”Simply Ella”

Amanda wrote this last year in her creative writing class. I thought it was great and she received full ecstatic marks from her teacher. With Amanda’s permission, I’m sharing it here. Enjoy.

Simply Ella

   My name is Ella. But not to my stepsister, Natalia and Nicolette. Because I’m so fond of sitting on the hearth and reading late into the night, they began to call me Cinderella. And so Cinderella I became.

My mother died when I was very young, and so I was raised by my father. Tender, generous, an expert horseman, and quick to laugh, he was my favorite person in the world.

Was.

He joined my mother when I was ten years old.

“Papa!” I laughed as he tossed me up into the air. Smiling, he caught me and enveloped me in a tight embrace. I closed my eyes and inhaled his smell—like the pages of the ancient tomes in our library, Bridget’s homemade soap, his hunting jacket, and saddle leather.

He drew back and looked me in the eyes. “I have to leave now.”

“No, Papa,” I begged. “Not again. You got back only just last week.”

“I know. But I must go. Cheer up—this will be the last trip for a long while.”
I held out my smallest finger to him. A smile broke out over his face. He removed his glove and wrapped his finger around mine.

“It’s a promise,” I said happily, and threw my arms around his neck.

I didn’t know it would be the last time.

I watched him ride his horse down the road, waiting for the point when he would reach the gate, turn, smile, and wave goodbye.

It never came.

Halfway to the gate, he slumped over in the saddle clutching at his chest. A second later he was lying flat on his back on the ground, fighting to breath.

“PAPA!” I screamed, running to him.

“Papa, what’s wrong?” I cried. “What is it?”

I heard someone come up behind me, and in a whoosh of skirts, my stepmother joined me next to my father. She clutched his hand and looked at him, terrified, as if hoping to find an answer in his face. She didn’t.

He looked up at me, laid his hand on my hair, and whispered his last words.:

“I love you. I love you so much.”

Then he died.

Even now, a gaping emptiness opens up inside my chest whenever I think of him. His warm laughter, his voice soft when reading to me late at night, his strong arms around me as he hugged me goodnight.

But my story isn’t about my father—not really. It’s more about me, and the man I met who helped me recover what I had lost when my father died.

It was quite a shock to receive the invitation.

“MOTHER!” Nicolette shrieked. “MOTHER, COME QUICK! IT’S FROM THE PALACE!”

I could hear my stepmother’s shoes clattering down the stairs. Hastily, but not clumsily. “What is it, my love?”

“An invitation to a masque ball! At the palace!”

The palace. I set aside the bread I had been kneading and crept over to the kitchen door to listen in.

“For goodness’ sake, Nicki, let me see!” my stepmother said impatiently. “Hmm… ‘Their Majesties would impress upon all eligible young ladies the importance of their attendance’—aha! This can only mean one thing.”

“And what is that, Mother?” Natalia had joined them.

“It means, my dears, that the young prince will be selecting a bride.”

“What? Prince Henry?” Natalia asked in disgust. “Why, he’s only eight years old, for goodness’ sake!”

“No, darling, Prince Charmont—the one that is of age to marry,” my stepmother said, with just a hint of exasperation. (Intelligence was not one of Natalia’s strongest traits.)

Prince Charmont? I had only glimpsed him once or twice, on holidays when the royal family would ride through the streets in their open carriage, smiling and waving. But while the king and queen’s smiles would sometimes appear to be fixed, the prince’s always seemed cheerful and genuine. I continued to listen.

“Girls, we must begin our preparations at once. Why, there’s so much to do it gives me a headache to think about it! There are measurements to be taken, fabrics to be chosen, accessories to shop for, slippers to be made—”

It was at that point that I could contain myself no longer. I burst through the door and blurted, “May I come as well?”

My stepmother looked me very coolly up and down. I was conscious of every one of my faults under her penetrating gaze. My hair was unwashed and oily with a dirty rag tied over it, I had flour on my face and hands and dirt under my nails. My dress was plain and shabby, and the apron that hung over it was buried beneath several layers of stains. My practical, sturdy boots were covered in scuffs and on of the heels was worn paper-thin.

Normally I didn’t mind. But as my stepmother stared at me, my stepsisters’ lips began to twitch, their shoulders to shake, until finally they lost control and burst into gales of hysterical laughter.

“Who would dance with you, Cinderella? The stable boy? You don’t even own anything made in the last decade. How could you even pretend to think you could go to a ball?”

I blinked away the stinging in my eyes and lifted my chin. “I can sew my own dress using those old silks we have in the attic. And besides: the invitation said all eligible young ladies. I believe I qualify, no matter how soiled I may appear to be at present.”

