of
Cinderella's sisters filled the young child with excitement of
others her age to play with. However, it was soon made very clear
to Cinderella that her dream would remain unfulfilled. Her orders
stipulated that she was not to see her sisters. She was to address
them by Miss Anabeth and Miss Rebecca and under no circumstance
would her naming them as sisters ever be condoned. As they grew up
it became increasingly obvious to Cinderella that she did not have
an ordinary childhood. She ate her meals with the servants whilst
the rest of her family ate together in the grand dinning room.
While her sisters took lessons in Latin, singing, dancing and
etiquette, Cinderella was taught English and how to keep a house by
the servants that took pity on her.
The Earl passed away on a Monday
night to Cinderella's utmost despair. She cried for weeks over his
death and the lost opportunity that she hadn't tried harder to see
him more often, accepting that she should wait for him to seek her
out. Her sisters also cried. Everyone cried bar her stepmother who
masked her tragedy with a stoic silence.
When her sisters practiced the
pianoforte and etiquette in the hopes of catching a husband,
Cinderella spent her time cleaning, singing and dreaming. For she
found that dreaming was the surest route out of the darkness.
Often, when her sisters took their lessons in the parlour she would
sit in the sitting room directly above them. On a day when the
acoustics were particularly loud Cinderella could almost pretend
that she sat next to them, asking questions and learning, seen as
an equal.
By the age of one and twenty
Cinderella had been demoted to the work of a servant. Her
stepmother treated her horribly, delegating degrading chores to
complete that even the lowest of servants were exempt from. Forcing
her to sit before the fire, her head within such proximity that it
scalded her cheeks and turned them a fiery red. Tasked to make
certain that not one cinder licked the carpet, a job easily
accomplish through the purchase of a fireplace gate. However, when
Cinderella asked why her stepmother would not procure one, she
simply laughed and said,
"Good heavens child, why should
we buy one when we have you?" To which any sane person with some
degree of resentment in their heart would surely respond with anger
and vehemence. Cinderella simply smiled politely and bowed her
head. She paid specific attention to her stepmothers exact words so
that she could remember to copy it down in her diary the next
morning when the rest of the house were still asleep. It was only
there comforted in her solace, she found contentment. She'd found
that even solace, the one enemy of her childhood, was still
preferable to the grim shame and humiliation she was forced to
endure every day. Her diary did not insult her, nor did it demand
its breakfast or tug her hair. It listened, recorded and
remembered. Often she wrote letters, never addressed with the
intention of distribution. She wrote correspondence to her birth
mother, wishing she could have met her. Letters to her father,
wishing she could have known him. Most frequently, she wrote
letters to Nurse Fairgem, wishing that she had not been sent away.
Cinderella relived that horrid day every time she wrote to her
Nurse. The day filled with sunshine, where laughter was in
abundance. Cinderella had been taken with the notion of delivering
flowers from the garden to a nice elderly lady in the village who
had recently taken ill. As they promenaded through the garden,
Cinderella picking flowers and depositing them into the basket her
Nurse held, they entertained each other with small, clever riddles.
Amongst the giggles they both heard the distinct sound of a thick
twig being snapped beneath a boot. They turned around to find
Cinderella's stepmother.
"Nurse Fairgem, is this why I
pay your salary?"
"No your ladyship, we were
merely taking a constitutional. It is a lovely day for it."
"I should think not." Her gaze
traveled to
Cinderella's sisters filled the young child with excitement of
others her age to play with. However, it was soon made very clear
to Cinderella that her dream would remain unfulfilled. Her orders
stipulated that she was not to see her sisters. She was to address
them by Miss Anabeth and Miss Rebecca and under no circumstance
would her naming them as sisters ever be condoned. As they grew up
it became increasingly obvious to Cinderella that she did not have
an ordinary childhood. She ate her meals with the servants whilst
the rest of her family ate together in the grand dinning room.
While her sisters took lessons in Latin, singing, dancing and
etiquette, Cinderella was taught English and how to keep a house by
the servants that took pity on her.
The Earl passed away on a Monday
night to Cinderella's utmost despair. She cried for weeks over his
death and the lost opportunity that she hadn't tried harder to see
him more often, accepting that she should wait for him to seek her
out. Her sisters also cried. Everyone cried bar her stepmother who
masked her tragedy with a stoic silence.
When her sisters practiced the
pianoforte and etiquette in the hopes of catching a husband,
Cinderella spent her time cleaning, singing and dreaming. For she
found that dreaming was the surest route out of the darkness.
Often, when her sisters took their lessons in the parlour she would
sit in the sitting room directly above them. On a day when the
acoustics were particularly loud Cinderella could almost pretend
that she sat next to them, asking questions and learning, seen as
an equal.
By the age of one and twenty
Cinderella had been demoted to the work of a servant. Her
stepmother treated her horribly, delegating degrading chores to
complete that even the lowest of servants were exempt from. Forcing
her to sit before the fire, her head within such proximity that it
scalded her cheeks and turned them a fiery red. Tasked to make
certain that not one cinder licked the carpet, a job easily
accomplish through the purchase of a fireplace gate. However, when
Cinderella asked why her stepmother would not procure one, she
simply laughed and said,
"Good heavens child, why should
we buy one when we have you?" To which any sane person with some
degree of resentment in their heart would surely respond with anger
and vehemence. Cinderella simply smiled politely and bowed her
head. She paid specific attention to her stepmothers exact words so
that she could remember to copy it down in her diary the next
morning when the rest of the house were still asleep. It was only
there comforted in her solace, she found contentment. She'd found
that even solace, the one enemy of her childhood, was still
preferable to the grim shame and humiliation she was forced to
endure every day. Her diary did not insult her, nor did it demand
its breakfast or tug her hair. It listened, recorded and
remembered. Often she wrote letters, never addressed with the
intention of distribution. She wrote correspondence to her birth
mother, wishing she could have met her. Letters to her father,
wishing she could have known him. Most frequently, she wrote
letters to Nurse Fairgem, wishing that she had not been sent away.
Cinderella relived that horrid day every time she wrote to her
Nurse. The day filled with sunshine, where laughter was in
abundance. Cinderella had been taken with the notion of delivering
flowers from the garden to a nice elderly lady in the village who
had recently taken ill. As they promenaded through the garden,
Cinderella picking flowers and depositing them into the basket her
Nurse held, they entertained each other with small, clever riddles.
Amongst the giggles they both heard the distinct sound of a thick
twig being snapped beneath a boot. They turned around to find
Cinderella's stepmother.
"Nurse Fairgem, is this why I
pay your salary?"
"No your ladyship, we were
merely taking a constitutional. It is a lovely day for it."
"I should think not." Her gaze
traveled to
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