Midnight Falls: A Thrilling Retelling of Cinderella (11 page)

“Mother,” Leopold answered, returning his mother’s forceful embrace, “I was very clear today was the day I was returning. I sent a letter to you almost a week ago.”

“No, no,” the queen said, pulling away and returning to her chest to rummage through her many papers. “I remember you telling me….” She trailed off, unable to read and argue at the same time.

“You are right that my original return date was not for two weeks. But I sent you another letter to inform you that I was returning early because of Father’s failing health.”

Arabella stopped and looked up toward the ceiling, trying to delve into her mental faculties to recall if she remembered such a thing. Leopold could see that she did not.

“Don’t fret, Mother,” he said, walking toward her, “it is a simple mistake. I am happy enough to see you that I need no additional fanfare.”

“Nonsense,” Arabella said, looking back to her son. “You are my one and only child and we are both permitted to celebrate accordingly.”

“Then let’s celebrate,” Leopold smiled. “Let us go to Father and have a proper family reunion.”

The queen’s entire demeanor dropped and her face became sullen. It was clear the mention of his father had burdened her. Leopold did not know exactly what to make of the reaction from his mother. Arabella loved her son; King William loved his son. Never once in his entire life was Leopold made to believe his parents loved each other. Could it be that he was ignorant of an affection that had blossomed in his absence or had even been present all along?

“What is it, Mother?” he asked, taking her hands in his.

“Oh, nothing.” she said, her face lifting slightly now that her son was there to hear her sorrows. “It is just that your father is getting worse with each day. I fear it will not be long before his soul is taken to God.”

“And you are afraid,” he said, deliberately leaving his statement open for her to respond.

“I am afraid of what that will mean for you and me, Son.”

“What do you mean? You’ve been preparing me for taking Father’s place as king for as long as I can remember. You both have.”

“Of course you will! I am simply afraid that…”

“That what, Mother?”

“That it will be too much for you.”

Leopold was shocked. Where had this come from? Was his mother privy to something he had yet to learn? Did she only just then, with her husband’s impending death, realize that everything she’d dreamt for her child could come to pass?

“Too much for me?” Leopold said, repeating her declaration in confusion.

Arabella instantly regretted her choice of words. She had always believed in her son’s potential for greatness. And though she did not claim to fancy her husband in any romantic fashion, she had spent many hours with his Highness in the last several weeks. She felt sorry for him; he was weak, nostalgic, and in constant pain. And worse, it was
he
that was afraid for Leopold. It was as though the king himself knew of adversity on the horizon, but damned if he had revealed any details to his wife. Arabella had chocked it up to either her husband’s worsening dementia or his complete ignorance to matters of state since his illness befell him. Arabella didn’t know why William would fret. Thurlow was there. Thurlow was as dear to King William as his own son. Whenever William became anxious on behalf of his family and his kingdom, Arabella would remind him of Thurlow’s presence in his life and it always succeeded in calming the old man.

“Forgive me, Son,” Arabella said, “I did not mean to imply that you are ill fitted to inherit your father’s throne. I am just worried because I am your mother. Mothers are beasts of worry.” Leopold smiled, embarrassed by her flattery but touched by her devotion. Arabella’s fearful complexion vanished as quickly as it had appeared and Leopold knew his mother’s brain was concocting something.

“What is it now?” he asked, gearing himself for the onslaught of madness by taking a seat.

“Must you ask? You are twenty-three years old, Son. You will be king soon.”

Leopold shivered. He knew it would come. “I am way ahead of you, Mother,” he said, a stalwart, albeit dishonest, attempt to prevent the tempest. “I have already begun thinking about matrimony quite seriously.”

“’Thinking’? Who do you think you are talking to, Leopold? You are like your father and it infuriates me. Do you believe all the thinking you do in your life will do you any good at the judgment seat? Hmmm? No thank you. I will save your soul in this life or the next, Son, and don’t you forget it!”