Natalia and Nicolette had stopped laughing and were now glaring at me with intense dislike. I ignored them and looked straight at my stepmother.

“Fine,” she said. Before I had any amount of time to compose my shock, she brushed past me into the kitchen and hoisted a sizeable bag of lentils off the shelf. She then walked over to the large fireplace and emptied the bag into the ashes.

“You may accompany us when you have cleaned up, made yourself a suitable dress, and picked every lentil out of that fireplace. Do you understand?”

I straightened my shoulders. “Yes.”

It wasn’t easy. But I had never been to a ball before, much less one at the palace. I wanted to spend at least one carefree night without worry or responsibility and enjoy not having to cook or clean or serve. I suppose you could say I was determined.

“I have done as you have asked.”

I stood before my stepmother in my ball gown—light pink silk, with two white petticoats, and a strand of pearls that I had excavated out of an old dusty box in the attic—holding out to her the bowl filled with all the lentils.

My stepmother eyed the lentils closely. Casually stepping toward the fireplace, she leaned over to inspect the ashes and exclaimed in surprise.

“Well! My, my, my. Look what I have just found.”

She pointed to a pile of ashes where a single tiny lentil bean lay.

“No!” I cried. “No! I know that I picked every single one!”

“Obviously not,” she said calmly. She started to turn, but paused and look back at me.
“You made that dress from the silk in the attic?”

I nodded numbly.

“I am sorry, my dear, but I am afraid that those silks belong to me. And I want them back.”

Moving surprisingly fast, Natalia and Nicolette walked past their mother, heading straight for me. I stepped back, but there was nowhere to run. They grabbed fistfuls of my dress, ripping the thin silk, screeching: “The nerve of a thief in our own home! How dare she! All this belongs to us! Those are my pearls! I want them back, give them to me!”

The pearls were snatched from my throat, and they finally stopped.

I looked down. Scraps of pink silk mingled with dusty white-gray pearls around my feet. I didn’t even try to be brave now. I let my eyes overflow, the tears spilling down my cheeks.

“Come along, girls,” my stepmother said. “Goodnight…Cinderella.”

My stepfamily’s condescension and hatred hit me hard. For a while I simply sat and wept. But then she found me.

“Cheer up, child. A little weeping is always good for the soul, but too much and your complexion will be ruined for the rest of the night.”

My raised eyes met the sight of a stooped, kindly-looking woman smiling tenderly at me. “Who are you?”

“Never mind that now, dear. Right now we must get you ready for the ball—and quickly!”

I looked down at my hands lying limply in my lap. “I do not wish to go.”

“But you must!”

“Why?”

She smiled mischievously, her eyes twinkling. “It is your destiny, child.”

She did not allow me much time to try to understand what was happening, and before I knew it I was dressed in a beautiful silver-blue gown with slippers of lass and a mask of deep blue feathers that sparkled in the right light, riding to the castle in a splendid coach and four to attend the prince’s ball.

The old woman did give me one warning, however…

“When the clock strikes one, all of this—” she gestured to the splendor she had created, “—will disappear. You must ensure that you will be back at home before then.”

I nodded.

I could not explain how everything happened, but a part of me needed no explanation and was content to believe once more in the childhood fantasy of magic.

I believed even more deeply when I entered the ball.

I stood at the top of a grand white marble staircase. I counted the steps as I walked down. One, two, three…

The room was cavernous. The ceiling was high and domed, painted with cherubs frolicking among pink and orange clouds. High, arched glass windows lined the walls.

…twenty three, twenty four, twenty five…

Below the stairs, couples in all their finery whirled over the beautifully tiled dance floor, their majestic images reflected below them. The king and queen sat on gilded thrones directly across the room on a raised platform. They were smiling softly as they observed the festivities.

…forty eight, forty nine, fifty.

My heart pounded as I realized what an outsider I was. I did not belong in this world of fine jewels and grand parties. I nearly turned round and ran back up the stairs when a quiet voice to my left asked, “Would you care to dance?”

I turned quickly. A young man about twenty or so was smiling softly at me. He was not wearing a mask, and had a kind, earnest face with laughing green eyes and open features. I accepted his outstretched hand and he led me onto the dance floor.

“May I ask your name?” he said politely.

“Ella,” I said, then cursed myself. If my stepfamily somehow discovered my presence, the consequences would be horrid. But it was too late.

“Lady Ella, I am Char.”

“Char.” I smiled. It was a good name.

