I'm just so sick and tired of getting all this flack from the world. Even now in your modern times people just sit and pass judgement on me, calling me "mean" and "wicked", but has anyone ever asked ME what happened? No way. Why, you ask, haven't I stepped forward until now? The truth is that I'm not bitter about Cynthia's gain. I can't say that I think she deserves it, but why wouldn't I want the girl to find her happily ever after?
What you need to understand is that back then things weren't the same for women as they are now. For one, I didn't have the greatest relationship with my mom. I am what the world refers to as "a woman of breeding", which really means that instead of being able to go out and play in the fields picking wildflowers, I had a strict curriculum of "womanly arts". I was forced to learn to sing, do embroidery, and learn different languages for no other reason than to be a more attractive asset once I was sold off to some man in order to heighten my family's lineage. While other girls without my responsibilities got to wear loose fitting, albeit rough textured, dresses, I had to wear corsets and drown myself in itchy, stiff, hot gowns. It's not like I had some extravagant childhood either. My father was a landowner, which did give us lots of benefits, like a hot meal every night, and silverware, and I'm not complaining about never having had to do laundry or wash dishes, but it was all glamour and glitz either. I was brought up with the full knowledge that I would never ever make decisions for myself. I would go from my father's house to some husband's house, and love wasn't even something I could consider. I wasn't even allowed to read romance books about people falling for one another, because my mother refused to allow her children to entertain such nonsense.
In fact, my mother and I had quite a terrible relationship according to modern values. Women back then weren't really required to spend much time with their kids. I didn't even start eating at the table until I turned 13, and even then it was only so she could monitor my manners. The most affectionate thing she ever said to me was, "Margaret, we bring the spoon to our mouths not our mouth to the spoon." When I was 17 I was married off to a Baron named Walter. He was barely older than I was, so I counted myself lucky that I didn't have to marry an old man. All the same, Walter was just a kid himself, and after the first couple of nights we were married, he took to spending the night in another room because he liked to get up bright and early to play with his beloved horses. All that education was to make me a proper hostess when we had company. I was like a trained monkey who sang and played piano on command and was dismissed to my quarters when they had tired of me. Still, I did my duty, silently and obediently. It wasn't my fault that I only had daughters, but back then they didn't know that it wasn't the woman who determined the sex of the baby. So I was deemed a failure. Maybe I could have been a better wife to Walter, and been more inviting to the bedroom, but they didn't have things like epidurals in my day. Having kids was a dance with death, and the havoc it wreaked on my lady parts was barbaric. Could you really blame me?
Walter and I were married for five years before he died. I was just 22, and had two daughters 3, and 4. For the first time in my life I was free, and I loved it. See, while women didn't really have rights back then, widows were a different story. We could own land, and spend our own money, and as Walter was the only person to inherit his fortune, and his parents were gone, it all went to me. It was the most awesome time in my life. I had the best tutors for the girls, I got to do whatever I wanted. I started reading books about love and learned how to manage my own land. My tenants were well treated and quite happy with the turn of events. I even began to travel. I went all over the place on holiday, until finally I came to Paris and met the most charming merchant, Marc.
Marc was wonderful. He'd been all over the world and had the most amazing stories. He too had been widowed, and even had a daughter of his own living at his chateau in the country. He wasn't a man of title, but had his own wealth, he claimed, so I was pretty sure he wasn't after my money. It wasn't hard to fall in love with him. He was so wonderful with the girls, and told me he wished his own daughter could be more like them. He said without a proper female figure in the household his little Cynthia had unfortunately become a bit rag-tag. In hindsight, I should have asked more questions. I should have been more shrewd, considering the fact that I'd only just gained my freedom not even a year before. I guess it was a mixture of being swept of my feet and needing a little bit of direction. I didn't really know what I was supposed to do with myself, and found myself idle most of the time. I thought having a husband might give my life a little more structure, and Marc was willing to love me and let me into his life as I was. He didn't expect for me to sing or dance, or speak Latin for him. He talked to me and dreamed with me, and I fell for it hook line and sinker.
We had a modest wedding attended by a priest, my girls, and one of Marc's partners. He sent word to his staff that he would be bringing a small household home with him, and within 2 weeks I arrived at his little chateau. It was so wonderfully charming! I adored it instantly. There was a decent parcel of land that was worked for produce, there was livestock, and the smell of fresh bread was heavenly after all the travel we'd been doing. I'm sure we looked quite absurdly overdressed in silks and taffeta on such a rural plot, but the truth is my girls and I didn't own anything else. We tried to be warm to everyone we met, and perhaps the girls were a bit more stand-offish, not really having a say in this sudden transplanted life, but all in all we weren't at all cold or mean or snobbish, the way the story says.