“All right, all right!” Leopold relinquished, wishing he had indeed spent two more weeks in the trenches. “What do you want me
not
to think about?”

“It is quite simple,” the queen said. “You are in search of a worthy wife and future mother to your children. Therefore we will throw a party, a royal ball if you will, for the most lovely, eligible women in all of Gwent.”

“Whatever for?”

“To choose your wife, Son!”

“A ball to choose my wife? Are you crazy?”

“No more crazy than my mother or her mother before that. It is a perfectly acceptable and convenient custom in such a large kingdom. Everyone is already expecting it. It is the talk of all Gwent. And it is essential. How else will you get to meet the cream of the crop, Leopold?”

“I didn’t know it was necessary that I meet all of them, Mother.”

“Of course it is necessary. And it won’t be all of them. Just the most exceptional and refined.”

Leopold stood up, believing the time quite perfect to visit his bed-ridden father. He had known his mother was hatching a diabolical plan to pick out the perfect daughter-in-law, but he honestly could never have imagined the scope of her evil genius.

“How many are you planning to invite?” Leopold questioned tentatively. Arabella waived her hand at him as though such a detail was of little concern.

“I don’t imagine many more than three hundred,” she said, matter-of-factly. Leopold suddenly desired air to decompress. He made his way to the door. His hand was on the knob when Arabella whimpered for him to stop.

“Son,” she said, “all joking aside, this is the way I would like it to be done. Of course I cannot force you. But once your father passes and you and your bride take the throne, I will have little say left in anything you do. This is important to me, whether you understand it or not.”

Leopold had to hand it to his mother. The woman was quite adept at the skills of manipulation. Arabella knew her son well. She knew about his gallivanting past and his desire to make his father proud. She also knew he was a pragmatist, even more so than William. Leopold was the type of boy—the type of man—who believed in perspective and priorities. It was a priority for Leopold to find a wife of nobility and station. It was a priority for him to honor the wishes of his mother. And it was certainly of the utmost priority that Leopold be seen as the rightful king of Gwent by displaying royalty in every regard. That included employing the perfect queen. To the would-be king, love was not a priority; nor was privacy.

Leopold turned back to his mother. He still had every intention to flee the scene, but not without allowing his beloved mother a little of her own decompression.

“And will I be invited to this royal ball?” Leopold asked with a chuckle.

Bethany waited outside the door of her mother’s chamber for several minutes before entering. She was not the slightest bit confident that her attempt to atone for her careless comment would not actually make things worse. Isolda was a woman who loved gossip and a titillating scandal as long as it did not pertain to her.

When Bethany entered the room, she found her mother seated in front of the fireplace, her feet elevated on a small ottoman. The red and yellow flames roared within their stone sanctuary, warming the entire chamber. Isolda was hauntingly still.

“Mother?” Bethany said quietly, approaching Isolda from the side, the fire cracking loudly in her ear. Isolda’s eyes were open but she did not acknowledge her daughter’s presence. She did need to. Bethany could sense her mother’s awareness that she’d entered the room. Isolda was looking at her daughter through the corner of her eye and Bethany felt like even the fire was leering at her on behalf of the grieving matriarch.

“Mother,” Bethany went on, “I am so sorry for what I said to you this evening. I was only trying to squabble with Aislinn for fun. I did not mean it.”

“Yes you did,” Isolda said, her eyes still squarely at the fire.

