His hands were suspended, midreach. I thought about it. I had to believe he really did love me. Did I love him? I didn’t feel for him the way I’d felt for the prince, back when I thought I loved him. But I knew now that that had been infatuation with an ideal, not love for a real human being. Jed was real. I knew his faults as well as his virtues and didn’t mind them. I enjoyed being with him. I’d certainly rushed to find him as soon as I could. Of all the men I’d ever met, he was the one I’d want to marry the most. But I was only fifteen. I hadn’t really met that many men. And, beyond that, I hadn’t really figured out what I wanted to do with my life. Marriage could determine what was possible or impossible. What if, after a few years, Jed and I turned out to have goals as mismatched as my father’s and Lucille’s?
I looked away, because I couldn’t bear to watch Jed’s face when he heard what I had to say.
“The answer is, I don’t know. Or—” I made the mistake of turning toward him. I caught a glimpse of his crestfallen face. I looked down at my hands, still alone in my lap. Jed had drawn back. I made myself look directly at him. “The best thing I can say is, I can’t make any promises yet. I thought I loved the prince, and I thought I was doing the right thing agreeing to marry him. So how good can my judgment be?”
“But you learned from that,” Jed protested. “You know me better than you knew him.”
“True. But when I agreed to marry him, I was thinking mainly of getting away from—and getting back at—Lucille. Now I’m trying to escape the prince. If I were to marry you, wouldn’t you rather it be because I’m trying to get to you, instead of away from someone else?”
“Why can’t it be both?” Jed joked.
I only shook my head, then added, “Can’t you give me six months and ask again?”
There was a tap at the door before the formerly cheerful Mrs. Smeal poked her head in. “I know this will amaze you, Chief, but we still have 402 blankets stacked up in the supply tent. Same as yesterday.”
Jed blinked.
“Oh,” he said. “I thought we had a new shipment in. Wasn’t there a royal proclamation to that effect?”
I barely listened to Mrs. Smeal’s answer. I had to figure out where I would go and what I would do now. Under the circumstances, it seemed too much to expect Jed to let me hang out at the camp. Then I heard him say, “Mrs. Smeal, may I introduce Ella Brown, our new medical and agricultural adviser?”
Mrs. Smeal’s jaw dropped, and her eyes seemed to come very close to jumping out of their sockets. But she was polite enough to say only, “Welcome. We’re glad to have you.”
I looked at Jed, instead of her, as I replied, “Thank you.”
31
As the next few months passed, I splinted an amazing number of broken arms. I treated everything from bee stings to gores from a wild boar. I ladled out gallons of soup in the camp’s kitchen. One incredible rainy night in a far pasture, I delivered a calf that was trying to be born hind end first. I worked harder than I’d ever worked for Lucille.
And every evening I spent hours talking to Jed.
At first we were awkward together. What hadn’t been decided stood like an uninvited guest between us. But then we agreed not to speak of love or marriage or the future until the six months were up. Those subjects still crept into our conversations occasionally. Jed would say, “When we’re running the camp as partners . . . er, I mean—” and, “When we have children—that is, uh . . .” Or I’d say, “What if I decide I want to go learn more about being a doctor? Could I do that and be married?” Jed would assure me, “We can work it out.” But because we weren’t going to make any decisions for six months, most of the time we just talked and talked, as good friends do. Jed treasured the philosophy book I’d brought him, and we took turns puzzling out its meaning. Sometimes, when we were both too exhausted to think, I read stories to him out loud. We debated good and evil, argued about how the Sualan War could end.
I was, strangely enough, happy.
Then one day, while I was checking on patients in the makeshift infirmary, a girl summoned me to the office.
“Can’t it wait?” I asked. I was trying to decide if the feverish baby lying listlessly on the table in front of me had a disease that could spread through the whole camp.
“No,” the girl said. “Master Reston said now.”
I turned. Except for the war-haunted eyes, the girl reminded me of Mary.
“All right,” I said. “He’ll be fine,” I told the baby’s mother, with a confidence I didn’t feel. “But keep him away from the other children.”
She stared at me hopelessly. How to keep a baby away from other children when their entire family was sleeping in one bed?
I worried about that as I walked back to the office. But I forgot my worries when I arrived and Jed wordlessly thrust a card into my hand. It was thick and luxurious, its words in such fancy script that it took me a few minutes to read them:
We regret to inform you of the death of His Excellency, the Lord Maximilian Reston. Please return to the castle immediately to take over his duties.
By proclamation of
King Charming XXIII
“Oh, Jed, I’m sorry,” I said, echoing the useless words that Jed had said to me all those months ago when I’d told him of my father’s death.
“Why?” Jed said in a choked voice. “Why does it hurt so much? I didn’t even like him.”
“But he was your father,” I said.
“Couldn’t they have broken the news in a nicer way?” Jed asked plaintively. “The king could have offered his condolences or something.”
I thought of Lucille sneering at me, “Your father’s dead. Get to work.” Essentially, that was the king’s message too, only in fancier language. I felt grateful once again that I was away from the so-called Charmings. But I still felt bad for Jed. He didn’t even seem to have absorbed the second half of the message.
