Ugly: A Faerie Tale Retold

Chapter Four: Mother

Monsieur Beauchȇne returned with a priest, as promised, and he and Mother were married on the spot, till death doth part them, with Ella and Claudette taking turns providing a little wedding music and I standing mutely by, staring at M. Beauchȇne with an admiration that couldn't have been surpassed if he had actually saved me from imminent death.

And for a few months, things really were wonderful. We moved into M. Beauchȇne's glorious mansion, where I had my own beautiful room. M. Beauchȇne bought me countless new dresses, and although they couldn't hide my face, I found a few that made me look a little less awful.

M. Beauchȇne didn't believe in having servants, so Ella and I tended the house. We didn't mind sharing the responsibility, since each of us had done it alone before. I would not go so far as to call us friends, but we certainly were comrades in those days. She taught me a few simple tunes on their elegant clavier, but she never could convince me to sing for her—I was too frightened my voice would sound as horrible as Mother said it did. I like to believe I taught her to think a little better, although I'm really not sure that's possible.

Claudette was miserably jealous of me for the first time in her life, and I observed her envy with beastly relish that shames me now. Even then, I think I pitied her a little. Not that she was mistreated. M. Beauchȇne was careful to treat her fairly and gave her whatever she wanted, but we all knew she was not his favorite.

Mother kept mostly to herself. That, or she went out to the village and spent exorbitant amounts of money on everything from clothing to accessories to trinkets. One day she brought home a parrot. I couldn't fathom why she wanted a parrot, except for because she could have one.

I spent countless happy hours gardening, reading to M. Beauchȇne, cooking, tidying, and feeling like a dignified lady for once. Sometimes M. Beauchȇne took Ella and me on walks in the woods, and sometimes I went alone. It was a lovely woods, still and silent like my own back home, full of tall trees that sounded like they whispered when the wind blew.

I came to love M. Beauchȇne almost as devotedly as I had loved my own father. He was different, of course. Much quieter, and much more serious. I only saw him smile three times, and I believe two of the times, he didn't mean to. Once was when I came to him in a fit of adoration and poured out an incoherent babble of thanks for saving me from a life of drudgery. The second time was when I finally let him listen to me practice the clavier. The third time... well, I shall get to that very soon.

I cannot think of those days without smiling, and, simultaneously, feeling an awful ache in my throat. Because, like all good things, they ended too quickly.

To Mother's credit, she never actually poisoned M. Beauchȇne to get the promised other half of his estate, which you may be sure she never had any intention of giving to Ella or me. But when he came down with a raging fever that winter, she convinced us that it would pass and never sent for a doctor. Within three days he was dead.

My one comfort in this memory is, I was the only one at his side when he died. And this was the third time he smiled, when he squeezed my hand with his thinner-than-ever fingers, his paler-than-ever face almost the shade of his starched pillowcase, and, in his softer-than-ever voice whispered, "My Thisbe."

His grip on my hand became almost unbearably tight, then relaxed.

I couldn't cry. It was too sudden, too awful. I didn't cry at his bedside, or at the funeral, or at the wake, though there were many times when I held Ella in my arms while her poor orphan heart broke. If it hadn't been for her, I might have ended my life in those empty days, or at least driven a knife through my arm just to make myself feel something, anything. But for once I was needed. She needed me, because she certainly gained no sympathy from Mother or Claudette.

Somehow, Mother was compassionate enough to give us two days to grieve before bringing us before her for an announcement.

"Well, Ella, your father is dead, so the house must be set in order. For the next week, you and Thisbe will go through Monsieur Beauchȇne's office and room and clear out all his papers. I want them all burned. If you find anything of value, bring it to me at once. Make sure breakfast, dinner, and supper are still on time every day. And don't forget to tidy Claudette's room daily."

Ella was beside herself. I'm certain she'd never been treated like a servant before. Once we shut the door to her father's office, I had to cradle her again until she'd cried enough to clear out her mind.

"It's just going to be like this, Ella. Mother's just like this. But it's all right. We'll stick together." I felt vaguely annoyed by her innocence. Shouldn't everyone have to experience treatment like Mother's before they're fifteen? It didn't seem fair for her to have come through so many years of life without injustice. But nothing is fair about life, so I don't know why I was surprised.

"She's so awful! Father should never have married her!" Ella sobbed. My shoulder felt wet with her tears, or whatever was running out of her mouth and nose. I didn't have a handkerchief to give her, so I gritted my teeth and patted her back.

"There, there." I'd never had to comfort anyone before. "It's all right." But her words stung. It was true. Monsieur Beauchȇne should never have married Mother, but he did. Why? For me. I was the reason Ella had to suffer. It was only right for me to protect her now.

For Monsieur Beauchȇne, I thought, stroking her hair.

The week of sorting through his papers brought many more emotional collapses from Ella, as she ran across letters from her mother, scraps of her father's journal, and other pieces of memory.

Mother wouldn't let us bring anything out of the room. I don't know what she expected to find—perhaps some hidden money or jewelry or something—but we never found anything but papers. Nonetheless, Mother kindled a fire in the office fireplace and locked us in so we couldn't sneak anything out. And every day, she made us take off our dresses before going back to our rooms, just to prove we hadn't stuffed anything into our clothes. It didn't bother me, but Ella's face burned so red every time she had to remove her dress that I pitied her even more. So one night I snuck down to the office by myself, gathered up a stack of papers, and hid them in the attic, deciding I'd surprise Ella sometime.

It was a good thing I decided to put them in the attic instead of in my room, too, because as soon as we finished cleaning the office, Mother had another surprise for us.

"Claudette needs a reading room and a music room. Your bedrooms will have to do. You girls may each take two of your dresses and move to the attic."

Of course, Ella began to cry on the spot, and I shepherded her back to her room to help her choose which dresses to bring with her. We spent the rest of the day moving furniture to create two little shrines to Claudette, then, exhausted, climbed the stairs to the attic.

It was a spacious, dusty place with one large window, and trunks and boxes everywhere. Luckily, there were also dozens of cushions from old pieces of furniture, so we each built ourselves a little bed and found old blankets and curtains in the trunks to cover ourselves with.

"It isn't fair! She can't do this to us!" Ella wept.

My chest burned with the injustice of it. But of course, I knew she could do this to us, because I knew Mother. I saw the gleam in her eyes every time she made Ella, this beautiful girl who was even lovelier than her own Claudette, suffer. Why? I could only guess it gave her some twisted pleasure to torture the creatures Monsieur Beauchȇne loved more than her, to see us slaving for her own dear Claudette, to know she had control.

In the old days when Mother beat me, my mouth tasted sour with hatred and my head rang with anger. Somehow, my body never reacted the same way when she beat me now. Perhaps I was too tired to care. But every time she struck Ella's pretty little frame, every time she tried to knock sense into that beautiful empty head, dark fire choked my heart and I had to look away to keep from flying at Mother with my fists. Ella didn't deserve any of this. Maybe I did, but she didn't.

So I'd nurse her bruises and wipe her tears. I'd tell her stories and brush her hair. I'd make her cookies and sweets when Mother was out shopping. I felt like she was my daughter, somehow, or at the very least my real sister. I had to protect her. I had to mother her. Because I was the reason for all those bruises.