The Stepsister and the Slipper by Nina Clare

1

Once Upon a Time

Charlotte-Genevieve Bellerose,stepdaughter of the late Baron de Bellerose, was vexed that being a stepdaughter did not accord her the status of nobility. But she would not let a little legal detail like that keep her from styling herself Lady Charlotte wherever she went.

And because she cut so dashing a figure, made so charming a guest, graced any banquet with her glamour and wit, and was the beauty of every ball, she got away with it.

“Lady Charlotte, you are too cruel,” said Sebastien Gobert, pouting beneath his downy upper lip. “Say you’ll marry me, or I’ll die.”

“You’re too young, dear boy.” Lady Charlotte flicked away his declarations with her ebony fan. “Perhaps I will introduce you to my little stepsister, Blanche. You can marry her.”

The spurned suitor cast a glance toward the potted lemon tree where a young woman with large grey eyes hid behind it, watching the ballroom until turning away to speak to an elderly lady.

“She can’t hold a candle to you, Lady Charlotte. No one can.”

Lady Charlotte rewarded him with a smile, then turned to accept the hand of Lord Dufort for the next dance.

The followingmorning brought the usual delivery of gifts and posies for Lady Charlotte, including a pair of ornate silver shoe buckles from Lord Floridon, and a written offer of marriage from Admiral Montdory.

“Admiral Montdory is said to have made a lot of money in the war,” mused Charlotte’s mother, the dowager baroness. She examined the proposal through her lorgnette.

“Oh, Mama, Montdory is a bore. He kept me an hour listening to his dire account of the Battle of Toulon and steam propulsion and cannons when all I wanted to do was dance.”

“I did not mortgage this house to fund your dancing pleasure, Charlotte. I invest in your gowns and appearance that you might return it by raising us up.”

“Hush, Mama,” Charlotte whispered. “Don’t mention the mortgage.” She nodded at the door, which was opening as her stepsister edged in backwards, a breakfast tray in her hands.

“Good morning, ma’am. Morning, Charlotte,” Blanche said sweetly. She put the heavy tray down beside the pile of posies and cards.

“Pour the tea,” her stepmother replied.

“What beautiful flowers,” Blanche said, her grey eyes falling on the blood-red roses Sebastien Gobert had sent that morning, accompanied by an agonised poem. “Shall I put them in water for you?”

“Put them in the fire for all I care,” said Charlotte. “Pour quickly, Blanche, I’m parched as a desert and have an abominable headache.”

“You drank too much champagne,” her mother scolded.

“I needed it to endure Montdory. Where’s the marmalade?” Charlotte peered at the plate of thinly sliced bread her stepsister held out to her.

“We’ve run out.”

“You should have put honey on.”

“We’re out of honey too.”

“Mama!” Charlotte protested. “I cannot live on bread and butter. Where is the butter?”

“The dairyman won’t deliver until his bill is paid,” said Blanche apologetically, as though she felt personally responsible. “And this is the last of the bread until the baker’s account is settled.”

“Mama!”

“How can I pay bills and buy ballgowns?” said her mother. “You would insist on the green, the most expensive silk of all.”

“Green is this season’s colour. Would you have me look as though I wore last year’s wardrobe?”

“Then the green silk must render some return.” Her mother shook the letter of proposal.

“You want me to accept him?” Charlotte pouted; a gesture that was very becoming with her full, well-shaped lips.

Her mother tapped the letter with her lorgnette as she considered her answer. “Write a reply,” she concluded. “Probe for more details. What is he offering? What are his assets, his capital, his ready money?”

“Mama, I cannot ask him outright how much money he has. That is for the lawyers to agree upon.”

“We cannot afford lawyers. I said probe. Draw it out while I find out what I can in the meantime.”

“This tea is appalling,” said Charlotte, frowning into her cup.

“The leaves have been used already,” said Blanche.

Charlotte groaned. “Pour me another cup. But take away this plate. It’s only fit for the birds. Is there anything in the pantry to eat?”

Blanche shook her head.

“Then, send the maid to the market, and tell her to be quick.”

Blanche winced. “She has gone.”

“Gone?” repeated the dowager, looking up from her teacup. “Wretched girl. I won’t have her back if she’s playing truant. And she can whistle for a reference.”

“I don’t think she’s coming back,” said Blanche. “Her belongings are gone. And so is the gardener.”

“She ran off with the gardener!” Charlotte gave a peal of laughter.

“It’s no cause for humour,” snapped her mother.

“They said they would leave if they were not paid another quarter,” said Blanche sadly.

“Cook will have to do the scullery work,” said the dowager.

“Cook is packing her trunk.”

“Selfish ingrates!” cried the dowager. “Who will cook now?”

