Lady Dyer

Once upon a time,
I used to have it all — status, money, and love. I lived in a small town outside London with my husband, the Count of Dyer. We met when we were children; I remember it as if it were just seconds ago.

My mother saved money by working double shifts cleaning houses to buy the expensive fabric, and then spent all night sewing me a cherry-red dress, my favorite color. My excitement was enormous upon first seeing it. I put it on and went outside to show off my beautiful dress to the other girls. I could feel the envy pouring out of their eyes. I loved it. When you grow up with nothing and suddenly have something of value, you want to show it off to everybody.

Then my husband — though he wasn’t my husband yet — jumped into a mud puddle close to me, splashing the mud onto my beautiful dress and my face. I became the laughter of the girls. I hated him for it. He did not apologize; on the contrary, he found the situation funny.

Our mutual hatred grew along with us, but in our teenage years, something shifted. Perhaps it was the time a boy lifted my dress and he punched him in the face, or when he stayed by my side when my mother passed away. The hatred faded and became something else. On my eighteenth birthday, he bent on one knee and asked me to marry him — and I said yes.

Soon after we got married, he inherited the title of Count through a lost cousin, bringing us great wealth. Our joy grew when we welcomed our beautiful twin daughters, Charlotte and Francesca. We were happy.

But happiness can’t last forever — tragedy struck. The love of my life, the person who knew me better than anyone else, died suddenly of smallpox.

Having no sons, the title was inherited by my late husband’s second cousin, who mercilessly stripped us of our home and left us with no money to survive. With the jewelry I had taken before leaving, I sold it and paid for a small room for a few days for me and my girls.

I had risen from poverty to high society and married for love — something few women could claim — and now it was all gone.

The gossip of what happened didn’t take long to spread among the high society. The people I thought were close to me turned their backs without hesitation when I asked for help. We became the laughingstock, the great shame, the pity of the upper class. My hatred grew each day, and the income to support my girls was depleting. I needed a solution and a way out of that small town.

It came just at the right time when Mr. Fère, a handsome merchant, came to town on a business trip. He knew my husband. I remembered him briefly — always wearing a cherry-red scarf around his neck. When Mr. Fère found out about my husband’s death, he visited us to express his condolences. He knew what it was like to lose the person you love; years ago, he had lost his wife as well, leaving him alone with a young girl named Ella.

Mr. Fère wasn’t aware of my daughters’ and my situation. Moved by it, he visited us daily, bringing new clothes without holes, fresh food, and more. Mr. Fère had a kind and warm soul — easy to manipulate. I might have lost everything, but not my beauty, and I took the opportunity. I made sure that in the days that followed, Mr. Fère and I would become closer. We connected over the loss of our loved ones, the love we had for our daughters, and even shared our favorite color: cherry red.

On his last night, he asked me to marry him. My plan had worked to perfection. Mr. Fère didn’t have the wealth my first husband had, but he had enough to live comfortably — and he was my ticket out of that hellish town. It was my chance to put my daughters back into high society in a new country, where no one knew us. I accepted his proposal, and we traveled to France, where we were married.

When I met Ella, I saw how beautiful and kind she was — just like her father. I knew that when the time came, she would have a long list of suitors, overshadowing my girls and keeping them from attracting high-society husbands, something I could not allow.

When my second husband was home, I pretended to show motherly affection toward her. But as he was constantly on business trips, he was rarely seen in the house. Over the years, I took advantage of Ella’s great kindness and patience, making her give up her fine room to my girls while she slept in the garret upon a wretched straw bed.

In the middle of the night, a man knocked on the door, holding a cherry-red scarf in his hands. He had come to deliver the tragic news — my second husband had been shot in the heart after a business deal went wrong. I looked back at Ella; she remained composed, with only tears in her eyes. She had lost both her parents and still managed to keep it together. When I learned of my first husband’s death, I had been weeping on the floor within seconds. I pushed away the feeling of admiration that was beginning to arise.

After losing my first husband, I didn’t want grief to consume me again. I shut my feelings away. I had a crisis to solve — my husband had left enough money to survive only a few months. I would not go back to having nothing. To save money, I fired the staff and gave Ella the most miserable jobs in the house: she had to scour the dishes and tables, scrub the floors, and clean the bedrooms. It was my chance to dull her beauty and make her go unnoticed by future suitors.

At night, the garret reached freezing temperatures. After Ella finished her work, she would sit by the chimney among the ashes to keep warm. She would wake up covered in soot. My daughters and I called her Cinderwench, until Francesca came up with a better name — Cinderella. Charlotte and I loved it. That’s what we called her from then on.

One day, the King and Queen announced that a ball would be held to find the Prince a bride. The entire kingdom was invited. We were delighted — this was our opportunity to find suitors for my girls. I had dresses, petticoats, and headdresses made by the best dressmaker in town. I wanted clothes that would suit them best and hide their many imperfections. After all, a man always looks for beauty first. A woman can have the best education, but without beauty, we are nothing in the eyes of men.

Cinderella was excited to attend the ball. My girls mocked her, thinking she would be the laughingstock of the night. But I knew that in reality, it would be difficult for a man to take his eyes off her beauty — and I couldn’t allow that. This was Charlotte and Francesca’s chance to find husbands, hopefully one catching the Prince’s eye, and Cinderella would not ruin it.

