Danielle Teller - All the Ever Afters: The Untold Story of Cinderella’s Stepmother

In memory of Anne Shreenan Dyck, the best mom in the whole world

Suppers at the royal court have become entirely too oppressive. It isnt just that they are interminable, or that we must adhere to the newest fashions, the face powder, our hair tortured into great bejeweled rams horns, the silks with sleeves so tight that its impossible to raise ones spoon to ones carefully tinctured lips No, the worst is the gossip, the sinister buzz of wasps ready to slip their poisonous stingers into whatever tender flesh lies exposed.

This evening I was ordered to sit next to the Earl of Bryston, a pompous halfwit who has rarely been to court. He presides over some godforsaken swamp in the north, and he seems to believe that his familys long history of loyalty to the crown gives him the right to opine on the behaviors of the royal family.

My lady, he said, plucking at cuffs so voluminous that they draped into his soup, I understand that your noble daughters are not yet wed?

No, my lord, I answered as briefly as courtesy would allow.

And yet, I have heard that they once vied for the attention of Prince Henry himself? The earl dabbed his crimson lips daintily. That they tried to alienate his affection from Princess Elfilda?

You seem amused, my lord. He could not have mistaken the coldness in my response. I fear that much of what you have heard is not true.

Ah, well, it is an incredible tale! He smiled broadly. The beautiful downtrodden maiden who ascends to the royal palace, the jealous stepsisters, the glass slipper that would not fit...

My lord, I cannot credit such a tale.

Come, my lady! You know that the whole kingdom is enthralled by our radiant and benevolent princess! I have heard a great deal about you and your daughters. He looked at me knowingly.

Compelling fiction often obscures the humble truth.

I do hope that you will tell me about the slipper, he said, ignoring my reluctance. He broke a piece of bread, leaving a trail of crumbs across the table. My wife is frantic to know the particulars! They say that the prince let every maiden try the shoe, even your daughters! He laughed.

It is droll to imagine them receiving attention from a prince?

Well... His shrug was eloquent.

They are ugly, and Elfilda is beautiful.

The earl frowned and pursed his lips. It is genteel to imply nasty insults, not to speak them directly.

My lord, I may have heard some of the rumors to which you allude. To my mind, these stories insinuate a plague of blindness. Prince Henry would have to be blind not to recognize the object of his admiration or to distinguish an ugly girl from one of unsurpassed beauty. My daughters would need to be blind to their reflections in mirrors and on the faces of those who behold them My voice rose, so I paused and began again blandly. They would also need to be blind to the truth that men persuade themselves that beautiful women possess virtue and good character, whereas no amount of virtue can make an ugly woman beautiful.

My lady, Princess Elfilda is a dazzling star who shines in the royal firmament, where she belongs. He did not attempt to conceal his disdain. That she invites you and your daughters to dine here at the palace is a testament to her compassion, forgiveness, and generosity.

Indeed, my lord, I murmured. Indeed that is so.

I am only of interest to the Earl of Bryston and his ilk because of my stepdaughter. Princess Elfilda is the most celebrated woman in the kingdom, perhaps in all of history. Commoners line the streets for endless hours, even in dark and sleet, hoping to glimpse her face through the window of her gilded carriage. When the princess has her gown cut in a new way or adopts a different hairstyle, every female creature in the city imitates her appearance. Last autumn she wore a choker of pearls to church on Michaelmas, and the next day every noblewomans throat was wound snugly with pearls or other jewels. By Christmastide even the peasant girls wore chokers of beads or ribbon, whatever material they could find to replicate the fashion.

Princess Elfildas popularity derives in large part from her astonishing beauty, but there is something else about her nature that attracts the masses. Her habitual muteness and the gentle hesitancy of those rare words that do fall from her lips make her seem bashful, as does her manner of ducking her head and looking up through sweeping lashes. Apart from her collections of baubles and kennel of favorite dogs, she appears to have no passions or vices, and when she attends royal functions, her gaze drifts to invisible spectacles that only she can apprehend. Her elusive character is a blank parchment upon which any story may be written, and every girl who dreams of becoming a princess can imagine herself in Princess Elfildas famously tiny shoes.

I know more of the princesss history than anyone else alive, and the true tale is not as fantastical as the one sung by troubadours. Nobody is interested in the story of a flesh-and-blood noblemans daughter, one who wet her bed, complained of boredom, fought with her kin, and turned up her nose at winter greens just like any mortal child. Nor do I have any desire to diminish the adulation for the princess, which makes both the admiring and admired so content.

I do not set out to write the princesss history, but my own, the only tale I have the authority to tell. My quill may resurrect ghosts to keep me company during the long days at the castle, and if it cannot, at least my mind will be occupied and my hands busy. As for fables about good and evil and songs about glass slippers, I shall leave those to the minstrels. They can invent their own tales about Cinderella.

I hardly remember my own mother. I have a memory of arms surrounding me and pushing my head into a soft bosom that smelled of kitchen smoke, lye, and some light acrid scent that I can no longer identify. This memory evokes comfort, but also childish impatience and distaste for yielding flesh.

I do remember her singing; she had a pretty voice. She had heavy auburn hair that she would sometimes allow me to braid.

I was told that she died in agony while my brother tried and failed to enter this world. She labored for three long days as the baby died inside her. Then she too was called to Gods side. I do not know where I was as she lay those three days on the birthing bed that became her deathbed. Maybe I was sent away to a neighboring home. Maybe my mind recoiled so violently at the scene of her death that the memory ripped free. I wonder sometimes if the thoughts that flock my nightmares are abandoned memories coming home to roost.

Several years after my mother died, I was sent to work at the manor house. I would have been sent there eventually, because my father was only a half-virgater, poorer than most, and I was the youngest of three children. My brother and my father did what they could with our land, but they also owed work in other parts of the manors holdings. I was certainly not going to have a dowry, and there was no need for two girls to tend to our cottage. Under more fortunate circumstances, I might have remained at home several years longer to help my mother with the baby, but as it was, I left home with half of my milk teeth. I was a sturdy child, big for my age and strong. My father must have believed that I would fare well at the manor house.

On the day I was to leave home, I lay in the loft long after everyone else had risen. I kept my eyes shut, listening as my sister made the fire and chided the hens that got in her way.

My father said, You should wake Agnes. Still, I did not move.

Agnes! my sister scolded. Get up and say good-bye to Father and Thomas! Reluctantly, I rose and lowered myself from the loft. My fathers gaze was grave but unapologetic. He opened his arms to signal that he wished me to approach and embrace him.