Ella Enchanted (17 page)

Sound gushes forth from somewhere deep, their toes or their souls. For the last song, a paean to the rising sun (because they have performed through the night), they gather their families about them. Husbands and wives and children clasp hands, tilt their heads heavenward, and release their music.

And I, seated with the few other visitors, add my weak voice to theirs, humming when I can’t guess the words and wishing my hands were held too.

Perhaps we can come here together someday.

By the way, you are a month older than the last time I saw you. Are you still too young to marry?_

I chuckled at the joke. Then I thought of the bride I’d make, in a threadbare, sooty gown that stank of cooking fat and yesterday’s dinner.

Char repeated the query in every letter, probably because my answers were so silly that they pleased him. If not too young, I was too tired to marry or too wet or too cross or too hungry. Once I wrote, “If my years are measured by inches, then I am certainly too young. The eleven-year-old daughter of an acquaintance dwarfs me.”

The acquaintance was Nancy, the serving maid.

Another time I wrote, “Today I am too old to marry, a hundred at least. I have spent the last eighty years and more listening to a lady detail the pedigree of every dinner guest tonight.”

The lady had been Hattie, and I had not attended the meal.

I continued in a more serious vein. “I have not found anyone in my stepfamily’s circle in whom I can confide. And there are few subjects about which my stepsisters and I share an opinion. It is great good luck that I have a pen and paper and a friend.”

Char’s answer: “My tongue may wither from disuse here, but at least I shan’t lose words entirely while I still can write to you.”

Sometimes I wondered what would happen if I told Char that I was just the right age to marry. With each of his letters I fell more in love with him. But I couldn’t tell him. If I said I was old enough to marry and his question had only been the continuation of a good joke, he would be horribly embarrassed and our easy friendship would be ruined. He might stop writing, which I couldn’t endure. If he wasn’t jesting, it was for him to say so. Until then or never, I treasured our correspondence.

In his next letter he wrote,

_I don’t know when I learned I would be king. It seems I’ve always known it. But two stories are told, and I’ve heard them so often they seem to be memories. One has me as hero; the other is not so flattering.

A lute was given to me when I was six and my sister, Cecilia, was four. She coveted it and plucked at it whenever she could. Finally, I presented it to her, an act that signified to the servants that I would be a generous king. They never considered how indifferent a musician I was. My protestations that it was a small sacrifice to part with something I had little use for were taken as modesty, another fine kingly quality.

However, I’m not sure how modesty figures in my retelling the tale to you. I do so because I want you to know I have qualities that others admire. What you will conclude from the next anecdote I cannot guess.

I was in the streets of Frell with my father when a man pelted him with an overripe tomato. While wiping at his clothes, my father spoke kindly to the man and ended by resolving his grievance. Afterward, I asked why the man hadn’t been punished. When Father told me I’d understand by the time I became king, I said I didn’t want to be king if people threw tomatoes at me. I said it seemed a thankless task.

Father roars with laughter when he tells this tale. Now I know why: It is a thankless task, but tomatoes are the least of it._

The conclusion I drew from this story was that Char wasn’t above laughing at himself. Of course, he wasn’t perfect. Eager to share his knowledge on any subject, he neglected to ascertain the interest of his listener or, in my case, reader. He wrote more about Ayortha than I ever wished to know: how the guilds were structured; the number of gallons of milk produced in a year by one Ayorthaian cow; the construction of their manors. And yet more.

This was a minor flaw. He confessed a more serious one.

_You are almost my sole confidant in this. The other is my horse, to whom I tell everything — because he can’t condemn or offer advice. I write it to you because you must know all. I trust you to find the good in me, but the bad I must be sure you don’t overlook.

I am slow to anger, but also slow to forgive. For example, my languages tutor had a way of making me feel a fool. I endured his abuse but learned less than I might have if he’d been encouraging. Cecilia, who inherited his instruction after me, received the same treatment. The first time I found her crying, I warned him. The second time, I dismissed him. Father trusted my judgment enough to let my action stand.

