The Earl’s Masked Cinderella (Preview)

Prologue

“Papa, wake, please wake.” Catherine Arden’s whisper trembled against the linen of her father’s pillow.

She had smoothed the edge until it curled like a pale ribbon, then stilled her hand for fear the slightest rustle would startle his breath from him.

 “Papa, you must not go. It’s your Kitty, here. Please, papa,” she pleaded in earnest.

The fire had sputtered in the hearth, sending thin threads of smoke into the air that stung her eyes.

Kitty kept her gaze upon her father’s mouth, counting the spaces between shallow rises of his chest, counting until numbers lost meaning.

 “Papa,” she tried again, though the word had turned to a stone in her throat.

 H is brow grew smooth then, and h is next breath did not come.

 Tears slid hot, quick, down her cheeks, and she hated them for blurring him, for stealing one last clear look from her.

“Please , stay. For me…” she sobbed.

 The silence grew, and with it a knowledge that felt far older than her years, the sort of knowledge that did not ask permission to enter. 

 The door at her back opened bringing a draft that stirred the candle flames into thin spears. Hard heels crossed the carpet, sensible and brisk. A gloved hand pried at her fingers. She clutched harder without grace.

“Catherine,” the woman’s voice said, cool as the glass upon the dressing table, “you must let go now.”

“No! I want to be with him!”

“Do not be foolish. The physician has done what can be done. There is nothing for you here. He’s gone,” her grip tightened and, when Kitty still resisted, became ruthless.

“Please,” Kitty said, the plea no longer to her father but to any mercy present. 

 “Come, Catherine,” Clarissa said, and there was no anger in it, only a tidy impatience, and the pain in Kitty’s shoulder urged her to let go of her father. 

 Her stepmother’s hold upon her arm did not loosen until they reached the landing where a lamp burned within a glass shade. There, Clarissa Arden knelt, skirts folding into an elegant crescent, and arranged her face into a sorrow that did not reach her eyes.

“My dear,” she said, the endearment worked like embroidery over coarse cloth, “you must have courage now.”

Kitty nodded because refusal seemed useless.

“Your life will not be the same anymore,” Clarissa continued. “Things must change now that your father is gone. A household can ill afford sentiment when order is required. You understand, of course.”

Though Kitty did not understand. She was only nine, and knew very little of the world around her, or the affairs of Foxmere Estate.

 Be brave. Have courage. Be … Have… her thoughts were interrupted by the painful ache in her chest as she tried to swallow down her sorrow. 

“Tonight you will sleep in a new room,” her stepmother said, smoothing the glove over her wrist with a precise thumb. “A smaller one. It is not fitting that you keep the apartments you have occupied while we reorder the house. Anne will take your chamber, and I shall have Mary assist in the removal of your things.”

“My room?” Kitty echoed, the first words to make their way past the hurt. “Anne is to have my room?”

“Do not make a scene.” Clarissa’s smile tightened. “A young lady must learn to be accommodating. It is a quality as valuable as beauty, though you will not hear men admit it.”

From the bend of the stair there issued a faint rustle. Anne stood in the shadow cast by the newel post, her chin lifted, her pale hair shining beneath the lamplight like watered silk. Satisfaction curved her mouth.

Her other stepsister, Mary, hovered behind Anne. She was a smaller figure, and her hands twisted into the apron as if she had not found a place to put them. Mary’s eyes flicked over Kitty’s face, then away, as if the scene shamed her.

“It is decided,” Anne said. Her voice held the sweet taste of victory. “Mama has spoken.”

“Hush,” Mary murmured, but she did not contradict her sister.

Kitty’s chest tightened painfully. 

“You will thank me later for the order I impose,” her stepmother said, as if anticipating gratitude were a comfortable habit. “Grief must not be allowed to make a muddle of everything. Change is good.”

“I can be quiet,” Kitty said. “I will keep to the corner by the window. I will not take up space, stepmother.”

“You take up a great deal of management and space. And you are instructed to call me Clarissa or Countess moving forward, Catherine,” Clarissa replied, “We shall speak again in the morning. For now, you will be good and do as you are told.”

Kitty set her jaw because it was the only part of her that felt as if it could be set. She looked to Mary, but Mary dropped her gaze to the stair carpet , as if the pattern required study.

