Hey-thanks for all the reviews I received since starting this story. And I
apologize fpr the delay updating it.
----- Stepping into the hall, after carefully wiping my feet on the mat outside the door, I headed towards the parlor where the Scheffields celebration would occur. It was dusk now, so I made it just in time for festivities. I hoped Madam Sheffield would not reprimand me for being later then expected though. Doubting I was invited to the celebration, I just knocked on the door waiting for it to be opened for me. While waiting, I wandered to the hall mirror nearby and stared at my reflection.
I never really paid any heed to my appearance. There wasn't time for vanities or pleasantries of beauty. So, my supposedly wavy hair hung in frizzy masses since I only had time to comb it once in the morning and had nothing to pull it back with. My clothes were washed out hand-me-downs and my face had a line of soot across one cheek.
'How could he think of me as a lady?' I thought to myself, following the smudge one my face with a finger.
Continuing to stare at my reflection, I did see traces of my mother in my face-her raven locks and dark eyes, but nothing I would deem 'beautiful' as my mother was once.
'He must have been mistaken or easy to flatter,' I concluded, but stared on at my mirror image.
"There is not much to see," I heard to my side, in a frank, humorless voice. Madam Scheffield was standing in the archway, and I, angry with myself thought how stupid it was for me to be lost in my thoughts when I was expected elsewhere.
Hurriedly, I rushed to her, and curtseyed before presenting her with my basket of flowers. Lifting it from the ground, me meticulously looked through them, muttering about quality and color. "This is the best he could do?" she asked looking up from the basket.
"Yes, madam," I quietly replied. I wanted to mention how inconvenienced the florist was at such a late hour, but was at least smart enough to know to hold my tongue.
"Considering how late you are, I expected better flowers."
There was nothing I could say to her statement, so I remained silent as her gaze returned to the basket and she sighed once more at its contents.
"Well, I guess it will have to do."
With that, she sashayed into the parlor, basket in hand, and shut the door in my face. 'I guess I am not invited again,' I thought. At least she wasn't angry with me and I do have the rest of the day off. I almost returned to the gaze of the mirror, but then Madam Scheffield's comment rang clear in my mind. She was right-there was nothing to see.
I wanted to tell Cook of my adventures in town, but I knew she would be busy all night making deserts and sweet meats for the festivities. We wouldn't get much sugar once the fall came in and harvesting slowed down. So, sugary treats were a must at the celebration party. Me? If I was lucky maybe there would be a raspberry scone left.
I always got sad during holidays. I had no family to celebrate them with, the shops in town were closed and my friends were busy or with their families. Its no fun at joyous times to celebrate alone.
Then I got an idea. Now would be the perfect time to attempt to break into my mother's trunk. The thought suddenly excited me, pulling me out of my depressed stupor and headed for the stairs to the attic. I grabbed a candlestick from the hallway, and slowly, not trying to make an audible sound, walked up the stairs.
Already creepy during the day, it was completely frightening this late at night. Only things just a few inches in front of my face were visible, and I was paranoid I would trip on something, disturbing the whole household. Slowly I made my way though the dusty room to the far end of the attic. Exactly as I left it last, lay my mother's trunk.
Immediately, I pulled off the fabric covering and stared at the writing once more. 'Cendrillion' was a beautiful name, I thought to myself as I knelt down beside the red, antiqued-leather case. Suddenly I found myself imaging my mother in her youth-beautiful enough to catch the eye of a wealthy baron, but fickle to fall for a poor tradesman. 'What were you thinking, mama.' I thought with mild bitterness, 'you could have had all the riches in the world and you chose poverty. Look what good it did you.' Signing, I found myself hugging the trunk, the last physical reminder I had of her. I was on the verge of tears before I managed to catch myself. My thoughts then turned to the lock on the trunk. How on earth was I going to get this opened?
I tugged on the leather holding the lock in place, but it wouldn't budge no matter how hard I tried. I couldn't pick it with a wire coat hanger I found in a nearby box. Nothing could penetrate the lock. Through frustrated tears, I silently damned the stupid trunk, for keeping me away from memories of my mother. Just how cruel is fate? I thought.
Finally, I decided I would just have to snap the lock with a axe or other sharp object, destroying the sentimentally priceless container. I just wanted to touch my mother's possessions so badly, and resolved to find such a device to do it. Not caring at that moment for the noise I could make, I wandered in search of something I could break a lock with. Walking around stacks of crates full of cloths and out-of-date furniture and upholstery fabric, I eventually found a small metal container holding gardening tools. Though rusty, they were still usable, and I chose a pair of pruning shears. Not very big, but sharp, I returned to the trunk and attempted to snap the lock. While that didn't work too well, I managed to cut the protective layer of leather around it and shoved one of the blades down into it. Jiggling it back and forth I crushed the lock mechanisms. Finally I heard the distinctive click I was looking for, and lifted up the now destroyed lock. Not able to also lift the lid, my heart beat quickened as I placed my fingers on the pointed edges, getting a good grasp, and pushed up the heavy lid, not knowing what I would find.
