I knew Ella was going to be trouble right from the moment I set eyes on her. She was only a slip of a girl when I first started getting my hooks into her father, but even then she was so unbelievably good that I felt – I don’t know - threatened – by her very presence. I am so glad that I never got to meet his first wife, her mother (rest her soul), because if her influence was responsible for that cute little piece of blonde fluff, frippery and virtue, then she must have been unbearable.
After she died, her husband, of course, became an “eligible bachelor” again, and the effort I had to put in to keep those gold-digging dowagers away from him was unbelievable. Of course, when I realised what he was really after the rest was easy. He used to say how lonely he was since his wife – I can’t remember her name, rest her soul – passed away, but they were really just words. What he really wanted was a good – how can I put this delicately – romp in bed.
Men!
Once I had let him have his way with me (a somewhat disappointing interlude, I have to say) the rest was easy. We were married soon after, and the old fool insisted that Ella be the flower-girl. During the wedding feast, the little imp had the temerity – the absolute temerity to say to me (and I will never forget these words), “Step-mama,” she said, smiling radiantly all over that peaches-and-cream face, “Step-mama, I am so glad that you have made Papa happy again, and I do hope that we shall become friends, like I was with poor Mama.”
I fought back the urge to vomit, drew her close, and, smiling all the while, said, “Listen to me, girl. If you ever refer to me as `step-mama` again, or mention your precious Mama in my presence, I will have you thrown from the window of the west tower. Henceforth, you shall refer to me as `Madam`. Understand?”
Her smile didn’t even waver, the little witch, and she just dropped me a curtsy, said “As you wish, Madam,” and skipped gaily away. Do you see what I mean? I should have disposed of her then and there.
Griselda and Hermione, daughters from two previous matrimonial dalliances that proved to be disappointingly unprofitable, came home from Finishing School soon after, and took an instant dislike to Ella, even more so than their dislike for each other. I had to caution them on quite a few occasions, when their torment of the girl became too noticeable, for the old fool was besotted with his daughter, and, I surmised, would not take kindly to our abusing his little precious.
“All in good time,” I would say to them. “Just forget about little Ella, and, if she gets too tiresome, just go out and buy yourselves new dresses. Put them on our account.” So we suffered her pleasantness, and grew our wardrobes, for another four years.
Of course, I put paid to the matrimonial shenanigans very early in the piece, and moved into my own room. Every now and then, however, I would have to “put out”, as it were, especially when he started complaining about the size of the dressmaker’s account, or something. I would crawl in beside him that night, and by morning, all would be forgiven, or forgotten. The sacrifices we make!
Would you believe it, the old goat died? It was at least two years before I intended to bump him off myself, and so he saved me the trouble and intrigue, and did it all of his own accord. Found him, they did, collapsed over his precious ledgers, a crumpled account from our jeweller in his hand. (I had some trivial little trinkets made up, and I did think his prices were a little steep, but the cost of rubies is forever increasing, and one must strive to keep up the appropriate appearances when one is born to nobility.) I had Hermione break the news to Ella, and she was the soul of compassion and sympathy.
“Your old man is dead.” she said, and walked from the room. I have always thought that brevity was the best way to break such sad news, and Hermione was the soul of brevity. Such is the advantage of a quality education. Poor Ella was heartbroken, and could scarcely stop crying long enough to serve our luncheon. Indeed, I had to speak sternly, but kindly, to her.
“For heaven’s sake, Ella, I know you are sad, but I cannot abide having your tears all over the French toast. Pull yourself together, girl, and serve the bouillabaisse.”
After a due period of mourning (a couple of weeks, I think) I set about putting the household in order. Griselda had always coveted Ella’s room, and so I took her aside one morning, and said, “Poor Griselda is in such a state of sadness over the passing of your poor father, dearest Ella, I wonder if a change of environment might not be good for her? Be a dear, and move your things into the attic room in the west tower. Poor Griselda shall have your room.”
I expected a reaction, but all she did was assault me with one of those sickly, sweet smiles, curtsy, and said, “Of course, Madam, if you think it will help. I will start moving straight away.” Even now, it makes my stomach churn just to think on it.
