We Kept Her in the Cellar, page 1
WE KEPT HER IN THE CELLAR
A NOVEL
W. R. GORMAN
To Tom, who looked into our future and saw this. I love you.
Part 1
CHAPTER
1
First Impressions
I FIRST MET CINDERELLA when I was eleven and she was twelve. Hortense was only five and was excited about having another older sister.
“Mother,” Hortense would say, eyes shining, “do you think my new sister will read to me like Eunice does?”
Mother would laugh and press a kiss to Hortense’s head. “I don’t know if she’ll read to you like Eunice does, but you’ll still have Eunice to read to you! Maybe you’ll read to her! Wouldn’t that be fun, to teach someone else to read?” She didn’t mention that our books were being sold, one by one, to pay off the debts and make sure we could keep the house.
During the lead-up to Cinderella joining our family, I must have heard that question a million times, with the same variation of a non-answer. I realize now Mother thought Cinderella had some sort of unusual way of interacting with the world and wanted Hortense to come around to the idea of a big sister who was different from her. I don’t know that this message came through to us, but I know that Hortense’s certainty that a new sister would be a boon never once wavered prior to meeting Cinderella.
I was less certain. I was used to being the oldest, and I wasn’t sure I wanted someone coming in to lay claim to that role. What if Mother liked Cinderella better than me? What if Hortense didn’t want to play with me anymore, faced with a newer sister? Hortense’s enthusiasm at the idea of a new big sister only made me nervous. I was certain that I would lose Hortense to Cinderella.
Mother found me sulking in my tree right before we were scheduled to meet with our new stepfather and sister. My tree—or Eunice’s tree, as everyone in our household called it—was a huge, sprawling thing, with lots of low branches easy for a child to scramble onto, and branches that went out rather than up, so that a determined child could prop themselves between the trunk and the branch and just kind of dangle there. Mother said it gave her heart palpitations to see me dangling from the branches of the tree like a sloth, so she had Mr. Calton build a platform in the tree, out of shining wood, with a little wooden ladder nailed into the tree trunk. I loved my platform, and took to it at once, but sometimes, when Mother couldn’t see me, I still dangled from the branches. That day, however, I was curled up in a ball of misery in the center of my platform, too upset to even think of dangling.
“Eunice, come down from there!” Mother called, exasperated. “They’re going to be here any minute now, and you’ve absolutely ruined your stockings!” I glanced down. She was right. That morning I’d been dressed in neat white stockings with a small frill around the top. Now they were full of jagged runs and rips and had more than one smudge of dirt on them. The shortcut I’d taken through the field before climbing up into my tree had taken its toll. The frills drooped at me in reproach. They were my last pair that fit me. Mother had been carefully darning all the runs and holes that inevitably showed up in my stockings, but even she could not make more material out of nothing.
Mother continued. “What were you thinking, going up into the tree like that? You know it’s important to me to make a good impression on your new papa and your new sister!”
I did know it, unfortunately. Mother had spent the past few months floating around the house, sighing over letters and generally being totally unlike my sensible, no-nonsense mother. I knew that she had been sad because of Papa dying, but I didn’t know any other way. For me, it was just a fact of life. My name was Eunice, I had a little sister named Hortense, and Mother was sad because our papa had died when I was six and Hortense was a big round ball in Mother’s stomach. There was also the unspoken absence of almost all our servants, Mother’s dresses vanishing, and the fine silver being sold. I knew that our family needed money and marriage seemed like a good way to get it. I just didn’t have to like it.
I refused to get down from the tree, curling more tightly into a lump on the wooden platform.
“I shan’t come down,” I said. “If I come down, then I’m going to have to go meet my new papa and my new sister, and I don’t want a new papa and a new sister. I already have a sister, and I had a papa before—why should I have another one now?” I was petulant in the way that only a child can be, but looking back now, I can’t help but think that I was justified.
Mother heaved a long sigh, and then hiked up her long skirts and climbed up the wooden slats nailed into the trunk. She managed to do so without mussing her hair or tearing her stockings, unlike me. We sat together there in the tree, and she rubbed soothing circles on my trembling back.
“Darling, I know this is hard,” said Mother. “But sometimes families change. You don’t have to call him your new papa if you don’t want to. You can call him Mr. Fitzwilliam. And it will probably take some time to adjust to having a new sister, it’s true, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be a good thing. Hortense will still be your sister even with Cinderella here.”
I uncurled slightly from my tight ball. It sounded pretty good to not have to call anyone Papa.
Mother went on. “I know you’re scared, darling, but think of it this way. You only have to adjust to one new sister, but Cinderella has to adjust to two. It’s probably very frightening for her too! She doesn’t know at all what sweet girls you and Hortense are, and she’s had to move all the way from her home to come live with us.”
This all made sense to me, and I uncurled further. I couldn’t imagine how scared I would be if we had to leave our manor house, with my tree and my bedroom and all the little nooks and crannies that I’d discovered and made my own. A tendril of sympathy started within me for this girl I had never met. I sat up on the platform and looked at Mother’s face. She smiled at me, and I gave her a tentative smile back.
