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  BEFORE THE MIDNIGHT BELLS

  Once Upon a Romance, Book One

  Jessica Woodard

  Copyright © 2011

  Jessica Woodard

  All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be reproduced without permission of the author, with the exception of any and all fair use cases.

  For Been; who said I could, and I should, so I did.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “You’ve both given exemplary service to my family, and I’m sure you will have no difficulty finding new positions. I can say truly that we’re going to miss you a great deal.” Ella tried to speak with quiet dignity, but her despondency was hard to suppress.

  “Thank you, Miss.” Greta looked sad, but took her glowing reference letter with calm, steady hands.

  “Yes, thank you, Miss.” That was Junie, whose eyes were already welling with tears. When Ella handed her reference letter over she added a quick hug to the miserable girl.

  “I’m so sorry, to both of you.”

  “That’s alright, Miss,” Greta spoke for both of them, since Junie was now taking quick, quavery breaths, trying to keep the tears from spilling down. “We know it ain’t your fault. It was a miracle you kept us on as long as you did. If you ever find yourself in need of a pair of girls again you just look us up.”

  “I promise, I will.” With a quick smile for both the maids—former maids—Ella stepped out of the tiny study and into the hall. As she closed the door behind her she heard Junie finally break down. Safely out of sight, she let her shoulders slump. One more letter to hand out, and the hardest one, at that.

  Ella made her way through the dingy back hallway and into the kitchen. There, on the weathered butcher block work top in front of the giant stone hearth, Clara was kneading a great mass of dough. Ella stopped and leaned against the edge of the dried herb rack, watching the cook use one wrist to brush her greying curls back from a face ruddy with exertion.

  Clara had been with the household since Ella was a little girl, and had been Ella’s favorite companion when her father was busy. The large kitchen with its wonderful smells and ever-full cookie jar was an enchanting place to a small child, and Clara had always welcomed her warmly and let her help in the day’s work. Ella had spent countless hours learning how flour became bread, or a chicken became soup, all with one of Clara’s plump arms wrapped around her waist.

  Those plump arms now opened wide, as Clara caught sight of Ella.

  “Poor mite, you look so sad, come and have a squeeze.”

  Ella shook her head. She couldn’t. If Clara hugged her she would crumble into a million pieces. Clara gave her a knowing look.

  “It’s all right to cry, lovie, it’s a sad day. Come here.” Ella let the large woman pull her into a caring embrace, and felt the tears welling out from under her closed eyelids. Clara sat on her large work stool and held Ella on her lap, just as though she were a little girl again, and spoke to her softly.

  “Ah, it’s a hard thing, that you must hand these out. Where is the Missus? Could she not even see to this detail, and spare you the grief?”

  Ella’s words were muffled against Clara’s shoulder. “She doesn’t see the need. She told me I could have it my own way, but I would have to handle the dismissals myself.”

  “Doesn’t see the need?” Clara was incredulous, “Does she think we’ll work for promises?”

  “She wants to take another loan out.”

  Clara clucked her tongue. It astonished her how a gentlewoman of excellent breeding could be so heedless of reality.

  “Ah well, lovie, you’ve done the right thing, though it’s hard for you. Is my letter in one of your pockets?”

  Ella nodded mutely.

  “Well, you can leave it on the table for me. I’m just going to finish up here. Can’t very well leave you with an empty larder, now can I?”

  “Clara, you don’t have to...”

  “Don’t even speak it, lovie. I know I don’t have to, and if it was only that flighty woman and her girls I might choose not to, but I can’t leave my Ella without a full cookie jar, can I?”

  Ella put her head down on Clara’s shoulder as the tears returned.

  “There, there, lovie. Don’t fret so. You’ll figure it out. I’ll be taking my letter and going to my sister’s farm to help with her wee ones for a while, and when you’ve got everything sorted straight again you just call me on back.”

  Clara’s words were brave, but both she and the sobbing girl on her lap knew it wasn’t going to be that easy.

  ***

  Ella was lying on her narrow bed, wrapped in all her blankets. The house reverberated with emptiness, as though some of the life had gone out of it when Clara drew on her wraps and marched off to catch a ride to her sister’s. Ella’s chest had a hollow feeling, one that she remembered well from the days and weeks after her father died.

  Holding the blankets with one hand she slid off the old, lace-trimmed sheets and drifted over to her faded baroque vanity. There, in a small wooden box, was the letter her father had left for her. She had read and re-read it over the twelve years since his death, whenever her loneliness threatened to overwhelm her. Now she pulled it once more from its drawer, and smoothed the creased, tear-stained pages.

  My darling Eleanor,

  Tonight, as I write this, you lie asleep in your bed, resting your clever head and dreaming of whatever will come tomorrow. Today we played “Fairies and Frogs” in the garden. You, of course, were the beautiful Fairy Princess, wrapped in your mother’s silk robe, and I was your noble Froggy Steed.

  Ella smiled. She remembered that day. He had let her put tacks on his shoe heels, and pranced down the paths with knees high.