Bethany’s heart sank to her stomach. It was true she hadn’t meant it to hurt her mother. But the statement she’d made, even in its carelessness, was indeed the truth. Her father was a louse. Bethany had known it since she was old enough to speak. It didn’t matter if he was drunk on alcohol or just arrogance; Baron Henry Armitage was a philanderer. Ella was not the first young maiden that he’d been inappropriately friendly with, but she was the first one who was compelled to endure it on behalf of the family’s functionality and therefore became trapped by it. At least in the beginning. When she became a teenager, Ella had learned how to avoid her uncle and defend herself, at least somewhat. But the damage had in many ways been done. Isolda had witnessed her husband lust after Ella and instead of despising the man for his actions, she took out her frustration on Ella. For as long as Bethany could remember, she and Aislinn were taught that not only was Ella a spoiled brat that got everything she ever wanted, but her mother, Isabella, was too. If Isolda had wanted Bethany to hate Ella so much, she would have been wiser to leave the Baroness Delaquix out of it, for then Bethany would have had no problem loathing Ella just to be accepted in the clique that was her own mother and twin sister. Sadly, Bethany knew, young girls needed only the tiniest excuse not to like another girl and the loom of jealousy and hostility began weaving. But Bethany’s opinion of Isabella is what in reality safeguarded her opinion of Ella. Isabella had always been so kind to Bethany, giving her delightful outfits and fun pieces of jewelry. She even once had purchased tiaras for all three girls, Ella, Aislinn, and Bethany, on a trip to Paris when they were all twelve. Aislinn lost hers, but Bethany kept her tiara safe. Whenever Bethany’s feelings were hurt, by anyone including Isolda, Isabella would comfort her and make her laugh until her young niece was no longer crying.

“I did not mean to hurt you, Mother,” Bethany cried. “I promise!” Isolda’s hands suddenly grasped the armrests of her chair and she snapped her head to her daughter, her eyes seething in anger.

“You never mean to hurt me, child, I know! But you do. You do because you choose to debase yourself with my mortal enemy.”

Bethany became petrified. “Your mortal enemy?” she sued. “What are you talking about, Mother?”

“I have told you again and again that Ella desires to hurt me, to hurt our family. You choose not to believe it. So be it. But what about God’s commandment that you honor your father and mother? Even if you do not see Ella as the villainess she is, isn’t it enough that your own mother begs you not to consort with the very person who pains me to my core? It is enough for your sister, why is not enough for you?”

Bethany could hardly breathe. She was crying now but from shock and despair as much as guilt. What was she missing? What great crime had Ella committed?

“I do honor you, but I don’t understand what Ella did that has hurt you so much. Is it because of Father and—“

“Don’t mention your father,” Isolda spat. “It is more than that. You think I care about your father’s debauchery? He is an imbecile. I knew that when I married him. I am talking about Ella’s belief that because she is so physically alluring, she is better than the rest of us!”

Bethany opened her mouth to argue, but stopped. She wanted her mother to know how loved she was by her daughter. Bethany had to convince her. She could not do that and plead Ella’s case. She was finally beginning to see that.

“It began before you were ever born, child,” Isolda went on, “before I even married your father. Isabella was born to privilege, the daughter of a duke. When she chose to marry my brother, your Uncle Thomas, her parents were horrified. They all but disowned Isabella for marrying below her station. They told their daughter over and over how unworthy Thomas was. Don’t you see, Bethany? By condemning Thomas they were condemning me. I tried to tell my brother this. I tried to explain to him that Isabella would ruin his life and destroy his happiness by constantly reminding him of his ‘inferiority’ to her. He did not believe me and he married her anyway.”

Bethany continued to listen, snared by her mother’s unwavering conviction.

“I know what you’re thinking, daughter,” Isolda said, “that Isabella always appeared so sweet to your uncle and they seemed so genuinely in love with one another. Well, looks can be deceiving, I tell you. But even still, Isabella didn’t need my brother to be the brunt of her harassment, Bethany. She had
me
!”

Bethany felt like twine had been looped around her heart and was strangling the air from her body. She was so confused. She wanted to believe Isolda and was desperate to trust her own mother. Wasn’t that what love was? Wasn’t that the honor that God had intended when he commanded Moses to perfect the people of Earth? Bethany felt such conflict within her breast. It became too much to bear and she fell to her knees and laid her head on her mother’s lap. Isolda leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Bethany’s head.