“I suppose it would be scary to have to move,” I said. “She’s probably feeling very lost and alone. She only has a papa, and I have a mother and a sister.”
“You’re right, darling,” said Mother, her hands stroking and smoothing my hair back into place. “She does only have a papa. How lucky for her to be gaining a sister like you! Maybe you can help show her how to be a good big sister? Why don’t you take her around the house this afternoon? You can show her where everything is, and your—Mr. Fitzwilliam and I will pretend not to notice if some cookies go missing. Hortense can come too, of course, but it will be you that I’m counting on to make Cinderella feel at home.”
I nodded, my heart swelling with pride, fear forgotten. Of course I could show Cinderella how to be a big sister! Even though sometimes Hortense was a nuisance, I loved her very much, and I took great pride in my role as a big sister. I could teach Cinderella to do the same, and maybe it would be like having another Hortense, or maybe I would be the Hortense, and Cinderella could be the me? I puzzled over that for a minute before giving up. It didn’t matter if Cinderella was the new Hortense or the new me. Either way, I’d begun to feel the stirrings of excitement at an afternoon spent running around the house and eating cookies. My anxiety began to dissipate.
Mother and I climbed down from the tree and headed to the front of the manor, where we would wait for our new family members to arrive. Hortense was already there, looking much put upon in her brand-new yellow dress, kicking at a clump of dirt while Mr. Calton, our last servant that we hadn’t let go, scolded her, to no apparent effect. I can’t imagine Mother could afford to pay him what he was worth to stay with our family and cook and clean and tend to the house, but he was fond of me and of Hortense. And whenever we had a part-time governess, Mother let Mr. Calton’s son, Leo, sit in on our lessons. Mr. Calton was a soft touch with us, however, and Hortense knew it.
“Hortense,” Mother called out. “Please don’t get your nice shoes dirty. We want to make a good impression, don’t we?”
Hortense brightened and squirmed out of Mr. Calton’s grasp to run into Mother’s arms.
“Mother, is our new sister here yet?” she asked.
Mother laughed. “You’re looking at the same view I am, sweetheart! Do you see a new sister yet?” she teased.
Hortense giggled, and then went back to searching the road. We were all quiet for a moment, the only sound Mr. Calton drawing deeply on his pipe, together in anticipation of the changes to our family that were about to occur. I think of that moment sometimes, as the last time the three of us were a whole unit, before she came into the picture and turned everything upside down.
Hortense was the first one to spot them. She always had a keen eye for observation, even from a young age.
“There!” yelled Hortense, pointing. Mother and I winced. Her young voice was very, very loud in our ears.
A cloud of dust had appeared in the distance, moving directly toward our manor house. Mother made minute adjustments to our clothing, fussing with my hair and despairing of my ruined stockings. Some of my previous dread returned when confronted with the immediacy of my new sister, but I did my best to ignore it, focusing on how sad Cinderella must be to have only a papa and have to leave her home behind.
The cloud of dust materialized into a horse-drawn carriage, but it was of a style that I had never seen before. Mother drew in a sharp breath next to me, and Hortense had a puzzled look on her face.
“Well, now,” said Mr. Calton, dark brows furrowed. “That’s something, isn’t it?”
Instead of the normal carriages that w
The carriage pulled to a stop in front of us, and the coachman jumped down to open the door, then quickly backed away. I glanced up at Mother, uncertain. This was not how I envisioned meeting my new sister.
An elegant leg emerged from the door onto a small metal step, followed by the well-dressed figure of Adrian Fitzwilliam. He stepped out of the strange carriage, and then paused for a moment, reaching back into the carriage. I held my breath.
Out stepped the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Her cheeks were rosy and full of health. Her eyes were a clear spring green and sparkled in the light, giving her a sweet but mischievous air. Her hair hung in blonde ringlets, corkscrewing gently out from under a perfectly tied travel bonnet. Her stockings were pristine and white, and she looked as if she’d never so much as thought of climbing a tree when she ought to have been keeping her nice clothes clean. She looked at me, and smiled, a sweet upturn of her lips that made me think that I’d been panicking over our upcoming sisterhood for nothing.
Mr. Fitzwilliam cleared his throat.
“Bettina, Eunice, Hortense, may I present to you my daughter, Cinderella. Cinderella, these are your soon-to-be new family members, your new stepmother, Bettina, her eldest daughter, Eunice, who is just about your age, and Hortense, who is five. Cinderella, please greet them.” His tone was level and even, but he was gripping Cinderella’s hand very tightly in his own. He must be nervous about all of us getting along.
Cinderella dipped into a flawless curtsy, her skirts parting in just the right way, her balance perfect. I saw her hair bounce, and as I fumbled through my own curtsy in return, I felt impossibly drab and plain. My own curtsy was nothing special, and I was aware of my thin, limp hair that would not hold a curl no matter what Mother did. I found myself in awe that a human being such as Cinderella could exist. She was like a porcelain doll come to life.