The moment I met little Cynthia I fell in love. My daughters were of sturdy stock, which was apparent even when they were young. Their features were harsh and while I love them tenderly, and believe them to be beautiful in their own rights, they could never have been fawned over for their looks. Cynthia, on the other hand, despite her modest clothes, the soot that stained her face, and the rats nest of hair that someone had attempted to tame for my arrival, was the most angelic little creature I'd ever laid eyes upon. She had the most elegant bone structure with a flawlessly delicate angles and eyes that sparkled like crystal. Had she not been covered in muck I would have taken her into my arms and covered her peachy skin with kisses. Instead she reached out ever so gracefully and said "how do you do, Baroness," before kicking me in the shin and running off.
Understandably, my expectations were dashed by this kind of welcome, but I allowed Marc to comfort me. I agreed that she just needed to get used to my presence. He and I would be home for several months before he had to travel again on business, and by then we'd be the happiest family France had ever seen.
Of course, you know already, that's not how it went at all. Marc suffered some sort of heart failure the next day, and took away the last bit of happiness I would ever have. I grieved for a full week. I couldn't bring myself to eat. All I could do was weep until I fell into a slumber and then I would wake up and weep some more. It wasn't until my eldest daughter came to my chamber wearing the same dress she wore the day Marc died, her hair in knots, and her fingernails encrusted with filth that I realized I needed to snap out of it. My girls needed a mother, and this house needed management, and I was not going to let them down.
So here is where the story starts to really villainize me. They say that I treated Cynthia cruelly. They say that I made her clean tirelessly whereas my daughters got everything they wanted. Well, let me tell you that is the biggest load I've ever heard, pardon my language. First of all, I got to work getting the girls cleaned up. I did things in age order so it wouldn't seem unfair. Brunhilda, my eldest, went first, then Cynthia, than Drusilda (please don't remind me about their names, I had nothing to do with it. They were named after Walter's mother and grandmother much to my own horror). I had them bathed, their fingernails cut, and their hair combed out and brushed 100 times. I even had Cynthia dressed in one of Hilda's best silks, just so she could feel special. Well, by the time I'd finished with Drusilda, I couldn't find Cynthia anywhere. We searched the house to find the girl reading a book by the fireplace, with her dress already stained and a long smear of soot across her forehead.
"Oh, my dear little Cindergirl," I exclaimed. My memory of that moment is filled with gladness that she could read already, than anger. In fact I was trying to hold back chuckles, as we mothers often do when we find ourselves having to parent a child that has done something wrong which amuses us. "What shall we do with you? Back to the bath you go." I pretended to scold, and took her upstairs to clean her once more in punishment.
That was only to be the beginning of a long life of struggle with the girl. I tried to get her to sit quietly with the tutors as I had done, but she would only cause trouble. I can't even count how many teachers she would run off with her terrible tricks. After she put a hot coal on her Latin tutors seat, did I begin to do what any other parent would have done. I tried to discipline the girl's mischief. Now, I don't believe in beatings the way my parents did, but I wasn't above giving the girl tasks around the house which I monitored like a tyrant. It is true, she had to scrub floors and empty chamber pots, but had she decided to behave herself she would have been educated like my own daughters were. My girls weren't angels either, and they could tell you about their own adventures in shoveling manure in the stable, but you don't hear about that in the stories now do you? No all you hear about is how poor, poor Cynthia was made to be a slave. No one cares that the girl was a willful rebellious brat. The only thing I could get her interested in was dancing and singing, and she was absolutely rewarded for excelling in those areas, although you must understand that when a child is so determined to be a terror those rewards don't seem as extravagant as the ones bestowed upon my daughters. She was uninterested in the gowns I had made for the girls, instead she chose to sit and read by the fire, which is how she got her nickname, Cinderella, and it wasn't one that was given to her in malice at all. It was an affectionate term I used for her during the sweet moments at bedtime when she let me stroke her golden hair.
Time didn't wear her down either. She only learned to become more devious. She would escape her lessons to spend time in the stables with the stable boy, who was only after what was under her skirts. As a teenager she began to weave the most incredible lies about where she'd been, telling me she'd been picking flowers when a bear came upon her and she ran into the woods and got lost, all while standing before me with straw in her hair. I can't say I was the most pleasant mother to her, but no parent in the world could blame me. I was tired and exhausted and exasperated, and I didn't have any self-help books to guide me. I only did what I could to reign the girl in, and that tended to be housework.
When the invitation to the royal ball arrived, I certainly did agree to allow the girls, even Cinderella, to go, so long as they took care of their responsibilities. I didn't even require Cynthia to attend her lessons, instead I told her that she needed to make sure she cleaned the floors in the hall. Now, there is this nonsense in the storybooks about a fairy godmother and the beautiful dress which is total poppycock. I had the dress made for her, to match the color of her eyes, and had shoes made to accommodate her very strangely sized feet, which were almost the size of a child's, a phenomenon that puzzled even the most educated doctors we could find. I hid the dress in my armoire to surprise her with on the day of the ball, but instead of completing her chores I discovered her in a very compromising dalliance with that wretched stable boy. What would it have looked like if I had allowed her to go? My own girls on the other hand had finished their lessons, and had ensured I would have no excuse to deny them. I considered staying behind to keep an eye on Cinderella, but, in all honesty, I hadn't experienced this level of extravagance since the days that I was married to Walter. A woman deserves a night out. Sure I could have sent another chaperone with the girls, but that would have meant a sacrifice for myself, when I'd spent years alone managing my home, and my girls without a night off for myself. I hadn't even taken tea with someone since Marc died. I deserved a night!