By this time, my late husband (rest his soul) had already dismissed most of our servants – some contrived nonsense about not being able to afford them – and the remainder – the cook, the scullery-maid, and the gardener – all quit a few days after the funeral. Ingrates!
And the scene they threw when I told them I was unable to pay them their final dues was unbelievable. Unbelievable! I mean, with the cost of the funeral, the mourning wardrobe (did they think that we carried black in our closets as a matter of course?), a hearse, three black carriages with eight-in-hand, and the wake, how could they believe there was anything left over for them?
Anyway, I figured that Ella could fill their positions adequately, and for no cost. I was going to kick her out on her cute little backside, but instead, opted to put her to work for the greater good of the family name.
“Ella, my child,” I said to her, “you are now sixteen years of age. I think it is time you learned the ways of the world,” and I presented her with a list of tasks I required her to complete each week. She was already doing most of them by now, anyway, but it sort of formalised things. You know?
“Of course I shall, Madam,” she replied in that infuriating sweet manner that she had. “Will Griselda and Hermione be helping me with these?”
“Griselda and Hermione?” I snorted. “Most certainly not. Griselda and Hermione do not lower themselves to this kind of menial work. They are ladies of quality.”
That was the only time, I believe, that I saw her lose her composure. She kind of coughed, and hid her mouth behind her hand, but then she regained her control and said, “Of course, Madam. How foolish of me to think it.”
I suppose, in retrospect, we did treat her poorly from time to time, especially Hermione, who hated her with a passion, but really, she was born to be dominated. Despite being high-born, she was altogether too nice, too friendly, and too honest to be truly aristocratic.
Let me tell you this; it is so amusing. One of the first tasks Ella had to do, after bringing us our breakfast in bed, was to clean out the several fireplaces. In so doing, she became covered in ciders, and such was the severity of her list of tasks, she never had time to clean them off, and so spent the day with a sort of greyish cloud about her. Griselda, always quick witted, said, “We should call her `Cinder-Ella`.” We found this highly amusing, particularly Hermione, who laughed so much, I thought she would break her corset. (On reflection, I think she did break her corset. To see so much confined flesh suddenly released – well, if you can imagine a lard-filled balloon suddenly bursting…). Anyway, Cinderella she was, from that day forward.
Then came that fateful day, not long after Cinderella’s 21st birthday, when the Prince of the Realm issued a universal invitation to a Grand Ball. The Prince – a profligate rake if ever there was one, who had, thus far, bedded more flowers than the Royal Gardener – had decided that it was time to settle down and produce some legal progeny, and so a decree was issued that every single woman and widow in the Realm was compelled to attend this Ball, so that the Prince might choose from the gathered belles one who might share the remainder of his life. And pop out a son or two.
Men!
Then Cinderella piped up, “The Prince ordered all eligible women to the Ball. I should be allowed to go, too.” This rebellious remark drew uproar from my girls, but, being a fair and reasonable woman, I held up my hand for silence, and said, “Of course you should go, my dear, but do you not think it will be demeaning to our house and name, if you were to turn up to such a glittering occasion in that?” I pointed to her one and only shabby dress. As an austerity measure I had resolved, some time ago, to reduce the household expenditure on clothing by not buying Cinderella any new clothes at all.
“Oh,” she replied, all sweetness and light, “I will make my own dress in my spare time.”
“By all means, my dear. But you will make sure all of your chores are completed, won’t you?”
Naturally, the girls and I loaded up her chores list with all manner of difficult tasks, so that when the big day came, she had had no opportunity to make a gown. She was disappointed, but waved us goodbye as we left in the carriage, and said, “Do have a good time.”
Well, the Grand Ball was a typical male-dominated function. The Prince, and his sycophantic hangers-on, congregated around the refreshments table, whilst the ladies gathered in small groups, and assassinated the characters of all the ladies in the other groups.
The Prince, smiling (I swear, his teeth were so white I felt certain one could see one’s reflection in them) reviewed the young ladies present. I felt that he spent far too little time with my girls, although, to be fair, Hermione did belch rather profusely as he drew near. He did gaze a little longer at Griselda, and seemed captivated by her ball-gown – the orange and purple one with the feathers. In truth, I thought that he was much more likely to choose Griselda; she had fewer gaps in her teeth, and hardly ever wiped her nose on her sleeve, but that was his choice, not mine.
