Midnight Falls: A Thrilling Retelling of Cinderella (12 page)

“I would have given anything for Isabella to be kind to me, daughter,” Isolda whispered into Bethany’s ear, “but it mattered not how hard I tried. Isabella only ever scoffed at my efforts. She even tried to turn my own brother against me.”

“I’m so sorry, Mother.”

“Just remember what it is that I say to you, child. When God gives the wicked beauty, it is because he intends for the righteous to withstand it. My daughters are beautiful, but it is because I made them that way. It was made from my hard work and persistence. And God will reward my efforts, child.”

“How?” Bethany asked.

“By giving us a kingdom.”

Aislinn stood at the base of the large staircase, holding a thick, gold-encrusted parchment in her hand. It was a lovely invitation, but Aislinn could not get over the shock of having received anything like it from the Delaquix household. It was considered poor manners that Aislinn had opened a parcel designated for the baron and baroness, but she’d done far more unmannerly things in her life and gotten away with it.

The invitation was very curious. Why was Ella throwing a party now, after all the years of hibernating in her little castle, feeling superior to every other person in Gwent? Did it have something to do with Leopold’s imminent return home? It had to. And who was this Peter Summerly, the Duke of Ebersol? How in the world had Ella met such a man?

Aislinn was eager to give the invitation to her mother but knew she must wait. Her mother was otherwise engaged with Bethany. Aislinn huffed. The walls of the Armitage estate were thin and all sound resonated through the cavernous interior like a theatric soliloquy of sorts. As much as Bethany might have wanted to keep her meeting with her mother private, the house simply had another thing in mind.

Aislinn would wait a few minutes longer before ascending the steps and handing the document to her mother. It was more than enough time for the second-born to make peace with her mother over a conflict Bethany hardly knew existed. Aislinn knew. She had learned early that it was more than a conflict. It was a war; a war her mother had no intention of losing.

Chapter Nine

“I know it will probably infuriate you to hear me say this,” Marguerite said to Marion as they perused the table of hors d’oeuvres for that evening, “but I am a little excited about tonight.” Marion looked up at her friend, bearing deep, ruminative thought.

“Why should it infuriate me?” Marion asked, surprisingly unruffled for what Marguerite had expected.

“Well, because of our discussion earlier this week,” Marguerite contended, “or do you not remember the events of Sunday morning?”

“Don’t tease,” Marion scolded, moving to look over another table of appetizers. “Just because I am trying to be optimistic about this entire charade does not mean I have forgotten all of its negative elements.” Marguerite laughed lightly and followed Marion.

“Well, good for you. And I am pleased your trepidation is not encumbering your good spirits like it once did. It is no doubt because of the time you’ve been able to spend with ‘Uncle Peter’ as of late.”

“Keep your voice down,” Marion censured Marguerite. “The less people know about our deceit, the better. Remember, there are only a few of us here who actually know who Peter is and, most importantly, whom Gabriel is
not
.” Marguerite did not have a chance to reply when Frome entered the kitchen, exhausted and irritable from having had to cook for more guests than he had done in the last two years. He’d had assistance, but that did not prevent his incessant grumblings.

“You can stop your whispering on my account, ladies,” Frome said, shoving a large copper pot to the side so he could set down smaller items that he lugged in his deceptively strong arms, “I may be old but I’m not deaf. I know all about our special mystery guest.”

“Oh, I was not referring to you, old man,” Marion said cantankerously, looking past Marguerite’s shoulder to Frome, “so why don’t you just mind your own business?” Frome raised his hand and waived it around in gentle mockery of Marion.

“I would like to,” he said, “so why don’t you scuttle on out of my kitchen so that I may!”

Marion huffed loudly. Marguerite laughed and all but threw her arms around Frome in an embrace for making her own job so delightfully entertaining.

“This is entirely too sinful a delight to watch,” Marguerite remarked, “and I pray you two don’t end it any time soon by admitting you’re madly in love with one another.”

Marion was so flabbergasted by Marguerite’s declamation that she stumbled, hitting the large wooden table with her hip. An earsplitting clamor of breaking dishes followed and Frome’s nasally protestations completed the cacophony.

“Marguerite!” he exclaimed as he ran toward the devastation of much of his afternoon’s labors. “Either make yourself useful or stay out of the way!” Marguerite felt remorse for causing Marion to tumble. She wanted to extend help but feared taking even one step toward her flustering friend would cause her bladder to weaken from laughter and turn a rather small mess into a much more unpleasant one.

“I am so sorry, love,” Marguerite said through her jollity. “I will make no more glaringly obvious observations from this day forward. I swear it!”

“Oh will you please shut your mouth?!” Marion spat, happy to know Frome was more interested in aiding her then trying to salvage the lost dishes. As she finally got up to her feet, Marion glared at Marguerite. She intended to tear into her but was too startled by the person standing at the doorway to speak.