“Come,” Clarissa said, rising with graceful economy. “The servants must be given instruction. There are matters to attend and letters to write.”

 Clarissa took her hand and led her along the corridor. Anne and Mary followed without speaking. 

“Dry your eyes, child,” Clarissa said. “You will have them swollen, and that never recommends a face. You are to be presented to the vicar tomorrow and must not look like a little ghost.”

Kitty lifted her sleeve and obeyed, not to please Clarissa, but to see more clearly. 

 Clarissa’s step did not falter. She moved as if the house itself were an obedient instrument, and her hand upon Kitty’s fingers felt like the weight upon a metronome, precise and inescapable.

“Tonight will be different,” Clarissa said, not unkindly, only finally. “Tonight you will begin to learn.”

They entered the gallery where morning portraits looked down upon them. Kitty had never liked passing through here at night. The painted eyes had a way of following, as if ancestors could not quite accept the habits of the living.

Servants stood already at the far end, awaiting instruction from their mistress. Someone had fetched the dust sheets from the linen press. Someone else had brought a step stool and a length of cord. Their murmurs ceased when Clarissa appeared. They opened to let her through, then closed again encircling Kitty with them.

No one looked at her, though. Not one of them. And no one spoke her name. It was as if they were ordered to ignore her.

Clarissa stopped beneath the largest canvas. There she stood between her father and mother, small and laughing, her hand in his and hers in her mother’s. She remembered that the painter had been kind to them, and for a moment, she thought she might smile at the memory. 

“I never wish to see that painting again,” Clarissa said. Her voice had no tremor in it. “Remove it from my sight, at once.”

Kitty went still.

The words did not at first attach to any meaning in her mind, like awkward pins dropped upon a carpet.

Then understanding rose, and with it a fiercer heat than tears, took a step forward.

“No,” she said. “Please, not that.”

Clarissa glanced down at her, then up again to the canvas, her mouth composed. “It is not suitable or appropriate any longer. The house must reflect its present condition.”

“It reflects my father,” Kitty said, louder than she wished, but still the protest sounded small in the large room. She looked to the servants as if one might speak for her, but they kept their faces carefully arranged. The butler, Mr. Sedgewick, met her eyes a fraction of a second and then looked away.

“Cover it,” Clarissa said.

The footmen lifted the folded length of heavy cloth between them. It unfurled with the soft thunder of velvet. For a moment it hovered, as if it didn’t want to cover it of its own free will, then it fell as instructed.

“You will see it removed by daybreak, Mr. Sedgewick,” Clarissa said firmly.

Kitty tugged her arm from her stepmother’s grasp. “It does no harm where it is. It should stay.”

“It does the greatest harm,” Clarissa replied, so evenly that Kitty blinked. “It invites disorder. It tempts everyone who passes to look backward. We must look forward if we are to go on.”

Mary shifted, picking at her glove as she always did when she was anxious. Anne’s eyes never left Kitty’s face, attentive as any cat at a mouse’s hole. Kitty held her gaze for a heartbeat, and Anne’s mouth curved. 

“There is nothing wrong with remembering,” Kitty said, not only to Clarissa, but also to the ranks of ancestors peering from other frames and to the air which still held the warmth of a father whom she loved. “He would not like to be thrown away.”

“Do not be uncivil,” Clarissa said. “No one is throwing anything away. The painting will be stored.”

“Stored where? ” Kitty asked, before sense could catch the words.

“In the attics,” Clarissa said. “Where such things belong until they can be sorted. Mr. Sedgewick, you will see it done this evening.”

“Yes, madam,” he said, his voice quiet and respectable, as always.

 Clarissa turned, satisfied. “Come, Miss Catherine. Mrs. Beale is waiting to show you your new room.”

“I would like to say good night to him,” Kitty said, hearing her own voice as a stranger might hear it, brittle and low yet trying to be correct. She twisted to catch a final glimpse of her father, but a cloth had already been draped over the portrait.

“You said your goodbyes,” Clarissa answered. “ It is late.”

 At the end of the gallery the narrow stair to the east wing waited, steep and plain. 