Suddenly, just before the dancing began, a radiant young woman entered the room. She was beautiful, and dressed in a full-length white gown shot with seed-pearls, and wore a silver and diamond tiara in her faultlessly groomed hair. And glass slippers! I kid you not, she had glass slippers. How she managed to stand in them on that polished marble floor is beyond me. She came unannounced, and no-one knew who she was, but I must admit, she did look somewhat familiar.
The Prince took an immediate fancy to her. So did every other young man in the room, but I did notice the Prince’s bodyguard having a quiet word to them, hand on dagger, and they seemed to lose interest after that.
He danced every dance with her. Every dance! My Hermione spent the evening with a fat, drunken Duke, and Griselda with a page-boy, who seemed to have eyes only for one of the drink-waiters.
Then, pandemonium. The clock began to strike twelve, at the first sound of which the young woman stopped, mid-chasse, and bolted for the door. She was remarkably quick for someone wearing glass shoes, and, indeed, she left one of them on the stairs, but she made good her escape, and by the time the crowd had reached the front door, she was nowhere to be seen.
The Prince was so morose. He began making inroads into the rum punch, and just sat there, gloomily staring at the glass slipper in his hand. Hermione saw this as an opportunity, and tried cheering him up with some of her vast repertoire of bawdy jokes, but it would be indecorous of me to repeat his response.
Well, the party broke up soon after that, and we made our way home, still speculating on the identity of the young woman.
We arrived home to find Cinderella curled up on the rug in front of the open fire, fast asleep. There was a whimsical little smile on her face and, as the last task on her list of chores was to clean out the grease-trap, I wondered what would be the cause of such a smile. I woke her with a kick in the backside, and told her to get to her room, where she belonged, and that breakfast would be an hour later in the morning. She left without a word; just that little smile. It made me nervous.
It transpired that the Prince was so besotted by this mystery woman that he decreed that every woman in the Realm would try on the glass slipper, and he would marry the one it fitted. An entourage of lackeys and soldiers travelled the length and breadth of the country, and every woman – even the ones who were married (the Prince never cared too much about the marital status of his conquests in his younger days, so I suppose he did not consider it an impediment now) – tried on the glass slipper, but to no avail.
By the time they reached our house, Griselda had won the fight to be first, but it was to no purpose. Both of them had feet that were far too large, and my own, I would like to think, only just failed to make the grade. The lackey spotted Cinderella in the background.
“And now it is your turn, Miss,” he said.
“Her?” I snapped. “She is but a servant girl. What interest would the Prince have in a servant girl?”
“The decree sayeth `every woman`,” said the pompous little twit, “and so every woman shall it be.” Two soldiers took a step forward, so I thought it best to curb my protestations.
Would you believe it? The damn slipper fit like a glove. Hermione let out a shriek that shattered two baubles on the chandelier, and Griselda simply fainted away. She always had more class. The shred of recognition I had felt on the night of the Ball came flooding back, and, to prove her point, Cinderella produced the second glass slipper from her pocket.
The lackey was overjoyed, (I understand he was under some threat of personal misfortune should he return empty-handed) and, without ceremony, or by-your-leave, they whisked her away to the Palace.
Well, the rest is history, as they say. They were wedded and bedded, and settled into lives of domestic royal bliss. She allowed us to keep the house (and I should hope so, too, after the years of shelter and care I gave her), but it always intrigued me as to how she pulled it off. So, on the occasion of one of her visits (which I always welcomed, as she bought money), I said to her, over tea, “Tell me, my dear (I cannot, to this day, call her “Princess”), where did you get that lovely gown you wore?”
“Oh,” she replied, “just after you left, my Fairy Godmother appeared, and, with but a touch of her wand, transformed my dress and my slippers, did my hair, and even turned a pumpkin into a stately coach.” There were some other miracles of the kind you only encounter in fairy stories, and I nearly choked on my scone, but I was strangely pleased that the little goody-goody had learned how to lie. Probably stole them from a store in town. Fairy Godmother, indeed!