“It doesn’t matter how anyone says it,” I said gently. “It still hurts.”
“When does it stop hurting?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It takes longer than three years.”
And then I hugged him, and he hugged me, and it wasn’t the least bit romantic—not like dancing under the stars on a rose-scented night—but it was still the most romantic moment of my life. He pulled back first.
“I want you to run the camp while I’m away,” he said. So he had read the whole note.
“Why me?” I asked. “Why not Mrs. Smeal? Why not one of the men?”
“You know,” Jed said. And I did—Mrs. Smeal was too cheerful, unable to understand true problems. The refugees made fun of her behind her back. And the two male workers at the camp had only contempt for the refugees, as though it were their fault for being displaced by the war. So I might be the best choice. But could I do it? Did I want to?
“You’ll have to let them think they have some control,” Jed continued. “They don’t know how young you really are, but still—”
I nodded knowingly. I’d learned a lot more diplomacy at the camp than at the castle.
“For how long?” I asked. “Are you—are you coming back?” Something crept into my voice—a hint that I wanted him back for more than the smooth running of the camp.
“Absolutely,” he said firmly. “If nothing else, I’ll write you for escape tips.”
And so he rode away, and I missed him, and I waited for him to come back. I remembered what one of my attendants back at the castle had said the day of the tournament: “This is what women do. We wait.” I’d vowed to have none of that. But here I was, waiting.
Only I wasn’t sitting around doing pointless needlepoint. I was binding wounds, ordering supplies, standing up to bitter refugees who questioned why a mere girl should be able to tell them how much firewood they were allowed to have. I fell into bed many nights too exhausted to think. Every once in a while, a strange thought drifted into my head: If I have no life’s goal of my own, is it such a bad thing to do
the life’s work of the man I love?
I didn’t quite allow myself to think the word love. I thought respect, care about.
After a month, a letter arrived from Jed. Though it was the middle of the day, and I had about ten days’ worth of work to do in the next hour, I immediately shut the door of the office and sat down to read.
Dear Ella,
The castle remains mostly as you remember it: dull, dreary, obsessed with the most ridiculous minutiae. I promise I won’t get mushy, but I long to be back at the camp with you. How many people are coming per day? How many have you resettled? Are supplies getting through? If you need to— (Here he scratched out something.)
I’m sorry—I’m sure you’re handling everything fine.
I have news that will amuse—or bemuse—or at least interest—you. I have found the answer to the mystery about who they found to replace you at the prince’s wedding. Are you sitting down? It’s your sister—stepsister—Corimunde.
I dropped the letter in astonishment. After I picked it up, I rubbed my eyes for several minutes hoping to get them to read properly. But when I looked at the letter again, it still distinctly said “Corimunde.” I read on.
It was Madame Bisset’s idea—a stroke of genius in many respects, I might add. It certainly saved her skin. And yours. I’ve learned the whole story, mainly by appearing absolutely disinterested. Madame Bisset evidently argued that since you were obviously unredeemable (her words, not mine), they should not bother chasing you. You’d only make more trouble as a wife and, eventually, as a mother. Instead, she said, they should go back to the original source. I thought that would have been an argument for another ball and beauty contest, etc., etc., but the royal advisers all thought that might be too embarrassing. They argued, would anyone want to be the prince’s betrothed when the last one had mysteriously disappeared—maybe died? Figuring that only your family would have as much reason as the Charmings to want to keep everything secret, the king’s herald went back to your house and swept away the first girl who answered the door.
Corimunde always had been a little quicker on her feet than Griselda.
You’ll be amused to know that the style now among castle women is, the fatter the better. Another of Madame Bisset’s ideas, I believe. My conjecture is that she took one look at Corimunde and decided it would be easier to change the fashion than your sister. After she failed so dramatically trying to change you, Madame Bisset seems a little worn out and more likely to go for the easy solution.
So had I actually changed Madame Bisset, instead of the other way around? Was she even becoming flexible? But no—I read on—it sounded like this beauty standard was being enforced as rigidly as the last one.
You wouldn’t recognize many of your ladies-in-waiting anymore, they’ve gained so much weight. I don’t think there’s a corset left among them. Cyronna and Simprianna eat nonstop, though they have quite a ways to go before they’ll be as “beautiful” as Corimunde. Really, you exaggerated somewhat about her appearance. She’s not that bad-looking if you squint a little. She’s brought Griselda and your stepmother into the castle as well. They appear quite happy and, I must say, Corimunde and the prince do seem suited to each other. I believe she is with child, though no announcement has been made yet.
I leaned back to absorb this incredible news. I could imagine Lucille gloating at the thought of being with her “real” daughters in the castle while I was who knows where—on the streets, perhaps even dead. I furrowed my brow, trying to figure out what I felt. Was I jealous? I remembered my last taunt to Lucille: “I hope you and Corimunde and Griselda die in your own filth!” But I had been angry then. I no longer wished them ill. I certainly had no desire to be in the castle, and if Corimunde and the prince were well suited, more power to them. It was just that, by Lucille’s terms, she had won and I had lost.