For the rest of the night, we never left each other’s side. We talked for hours straight, about anything and everything we could think of. He was the most gentle, compassionate, thoughtful, kind man I had ever met and had the privilege to converse with. But even more important was that I got to know him. He was good with a sword and valued the skill, but didn’t like to use it. He loved to sit in his library and read for hours on end. He was working with his father on extinguishing the slave trade and was passionate about their freedom. He was hopeless at archery. He had two horses that were named—he laughed as he told me—Night and Day.

“I lost a wager,” he explained, grinning

Time flew that night as though it had wings; it was little more that an hour until one o’clock before I knew it. It was then that char decided he had something to tell me.

“Ella,” he began hesitantly. We were walking through the palace garden ,and I was growing increasingly amazed at the variety of colorful blossoms and intoxicating smells.

“Yes?”

He laughed nervously. “This is going to sound quite insane, but…as soon as you walked into the room tonight, I felt something…different.”

My heartbeat quickened.

“I know that I have only known your for a few hours, but I feel right about asking you…asking you if you would spend the rest of your life with me.”

Shock. Live with Char? Be able to talk and laugh and…love? Never have to worry about Natalia or Nicolette or my stepmother ever again? My head spun.

“You are surprised. Believe me, I am as well, but… I would be the happiest man in the world having you as my wife.”

Boldly, I took his hand in my own. He looked down at our interlocked fingers and then at me, and beamed. I myself was smiling so hard I thought my cheeks would crack.

The giant clock inside the castle began striking twelve as Char leaned in

and

kissed

me.

I drew back and whispered, “Yes, Char. I’ll marry you.”

Or was going to. But the situation did not proceed in my favor.

“Ella?” Char said, staring at my gown. “What happened?”

I looked at him in confusion, then followed his gaze. And gasped.

I was dressed once again in the shreds of pink silk that I had been wearing before my transformation. My mask was gone, and the stone path in the garden was leeching the warmth from my bare feet.

Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no.

“Ella?” Char’s hand was under my chin, trying to tilt my face up. But I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. He was so good, so special, so wonderful—how could I deserve him?

So I fled. I could hear him behind me.

“Ella? Ella, come back! Ella, what happened? Is something wrong?”

What was wrong was that a common kitchen girl had fooled herself into thinking that she was a lady worth of a man such as he. I ran harder, and soon his voice faded.

I ran until I found myself at the doorstep of my home. I collapsed, sobbing and gasping for breath.

Never again.

When my stepfamily returned home from the ball that night, I receive the shock of my life.

“Why didn’t I get a turn to dance with the prince?” Natalia whined. “I am far prettier than that wench he spent all his time with!”

“Well, we would not know, would we?” Nicolette sneered. “She kept her mask on all night. I must admit, though,” she said in a grudging tone, “it was quite a pretty thing. Feathered and blue, and it had the most extraordinary way of sparkling in the candlelight.”

I froze in the middle of unlacing her corset.

“Still,” Nicolette continued. “She was a wench, no doubt about it. Most likely some kind of sorceress to enchant the prince that way. He was going mad after she ran away, was he not, Nattie?”

“Indeed,” Natalia pouted. “Most discouraging.”

Char. Charmont. I had been with the prince the entire night!

“Oh, do hurry up, Cinderella!” Nicolette snapped. “I should like to breathe!”

“So sorry,” I breathed, my mind still elsewhere.

And he had asked for my hand…

By means of one way or another, he found me. I had convinced myself I would never see him again and that he was better off without a dirty, awkward orphan of a wife. But he found me. He asked me again, while I was dressed in rags and covered in soot from tending the fire, if I would marry him.

“Why me?” I asked, tears running down my face.

He knelt before me. “Because you loved me when I was Char. Not Prince Charmont, heir to the throne. Just Char. And because I love you, too. More than I can say.”

“But I’m just a commoner!” I protested. “Why would you want me?”

He took my face in his hands and wiped away my tears. “It would not matter if you were a peasant or an empress. As long as you wear that soft expression when you talk about your father, as long as you can laugh as though you had not a care in the world, as long as you can listen with not just your ears, but with your whole heart—as long as you’re you, Ella, I will want you.”

It was at that moment that I realized I had someone who loved me—who really, truly loved me, for the first time in nine years. I realized that my stepmother and sisters were wrong. I realized that I had self worth—and someone who recognized it and was trying their hardest to convince me of it as well. And most importantly, I realized that Char was never going to accept “no” as an answer.

I smiled broadly and whispered, “Well then…yes.”

I am no longer Cinderella, kitchen girl, scullery maid, orphan. I am now Queen Eleanor, wife of King Charmont, ruler of our kingdom. I am the mother of three children, and the happiest woman in the world.

But really, I am me. Simply…Ella.

- the end -

Amanda Haselden -- June 10, 2011