----- Stepping into the hall, after carefully wiping my feet on the mat outside the door, I headed towards the parlor where the Scheffields celebration would occur. It was dusk now, so I made it just in time for festivities. I hoped Madam Sheffield would not reprimand me for being later then expected though. Doubting I was invited to the celebration, I just knocked on the door waiting for it to be opened for me. While waiting, I wandered to the hall mirror nearby and stared at my reflection.
I never really paid any heed to my appearance. There wasn't time for vanities or pleasantries of beauty. So, my supposedly wavy hair hung in frizzy masses since I only had time to comb it once in the morning and had nothing to pull it back with. My clothes were washed out hand-me-downs and my face had a line of soot across one cheek.
'How could he think of me as a lady?' I thought to myself, following the smudge one my face with a finger.
Continuing to stare at my reflection, I did see traces of my mother in my face-her raven locks and dark eyes, but nothing I would deem 'beautiful' as my mother was once.
'He must have been mistaken or easy to flatter,' I concluded, but stared on at my mirror image.
"There is not much to see," I heard to my side, in a frank, humorless voice. Madam Scheffield was standing in the archway, and I, angry with myself thought how stupid it was for me to be lost in my thoughts when I was expected elsewhere.
Hurriedly, I rushed to her, and curtseyed before presenting her with my basket of flowers. Lifting it from the ground, me meticulously looked through them, muttering about quality and color. "This is the best he could do?" she asked looking up from the basket.
"Yes, madam," I quietly replied. I wanted to mention how inconvenienced the florist was at such a late hour, but was at least smart enough to know to hold my tongue.
"Considering how late you are, I expected better flowers."
There was nothing I could say to her statement, so I remained silent as her gaze returned to the basket and she sighed once more at its contents.
"Well, I guess it will have to do."
With that, she sashayed into the parlor, basket in hand, and shut the door in my face. 'I guess I am not invited again,' I thought. At least she wasn't angry with me and I do have the rest of the day off. I almost returned to the gaze of the mirror, but then Madam Scheffield's comment rang clear in my mind. She was right-there was nothing to see.
I wanted to tell Cook of my adventures in town, but I knew she would be busy all night making deserts and sweet meats for the festivities. We wouldn't get much sugar once the fall came in and harvesting slowed down. So, sugary treats were a must at the celebration party. Me? If I was lucky maybe there would be a raspberry scone left.
I always got sad during holidays. I had no family to celebrate them with, the shops in town were closed and my friends were busy or with their families. Its no fun at joyous times to celebrate alone.
Then I got an idea. Now would be the perfect time to attempt to break into my mother's trunk. The thought suddenly excited me, pulling me out of my depressed stupor and headed for the stairs to the attic. I grabbed a candlestick from the hallway, and slowly, not trying to make an audible sound, walked up the stairs.
Already creepy during the day, it was completely frightening this late at night. Only things just a few inches in front of my face were visible, and I was paranoid I would trip on something, disturbing the whole household. Slowly I made my way though the dusty room to the far end of the attic. Exactly as I left it last, lay my mother's trunk.
Immediately, I pulled off the fabric covering and stared at the writing once more. 'Cendrillion' was a beautiful name, I thought to myself as I knelt down beside the red, antiqued-leather case. Suddenly I found myself imaging my mother in her youth-beautiful enough to catch the eye of a wealthy baron, but fickle to fall for a poor tradesman. 'What were you thinking, mama.' I thought with mild bitterness, 'you could have had all the riches in the world and you chose poverty. Look what good it did you.' Signing, I found myself hugging the trunk, the last physical reminder I had of her. I was on the verge of tears before I managed to catch myself. My thoughts then turned to the lock on the trunk. How on earth was I going to get this opened?
I tugged on the leather holding the lock in place, but it wouldn't budge no matter how hard I tried. I couldn't pick it with a wire coat hanger I found in a nearby box. Nothing could penetrate the lock. Through frustrated tears, I silently damned the stupid trunk, for keeping me away from memories of my mother. Just how cruel is fate? I thought.
Finally, I decided I would just have to snap the lock with a axe or other sharp object, destroying the sentimentally priceless container. I just wanted to touch my mother's possessions so badly, and resolved to find such a device to do it. Not caring at that moment for the noise I could make, I wandered in search of something I could break a lock with. Walking around stacks of crates full of cloths and out-of-date furniture and upholstery fabric, I eventually found a small metal container holding gardening tools. Though rusty, they were still usable, and I chose a pair of pruning shears. Not very big, but sharp, I returned to the trunk and attempted to snap the lock. While that didn't work too well, I managed to cut the protective layer of leather around it and shoved one of the blades down into it. Jiggling it back and forth I crushed the lock mechanisms. Finally I heard the distinctive click I was looking for, and lifted up the now destroyed lock. Not able to also lift the lid, my heart beat quickened as I placed my fingers on the pointed edges, getting a good grasp, and pushed up the heavy lid, not knowing what I would find.