I wandered in a quarter passed midnight and nobody missed me.
I fell asleep under the tree and woke up during the peak of the twilight hour. I had only the stars to illuminate the path home and the fact that I was still far too upset to think was the only reason I was not so scared.
I ran into Cook sneaking in, hoping to snatch a leftover piece of bread and maybe some butter before I went into my little room. She could not believe I spent the day sleeping under a tree near the forest.
"There are thieves and criminals hiding in those woods. Norie, you are lucky to be in one piece. A little common sense would have told you to stay away," she lectured me, "How could you do something that careless? Do you realize how easily you could have been raped or murdered?!"
I cared little for her speech, as enlightening as it may have been, and simply gave my good nights and left. She stared after me as I left the kitchen, slid outside and then into my room, having forgotten the task of finding some food. Wishing that fatigue would override my overactive emotions, I laid, still dressed in my day clothes, on my rickety bed and watched shadows dance on my ceiling. No longer as angry as before, I could feel sadness creeping in. I never was one to flare up with anger at my friends-the emotion was usually saved for when I thought of my father. My friends, being so rare, were precious to me. Why did I so easily throw one away today?
I rolled over on my side and sighed deeply. I knew then I would not sleep tonight, and instead racked my mind with questions from the afternoon. Over and over I played the scene in the miller's shop in my head. How could such a little thing cause so much anger between us? I wish she understood me, I thought, and then she would see why I can't idolize my father. Can't she see what he did was wrong?
Shaking the thought from my head, I rolled onto my stomach, trying to erase all thoughts. But they lingered and I knew a long night was ahead of me.
------
I was up well before dawn, already washed and dressed. Soft morning breezes blew through my window, relaxing my tense muscles a little bit. My head ached from the lack of sleep and my thoughts still raced in my mind. With nothing else to do for the time being, I sat on my bed and let the thoughts run rampant. That is until all the emotional outpouring frustrated me, and I rose from my bed and fled to the chilly out-of-door.
It was so tranquil with no one about the fields or the orchards and cleared my thoughts by wondering along the apple trees. Their fruit already harvested, they looked sad and bare, but still had a lingering sweet smell. When I was little, my mother told me that the smells of spring and summer were kisses from the sun. That was why apples and berries were always so sweet, she explained. I couldn't help smiling at such a happy memory of my mother.
How could such a happy person, I thought, live with such sadness and ridicule? I know my mother gave up so much after my father died. How did it not break her heart and her spirit? I could not imagine what gave her enough strength to carry on.
The dawn eased in slowly, so subtlety that I didn't notice it. Or maybe it was because I was so absorbed in my thoughts. Regardless, I had to run across the field and into the kitchen, and breathless was still late by Cook's standards.
"Norie," she said disapprovingly, "Did you sleep late again? Though I am not surprised since you were up so late." Her hands were on her hips and she had a stern expression, though I could see she was fighting a smile. I slowly regained my breath before I replied.
"Actually, I was in the field day-dreaming-I've been up for a couple hours at least."
Her expression softened quickly, and turned worried. "Is something wrong, dear?"
I grabbed a slice of bread from the newly baked loaf and smeared a small amount of raspberry jam on it, my hunger now apparent that my head was clear-for the time being. Between mouthfuls I managed to reply, "It's nothing to worry about. Besides, there is too much to do then to worry about childish woes." After a glass of juice, I pulled 2 china plates out of the cupboard.
"Will the Scheffields be eating at the table or in their chambers?" I asked.
"I doubt they are even up or that they will be for a while," she replied her disapproval apparent, "they were up late consuming impressive amounts of wine with their companions last night. It was at least 11 by the time their guests left. Anyways, I am sure they will be in no mood for an early rising."
Still holding the delicate plates, I stood puzzled. "So, do I prepare their breakfast or not?"
"Oh by all means do, but just don't prepare it to get eaten. Wake the mistress up and see what she desires." Cook then began to slice a bucket of apples, intended for a pie. I didn't want to see Madam Scheffield in any mood, especially one after such an event, but as it was apparent negotiations were closed, I was stuck with the job.
Sighing, I placed the plates aside and left the kitchen.
I trudged up the steps and enroute to her room, I straightened out my rumpled dress the best I could. I knew Madam Scheffield would not approve of wrinkles-even in the likes of me. I stood in front of her door and paused a moment before I finally rapped on the door. Might as well get this over with, I thought.
There was no response, and I knocked again. I stood outside the door waiting for a response.
"Who on earth is it?" a rather cranky voice came from behind the door.
"It's Nora, madam," I replied, "I was sent to find out your plans for breakfast."