  When you ran off to find some dew and raindrops for us, I had to labor to catch my breath, and my chest hurt so. By the time you returned with the lemonade it had passed, but I worry, my precious daughter. This is not the first time I have felt this pain, and I fear it will not be the last. I felt I could not leave my fairy Princess without some last word, should it come about that this is more serious than I might wish it to be.

  Eleanor, you are the most wonderful thing in my world. Your mother was precious to me, but nothing has ever brought me joy like you have. You are her greatest gift to me. Even in the last days of her life, when you were so brand new, we loved you almost more than we could bear. Your mother once said that she hoped to become your own personal angel, so that she could come to know you as well as she loved you.

  For myself, you are my personal angel. I love you more now than I did that day, when I held you close to let your mother see you one last time, and I will love you still more tomorrow, and the day after that. You are all I have ever wanted in my life, after your sweet mother was gone.

  I know that you wish it could have been only you and I, together forever, but Eleanor, you are growing so fast. Soon you will be a young woman, and you will need a mother’s love, and a mother’s guidance. Even though she is not your own beloved mother, I hope that Millicent can provide that for you. Sometimes I see you looking at her with bewilderment, and I know you see her as an intruder. Try, for my sake, to see her, if not as a mother, at least as someone you can love and trust. I need to know that someone is watching over you and caring for you, my darling girl.

  All I have ever wanted was for you to be loved, and be happy; but you lost your mother, and I lie awake at night and worry that you will lose me, too. Should that come to pass, my beloved, beloved daughter, remember that I will join your mother. As angels on your shoulder we will sit, watching you grow, loving you all the more, every day.

  Let your stepmother guide you through your days, and your mother and I will guide you at night, as you dream
of what is to come tomorrow.

  All my love is with you forever, my girl.

  Papa

  Ella folded the letter away carefully. For the second time that day, tears ran down her face. Slowly she let her head sink down to rest on her folded arms, as she waited for the ache in her heart to go away.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Christopher Maximillian Wellesley, eldest son and heir to the title of Lord Nathaniel Reginald Wellesley, Duke of Yarrow, most loyal subject of His Royal Majesty, King Regal Augustus II of Albion, was busy berating the Crown Princess Vivienne Bellicia Victoria. Most of the nobility would have been aghast at the very idea of raising their voices to one of the royal family, but Max and Vivienne had been playmates since they were very young, and Max frequently took the privilege of treating her as a younger sister.

  “...such a harebrained idea! I don’t know how I let you talk me into it. I must have been drunk. I was drunk, wasn’t I? The king is going to have your head—NO, he’ll have my head, because he won’t be able to find yours...”

  Vivienne smiled fondly at her friend. She knew that Max loved her dearly, and would do anything for her. That’s why she’d had no hesitation in asking him to go along with her “harebrained” scheme, despite the delicate nature of the situation.

  “Max, I—”

  “This is a horrible idea, I tell you, horrible. It’s going to rebound on us both...”

  “Max.”

  “You are going to be disowned and I am going to be beheaded...”

  “Max.”

  “And what will you do if you succeed, Princess Featherhead..?”

  “MAX!”

  This last exclamation was accompanied by a small foot stamp, and Max pulled up sharply, aware that he might have crossed a line with that last comment, but Vivienne was still smiling at him. He took a deep breath and modulated his tone before asking, “Yes, Vivi?” His voice was full of exaggerated adoration, but Vivienne knew he was still mad at her. He only used her nickname when he wanted to irritate her. He knew she hated it. She smiled anyway and motioned him down into a seat next to hers.

  “Max, you know this is the only way.” When he started to interrupt her she gave him a quelling look. She understood his reservations but, after all, patience only extends so far. Vivienne was royalty; her quelling looks were among the best in the kingdom. Max sank deeper into his chair without a murmur.

  “My father is a good king and a decent enough man, but he has an irrational fear of bad things which will happen to me. He doesn’t want me to go anywhere or do anything. He doesn’t want me to leave his side. Or breathe funny. And he has decided that if he marries me off then he will have another set of eyes on me at all times, making sure I continue to be just fine.”

  “Oh come now, Vivienne, it can’t be that bad.”

  “He has been arranging ‘chance’ meetings with eligible young men once or twice a week for months now.”

  “Surely some of them are nice?”

  “Oh, of course they are. They’re all nice. Never mind that they have the brain power of a bird, or lack any semblance of physical appeal, or still have to ask permission of their Mommies if they want to go play.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “Last night at dinner he sat me next to a twelve year old earl.”

  Max winced; he could recognize a coup de grace when he saw one. Still, it would never do to yield too easily.

  “I don’t know why you’re complaining. You’d get the chance to raise him to be exactly the husband you want him to be.”

  “You mean, malleable when he’s in his cups?”

  “I knew I must have been drunk. It’s simply outrageous that you would get a man to commit his word of honor to this kind of folly when you know he’s befuddled by wine.” Quickly he began dodging the couch cushions that were flying at his head. The last one caught him full in the face—her royal highness had excellent aim.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Ella!”

