This is not, quite, a fairy tale. And yet it is. All will become clear.
The Tailor's Daughter
There once lived a tailor in a fine house of the town, with his daughter, a young quick-witted maid whose name was Eleanor. The tailor was a good man and friend to rich and poor, and his daughter was a bold girl who loved to spin tales and stories. The tailor had no son and no apprentice, and the daughter had no mother to guide her, so her father taught her everything he knew so that she might never be poor.
The tailor had one enemy and Eleanor had two – the tailor's enemy was a busybody of the town who considered herself grand. She envied the tailor's ability to make friends with the most powerful of men, especially the duke who ruled all the town and the country for miles around. Eleanor's enemies were the woman's daughters, two conceited and vain girls who envied Eleanor her exquisite Sunday dresses and elegant day clothes, and despised her boldness and wit.
There was a cruel winter in the year that Eleanor was sixteen, and her father became ill. Though she nursed him as best she could, he became weaker and weaker, and then just as the snow finally began to melt, he died. Eleanor loved her father more than any other, and, being a practical girl, set aside a week to weep and prepare for his funeral. And she sobbed inconsolably for six days, buried him on the seventh, then on the eighth she dried her eyes and knew that her father would mean for her to go on. So she returned home and set up shop again, applying the skills she had been taught and determined to continue her father's work as he would have wished.
But times were hard and the cruel months that had passed had lost them custom, and though she inherited everything of the tailor's – his money, his fine cloth of silk and satin, his workshop, his friends and his skill, she had also inherited his enemy – and now she had three.
She worked day and night, against cold and loss and isolation, but she could not work against gossip. The busybody and her two daughters continued to despise her, and felt no pity for her plight. They found humour in her struggle, and contrived to worsen it, spreading rumours of the poorness of her handiwork and the shabbiness of her garments. Soon Eleanor found she must shut up shop or else starve, and though she apologised deeply to her father's grave, she knew he would not require starvation. She sold all she could, packed up her tools and the last of her finest fabrics, and set out to seek another fortune.
The duke of the region lived in a fine manor house north of the town. Eleanor was not disposed to begging, but knew that he had liked her father and might have remembered some of the tales she had told whenever he had come for a fitting. She started out full of hope, but as the journey wore on she fell more and more to despair, and by the time she arrived at the gates of the house she looked forlorn and the housekeeper believed her to be a vagrant. And the duke, who had been so kind when her father was alive, barely recognised her, but offered her work as a scullion and occasional seamstress. She saw she had little choice, and accepted it.
Although the work was hard, Eleanor found friends among the servants and some contentment in her new and lowly position. She saved all the little pay she could, and dreamed that one day she might own a small house of her own and make a modest living alone. But her life was not so terrible and hard, and she could make the servants laugh with her stories.
The duke was getting on in years, and wanted one to tend to him in his dotage, and he began to court a common woman of the town, for, as the servants whispered, her manner placed her among ladies and, though common, she was not poor. But Eleanor felt a dagger of betrayal, for the very woman the duke was courting was the busybody and only enemy of her father. She tried to stay hidden from the enemies of her past, but they found her and hideous was the gloating joy they found in her apparent misfortune. She prayed the duke would see sense, but alas he married her, and her happiness at the house was over.
For the new duchess delighted in the fall of her enemy's daughter – and the two daughters loved to see Eleanor, who had once worn such finery, reduced to the shabby work dress of a scullion. They called on her for all manner of task and she knew that she had not the means to disobey. They loved to see her toiling in the dirt, covered in cinders and if any task was not sufficiently accomplished, the duchess would strike her. She had gone from being a servant to a slave.
The duke had a manservant who was faithful to the utmost, and he was a kind-hearted man named Edward. Edward saw the suffering of the young maid and found ways to help her, giving her balm and finding ways that her path should not cross with the duchess. He found sewing jobs she could do that would let her rest by the firelight, and even mentioned her proficiency to the duke. This was to little avail until the duke became ill, and he tossed and turned in his bed, groaning with agony and misery. His wife did not tend to him, but told her daughters that their fortune was made, for he should surely die. But Edward called for Eleanor and asked her to spin a tale for the duke, as it might awaken him from his melancholy. And so she spun a tale of wonder, and the duke felt his heart lift and found the strength to recover.
But the duchess was angry at this, and made Eleanor's life all the more miserable. And in feverish forgetfulness, the duke forgot Eleanor's kindness.
A month later, the duke was ill again, and again Edward asked Eleanor to spin a tale for him, but she was reluctant. However he begged for his master, and she relented because he had been so kind to her. She told a tale of folly and mishap, and the duke laughed loud and long, and he again found the strength to recover.
And the duchess, though Edward had tried to keep Eleanor's gift a secret, suspected that she had again restored his spirit with her story-telling. So she made Eleanor's life even more miserable.
