Page 3 of Disenchanted
“Oh, Ella, just look at you,” Netta cried. “You are all covered in soot.”
“Please tell me you didn’t answer the door that way,” Amy added.
“Gads, Miss Ella!” This last exclamation came from the young man who had followed Amy and Netta from the parlor. The girls made a frantic effort to shift position, blocking their beau’s view into the hall. It was futile. Fortescue Bafton easily squeezed past Netta to gawk at me.
Fortescue was the only son of a prosperous and fashionable tailor, although you would never guess that from his attire. He was poured into a pair of yellow breeches so tight; they clearly outlined his less than impressive masculine accoutrements. He wore a pea-green frock coat tightly nipped in at the waist. The collar on his frilled shirt was so high, Fortescue’s head poked out like a turtle emerging from its shell.
“Gads,” he repeated again. “Whatever have you been doing, Miss Ella?”
I thought of several clever retorts I could make, but I discovered a long time ago that sarcasm was wasted upon Mr. Bafton.
“What does it look like I have been doing?” Recalling that he never understood rhetorical questions either, I added, “The library chimney has not been drawing properly. I am endeavoring to clear the flue.”
“Why don’t you just engage a chimney sweep?”
I heard Netta’s and Amy’s sharply indrawn breaths. They fixed pleading eyes on me, fearful of what I might say. They hated it whenever I let anything slip regarding our straitened circumstances, especially to one of their beaux.
So, I told Fortescue, “I have become so bored with my needlework, I am thinking of adopting chimney sweeping as my new favorite pastime.”
“Truly? Then we may have to think of a new name for you. What about Miss Sooty-Ella?”
He guffawed and was echoed by Amy, who tended to laugh heartily at any lame joke a young man chanced to make. I had tried to hint to her that this makes her seem too eager, even a little desperate, but to no avail.
Netta joined in, but hers was more of an uncertain titter. She cast an uncomfortable look at me, anxious that my feelingsmight be hurt by this jest at my expense. It would take a man far wittier than the likes of Fortescue Bafton to wound me.
Encouraged by Amy’s giggles, he continued, “No, wait! I have it— cinders! We should call you Cinder-Ella.”
“Cinder-Ella!” Amy chortled.
I rolled my eyes as the pair of them went off into peals of laughter. “Vastly amusing, Mr. Bafton,” I said. “If your wit were any sharper, it would be as keen as a butter knife.”
Chuckling, Fortescue started to bob his head in agreement, only to stop, his brow creasing. I could tell that somewhere in the recesses of his brain, he was trying to work out whether he had just been complimented or insulted. Before he could arrive at any conclusion, I offered him my best smile.
“If you would be pleased to accompany me to the library, I could show you something truly remarkable. Do you know if you look up the chimney shaft in the daytime, you can see the stars?”
“Oh, no, no, no!” Fortescue wagged his finger at me. “I am familiar with that jest, Miss Cinder-Ella. You get me to look up the shaft and I end up with a face full of soot. You won’t be catching me with that trick again. No, ma’am!”
I already had caught him with it— twice. I had wagered my best friend, Malcolm Hawkridge, that I could get Fortescue to fall for it a third time. I believe I could have coaxed him into doing so, but my attention veered toward Netta. My oldest stepsister was an irrepressibly curious girl. Having noticed the royal parchment on the hall table, she had pounced upon it.
“Don’t bother with that,” I began but she had already cracked the seal and unrolled the parchment. Netta was excessively self-conscious about her height. She tended to hunch forward which inspired me with the urge to gently push her shoulders back, but I refrained. The poor girl endured enough criticism from my stepmother about this habit. Her hunch was more pronounced as she bent over the message. Suddenly, she straightenedupright with a gasp, and she motioned frantically for Amy to join her.
Their dark heads drawn close together, the girls appeared stunned as they perused the document, eyes wide and round, mouths hanging open. My stomach flopped over in apprehension.
“What kind of new horror has the king devised?” I asked. “How bad of a tax is it?”
Instead of answering me, they raised their gazes from the parchment and stared at each other. They broke into simultaneous grins. Whooping with joy, they hugged each other. Gripping each other’s arms, they proceeded to bounce up and down, emitting delighted squeals shrill enough to crack my eardrums.
If my stepmother had been present, she would have rebuked the girls for behaving with a lack of ladylike dignity. Like Mr. Bafton, all I could do was stare at them in bewilderment. When I was finally able to make myself heard, I ventured, “So the royal herald was not trying to cozen me? It really is good news from the palace?”
“Oh! The best news in all in the world!” Netta trilled.
“The king has decided to refund some of our tax money?”
“No! Even better,” Amy cried.
“Nothing could be better than that,” I groused.
“You think so? Well, just look at this.” Amy snatched the parchment from Netta and pranced over to dangle it before my eyes.