There was truth in the idea that the Prince was looking for a wife, but in those days a peasant couldn't very well marry a prince. However, since I'd been married to a Baron once, my girls, and Cynthia, were allowed to attend. Which was very exciting. The ball was lavish, even for me. I'd never seen such a variety of delicacies in one place. I was awestruck by the evening. Of course, I'd had a mother's hope that one of my girls would strike the Prince's fancy, but I was aware of the realities of their physical natures. My business there was of enjoyment of the evening's festivities, and perhaps to negotiate a union with some other nobility for the girls, if I got lucky enough.
When Cynthia arrived at the ball, I must have looked terribly upset. It wasn't just that she'd been punished and disobeyed me, she'd also broken into my locked armoire for the dress and shoes, and convinced the stable boy to steal a carriage from our closest neighbor to take her there. Of course, she'd later tell people that some magic had turned a pumpkin into a carriage, but no one really believed her. She did, however, look like an angel. I'd never seen her so clean and put together. I was impressed at her charm with the Prince, and was much too proud to make a scene at the ball. It was all I could do to get the girls not to run over to her and ruin her moment. They were, naturally, jealous of how beautiful she looked with little more than a dress to augment her appearance, whereas they had tied ribbons into their hair and worn their favorite picks from my jewels.
At some point, and I can't say for certain it was actually midnight, because these balls lasted long into the night and often into the morning, Cinderella did, without explanation, run off in a fright leaving one of her adorable little shoes behind on the steps. The shoe was not made of glass, but instead had a tiny jewel in the front toe, meant as a gift to her for doing well with her chores. The Prince did clutch this shoe as if had been a tiny darling of his. However, there was no weeks long search for his beloved. Instead, at the end of the evening I informed one of his groomsmen that the owner of that shoe lived in my house, and could be visited upon the following day.
I said nothing to Cinderella when we arrived home. Frankly, I was tired and a little drunk from all the fine wine I'd had. The only cruel thing I did was not to tell the girl that the Prince, or some representative of his, would be visiting the next day. I set the staff to prepare the house for guests, and I went to rest for a few hours.
When the Prince and his entourage arrived at our modest little home, I was beside myself with excitement. Our little Cynthia would become his bride. It was more than I could have imagined for her, and for us. In my mind it was a slight prank on the girl, who would soon enter a palace. I thought she would perceive it as a tsk-tsking for breaking the rules, stealing a carriage, and breaking into my room, which I was no longer even upset about since she'd successfully wooed the PRINCE OF FRANCE. I'm not even sure you could understand the awe I was in that day. I mean, things like this don't just happen to people. What luck that willful little girl had!
In the end however, Cynthia was so afraid that she was being hauled off somewhere that she locked herself in the upstairs storage room. I was mortified, of course, because the Prince was beginning to get annoyed that the girl wouldn't come down, and saw it as a trick to get him to visit my own daughters privately. He was just about to leave when Cynthia's curiosity got the better of her, and upon seeing the Prince she bounded down the stairs.
It wasn't the fairy tale moment you heard about either. The girl was dressed in servant's clothes. He was so magnanimous that these things didn't matter. In fact I was the one who had to bring down the dress she'd worn. I had to show him the partner to the shoe he held so dear. I did try the one he had on my daughters to illustrate the strange anomaly of Cynthia's foot size, before putting it on the girl herself, and I had to show him the papers which proved that I'd been married to a Baron, before he was even willing to speak to her. Only then did he laugh and take her in his arms and lead her away to her happily ever after.
I don't know why people are so willing to believe that a stepmother is any less loving and proud of her stepdaughter. Sure, I didn't have that bodily connection with her, but had been made from my beloved, Marc, and I had a duty to her. I won't lie and say that I wouldn't have preferred one of my daughters marry a Prince, but I certainly would never have held Cynthia back without reasons. The truth is that I worked harder and more tirelessly with her than either of my own girls. I bribed, and begged, and yelled, and screamed, and pleaded, and cried more over that girl than both of mine combine. But because I wasn't her "real" mother, because she didn't come from me, SHE never loved ME. I guess that is the lot in life we take on when we marry a man with children. We have to be the grown ups and let horror stories be told about the mothers we were. We suffer in silence, finding respite only in the truths we know. I'm not trying to say we're perfect, just that, these stepkids aren't either.
Love it!
ReplyDeletehaha definitely interesting!
ReplyDeletetl;dr
ReplyDelete