Well, I suppose it is traditional to say that they lived happily ever after, but I cannot see it happening. The Prince, I am sure, will soon tire of her infernal goodness, and as soon as an heir is produced, he will start looking afield for new dalliances, so there is still hope for my Hermione, and my Griselda.
Still hope.
Image by Kristýna Mothejzíková
After she died, her husband, of course, became an “eligible bachelor” again, and the effort I had to put in to keep those gold-digging dowagers away from him was unbelievable. Of course, when I realised what he was really after the rest was easy. He used to say how lonely he was since his wife – I can’t remember her name, rest her soul – passed away, but they were really just words. What he really wanted was a good – how can I put this delicately – romp in bed.
Men!
Once I had let him have his way with me (a somewhat disappointing interlude, I have to say) the rest was easy. We were married soon after, and the old fool insisted that Ella be the flower-girl. During the wedding feast, the little imp had the temerity – the absolute temerity to say to me (and I will never forget these words), “Step-mama,” she said, smiling radiantly all over that peaches-and-cream face, “Step-mama, I am so glad that you have made Papa happy again, and I do hope that we shall become friends, like I was with poor Mama.”
I fought back the urge to vomit, drew her close, and, smiling all the while, said, “Listen to me, girl. If you ever refer to me as `step-mama` again, or mention your precious Mama in my presence, I will have you thrown from the window of the west tower. Henceforth, you shall refer to me as `Madam`. Understand?”
Her smile didn’t even waver, the little witch, and she just dropped me a curtsy, said “As you wish, Madam,” and skipped gaily away. Do you see what I mean? I should have disposed of her then and there.
Griselda and Hermione, daughters from two previous matrimonial dalliances that proved to be disappointingly unprofitable, came home from Finishing School soon after, and took an instant dislike to Ella, even more so than their dislike for each other. I had to caution them on quite a few occasions, when their torment of the girl became too noticeable, for the old fool was besotted with his daughter, and, I surmised, would not take kindly to our abusing his little precious.
“All in good time,” I would say to them. “Just forget about little Ella, and, if she gets too tiresome, just go out and buy yourselves new dresses. Put them on our account.” So we suffered her pleasantness, and grew our wardrobes, for another four years.
Of course, I put paid to the matrimonial shenanigans very early in the piece, and moved into my own room. Every now and then, however, I would have to “put out”, as it were, especially when he started complaining about the size of the dressmaker’s account, or something. I would crawl in beside him that night, and by morning, all would be forgiven, or forgotten. The sacrifices we make!
Would you believe it, the old goat died? It was at least two years before I intended to bump him off myself, and so he saved me the trouble and intrigue, and did it all of his own accord. Found him, they did, collapsed over his precious ledgers, a crumpled account from our jeweller in his hand. (I had some trivial little trinkets made up, and I did think his prices were a little steep, but the cost of rubies is forever increasing, and one must strive to keep up the appropriate appearances when one is born to nobility.) I had Hermione break the news to Ella, and she was the soul of compassion and sympathy.
“Your old man is dead.” she said, and walked from the room. I have always thought that brevity was the best way to break such sad news, and Hermione was the soul of brevity. Such is the advantage of a quality education. Poor Ella was heartbroken, and could scarcely stop crying long enough to serve our luncheon. Indeed, I had to speak sternly, but kindly, to her.
“For heaven’s sake, Ella, I know you are sad, but I cannot abide having your tears all over the French toast. Pull yourself together, girl, and serve the bouillabaisse.”
After a due period of mourning (a couple of weeks, I think) I set about putting the household in order. Griselda had always coveted Ella’s room, and so I took her aside one morning, and said, “Poor Griselda is in such a state of sadness over the passing of your poor father, dearest Ella, I wonder if a change of environment might not be good for her? Be a dear, and move your things into the attic room in the west tower. Poor Griselda shall have your room.”
I expected a reaction, but all she did was assault me with one of those sickly, sweet smiles, curtsy, and said, “Of course, Madam, if you think it will help. I will start moving straight away.” Even now, it makes my stomach churn just to think on it.
By this time, my late husband (rest his soul) had already dismissed most of our servants – some contrived nonsense about not being able to afford them – and the remainder – the cook, the scullery-maid, and the gardener – all quit a few days after the funeral. Ingrates!