I gave her a long list of chores she had to complete before the ball if she wished to attend. To my surprise, she finished every task minutes before we left. When she was about to climb into the carriage, I “accidentally” splashed mud onto her dress with my shoe, ruining it completely. Yet, Cinderella remained composed and said,
“Have fun at the ball,”
then walked away to the garden.

I gave her that — her spirit. No one could break it. For a moment, she reminded me of her father. I wiped away the rebellious tear that slid down my cheek. There was no time for grief.

At the ball, I mingled among high society, searching for the best suitors. I wished my daughters could marry for love as I did, but love wasn’t the priority — money was. That is how one lives a good life.

When the Prince made his entrance and sat beside his father, I grabbed my girls and pushed through the crowd to be the first to greet them. I bowed and said,
“Your Highnesses, I am Lady Dyer, and these are my daughters: Charlotte and Francesca.”

My daughters bowed and said in unison,
“Your Highnesses.”

The King opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. His gaze went beyond me. I turned to see what was happening, and at once there was a deep silence; everyone stopped dancing, and the violins went still. All eyes were drawn to the singular beauty of the unknown newcomer holding the Prince’s hand.

Nothing was heard except a confused murmur of voices saying,
“Ha! How beautiful she is!”

The King himself could not take his eyes off her. He whispered to the Queen that it had been a long time since he’d seen such a beautiful and charming creature. Without a doubt, she was. I had a strong feeling I had seen her before; there was something familiar about her, though I couldn’t place it.

Like the rest of the ladies, I admired her dress — gold and silver fabrics adorned with jewels, accompanied by a pair of the most beautiful crystal slippers in the world. Charlotte turned to Francesca and said,
“I want the dressmaker to make me one in the same pattern.”
“I must find slippers like those,” Francesca replied.

The Prince stood and approached the young lady, never taking his eyes off her. He extended his hand and invited her to dance. She accepted, and they walked to the center of the ballroom.

They danced so gracefully that everyone admired them more and more. As people’s attention was drawn to the beautiful couple, it was impossible to talk of anything else. The opportunity to find suitors for Charlotte and Francesca was lost.

The clock struck a quarter to twelve when the princess politely but hastily excused herself from the Prince and quickly left the ball. The Prince, confused, followed her, trying to catch up. Moments later, he returned with a glass slipper in his hand, still looking at it with love. Even in her absence, he couldn’t stop talking about her.

When we arrived home, my daughters told Cinderella all about the mysterious princess. She listened with surprise, but I could sense something different in her — a glow in her eyes, a quiet happiness, as though she were in love. Her mood continued for the next few days. Once, I even heard her humming as she mopped the floor. There was something strange about that princess, something I couldn’t quite piece together.

A few days later, the Prince proclaimed that he would marry the one whose foot fit the glass slipper. In the following weeks, they tried it on all the princesses, then the duchesses, and finally all the ladies of the court, but in vain — none of them were the mysterious princess.

Then it was Charlotte and Francesca’s turn. Expecting a visit from a royal gentleman, I served tea in our best teapot. I called for Cinderella, but after no response, I went to fetch the teapot myself. The last time I had seen it was in my late husband’s study. No one had entered that room in years — not even Cinderella, as it was too painful for her.

I spotted the teapot on the living room table as I entered. I was about to grab it when I saw the cherry-red scarf on the couch beside me. Hesitantly, I picked it up, dusted it off, caressed it, and brought it to my nose. It still smelled of him — tobacco and wet earth. Suddenly, the pain I had suppressed surged up and knocked me to the sofa. The memories came like an avalanche; I couldn’t stop them. I may not have loved him as deeply as my first husband, and I may have used him to give my daughters a better life, but I had grown to love him — and Cinderella.

The memory of the girls who once envied and celebrated my little red dress returned to me. I realized I was those girls, and Cinderella was me. When the rug has been pulled from under you so many times, you do everything you can to prevent it from happening again.

The screams and cries of desperation from my daughters in the other room pulled me out of my thoughts. I wrapped the scarf around my neck and heard,
“Let me see if it fits.”

I listened to the laughter of my daughters and the gentleman’s voice of approval. I rushed out of the study. When I entered the other room, it was too late — Cinderella already had the glass slipper on her foot, and it fit as if it had been made for her.

The astonishment in the room was great, but even greater when Cinderella took the other slipper out of her pocket and slipped it onto her other foot. My daughters soon realized who the mysterious princess was. They threw themselves at her feet, begging forgiveness for their mistreatment. Cinderella lifted them up and said,
“You’re welcome to join me — but forgiveness is not given, it’s earned.”

My girls thanked her and promised she wouldn’t regret it.

I stood silently, listening to everything that happened. Cinderella approached the door, turned to me, extended her hand, and said,
“Are you coming?”

I looked around the house. My second husband’s presence still lingered here — almost all my memories of him lived within these walls and this small town. I wasn’t ready to leave him behind, as I’d had to with my first husband, who never gave me the chance to say goodbye.

My daughters were already in the carriage. I knew Cinderella’s great kindness would give them a home in the palace and marry them to two great lords of the court. My job was done. I stroked and smelled my husband’s scarf, smiled, and said,
“No. I’m home.”