"There will be no breakfast, girl, I am in no mood for an early rise today!" she angrily spoke through the door. "Tell Cook just to plan something extra nice for lunch." There was a pause, and just as I turned to leave, she added, "While you are here though, I do have some plans for you. There are mice in the attic. See to it that they aren't by the time I get up." That was my sign to go-though I had no desire to clean out an attic in search of nasty little critters. I replied, "Yes madam," though I didn't think she hear me and left.
"What we really need is a cat," I told Cook when I returned to the kitchen.
"Don't be silly," she responded, "The mistress is very superstitious. She would never want a cat in her house. Just go find a broom."
"And how is that going to help? Am I supposed to sweep them up?" I was trying to be funny, but it came out sounding whiny. Thankfully, Cook either didn't notice or care.
"You're a creative girl, I am sure you'll figure something out."
I sighed loudly, almost melodramatically, and grabbed a broom from the closet. I opened the door to the attic stairs and slowly stepped up them. I was hit with a musty smell that made it apparent that no one has been up there in a while. I am sure I was the last one up there, and that was over a year ago. Everyone hated the rickety floors and spooky atmosphere of having very little light. The floor also was covered in dust. I could imagine Camille cringing at just the thought of walking through it. One thing I did not see was evidence of furry intruders.
There were no little feet tracks in the dust-covered floor or holes in the base of any of the crates near the entrance. I pushed aside wooden boxes and trunks of Madam's daughter's out-grown clothes and walked further into the room. I coughed, having inhaled too much dust at one time, but kept searching for the little mice. I still hadn't found any by the time I was at the other end of the room. It was darker on this side and the accumulation of dust on things showed that it was a really long time since anyone was in this part of the attic. I knew this job was pointless, and I might as well tidy it up a bit and go back down stairs. I am sure I would be more useful then hunting down invisible pests.
I started sweeping and in even a few minutes, I had an impressive pile, and it kept growing rapidly. I pushed aside odds and ends to get the dust underneath, at the same time wiping off the dust that coated the tops of the tables and chairs and other knick-knacks. I pulled a trunk out of the corner of the room and swept the grime behind it, then took the thread-bare handkerchief I had been using before to clean belongings off, and wiped away the dust cover.
Scrawled across the antique looking leather of the trunk's lid in flowing calligraphy was the name "Cendrillion." It belonged to my mother.
I fell asleep under the tree and woke up during the peak of the twilight hour. I had only the stars to illuminate the path home and the fact that I was still far too upset to think was the only reason I was not so scared.
I ran into Cook sneaking in, hoping to snatch a leftover piece of bread and maybe some butter before I went into my little room. She could not believe I spent the day sleeping under a tree near the forest.
"There are thieves and criminals hiding in those woods. Norie, you are lucky to be in one piece. A little common sense would have told you to stay away," she lectured me, "How could you do something that careless? Do you realize how easily you could have been raped or murdered?!"
I cared little for her speech, as enlightening as it may have been, and simply gave my good nights and left. She stared after me as I left the kitchen, slid outside and then into my room, having forgotten the task of finding some food. Wishing that fatigue would override my overactive emotions, I laid, still dressed in my day clothes, on my rickety bed and watched shadows dance on my ceiling. No longer as angry as before, I could feel sadness creeping in. I never was one to flare up with anger at my friends-the emotion was usually saved for when I thought of my father. My friends, being so rare, were precious to me. Why did I so easily throw one away today?
I rolled over on my side and sighed deeply. I knew then I would not sleep tonight, and instead racked my mind with questions from the afternoon. Over and over I played the scene in the miller's shop in my head. How could such a little thing cause so much anger between us? I wish she understood me, I thought, and then she would see why I can't idolize my father. Can't she see what he did was wrong?
Shaking the thought from my head, I rolled onto my stomach, trying to erase all thoughts. But they lingered and I knew a long night was ahead of me.
------
I was up well before dawn, already washed and dressed. Soft morning breezes blew through my window, relaxing my tense muscles a little bit. My head ached from the lack of sleep and my thoughts still raced in my mind. With nothing else to do for the time being, I sat on my bed and let the thoughts run rampant. That is until all the emotional outpouring frustrated me, and I rose from my bed and fled to the chilly out-of-door.
It was so tranquil with no one about the fields or the orchards and cleared my thoughts by wondering along the apple trees. Their fruit already harvested, they looked sad and bare, but still had a lingering sweet smell. When I was little, my mother told me that the smells of spring and summer were kisses from the sun. That was why apples and berries were always so sweet, she explained. I couldn't help smiling at such a happy memory of my mother.
