Princess of Glass - Jessica Day George [22]
Going to the washstand, Ellen reflected that it was odd how much alike the three of them looked: Poppy, Marianne, and herself, and yet how different their circumstances were. Poppy was a princess with some sort of mysterious scandal attached to her name, Marianne was a wealthy heiress who thought of nothing but gowns and beaux, and Ellen was the daughter of an earl who found herself ironing the other girls’ underclothes.
But that was all going to change. Soon.
She lifted the full pitcher and slowly began to pour water into the basin. She stared intently into the sheet of liquid as she poured.
“Madame Corley,” she called. “Godmother? It’s Ellen—Eleanora!”
Instantly the water turned green and the plump-cheeked face of her godmother appeared. “Hello, my darling! What is it you wanted?”
“I’m going to a ball, to two balls,” Ellen blurted out in excitement. “And I need gowns! And slippers! And fans and jewels! Oh please, Godmother, say you can help!”
Her godmother’s smile broadened. “Of course, of course, my darling girl! How happy I am for you! You shall have the best of everything, and every young man shall fall in love with you!”
Ellen felt her cheeks begin to glow. Her godmother would help her! She would dazzle Society at the balls, and be swept away by golden-haired Prince Christian!
“You will need to come to me, to prepare yourself and have your gowns fitted,” her godmother said. “Pour the water back into the pitcher, so I can teach you the way to my home.”
Carefully, Ellen tipped the broad basin back into the pitcher, then began pouring the water into the basin once more. It glowed green immediately, and her godmother gave her the directions to her palace.
She had suspected that her godmother was not merely some kindly sorceress, but also a woman of rank. And now it had been confirmed. Her godmother spoke with great elation at the prospect of Ellen coming at last to her palace, where the girl could be treated as befitted her birth. The only catch was that she would need to do it before midnight, but without being observed.
Ellen was about to ask if there was any other way, or if she shouldn’t wait until everyone was asleep (which would be some time after midnight), when the sound of the latch turning made her jump and spill the rest of the water down her skirt.
Lydia, the maid who shared Ellen’s room, put her hands on her hips in disgust. “Now I’ll have to carry up another pitcher of water while you change,” she groused.
“I’m sorry,” Ellen whispered.
But it was no good. Lydia hated her. She had to make Ellen’s bed every day, because Mrs. Hanks required the maids’ rooms to be kept tidy at all times, and Ellen could never get the sheets to lie flat. Ellen could never remember to bring up two pitchers of water, one for her and one for Lydia, either. The one time she had remembered, she’d spilled both on her way up the stairs, and had to mop up the spill and refill the pitchers. It was just like all of her other chores: no matter how hard she tried, she was useless.
And Ellen found that she was even more useless for the rest of the day. Thoughts of meeting her godmother in person, of setting foot in a palace where she wouldn’t be expected to iron anything, filled her head. She tripped and tore the hem of her gown, spilled tea all over Poppy’s coverlet, and dropped Marianne’s freshly laundered handkerchiefs into a coal scuttle.
It was with great relief that Ellen found herself banished to the guest rooms to dust knickknacks with an ostrich plume. No one would look for her for hours, and she could always finish dusting after midnight, when she returned from her visit.
Besides, there were few valuable ornaments here and if she broke any, it would be no great loss. In fact, she rather thought that Lady Margaret might thank her for breaking one particular vase: it had a lopsided eagle painted on it, and one of the other maids had told Ellen that it would have been thrown out long ago if it hadn’t been a gift from His Lordship’s great-aunt.
As she hastily