Chapter 3 The Dress Fitting #2
Celise stirred. “You know as well as I do that it does,” she pointed out. “I’m a dunslug and I have no intention of challenging Marcella’s daughters for the estate. I know my place. I’m happy working in the stables.”
“I would say you’ve settled for the stables, my girl, but I’m not sure you know what happiness is.”
Celise sighed and returned her gaze to the window, her thoughts wandering far out past the purple mountains.
She was secretly grateful for Dasha’s honesty.
No, “his Lordship” hadn’t raised her at all to be like a proper lady.
She had lived in the stables since a young girl, and she had never gone to etiquette school like Heather or Katrina.
Although she seldom interacted with her noble family, she didn't quite belong among the servants, either. As a lord’s daughter, an invisible barrier existed between herself and the staff.
Even if she worked alongside the servants, she wasn’t really part of their world.
She fell solidly between the cracks: not quite a servant, not quite a lady.
For that reason, her romantic prospects had always suffered around the Dhastel ranch.
Although a few stable-hands or wranglers had taken an interest in her over the years, they were always warned off.
Too pureblooded to marry a servant—yet unfit for a gentleman.
She didn’t truly belong anywhere.
Life had always been this way for Celise. Lord Dhastel had lost all interest in his eldest daughter after she was identified as a dunslug. Then he remarried Marcella, who was every inch a spoiled heiress. Celise was discarded the moment Marcella became pregnant with Katrina.
The servants had disliked their new mistress instantly.
The lord's new wife had feigned a “horse allergy” her first day in the manor house. Using her allergy as an excuse, she kept the servants cleaning all day and night, trying to chase away every last speck of horsehair or dander that might touch the floors. The torture never stopped. Marcella kept a mental list of slights she perceived from the unlucky staff. Her sneezing fits always arrived when she wanted to punish someone. Feigning innocence, she would force anyone who offended her to clean the house from top to bottom, even if the floors were spotless. The whole house walked on eggshells around her. Celise had witnessed her stepmother’s pettiness firsthand many times over.
One harsh winter, when she was ten years old, Marcella had locked Celise out of the house in the middle of the night, hoping the child would freeze to death in a snowstorm.
Celise didn’t remember the incident, but as Mordwen told it, young Celise had found her way through the storm to the stables, where she had wandered into the stall of the most fearsome stallion in the herd.
A stable-hand had found her cuddled up to the giant horse the next day.
None of the servants wanted to admit openly what their mistress had done, but after that, Celise’s room was moved out to the stables.
The horsemaster, Mr. Talisworth, put little Celise to work mucking stalls.
Marcella seemed to forget about the girl’s existence, except to sneer in her direction when their paths crossed.
Because of her stepmother’s hatred, Celise wasn’t brought up like her two younger half-sisters.
She barely knew how to read simple letters, and she couldn't write in Forsynthian high script.
She might have noble blood, but she knew absolutely nothing about being a lady.
The only times she encountered her younger sisters were to remove the tack from their horses.
The gala would be her first foray into polite society.
It was overwhelming.
Interrupting her thoughts, Steffie pulled Celise up to her feet and tugged her over to a stepping stool in the middle of the floor. “Come over here, my lady. Let’s get started. It won’t take but an hour, and we’ll go quick. I’m already behind on this afternoon’s mending.”
Steffie boosted Celise up onto the stool, where she reluctantly gazed at her own reflection.
A mousy girl stared back at her in the mirror: gaunt-faced, undersized, thin as a pine shaving, and bronzed by the sun, with raspberry locks that had no business being so dense or frizzy.
Celise’s wide eyes dominated her face. She thought she looked like a goblin child wearing a clump of vines on her head.
Dasha brought over the first of the dresses: a soft pink gown with little roses sewn into the sleeves and bordering the skirt.
Simple and pleasant, it was best suited for daywear.
Together, Dasha and Steffie pulled the dress over Celise’s head and tugged the skirt down over her small frame.
Then they stood back, surveying their new project.
Celise stood with her spindly arms spread out like a scarecrow. The oversized dress drooped toward the floor.
“This is going to take a lot of pins,” Steffie said.