“Does it matter if there’s no food in the house to cook,” said Charlotte. “And I’m famished. Oh, to think of the tables heaving with lobster and roast beef last night, and I barely ate a thing, for fear of getting grease on my green silk.”

“If you give me some money, I will ask at the farm for a few eggs,” Blanche offered. “I think I know how to make an omelette. I’ve watched Cook do it many times.”

“Yes, be a darling, and make me an omelette,” begged Charlotte.

“Give you some money?” mocked the dowager. “Shall I pluck it from the silver tree outside?”

“Here, take these, Blanche.” Charlotte held out the gift box with the silver shoe buckles inside.

“Charlotte!” protested her mother. “Lord Floridon will expect to see you wearing them tonight. If the admiral proves a disappointment, we may need Floridon.”

“Oh, I will deal with him,” said Charlotte. “I need to eat. Do you want me fainting on the ballroom floor tonight?”

“Pay with these?” Blanche looked at the pretty buckles. “They must be worth a good deal more than eggs.”

“Of course they are,” said the dowager irritably. “Take them to the silver merchant, and don’t accept any less than eight livres for them.”

“Shall I pay the baker and dairyman?”

“Buy food for today and bring every sous to me,” ordered her stepmother.

“Don’t forget the marmalade,” said Charlotte. “And get some of those little brioche buns, the ones with cinnamon. And hurry.”

“And what shall we do for a scullery maid?” Blanche asked. “Shall I put an advertisement in the marketplace?”

“Blanche, do you have any brains in that little, pale head of yours?” said the dowager. “Do you not understand that if I could not pay the last maid, I cannot pay a new one?”

Blanche looked down at the silver buckles in her hands and glanced at Charlotte’s green silk draped carelessly across the back of a chair, and the dowager’s pearls lying in a mound on the dressing table; but she said nothing.

“Don’t look at me,” drawled Charlotte. “I can’t ruin my hands scrubbing pots. I must keep myself presentable.”

“You must do the cleaning,” the dowager told her stepdaughter. “Until we find replacements. After all, there is no point you attending any more balls or suppers. You hide away and never speak a word. Where did you disappear to last night?”

“I was in the library. They have a wonderful collection of histories. But I watched a good deal of the dancing.”

“From behind a lemon tree,” said Charlotte. “I saw you. Why didn’t you dance? I don’t think you talked to a single man. Only some old lady.”

“It was Madame Fée,” said Blanche. “I haven’t seen her since…Papa died.”

“You will never find a husband cowering behind lemon trees or hiding in the library,” said the dowager, her voice sharpening, as it did when the late baron was mentioned. “All the focus must be on Charlotte now. She is our best hope.”

“I stayed behind the tree because my gown is a little short,” Blanche said meekly. “I saw all the ladies with their long trains, and I knew I looked out of place.”

“I cannot afford three new wardrobes,” the dowager said. “You must stay home and manage the house. Things will change for us all when Charlotte makes a good match.” She sighed and looked at her daughter’s marriage proposal again. “Is the admiral rich enough?”

“Oh, Mama, I wish we could go to the royal city,” said Charlotte. “That’s where the richest beaux are. All the best of society are there.”

“And the worst,” said her mother. “Rakes and courtesans and fortune hunters. How could we afford lodgings in the city?”

Charlotte had no answer, but Blanche did.

“When I spoke to Madame Fée last night,” Blanche said shyly, “she asked if I were to have a season at court this year, and I said that we did not go to the city. I did not say it was because we were poor,” she added quickly. “Madame Fée said she had a house sitting empty there, and if ever I should wish to make use of it—”

“Blanche!” cried Charlotte, sitting bolt upright. “Why didn’t you say so earlier? Oh, Mama! A house in the city!”

The dowager regarded Blanche closely. “Are you sure she was offering you the use of her house?”

Blanche nodded and blushed at being the centre of keen attention. “She is my godmother, you know.”

“She has done nothing for you before.”

“She must be very old,” said Blanche in her godmother’s defence. “Though she does not look it. But she was my mother’s godmother before me. Perhaps she forgets things, as elderly people sometimes do.”

“We must call upon her, Mama!” All fatigue vanished from Charlotte’s face. “We must call today. Blanche, you shall wear my lavender gown and I shall wear the rose. I shall remake all these silly posies into a bouquet for Madame Fée. Mama, we must go today before the old lady forgets what she has said!”

“But your gowns don’t fit me,” Blanche said.

“I will make it fit,” said Charlotte. “A few pins, a belt, it’s only tea with an old lady.”

“It is worth a try,” agreed the dowager. “But we still need to eat. Get to the silversmith’s, Blanche, and not a denier less than eight livre.”

“Hurry, Blanche,” urged Charlotte. “And don’t forget the brioche!”