The duke's illness returned two months later, and again, Edward begged Eleanor to come and tell him a tale, but she was sore at heart and found no healing tales left. So she told a tale of comfort, and though the duke slept peacefully, he sickened further, and the duchess rejoiced.
But he did not die straight away, but lingered at the edge for several weeks. The duchess tired of waiting and prepared to shock him right to the grave. She drew herself up, and went to tell him the truth, that she had always despised him and her daughters mocked him, for his foolishness, his weakness, and most of all his fondness for his quiet manservant and for his eccentric scullion, and the duke turned very white and fell back as if dead.
The duchess was glad, and called for Edward, hoping to break his heart also, and so the loyal manservant went to tend to his dead master, only to find that his master seemed more alive than ever. He was sitting up and writing hastily.
"Call me a priest, my good man, for I have to make amends before I perish."
And he told Edward of all that his wife had said, and that he felt sure his death would come tonight and he could not bear that she prosper from it. And he thanked him for all his loyalty, and asked the name of the strange girl who had appeared whenever he was at his worst – for he had always been too delirious to recognise her. "It was Eleanor," Edward said, "The scullion."
"The tailor's daughter," the duke said. "I should have treated her better. Go and fetch the priest and I will."
Eleanor knew nothing of this, just that the duchess had gloated to all that her husband was dead and she was mistress. Eleanor prepared all that she had, the few coins that she had saved, and decided that she would leave at dawn and seek her fortune or else starve as a free woman. But as she lay fitfully tossing in the early hours of the morning, wondering what might become of her, Edward came to the attic and woke her. The duke had died an hour before. Edward explained all that had happened, and told her that the duke was so incensed with his false wife that he had prepared a nasty trick for her – he had re-written his will and taken all his wealth from her. But she was not to leave immediately, for he had written that his treasure was still in the house and they might stay for a year to discover it.
"Where is it?" Eleanor asked, for she could see in Edward's face that he knew.
"It is here, in the form of you and me," Edward said, "For we were his most loyal servants."
"What will happen when the year is over?" Eleanor asked.
"We are to inherit the fortune and the wife will get nothing," Edward explained, and he told how the duke had realised they were his truest friends at time of need, and that he wished that they might eventually have everything he owned, for they were far more worthy than the wife and her two daughters. But he also desired, in order to teach those three trollops a lesson, that they agree to work for one year more at their normal wage, and the rest of the servants would also be employed as such, so that the duchess might be taunted with what she had lost. And Eleanor's joy was mingled with sorrow for she felt this was a reward tied up in punishment, for although she was poor she would rather leave. But it is bad luck to refuse the wishes of a dead man, and she agreed to stay.
When the duchess learned of the terms of the will, excepting that Edward and Eleanor would inherit, she was livid with anger. She suspected the manservant and the scullion even so, and set about making their lives as difficult as possible. Eleanor no longer dreamt of leaving – she dreamt of revenge.
But knowing that she was to become rich, she found all the rich cloths that she had saved and began to sew herself a beautiful gown. For she had often longed to dress as a fine lady and attend stately balls and dances. So she sewed patiently and found that none of her skill had been lost. Her beautiful gown and the knowledge of her fortune were all that kept her going, for her days were miserable even as she saw her enemies suffer.
When the year was over, she and Edward visited the priest that held in trust all the duke's fortune. Edward accepted his share, and told Eleanor that she could be mistress of the house, for he meant to go to the city and live in comfort there. And Edward departed much pleased with his fortune, but Eleanor went back to the house full of thoughts of revenge.
The duchess and her daughters had been given to understand that the new owner would claim the house and they would have to leave, but when this did not happen they accepted it as an uneasy reprieve and made their last few hasty attempts to scrabble together a fortune. As luck might have it, the very next day the three received invitations to a ball at the royal palace in honour of the king's son. The duchess counselled her daughters to go, believing that they would all find rich husbands at last. And Eleanor had finished sewing her ball gown, and knew that she longed to go to such a ball, for it would be a rich reward after years of privation. So one morning she slipped out of the house, and went to at last spend some of her great fortune, buying fans and feathers, fine silken stockings and best of all, dancing shoes carved beautifully of crystal. And she commissioned a horse and carriage to carry her to the palace.
On the night itself she waiting until the three had gone, and dressed, braiding her hair and powdering her face, and finally slipping on the ornate shoes. She rode to the palace in splendour and all who were there marvelled at this mysterious beauty, though she stood in the corner and would not dance.
But the prince was captivated by the exotic lady who stood watching, and when the waltz began he entreated her to dance, and so she did, starting falteringly at first but soon dancing with grace and joy. Yet at midnight she realised that she had to return, for she did not want to reveal her secret to the duchess until she had had her revenge. So she hurried away from the prince but, being unused to the crystal shoes, her left heel snapped. She shook it off and got into the carriage with one foot bare.