I went further. Boy as I was, I took measures to ensure the tutor would teach no more. But although my victory was complete and the man was ruined, and six years have passed, the thought of him still infuriates me. I am angry now as I write these words.

You may excuse me on the grounds of being a kind brother, which I hope I any. But I wonder at my rage. And I wonder too if my action against the tutor was at bottom a case of refusing (in another form) to let someone throw a tomato at me or my family._

In reply I wrote,

_Mandy says there are two sorts of people in the world: those who blame everyone else and those who blame only themselves. I place myself in a third category: among those who know where blame really lies. You stand condemned. Your crime: too much zeal in the protection of those you love. A fault and a virtue. Heinous!

Although you’ve revealed your shortcomings to me, I feel compelled to no such frankness. You must discover my faults for yourself. And, although you’ve said it goes against the grain, you must find a way to forgive them._

I remember the date of Char’s next letter: Thursday, May 24. He’d been gone half a year. Although the letter arrived in the morning, I was unable to read it all day. At dawn I had to scrub the flagstones in our courtyard for Mum Olga. Then Olive ordered me to count her coins in their thousands — repeatedly, because she kept thinking I had made a mistake. In the evening Hattie had me help her prepare for a ball, including plucking out the hairs that grew in profusion above her upper lip.

By the time Hattie departed, I was too late to help Mandy clean the kitchen. The rest of the night was mine to use as I liked.

In my room I opened my little window and let the cool air wash over me. Then I lit the bit of candle Mandy had smuggled to me, placing it carefully out of the breeze. I sat on my cot and opened my letter.

_Dear Ella,

Impatience is not usually my weakness. But your letters torment me. They make me long to saddle my horse and ride to Frell, where I would make you explain yourself.

They are playful, interesting, thoughtful, and (occasionally) serious. I’m overjoyed to receive them, yet they bring misery. You say little of your daily life, I have no idea how you occupy yourself. I don’t mind; I enjoy guessing at the mystery. But what I really long to know you do not tell either: what you feel, although I’ve given you hints by the score of my regard.

You like me. You wouldn’t waste time or paper on a being you didn’t like. But I think I’ve loved you since we met at your mother’s funeral. I want to be with you forever and beyond, but you write that you are too young to marry or too old or too short or too hungry — until I crumple your letters up in despair, only to smooth them out again for a twelfth reading, hunting for hidden meanings.

Father asks frequently in his letters whether I fancy any Ayorthaian young lady or any in our acquaintance at home. I say no. I suppose I’m confessing another fault: pride. I don’t want him to know that I love if my affections are not returned.

You would charm him, and mother too. They would be yours completely. As I am.

What a beautiful bride you’ll be, whomever you marry at whatever age. And what a queen if I am the man! Who has your grace? Your expression? Your voice? I could extol your virtues endlessly, but I want you to finish reading and answer me quickly.

Today I cannot write of Ayortha or my doings or anything. I can only post this and wait.

Love (it is such relief to pen the word!), love, love—

Char_

I GAPED at the page. Read it again. And gaped again. In my daze, I noticed that my sooty thumb had left marks on the letter.

He loved me. He’d loved me as long as he’d known me!

I hadn’t loved him as long, perhaps, but now I loved him equally well, or better. I loved his laugh, his handwriting, his steady gaze, his honorableness, his freckles, his appreciation of my jokes, his hands, his determination that I should know the worst of him. And, most of all, shameful though it might be, I loved his love for me.

Placing my candle carefully, I danced and whirled around my room.

I could marry Char and live with my love.

I could leave Mum Olga and her spawn.

No one would give me orders.

This was an unexpected solution to my trouble. Lucinda would have hated for me to evade my obedience by rising above it. And even Mandy would be surprised by this method of ending the curse.

I extracted paper from the hiding place at the bottom of my wardrobe. My love shouldn’t have an extra moment of impatience.