Hortense was immediately enchanted by this beautiful young girl. Before Mother had even managed to greet Adrian, Hortense had once more squirmed out of Mother’s grasp, and run up to our new sister, eager to meet her new playmate.
It’s one of those memories that has crystallized itself in my brain as a series of fragments. I remember Hortense’s delighted giggle as she threw herself at Cinderella. I remember Mr. Fitzwilliam’s eyes growing wide and round with horror. I remember Cinderella’s smile expanding over her face, exposing white and even teeth, and the mischievous glint I’d seen earlier turn into something sharper, more focused. Mostly though, I remember the cry of my little sister as she jerked back from making contact with Cinderella, cradling her hand in front of her.
Fat drops of blood slid down Hortense’s hand to her wrist. I saw the crescent shaped impression of teeth marks on the side of her hand, just below her pinky finger.
We all stood there in shock, watching the blood trickle down her wrist. None of us moved. I think it was just too much for us to process.
The shock was broken when Hortense began to sob, and Mother rushed to her side, already whipping a handkerchief out of her pocket to wrap around the wound.
What was wrong with Hortense? I remember being confused as to what had happened, even though I had just seen Cinderella reach out and bite my sister. But my brain refused to entertain the idea that the girl I was now supposed to call sister had reached out and bitten Hortense. Then I saw Cinderella’s face. Her eyes held the same focused sharpness as before, and below that was her mouth, smeared with blood from my little sister’s hand. Cinderella saw me looking, and she winked at me, sucking the blood from her lips before it could roll down and mar her starched white dress.
Mr. Fitzwilliam stepped in front of me, breaking Cinderella’s eye contact with me and blocking my view of her entirely. Before I could fully process what I had seen, he had bundled Cinderella back into the strange carriage they’d come in and was snapping at his footmen to draw them up to the back of the house. I watched them go with a feeling of shock. In all of the worst-case scenarios that I’d imagined for this moment, never had I imagined a scenario involving blood.
Mr. Calton scooped up Hortense, who was sobbing, huge, fat tears rolling down her face, and hurried toward the house, Mother following close behind. Hortense was a small, limp figure in Mr. Calton’s arms, and the sight of her scared me.
I stood in the dust in front of my house, alone, staring at the spot on the ground where a few drops of Hortense’s blood had mixed with the brown dirt. I couldn’t stay there, with the blood so near and so fresh, the metallic scent of it still clinging to my nostrils. I gathered up my skirts and headed right back to my tree. I wanted the solitude and the solidity that came from being up in the crook of my tree, high above everyone else. At least, it had seemed high above everyone else when I was eleven. Besides, I had already ruined my stockings. What further damage could I do? I climbed up the solid trunk, my feet sure on the worn ladder, and curled into the same ball that Mother had found me in earlier.
CHAPTER
2
The Rules
THINGS DID NOT improve from that first meeting. I eventually came down from my tree and made my way inside, through the entrance hall and into my second-favorite drawing room, where my mother and Mr. Fitzwilliam were having a conversation they certainly did not intend for my ears. I ducked behind a couch, not wishing to be seen, and began to eavesdrop shamelessly.
“She’s just like this?” said my mother. I’d never heard her sound like that before, angry and hard. “Adrian, she bit Hortense! With her teeth! You told me she was a bit unusual, and that she’d had some problems—I thought you meant she was skipping lessons, or was impudent with you, or was climbing up into trees like my Eunice! She bit my daughter! And not just a little nip—you could see down to the bone in that wound, Adrian! The bone!”
I peeked around the edge of the couch. They were on the opposite side of the room from me, and neither had noticed my presence. I could see my mother’s back, hunched over, her head in her hands. I wondered if she was crying. Mr. Fitzwilliam hovered behind her, his hand uncertain over her back, like he wanted to reach out and touch her but was unsure of his welcome.
“My dove, what would you have me do?” he asked, his voice broken and low. “If people knew of my daughter’s peculiarities, I would be ruined. A merchant is nothing without his reputation. She is my daughter, just as Eunice and Hortense are yours. I cannot turn my back on her. She is unusual, and she does have problems, but she is my responsibility, and I hoped …” he trailed off.
“You hoped she wouldn’t enact violence upon her new family?” said my mother bitterly.
“Yes, I did. Naively, I assumed we could get through the introductions, and then we could go back to our routines. I suppose I was not used to the enthusiasm of small girls—in your last letter, you’d written how nervous Eunice was to meet her new sister, and I thought it was true of both of them. Please, I beg of you. I never intended any harm to your daughters. At home, no one touches Cinderella. I’m the only one who even gets near her. I wasn’t expecting Hortense to be so enthusiastic in her greeting. If I had known, I would have warned you,” he said.
“Of course you should have warned me!” spat my mother. “Hortense is five. To risk her like that—” She broke off, too overcome to speak.
“Darling, please,” begged Mr. Fitzwilliam. “The only five-year-old I have ever known has been Cinderella herself, and I am given to understand she is not typical. I never believed this would happen, you must believe me.”