Great was the sorrow of the duchess and her two daughters. As Eleanor listened from outside their chambers, she heard the sisters lamenting at how they had appeared shabby and foolish, and how they wished they could have been attired like the beautiful exotic princess whom the prince had admired. She smiled to herself, and wondered how she could extend their humiliation, so she resolved to plan as soon as she could. Already the servants were beginning to leave and the house fall into disrepair. And she knew this shamed the duchess, but how great her shame would be when she learned Eleanor was mistress.
Eleanor withdrew from her morning's tasks, climbed the tallest tree in the gardens and set to planning her vengeance. She wished to mortify them, to reduce them all to the misery she had suffered, but she did not yet know how. So she sat in thought, for a long time, until she was interrupted by a most unusual sight.
There seemed to be a procession coming up the path to the house – a procession of pomp and utmost finery. At the front and back were four knights in full armour and livery, riding strong black chargers in full colours, at the sides were pages in bright liveries, holding flags, and two trumpeters in red and gold, and in the centre of all this, atop the finest white stallion was the prince, the very figure of pride.
She hastily climbed down and hurried into the house, wondering what the prince might have come for, and ran to listen at the keyhole of the best sitting room.
She heard the prince explain, in grand tones, that he was seeking his true love, a beautiful lady who had hurried from the ball leaving only a elegant dancing shoe of crystal. Since this was his only clue, he would only marry the woman the shoe fit. Eleanor thought this ridiculous, the stuff of stories, but as he went to try it on the first daughter, she ran up the stairs to get the other shoe, her mind racing with thoughts.
When she arrived back, she heard the duchess trying, and failing, to persuade the prince to stay. So she slipped the other shoe in her apron and pushed open the door.
"Why have you come here?" the duchess demanded, for as a scullion she had not been allowed in this room.
"I am sorry," she said, but she caught the prince's eye, and he stared at her in hungry curiosity. And she turned to leave, but he called out to her.
"Young maiden, tell me, who are you?"
And she began to spin a new tale.
"I was once a happy maiden, whose father loved her over all. But love is blind and my father married. His wife was cruel and her daughters brutish, and I was condemned to slavery."
"Unhappy life," the prince said softly, as the duchess and her daughters stared open-mouthed.
Eleanor dipped her head in affected humility.
"Even a slave may have her jubilee, your highness."
"Explain," he said, rapt.
"I was fairy-blessed last night, as I wept in my garret for the fortunes I had lost, when my father died and his wife stole my happiness as she stole my heritage. The kindest of fairies appeared, in the form of my godmother, and offered me one night of happiness to soothe my privations. So I asked to attend the ball in your honour, for I longed just to see you and gaze upon your manliness."
And the prince nodded at the wisdom of her words for he knew the wisest of maidenkind found him the most handsome of men.
"Though she gave me gown and shoes, fan and feathers, carriage, horses and footmen, I could not stay for long, for the magic would only last until midnight. So as the clock struck twelve, I slipped away, and in my haste I broke one of my dancing shoes. But it was no matter, for my heart was broken – I thought I would never see my true love again."
The prince looked at her in adoration. "O ill-used beauty," he sighed, "You are a true noble in the guise of a servant."
And the duchess and her daughters were speechless with rage.
"You shall have your love," the prince promised. "Please sit." And he slipped the broken crystal shoe onto her foot – and she smiled at him and handed him the other. He tenderly brushed back her hair and smiled at her – then gave the duchess and daughters a terrible frown.
"You have truly done wrong," he said, his voice seething with anger. "See how this lady outstrips you in nobility, even though you have dressed her as a servant, while you look like clowns in your finery!" And he ordered his knights to take hold of them and bind their hands.
He bowed to Eleanor. "Good lady, I entreat you to marry me, for without you my heart would break and shatter like crystal."
Eleanor curtseyed, "My prince, I will."
And he was overjoyed, and carried her in his arms to his horse and lifted her up so that she might ride, and her three fallen enemies were made to follow behind in the dirt.
So Eleanor and the prince were married, and the three women who had tormented her were reviled by all and driven from every town they entered. Everyone heard the story of the duke's daughter who was scorned by her stepsisters but saved by a good fairy, and it was told for many years.
Eleanor put away her needle and thread, and told no more tales, and lived in luxury with the prince by her side. And she heard the tale of the fairy-blessed girl so many times she sometimes forgot it was not true, and fancied herself a noble-born princess who had never sewn nor been a storyteller. But sometimes when the tale was told, and she was asked to bring out the beautiful fairy-sewn gown, she would shake her head and retreat to her chamber, to remember when her father had taught her to sew, and the days when she had been truly happy.
The End