  Ella winced as her needle slipped and jabbed her finger. Her stepmother’s strident tones never failed to startle her as they reverberated up the stairs and rattled the old attic windows. She’d only just settled down to her sewing, but given the impatience in Millicent’s voice...

  “ELLA!”

  ...it didn’t seem like she would have much of a chance to accomplish anything before being needed elsewhere. In fact, judging from the calls...

  “ELLLL - LA!”

  ...her stepmother was marching up the old narrow staircase to fetch her. Personally. Ella sighed in frustration. These days she no longer had even the buffer of a maid between herself and her stepmother’s erratic summons.

  Clara, Greta, and Junie had been gone for months, and Ella was doing her best to keep the household running without them. The table fare suffered, not to mention the cleanliness of the house, but aside from Clara’s comforting presence, the thing Ella missed the most was her privacy in the attic. Greta used to be sent to fetch her, but now her stepmother invaded Ella’s work rooms on a regular basis.

  As though thinking of her had helped pull her up the final steps, Millicent bustled into the room. Ella’s stepmother was a short, extremely round woman. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a profusion of curls that did nothing but emphasize her overly generous figure, but it was the latest fashion and Millicent would wear her hair no other way. The coral empire-waisted gown, also the newest style, made her look like a sausage in a draped organza casing. Overall the effect was comical, but Ella didn’t smile. If Millicent was excited enough to search her out, it could only be for one of two reasons. Ella prayed that the fashionable gentry had not taken up yet another expensive hobby that Millicent wished to indulge in, but if that wasn’t it... Ella closed her eyes and took firm hold of her resolve. She would have this argument a hundred times if necessary.

  No matter if it was driving her crazy.

  “Eleanor, my dear,” began a rather breathless Millicent. The stairs were, after all, very steep, and Millicent was, after all, very round. “You must come down to the parlor at once. This very minute. I am bursting, simply bursting,” here Millicent paused to take a deep breath, and did, for a moment, look very much like she was about to burst, “with news, and I must have all three of you girls together to share it.”

  “But Stepmother, the sewing,” began Ella.

  “Oh, bother the sewing,” replied Millicent, completely unconcerned that without Ella’s daily attentions to their wardrobes all four women would have presented a very slovenly sight before the rest of the gentry. “It can wait. You must, simply must, come down right away.”

  “Surely your news can wait,” Ella said with a little impatience. “I’m almost done with the last of our dresses that I must mend before I can begin work on Mrs. Minglesall’s latest order.”

  Millicent gazed at Ella in horror. “You aren’t doing a dress for Mrs. Minglesall? Say that you aren’t, dear, you know I would die of shame.”

  “Stepmother, Mrs. Minglesall is an excellent customer, and I am happy to sew for her. Not only is she a kind woman, but she pays promptly, and I very much need to finish this dress for her so that I can settle our account with the paper shop.” The bill for the fine, delicate paper that Millicent and Beatrice had used in their most recent craze—paper folding—had been enough to make Ella gasp.

  “But Eleanor, dear, she’s our neighbor.”

  “Yes, Stepmother, and I hope that she will encourage all our other neighbors to patronize my shop, as well.”

  “Ella!” Millicent was scandalized. “You cannot mean to say that you hope that all our peers will find out that you have gone into trade.”

  “That is exactly what I do mean, Stepmother. How am I ever to have a successful shop if no one knows it’s there?”

  “But Eleanor, you will ruin our name! How will you three girls make good matches if everyone thinks we’ve become nothing more than glorified merchants?” Privately Ella thought having word spread that the
y were destitute would hurt their chances far more, but she didn’t say anything. She knew from experience the futility of arguing with Millicent over her spending habits. “Even if Beatrice and Prudence find husbands, no one will want to marry a woman who works.” Millicent said the word as though Ella were engaging in the foulest of misdeeds. “You will be left a spinster.”

  “Well and good, then, Stepmother, as long as I am a spinster with a fine dressmaking shop.”

  The look on Millicent’s face was not so much anger as it was total incomprehension. Ella’s stepmother had never been able to understand the joy she took from dreaming of beautiful things and then making them with her own two hands.

  “I never should have let you take over the girls’ sewing.” Millicent fell back on her usual complaint. Ella sighed. Millicent was convinced that if Ella had never been forced by necessity into maintaining—and then, eventually, creating—their wardrobes, that she also would have never found the desire within herself to create beautiful things. Ella was tired of this old argument.

  “What’s done is done, Stepmother, and at least you cannot say that you are displeased with the results of my skill.” Ella’s attempt at distraction worked. Millicent beamed at her.

  “It’s true, we are the best dressed family among our set, despite our difficulties.” Millicent was always so vague about the lack of money, as though it had been caused by misfortune or an act of the gods, rather than her own extravagant expenditures. “And it certainly will come in handy now, won’t it! If only you would keep it a family secret.”

  Ella chose to ignore the last statement. “Why handy now, Stepmother?”

  “Well, darling, that’s what I’m trying to tell you about. Come downstairs, now, so I can share the news with all of you at once.” With that she turned and bustled back out of the room.