However, my stub of a candle flickered out as soon as I wrote, “Dearest Char, darling Char, beloved Char.” I ordered my mind to wake me the instant there was light enough to write by. Then I fell asleep composing my letter.

In the middle of the night, I awoke, my happiness draining away. I wouldn’t escape the curse by marrying Char. I would be more cursed than ever. And he would be cursed too.

Suppose my obedience were discovered… My stepfamily knew and would take advantage to improve their rank and fortune. But that would be the least of it — an enemy of Kyrria could put the curse to more awful use. In unscrupulous hands I would be a powerful tool. I could be made to reveal state secrets. I could even be forced to kill Char!

And I had no doubt my secret would be discovered. In court there would be eyes and ears that would be alive to such signs. I’d never manage to fool them all.

What could I do? Mother had ordered me not to tell anyone about the curse, but Mandy could countermand the order so I’d be able to tell Char. Then he could take precautions.

I’d tell him. I’d wake Mandy now. I sat up in bed, happy again. And sank back.

What precautions could Char take? He could prevent anyone from speaking to me or writing to me. He could shut me away. That might do, but he would have to bring me my meals, the flax to spin my clothes, the wood for my fire. It would be a burden similar to one of Lucinda’s wedding gifts. And what would Kyrria think of a hermit queen? And how would I feel, locked away like Rapunzel in her tower? Moreover, even the best precautions might fail.

I could ask him to give up being crown prince in favor of his sister. If he were never to be king, he might not be a target. But how could I ask such a thing? How could he accept? And would the danger simply move to his sister?

We could keep the marriage a secret. That was absurd. The secret would get out.

I cast about for other ideas, but none came. Cursed, I couldn’t marry him. But if I ever managed to break the curse, in a month or in twenty years, I would find him and win him over again if he was still free. No matter what I had to do, no matter how long it took. But now my only choice was to convince him to give me up.

*

WHEN I finally thought what to say and began to write, I ruined three sheets of paper by crying on them and a fourth because I forgot to misspell words.

_My dear Prince Charmont,

Your latest corespondence with my stepsister was recieved by my mother, Dame Olga, and myself. Ella and the cook, Mandy, were not here to except it.

Ella is absent because she has eloped, taking our cook with her. She left a note which I have enclosed for your perusal.

You have been much decieved in her. It was her custom to read your letters aloud to us and crow over them, thinking it a feather in her cap to be writing to royalty, such as yourself.

For a while, she had ambitions to be queen, but she dispared of it and took another offer. She would go into one of her dreadful rages if she knew the contents of your letter. I do not think she liked living on our generosity, and longed to be able to lord it over us with greater splendor than we could hope for, although we fancy that our stile is very fine.

Your letter arrived four days after her departure. I know because Demby had a ball that night, and Ella was greatly missed. Her beaux turned to me for consolation, and I gave them the same advice I have for you: Think no more of the minks, because she has already forgotten you.

I am sorry to dismay you, but I hope you will be consoled by the fond wishes of this admirer.

Your angel of comfort,

Hattie_

I tore a sheet of paper in half for the enclosure, written in my own hand.

_These are the first words I ever penned as a married lady. You know him, but I shall not write his name, only that he is very old and very rich and lives far from Frell. And he is fool enough to make me his bride. Someday, and the day may not be long in coming, I shall be sole mistress of a vast estate. I shall not write again, but look for me. When my husband dies, I shall visit Frell. Should you spy a carriage that surpasses of others, peer inside. You will find me within, smiling at my jewels and laughing at the world—

Ella_

Char’s anger at his tutor would be nothing compared with this. He would hate me until the end of the world. In the morning, Mandy dispatched the correspondence, thinking it an ordinary letter. I didn’t tell her about Char’s proposal for fear she would think I should accept him. Although I knew I was right, I doubted I could withstand any argument.

As soon as she left to post the letter, I collapsed in front of the fireplace, sobbing. When she returned in half an hour, I was still in tears.

She gathered me in her arms. “What’s the trouble, sweet?”