“I hope I am not interrupting anything,” Gabriel said, his eyes drawn in sincere inquisitiveness. Marguerite turned when she heard his voice and smiled at Gabriel as she straightened out her apron. She was not remotely indifferent to the allure of a handsome man in no more than black trousers who wore a loose white undershirt with an untied v-neck that displayed his smooth, pale chest. Though she was more than satisfied in her appetites by Louis, her longtime lover, she would not shy away from the opportunity to draw any man’s eyes to her.

Marion, on the other hand, felt her cheeks redden in and wished more than anything in that moment that she could murder Marguerite with her bare hands.

“What is it you need, sir?” Marion inquired with overt politeness.

“I apologize for the lateness,” Gabriel said, “but I was hoping you could assist me in something before the guests arrive, Marion.”

Marion took in a deep breath to regain her equanimity after her unpleasantly humiliating debacle with the hors d’oeuvre table.

“Yes, that will be fine,” she said. “Please allow me a few moments and I will join you in your chamber.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

Gabriel departed.

“Believe me when I tell you,” Marion said to Marguerite, aggressively brushing crumbs from her apron and skirt, “that it will be a blessed day when your sour tongue rots and forbids you to ever speak again.”

“What do you think he wants?” Marguerite asked, looking at the entryway and then back to Marion.

“Undoubtedly, he wants more information about Peter,” Marion said, scanning the rest of her ensemble for food morsels clinging to her bodice, “though I can honestly think of nothing more than what I have already told him.”

Marguerite sighed in wonder. Marion, her cheeks still flushed and pink, was too humbled to face Frome, who remained behind her. She knew she was obliged to thank him for assisting her. Before she had a chance, however, she felt a whack to her buttocks like they’d been struck by a mallet. Horrified, she turned to see Frome, who bore the most oblivious, innocently proud face that Marion had ever seen.

“You missed a few on your bum,” he said to Marion, clapping his hands repeatedly and watching the crumbs descend slowly to the floor.

Ella’s father must have also been a tall man, Gabriel thought to himself as he fumbled once again with his cravat. He grew more annoyed in his third failure to tie the stubborn fabric and cursed out loud.

“You will tear that fabric if you pull any tighter,” Marion said from the chamber doorway. Gabriel saw her reflection in the full-length, oval mirror and exhaled a sigh of relief. Marion entered the room and walked briskly to Gabriel, who still hadn’t given up the fight. Marion reached and took the cravat in her hands and forcibly pulled Gabriel’s head down so she could reach it with ease.

“Ella, nor I, would ever forgive you for destroying these garments,” Marion said, “for they are quite valuable. The Baron never skimped on his wardrobe, as you can tell.”

“Yes,” Gabriel agreed, looking down at Marion’s busy fingers, “I see now that distantly observing aristocrats in their day-to-day activities does not mean that I can manage their wardrobe. It is quite humbling.”

“You watched this world for so long and you probably know less about it now than you did fifteen years ago.”

Gabriel was taken aback by Marion’s presumption. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Marion used her distraction at tying the cravat to excuse her from answering the question. She’d meant what she said to Gabriel. Having watched people from a distance would give anyone the confidence that they were all the more knowledgeable for it. But it was a false confidence. There was only one way to know a person…and it was to know them. Gabriel didn’t know that but Marion did not have any desire to teach him.

Gabriel didn’t press Marion. He stood tall and turned back to the mirror. He was very pleased with her work. He adjusted the rest of his shirt and made sure his black trousers were straight and crisp.

“It is quite a miracle this clothing fits me like it does,” Gabriel said, reaching for the doublet that was hanging from the back of a nearby chair. Marion assisted him. She was quite impressed with the way Gabriel presented himself. His posture was pristine, his brown hair immaculately combed. She began to wonder what Ella would say when she saw him. She would indeed be speechless, Marion was certain. Gabriel had become the man he said he would be. He was an aristocrat, nobility in its finest, and irresistibly handsome.

A feeling of dread entered Marion’s stomach.

“Is there anything else you want me to know about Peter?” Gabriel asked, fiddling with the golden buttons on his cuffs.

“I can’t think of anything right now,” Marion said, irked that Gabriel’s entire facade was based on her shoddy memory of a man she had never cared to remember at all, “and I must get back to the kitchen to see to it the esquires are properly instructed on this evening’s formalities. Most of them are not even a part of our staff but have been hired only for this evening. Our own servants are, as you can imagine, somewhat out of practice.”

Gabriel smiled and turned back to the mirror. Marion made her way to the exit when she was startled by Gabriel’s voice.

“Hold on,” he said, “there was something I did want to ask you.”

Marion turned and waited.

“When it came to women, what kind of man was Peter?”

“I’m sorry?”

“How did he act around women, particularly attractive women?”

Marion contemplated the question quietly to herself. What did Gabriel expect from her? How was she to have known about the man’s proclivities to women when she hardly knew him? Marion thought of an answer that, while not being enormously helpful, was not a lie.

“He liked them,” she said as she turned on her heel and resumed her steps out of the room. “Quite a lot, in fact.”