Page 24 of Disenchanted
“My dear Ella, everyone in Midtown knows about that.”
Everyone but me apparently. Ever since the day that Crushington had confessed he “really liked” me, I had been doing my best to avoid the man. I was dismayed when mystepmother added, “I met the commander on my way home and he inquired after you so civilly I— I—” Imelda stole a nervous look at me. “I invited him to call upon us.”
I sank down into the chair opposite her, groaning. “Oh, Em, you didn’t.”
“The commander does appear to be a very stern man. I confess I find him a little alarming, but you have always been so much braver than the rest of us. Even such a grim husband would be better than you running off to marry that horrid young man. You cannot know how much I have worried that you would do that.”
“You need not be. I have not seen Harper for years. I have no idea—”
“Not the bard,” Imelda interrupted. “I am talking about that Hawkridge villain.”
If Mal despised my stepmother, the feeling was more than mutual. Imelda had always regarded Mal as a hobgoblin’s spawn. She considered him an evil influence on me. The day the Hawkridge family moved to Misty Bottoms, I believe Imelda performed a little jig in the garden and my stepmother never indulged in such undignified displays.
It distressed me that two people I cared about so much should regard each other with such loathing. But trying to defend one to the other was nothing but a waste of my breath. Instead, I reassured my stepmother, “You know I would never run off and wed Mal. We are just good friends, that is all.”
“So, you always insist, my dear.” The look Imelda directed at me was skeptical.
“I insist because it is true. I daresay I will never marry anyone. I will likely end up as one of those eccentric old women who live alone and keep a dozen cats.”
“I fear that even more than you marrying that horrible Malcolm. Such a great waste of all your wit and beauty.” Imelda’s eyes filled with tears again.
I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I was only teasing. I don’t even particularly like cats.”
“I know.” Imelda blinked back her tears. “It is just that— oh, Ella, I had such dreams, such hopes for you girls. If only we could go to that ball. You cannot imagine how wonderful it would be. After all these years, I still remember my first time attending a royal ball.”
“I am sure you must have been the most beautiful girl there, Em.”
My stepmother’s lips curved in a misty smile. “I do not know about that, but I managed to turn a few heads. I still recall the gown I wore. It was the loveliest confection of white satin and pink ribbons and lace. The great hall of the castle was ablaze with hundreds of candles, the air perfumed with the flower garlands that decorated the arches. And the music! All those violins and silver horns and harps. My Netta would be in ecstasies.”
“I am sure she would,” I murmured. “But there is no sense even thinking of—”
“My heart was beating so hard,” Imelda continued, pressing her hand to her bosom. “You cannot fancy how nervous I was when I was announced. After all, I was only the daughter of a mere knight. Among such a brilliant assemblage, I dreaded that I might be ignored and become one of those maidens left languishing for a dance partner. But no sooner had I descended the grand stair than I found myself surrounded by so many handsome young men clamoring to be the first to lead me onto the floor.”
Lost in her memories of long ago, Imelda closed her eyes, a dreamy expression on her face. “Every young girl should haveone night like that, to feel beautiful and admired, her entire future shining before her with so many magic possibilities.”
Imelda opened her eyes. She did not weep again, but there was such a depth of sadness in them. “That is all I have ever wanted for my daughters. Especially you, Ella.”
“Why me in particular?”
“Because you need it so badly. I have noticed the changes in you over these past years and it hurts my heart.”
“I am not as sweet as I used to be?” I jested, trying to lighten her mood.
“You were never sweet, but you were so bright and lively. And you believed in dreams, Ella. You believed in love. I wish I could give that back to you.”
“I don’t want such delusions back. Far better that I learned to think with my head instead of my heart.”
“Is it?” Imelda asked forlornly. “I suppose I must do likewise, but being practical all the time seems such a dreary prospect. You girls need to be settled in good marriages, but I also long for you to experience that happily forever after love, the kind of wedded bliss that I shared with your father.”
I tried not to cringe. It always discomfited me when Imelda spoke like this about my father. Besides her unquenchable optimism, my stepmother also had the ability to cloak harsh reality beneath the soft mantle of illusion, especially regarding the past.
She never mentioned the tragic downfall of her first husband. It was as though Albert Wendover never even existed, as though there had never been anyone except my father, the gallant hero who had rescued Imelda and her daughters from poverty and disgrace. She seemed to have entirely forgotten the number of occasions when my father had reduced her to tears.
Not that he was ever unkind to her. My father treated Imelda with the greatest respect and civility, always addressing her as“madam.” But polite indifference to a loving heart could be as cruel in its own way as harsh words. I could not remember my father ever calling my mother by her first name either. He always referred to her as “my lady,” but never had two words been infused with such tenderness.
The truth was that my father had never loved anyone as he did my mother. I often wondered how much he had even cared for me. Sometimes I grew impatient with Imelda’s romantic notions, but I could never bring myself to disillusion her. That would have been as cruel as my father’s neglect of her.
I was relieved when Imelda did not pursue her rose-tinted reminiscences any further.