Celise felt embarrassed. She was turning twenty-four that coming Brumadir season, but she looked as young as her half-sisters due to her small size. Katrina’s dress was cut for a figure much more curvaceous and womanly than her own.
Celise knew she had a boyish figure. If she wore a bulky jacket and tied her hair up under a cap, she could pass herself off as a boy, which was how she dressed around the stables.
Even on a renowned ranch like the Dhastel estate, it wasn’t safe for young women to work alone.
Her father employed dozens of stable-hands and farriers, and the workforce changed season to season, as part-timers left during the winter months and new ones were hired each spring.
She had learned to hide her femininity as much as possible.
As the maids tucked and pinned Celise’s new dress, Dasha commented, “In all honesty, perhaps it’s best if Celise doesn’t stand out at the ball."
"Mm-hmm," Steffie agreed around a mouthful of pins.
"Elias Blackwood has a sinister reputation," Dasha continued. "He’s been engaged seven times since returning from the war. All of his fiancées flee from him.”
“I meant to ask you about that," Celise ventured. "Is that why The Lady's Letter calls him the Mad Dog?”
“Yes,” Dasha confirmed. “The Letter ran an article about him a few months ago. They dubbed him the ‘Mad Dog’ because he chased Lady Raelia Riverton out of his house with a sword. He was frothing at the mouth. Haven’t you heard?”
“Of course she hasn’t heard,” Mordwen said with a sarcastic bite. “Our Celise doesn’t read that brain-rot rubbish. The Lady’s Letter is nothing more than a gossip column.”
"He carries horrific scars from the battle,” Steffie chimed in, ignoring the grouchy old crone.
“His arms and face are mutilated by fire! He walks with a limp and he drools continuously. His teeth are all broken! He mashes up his food and drinks it through a straw. He’s cruel, eccentric and unfit to wed anyone. ”
“How ridiculous, to say that about a war hero!” Mordwen huffed.
But Dasha agreed. “They say the military altered his mind with all sorts of strange spells and hexes when he fought in the Abyss. They say the war drove him insane.”
“Perhaps he’s a bit eccentric?” Mordwen grumbled.
“He’s horrible,” Dasha repeated. “I’ve already asked around. You know how servants talk.”
A brief silence fell on the room.
Is any of it true? Celise wondered, a new sense of dread coloring her thoughts.
Only two years ago, the soldiers had returned home with the Daemon King vanquished.
The siege in the Abyss had lasted ten years.
She didn’t know if Lord Elias had spent an entire decade fighting monsters underground.
Surely, that would make anyone lose their mind?
Of course, The Lady’s Letter was sensationalized to entertain its readership.
The popular magazine was based out of Castleberry City.
It published all sorts of gossip about the nobility: important parties, latest trends, new engagements, and profiles of the most eligible bachelors or bachelorettes.
It wasn’t “real” news, but . . . if Lord Elias was crippled and scarred, that explained why he couldn’t find a bride.
It also explained why Old Blackwood would use his son’s birthday as an excuse to throw a “matchmaking” soiree.
“The Blackwoods are practically royals,” Celise pointed out, her voice low and thoughtful. “So, if they’re going to such lengths to see him settled, then the gossip must be particularly bad.”
Dasha and Steffie exchanged a meaningful look that Celise couldn’t read. She wondered how many young ladies would attend the gala hoping to become the next duchess. Wouldn't they be put off by the Mad Dog's reputation?
Then she thought of Marcella’s words: “A duke is still a duke!”
Continuing in her soft voice, Celise mused, “Do you really think Marcella would marry off Katrina or Heather to the Mad Dog?”
“I think that woman would do anything for power,” Mordwen said darkly.
Dasha nodded. Steffie looked pale.
Good riddance, Celise thought. If Katrina marries the duke, then she’ll leave the Dhastel household to go live at Gravenmere Castle. Maybe then I’ll have some peace.
Celise wished her little sister the best of luck.
The following day, Celise’s father summoned her into the dining hall just after the dinner hour. Celise didn’t have any time to change out of her work clothes but found herself running into the manor house with muddy boots and a stomach full of dread.
Once again, Celise entered her family’s presence wearing dusty overalls and a tweed cap over her braided, pinned-up hair.