And the scene they threw when I told them I was unable to pay them their final dues was unbelievable. Unbelievable! I mean, with the cost of the funeral, the mourning wardrobe (did they think that we carried black in our closets as a matter of course?), a hearse, three black carriages with eight-in-hand, and the wake, how could they believe there was anything left over for them?
Anyway, I figured that Ella could fill their positions adequately, and for no cost. I was going to kick her out on her cute little backside, but instead, opted to put her to work for the greater good of the family name.
“Ella, my child,” I said to her, “you are now sixteen years of age. I think it is time you learned the ways of the world,” and I presented her with a list of tasks I required her to complete each week. She was already doing most of them by now, anyway, but it sort of formalised things. You know?
“Of course I shall, Madam,” she replied in that infuriating sweet manner that she had. “Will Griselda and Hermione be helping me with these?”
“Griselda and Hermione?” I snorted. “Most certainly not. Griselda and Hermione do not lower themselves to this kind of menial work. They are ladies of quality.”
That was the only time, I believe, that I saw her lose her composure. She kind of coughed, and hid her mouth behind her hand, but then she regained her control and said, “Of course, Madam. How foolish of me to think it.”
I suppose, in retrospect, we did treat her poorly from time to time, especially Hermione, who hated her with a passion, but really, she was born to be dominated. Despite being high-born, she was altogether too nice, too friendly, and too honest to be truly aristocratic.
Let me tell you this; it is so amusing. One of the first tasks Ella had to do, after bringing us our breakfast in bed, was to clean out the several fireplaces. In so doing, she became covered in ciders, and such was the severity of her list of tasks, she never had time to clean them off, and so spent the day with a sort of greyish cloud about her. Griselda, always quick witted, said, “We should call her `Cinder-Ella`.” We found this highly amusing, particularly Hermione, who laughed so much, I thought she would break her corset. (On reflection, I think she did break her corset. To see so much confined flesh suddenly released – well, if you can imagine a lard-filled balloon suddenly bursting…). Anyway, Cinderella she was, from that day forward.
Then came that fateful day, not long after Cinderella’s 21st birthday, when the Prince of the Realm issued a universal invitation to a Grand Ball. The Prince – a profligate rake if ever there was one, who had, thus far, bedded more flowers than the Royal Gardener – had decided that it was time to settle down and produce some legal progeny, and so a decree was issued that every single woman and widow in the Realm was compelled to attend this Ball, so that the Prince might choose from the gathered belles one who might share the remainder of his life. And pop out a son or two.
Men!
Then Cinderella piped up, “The Prince ordered all eligible women to the Ball. I should be allowed to go, too.” This rebellious remark drew uproar from my girls, but, being a fair and reasonable woman, I held up my hand for silence, and said, “Of course you should go, my dear, but do you not think it will be demeaning to our house and name, if you were to turn up to such a glittering occasion in that?” I pointed to her one and only shabby dress. As an austerity measure I had resolved, some time ago, to reduce the household expenditure on clothing by not buying Cinderella any new clothes at all.
“Oh,” she replied, all sweetness and light, “I will make my own dress in my spare time.”
“By all means, my dear. But you will make sure all of your chores are completed, won’t you?”
Naturally, the girls and I loaded up her chores list with all manner of difficult tasks, so that when the big day came, she had had no opportunity to make a gown. She was disappointed, but waved us goodbye as we left in the carriage, and said, “Do have a good time.”
Well, the Grand Ball was a typical male-dominated function. The Prince, and his sycophantic hangers-on, congregated around the refreshments table, whilst the ladies gathered in small groups, and assassinated the characters of all the ladies in the other groups.
The Prince, smiling (I swear, his teeth were so white I felt certain one could see one’s reflection in them) reviewed the young ladies present. I felt that he spent far too little time with my girls, although, to be fair, Hermione did belch rather profusely as he drew near. He did gaze a little longer at Griselda, and seemed captivated by her ball-gown – the orange and purple one with the feathers. In truth, I thought that he was much more likely to choose Griselda; she had fewer gaps in her teeth, and hardly ever wiped her nose on her sleeve, but that was his choice, not mine.