How could such a happy person, I thought, live with such sadness and ridicule? I know my mother gave up so much after my father died. How did it not break her heart and her spirit? I could not imagine what gave her enough strength to carry on.
The dawn eased in slowly, so subtlety that I didn't notice it. Or maybe it was because I was so absorbed in my thoughts. Regardless, I had to run across the field and into the kitchen, and breathless was still late by Cook's standards.
"Norie," she said disapprovingly, "Did you sleep late again? Though I am not surprised since you were up so late." Her hands were on her hips and she had a stern expression, though I could see she was fighting a smile. I slowly regained my breath before I replied.
"Actually, I was in the field day-dreaming-I've been up for a couple hours at least."
Her expression softened quickly, and turned worried. "Is something wrong, dear?"
I grabbed a slice of bread from the newly baked loaf and smeared a small amount of raspberry jam on it, my hunger now apparent that my head was clear-for the time being. Between mouthfuls I managed to reply, "It's nothing to worry about. Besides, there is too much to do then to worry about childish woes." After a glass of juice, I pulled 2 china plates out of the cupboard.
"Will the Scheffields be eating at the table or in their chambers?" I asked.
"I doubt they are even up or that they will be for a while," she replied her disapproval apparent, "they were up late consuming impressive amounts of wine with their companions last night. It was at least 11 by the time their guests left. Anyways, I am sure they will be in no mood for an early rising."
Still holding the delicate plates, I stood puzzled. "So, do I prepare their breakfast or not?"
"Oh by all means do, but just don't prepare it to get eaten. Wake the mistress up and see what she desires." Cook then began to slice a bucket of apples, intended for a pie. I didn't want to see Madam Scheffield in any mood, especially one after such an event, but as it was apparent negotiations were closed, I was stuck with the job.
Sighing, I placed the plates aside and left the kitchen.
I trudged up the steps and enroute to her room, I straightened out my rumpled dress the best I could. I knew Madam Scheffield would not approve of wrinkles-even in the likes of me. I stood in front of her door and paused a moment before I finally rapped on the door. Might as well get this over with, I thought.
There was no response, and I knocked again. I stood outside the door waiting for a response.
"Who on earth is it?" a rather cranky voice came from behind the door.
"It's Nora, madam," I replied, "I was sent to find out your plans for breakfast."
"There will be no breakfast, girl, I am in no mood for an early rise today!" she angrily spoke through the door. "Tell Cook just to plan something extra nice for lunch." There was a pause, and just as I turned to leave, she added, "While you are here though, I do have some plans for you. There are mice in the attic. See to it that they aren't by the time I get up." That was my sign to go-though I had no desire to clean out an attic in search of nasty little critters. I replied, "Yes madam," though I didn't think she hear me and left.
"What we really need is a cat," I told Cook when I returned to the kitchen.
"Don't be silly," she responded, "The mistress is very superstitious. She would never want a cat in her house. Just go find a broom."
"And how is that going to help? Am I supposed to sweep them up?" I was trying to be funny, but it came out sounding whiny. Thankfully, Cook either didn't notice or care.
"You're a creative girl, I am sure you'll figure something out."
I sighed loudly, almost melodramatically, and grabbed a broom from the closet. I opened the door to the attic stairs and slowly stepped up them. I was hit with a musty smell that made it apparent that no one has been up there in a while. I am sure I was the last one up there, and that was over a year ago. Everyone hated the rickety floors and spooky atmosphere of having very little light. The floor also was covered in dust. I could imagine Camille cringing at just the thought of walking through it. One thing I did not see was evidence of furry intruders.
There were no little feet tracks in the dust-covered floor or holes in the base of any of the crates near the entrance. I pushed aside wooden boxes and trunks of Madam's daughter's out-grown clothes and walked further into the room. I coughed, having inhaled too much dust at one time, but kept searching for the little mice. I still hadn't found any by the time I was at the other end of the room. It was darker on this side and the accumulation of dust on things showed that it was a really long time since anyone was in this part of the attic. I knew this job was pointless, and I might as well tidy it up a bit and go back down stairs. I am sure I would be more useful then hunting down invisible pests.
I started sweeping and in even a few minutes, I had an impressive pile, and it kept growing rapidly. I pushed aside odds and ends to get the dust underneath, at the same time wiping off the dust that coated the tops of the tables and chairs and other knick-knacks. I pulled a trunk out of the corner of the room and swept the grime behind it, then took the thread-bare handkerchief I had been using before to clean belongings off, and wiped away the dust cover.
Scrawled across the antique looking leather of the trunk's lid in flowing calligraphy was the name "Cendrillion." It belonged to my mother.