Only I had no desire to judge myself by Lucille’s terms anymore.
I skipped ahead, more curious about what Jed was doing than about the Step-Evils.
I am personally handling all the supply requests for the camp, because no one else cares. They think that now I’m back, the camp has been disbanded. I don’t necessarily correct them, though I’d like to. You were right that they allowed me to set up the camp in the first place only because they wanted me out of the castle. I think Madame Bisset, at least, guessed that I was (am) in love with you, and she knew I wouldn’t stand for putting you in the dungeon. (I’m surprised they thought I had that much power.) Several people have tried to discover if I know where you are now, but, of course, I’m pretending not to. I did find Mary and thanked her for her help and told her that you’re safe. She asked if we were “hitched” yet. (I’m not making this up!) I said I’d asked, but you wanted to wait. She said, and I quote, “Me mum says that’s the surest way to lose a man.” I told her, not this man. I also told her, if we do get married, our marriage won’t be like other people’s. You may go off and study to become a full-fledged doctor. We may work as a team on everything. Mary said, and I quote again, “Is that supposed to surprise me? You and the princess have never been like anybody else.”
But your six-month deadline is only a month away, and I will probably still be here at the castle then. I could take an exit route similar to yours; I’m not as practiced at walking from the castle to the camp as you are, but I’m sure I could manage. If I played my cards right, I could probably make a more subtle retreat, working my younger brother into this position. I’m pretty sure I could convince the king that Joseph’s a better adviser than I am. But I can’t leave now, or even a month from now, because I think I can end the Sualan War. That is not more important than you, or us, but . . . oh, I think you understand. You were right in all our debates: Ending the war is a better goal than simply helping those hurt by the war. Few people here care either way—if anything, they like having the war around as an interesting topic of discussion. But I’ve been dropping hints about how much the royal treasury is being drained, how much wealth is being wasted. (As you know, they don’t care about lives.) I think I’ve convinced the king he could build a more sumptuous palace with the fortune he’d save by ending the war. I’ve almost convinced him to let me lead a peace mission to Suala.
So. I think about you all the time, you there, me here. I miss you. I long to come and get you and run away together somewhere and forget this stupid kingdom. But I can’t. I can’t do that and be worthy of you. I think about how you were brave enough to take your fate into your own hands—not once, but twice. You inspire me. So will you now wait for me?
With all my love,
Jed
I lowered the letter slowly, feeling torn. So Jed might end the war. Good for him! So I might not see him again for a long time. Bad for me. For I knew now what my answer was going to be. I missed him so much, I couldn’t stand thinking about it.
I closed my eyes and leaned back, and thought instead about his belief that I had single-handedly changed my life. He wasn’t entirely correct. The first time, I’d gotten help from Jonas the glassblower and from the coachman, who undoubtedly undercharged me for driving me to the castle gate. The second time, I never would have gotten out of the dungeon without Mary bringing the shovel and food. If I’d learned nothing else from the refugee camp, it was that even the most independent people sometimes needed help. And if I’d learned nothing else from my life thus far, it was that you don’t always end up where you think you’re going.
I smiled faintly, remembering the day I’d been swept off to the castle. Everything had happened in such a blur that my memories now were mostly just of scattered sensations: the sound of the awestruck crowd whispering as they gathered around the prince’s carriage, the feel of the silky dress the royal attendants put on me, the sight of the footman bowing low to me—to me!—before he helped me into the carriage. I couldn’t have said now who was in the crowd, what color the dress was, or which hand the footman extended to me. Somehow only one detail still stood out clearly. I could still hear
the voice of the old woman in my village, cackling as I rode by: “Now, there’s one who will live happily ever after.” And I remembered how fervently I had wanted to believe her, how I had looked out at her wrinkled, wizened face as if hoping to see the countenance of a prophet.
I was young. I could be excused my foolishness. But evidently the woman’s advanced years had not earned her the wisdom she deserved. The last nine months of my life had hardly contained endless happiness, and I had little reason to expect endless happiness in the future. Why did the woman’s prediction still haunt me?
I stood and walked to the window. Outside, children with ragged clothes, runny noses, and wind-chapped faces were playing a game they’d invented, throwing clods of frozen mud at the roof and laughing when smaller clumps of dirt rained back down on them. It was an ugly scene—certainly any of the women back in the castle would have sniffed in disgust and turned back to their fancy silks and satins, their perfect little needlepoint designs. But I saw the joy in the children’s eyes, the jubilation on their faces every time a particularly big clod broke. I saw, well, beauty.
And suddenly I understood the old woman’s prediction in a new light. Happiness was like beauty—in the eye of the beholder. Maybe the old woman could be right in a way she’d never intended. I did know this: I liked my life the way I was living it.
I turned from my window and went back to work.
Margaret Peterson Haddix, Just Ella
(Series: # )
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