Suddenly, just before the dancing began, a radiant young woman entered the room. She was beautiful, and dressed in a full-length white gown shot with seed-pearls, and wore a silver and diamond tiara in her faultlessly groomed hair. And glass slippers! I kid you not, she had glass slippers. How she managed to stand in them on that polished marble floor is beyond me. She came unannounced, and no-one knew who she was, but I must admit, she did look somewhat familiar.
The Prince took an immediate fancy to her. So did every other young man in the room, but I did notice the Prince’s bodyguard having a quiet word to them, hand on dagger, and they seemed to lose interest after that.
He danced every dance with her. Every dance! My Hermione spent the evening with a fat, drunken Duke, and Griselda with a page-boy, who seemed to have eyes only for one of the drink-waiters.
Then, pandemonium. The clock began to strike twelve, at the first sound of which the young woman stopped, mid-chasse, and bolted for the door. She was remarkably quick for someone wearing glass shoes, and, indeed, she left one of them on the stairs, but she made good her escape, and by the time the crowd had reached the front door, she was nowhere to be seen.
The Prince was so morose. He began making inroads into the rum punch, and just sat there, gloomily staring at the glass slipper in his hand. Hermione saw this as an opportunity, and tried cheering him up with some of her vast repertoire of bawdy jokes, but it would be indecorous of me to repeat his response.
Well, the party broke up soon after that, and we made our way home, still speculating on the identity of the young woman.
We arrived home to find Cinderella curled up on the rug in front of the open fire, fast asleep. There was a whimsical little smile on her face and, as the last task on her list of chores was to clean out the grease-trap, I wondered what would be the cause of such a smile. I woke her with a kick in the backside, and told her to get to her room, where she belonged, and that breakfast would be an hour later in the morning. She left without a word; just that little smile. It made me nervous.
It transpired that the Prince was so besotted by this mystery woman that he decreed that every woman in the Realm would try on the glass slipper, and he would marry the one it fitted. An entourage of lackeys and soldiers travelled the length and breadth of the country, and every woman – even the ones who were married (the Prince never cared too much about the marital status of his conquests in his younger days, so I suppose he did not consider it an impediment now) – tried on the glass slipper, but to no avail.
By the time they reached our house, Griselda had won the fight to be first, but it was to no purpose. Both of them had feet that were far too large, and my own, I would like to think, only just failed to make the grade. The lackey spotted Cinderella in the background.
“And now it is your turn, Miss,” he said.
“Her?” I snapped. “She is but a servant girl. What interest would the Prince have in a servant girl?”
“The decree sayeth `every woman`,” said the pompous little twit, “and so every woman shall it be.” Two soldiers took a step forward, so I thought it best to curb my protestations.
Would you believe it? The damn slipper fit like a glove. Hermione let out a shriek that shattered two baubles on the chandelier, and Griselda simply fainted away. She always had more class. The shred of recognition I had felt on the night of the Ball came flooding back, and, to prove her point, Cinderella produced the second glass slipper from her pocket.
The lackey was overjoyed, (I understand he was under some threat of personal misfortune should he return empty-handed) and, without ceremony, or by-your-leave, they whisked her away to the Palace.
Well, the rest is history, as they say. They were wedded and bedded, and settled into lives of domestic royal bliss. She allowed us to keep the house (and I should hope so, too, after the years of shelter and care I gave her), but it always intrigued me as to how she pulled it off. So, on the occasion of one of her visits (which I always welcomed, as she bought money), I said to her, over tea, “Tell me, my dear (I cannot, to this day, call her “Princess”), where did you get that lovely gown you wore?”
“Oh,” she replied, “just after you left, my Fairy Godmother appeared, and, with but a touch of her wand, transformed my dress and my slippers, did my hair, and even turned a pumpkin into a stately coach.” There were some other miracles of the kind you only encounter in fairy stories, and I nearly choked on my scone, but I was strangely pleased that the little goody-goody had learned how to lie. Probably stole them from a store in town. Fairy Godmother, indeed!
Well, I suppose it is traditional to say that they lived happily ever after, but I cannot see it happening. The Prince, I am sure, will soon tire of her infernal goodness, and as soon as an heir is produced, he will start looking afield for new dalliances, so there is still hope for my Hermione, and my Griselda.
Still hope.
Image by Kristýna Mothejzíková