Page 23 of Disenchanted
My stepmother concluded by ordering the countess to leave her house at once and consult her doctor. “Because if you think my dear little Ella was the one tossing toads at you, it is clear Your Ladyship needs spectacles.”
The countess regarded me with suspicion, but she no longer looked so sure of herself. She had no choice but to leave with what dignity remained to her. I am ashamed to say I was feeling quite gleeful about escaping the consequences of my mischief unscathed. I thrust my tongue out at the countess’s retreating back.
The countess did not see it, but unfortunately Imelda did. As my stepmother rounded on me, I realized I had not fooled her at all. Hands on her hips, she eyed me sternly.
“How could you, Prunella! I do not know what I am ever going to do with you. You truly are a horribly wicked little girl and—”
Imelda’s voice broke and I cringed thinking I was about to make my stepmother cry again. Instead, I was dumbfounded when she burst out laughing and enveloped me in a hug and for the first time, I tentatively hugged her back.
That day marked the beginning of a curious kind of friendship with my stepmother. Although I could never call her “Mama,” I dubbed her “Em,” a term I used with greatest affection.
As I bustled about the kitchen, making Imelda a cup of tea, I continued to fume about Madam Dearling’s treatment of her.
“Just wait until the next time I see that shrew,” I growled.
“Oh, Ella, no!” my stepmother cried in alarm. “Please promise me you will do nothing to avenge me.”
When I remained stubbornly silent, she clutched at my sleeve. “Promise!” she insisted. Gazing down at her anxious face, I finally said, “Very well. I promise. No toads.”
My wry remark coaxed a smile from her, but it quickly faded. She looked somber and pensive as I placed the steaming cup of tea before her, fixed just the way she liked it, with an extra dollop of honey even though our supply was running low.
She made no move to taste it, her brow knit in a heavy frown that was rare for Imelda.
“Matilda was right about one thing.”
“She confessed she is really a troll in disguise?”
Leveling a stern look at me, Imelda continued, “I do need to start being more sensible about securing a comfortable future for my girls. I was thinking about it the entire way home.” She fetched a deep sigh. “I believe Mr. Bafton will do for Amy.”
“Do what for her?”
“Make her a good husband.”
“Fortescue Bafton?” I scoffed. “He is a complete idiot.”
“Amy seems to like him.”
“Amy would like any young man who brought her flowers and chocolates. She is hardly old enough to worry about marriage.”
“She is sixteen, Ella. Many girls are wed by that age and even have children.”
I shook my head, unable to think of Amy as anyone’s wife or mother. She was still my little sister who dreamed of castles and princes, who loved her sweets and braiding her ponies’ manes.
“Mr. Bafton is the son of a prosperous tailor. If Amy married him, she would never want for anything. I am sure she would be quite happy,” Imelda said, although she sounded as though she were trying to convince herself as much as me. She looked even more forlorn as she continued, “Finding Netta a proper husband may prove more difficult. She is so shy and awkward. But Mr. Hackersmith has expressed an admiration for her.”
“Hackersmith! The frap merchant?”
“Ella!” My stepmother regarded me reproachfully. “My dear, what have I told you about using that vulgarity? Hackersmith owns the manufactory that refines the… er… waste products of the mating mountain elks. As such he is a man of wealth and position and Netta would certainly never want for fuel to stoke her hearth. You know how your sister gets cold so much easier than the rest of us.”
“But Hackersmith must be at least thirty years older than Netta and he always smells like fr— like mountain elk droppings.”
“I agree he is not an ideal candidate. Perhaps we can think of someone else.” Imelda emitted another deep sigh. “And then of course there is you.”
I stiffened, dreading to hear who Imelda might have settled upon as my prospective spouse.
She fidgeted with her spoon. Not looking at me, she said, “Commander Crushington has become very fond of you.”
I gaped at her. “You know about that?”
