, ma’am. You must forgive me for giving way a little bit. It was nothing, I’m sure. Just a bit of nerves.”
“Nonsense!” she said briskly. “Something must have given you cause to cry like that.” She nodded at the house behind me. “Do you work there, for That Woman?”
I nodded dumbly.
“Then that’s probably cause enough. What’s your name, child?”
“Ella, ma’am.” I stood up and bobbed a curtsy.
“Ella what?”
“Ella Linder.”
At the name she stepped forward sharply, taking my chin in her hand and scrutinizing me fiercely. “Ella Linder Travers?” she asked after a few moments.
My eyes widened, and I could only nod again speechlessly. Then the amazing little woman enveloped me in her arms. “My darling girl,” she whispered in my ear. “At last I’ve found you!” And I clung to her in astonishment, tears starting in my eyes again, not understanding anything except that I had somehow, mysteriously, miraculously even, found a friend.
“I am Cindy Gainswood,” she said at last, when she released me. Seeing the blank look in my eyes, she exclaimed, “My good girl, don’t you know who I am? I’m your godmother!”
“I don’t have a godmother,” I said stupidly.
“Of course you do! Didn’t anyone ever tell you? My, my your father must have been very remiss.” That’s one way of putting it, I thought ironically. “I was your mother’s dearest friend. We grew up near each other in the country and came out in the same season. You used to play with my children when you were toddlers. But my husband was sent to Vienna when you were only four years old, and we’ve been there ever since. My children are there still. I came back only in the spring, and the first thing I did was make inquiries about you. I even visited that awful woman your father married. She told me that you’d gone to live with your grandmother. I gather that’s the story she’s been using for some years to explain your disappearance from her household. I, however, was suspicious and made my own inquiries. You take it from me—if I hadn’t found you here today I would have found you soon enough.”
(Lest is occur to you to wonder, reader, just what she was doing in a back kitchen alley, I should say that I’ve wondered the same thing many times myself but, you know, I’ve never asked her.)
“Now,” she continued briskly, while I stood trying to gather my wits, “let me look at you.” And she whisked off my maid’s mobcap and walked slowly around me, studying me inch for inch. “Just as I thought,” she nodded. “You were a beautiful child and now you’re a beautiful woman. It’s disgraceful to see you in such a get up, though! You don’t mean to tell me that you actually work as a maid, do you?” I nodded.
“Unbelievable!” Her eyes snapped. “Why, that woman! She’ll be run out of town by the time I’m done with her! But come now,” she took my hand, “I don’t know why we’re standing around in this idiotic fashion. My carriage is just at the end of the lane. We can talk there.”
And it was—an elegant closed carriage with an impossibly discreet-faced footman who opened the door for us and helped me in as if his mistress gave rides to house maids every day. In its relative darkness and privacy I told her very simply the story of my upbringing. She did not speak for several long moments, and when she did her voice sounded constrained, almost like she was holding back tears. “Well, that’s all over now. You’ll come immediately to live with me, and I will bring you out.”
My heart leapt, but I shook my head. “She’d never let me.”
“Let you! I’d like to know how she could stop you!”
“She’s my legal guardian,” I said simply.
“Oh, is she now! Well, just a few words to a magistrate about her treatment of you—”
“No!” I said hastily. “No, please! You mustn’t tell anyone.”
“Ah, still have some of the Travers pride in you, eh? Well, I think the better of you for it. But just the same, I think a few well-placed threats of exposure could do wonders for her tractability.”
I thought about that one for a long time—a very long time. All at once, in giddy array, every dream I’d had and many I hadn’t, rose enticingly before me. Name—rank—wealth—friendship—all the things I had laid down and thought lost forever—all seemed restored to me in a single hour. My step-mother would be humbled, my step-sisters made jealous, and nothing, even the Grand Ball itself, would be out of my reach.
But still I hesitated. “What is it?” asked Mrs. Gainswood, who was watching me closely. “What’s holding you back?”
I blushed deeply, but forced myself to speak honestly. “I don’t know if I’m ready to be Lady Elisabeth again. Or even if I can be.” I raised my eyes to her face. “I’ve been a servant for nearly half my life,” I said humbly. “It’s all I know, really. I mean, the society people my step-sisters go around with—I’ve never even spoken to them. Lady—my step-mother sent me to the kitchen the first time one of Francine’s callers stared too hard at me. Since then I’ve hardly set foot upstairs except to sneak a book from the library. And that was three years ago!”
“I see,” she said quietly. “And do you feel you prefer a life of service?”
“Prefer it? No, but—I don’t know if I want a society life either. I mean, my father, my step-mother and her daughters—they were—are—all vain, selfish, indulgent people. At least one thing I’ve learned is the value of hard work—the dignity of it. I can’t imagine just sitting around all day and—and drinking chocolate!”
That made her smile. “I see,” she said again, but with more understanding now. “So it’s just the unfamiliarity of it all that scares you?”
“I suppose so,” I conceded.
“Well, I have an idea then!” She grew brisk again. “if you don’t jump at this, I shall think you a very strange young woman indeed! There is a masked ball being held next week—a private one you understand, in one of the best homes—to which I can get you a card. Everyone there will be masked, so you needn’t fear exposing yourself. The masks come off at midnight, but of course you can slip away before then. This will give you the perfect chance to mingle incognita with all the best of high society. You’ll find out then if you’re really out of place among them. For I can tell you,” she went on, as I sat with my mind whirling, “You may masquerade as a maid very well when you choose, but ever since you dropped that falsified manner you’ve looked and spoken and moved just like a lady—except for that ridiculous dress of course. Well?” she demanded, with hardly a pause. “What are you waiting for? Say yes!”
“Uh—yes!” I stumbled.
“Yay!” She clapped her hands like a child. “Now, about your dress—”
When I left her carriage half an hour later, I felt numb and strange. We’d arranged for me to meet her on my half day off to be fitted for a gown. I was also to ask for the afternoon and evening of the ball off—cite the wedding of a friend, or some such thing.
Re-entering the kitchen I encountered Cook, who glared at me with her arms crossed. “And where have you been all this time, missy? I didn’t give you leave to take an hour off! And here I was needing you to work the stove for me—”
I mumbled something about feeling sick and ran off to my room. It was a small affair, which I shared with Mary, the other kitchen maid. In the dim light there I stared into the brassy mirror and took inventory of myself.
Wide brown eyes and plentiful brown hair, very long and a bit curly when let down. A heart-shaped face and a bow-shaped mouth. Hard work had probably been good for me rather than otherwise. My cheeks were rosy, and I was slim and round and strong. Plenty of under-footmen and gardener’s boys had come flirting for me to know I was pretty. How would I look, I wondered, in a really fine gown?