Kitty reached out and brushed the banister with the curl of her fingers. Mary came beside her for two steps and let her hand brush her sleeve, a comfort so slight it might have been accidental. Anne passed on, light and pleased and already planning, if the angle of her chin did not lie.

 In the attic, she thought, making a mental note.

Clarissa paused to speak to Mrs. Beale, who bobbed and scurried, her keys a little chime in the hush. Her voice carried down the corridor, calm and precise as she addressed Mrs. Beale. “See that Catherine is settled. The linens are fresh, I trust?”

“Yes, madam,” the housekeeper murmured, bobbing her head, keys clinking at her side.

Clarissa gave a curt nod, then turned away without another glance at the child. Her steps faded toward the main hall, leaving a silence that pressed upon the walls. Mrs. Beale cleared her throat softly. “Come, child,” and gestured for Kitty to follow.

The journey through the narrow servants’ passage felt longer than the house itself. Kitty trailed behind the housekeeper in quiet obedience, her feet making no sound upon the worn runner. Each stair creaked loudly, and with every step, her grief seemed to drain from her.

By the time they reached the small room, the warmth had gone out of her tears. 

“I’ve been instructed to secure this when I leave you,” Mrs. Beale said, regretfully, gesturing to the door. 

Kitty nodded numbly. “I understand, Mrs. Beale. ”

The woman’s face fought to remain unemotional, but it was not lost on her the sounds of the housekeeper’s sniffles once the door had closed and the bolt turned over. 

A single candle burned on the washstand, too small to light the whole room. Someone had set a folded quilt at the foot of the bed, and the sight of it made the emptiness inside her settle into something colder than grief.

Kitty lifted her chin and blinked once, hard. Then she drew the quilt to her knees and stared at the window’s faint reflection, her small face pale and resolute.

“ I’ll be good, papa,” she said to the damp darkness, and the image of her family portrait faded into view as she closed her eyes and dreamed of happier times.

Chapter One

“Oh, another day,” Catherine Arden sighed, wiping her temple on her shoulder before leaning back into scrubbing the grand entryway of Alderwick Hall.

The scent of soap and damp stone hung low around her, and the flagstones gleamed faintly where her brush had passed, leaving ribbons of pale gray that caught the weak light from the tall windows. 

“Hurry up, Miss Catherine,” Mrs. Beale called out down at her from the balcony. “They are already awake.”

Kitty, as her father used to called her, paused to wring the cloth and drew a breath that trembled only slightly. “Almost done,” she whispered back, and eyed the last spot she needed to tackle.

If they’re just awake, then I have a few more minutes before—

The front door burst open fully with a sharp clap. Mud and laughter swept in together.

“ What a dismal morning,” cried Anne de Laurent, tall and golden-haired, her riding habit dusted with mist and pride. “You would think the very clouds conspired to drench me.”

Mary followed, quieter and smaller, picking at a loose thread on her gloves as if they might protect her from her sister’s temper. The sight of her stepsister kneeling upon the floor made her hesitate, but Anne’s boots were already clicking across the threshold.

 Anne stopped where the floor shone wet and clean. Their eyes met. Kitty’s were already scowling and expectant, while Anne’s were bright with amusement.

Without a word, Anne stepped forward, just as Kitty expected, planting her heel squarely upon the fresh patch of stone. Mud spread in a dark crescent.

“Oh, Catherine,” Anne said sweetly, turning her head to her sister, “how dreadful! Truly, look at all of this mess. You really must learn some discipline.”

Mary shifted, opening her mouth as though to speak, but Anne cut her a look that silenced her. “Do you not agree, Mary? A fine day for riding, is it not? Far too fine for scrubbing floors.”

“Yes,” Mary murmured. “A fine day.”

Kitty smiled amicably, “A fine day for riding.”

Anne gave a dramatic sigh ignoring her stepsister. “ I suppose one cannot expect perfection from someone of such… limited skill.” She turned toward Mary with a spark of mischief. “Go on, get Mama. She will want to know how poorly Catherine manages her duties.”

Mary hesitated, glancing toward Kitty with a small frown, but Anne’s raised brow left no room for disobedience.

“Go, Mary,” Anne said. “We shall not keep Mother waiting.”

Silence followed.

 Kitty simply stared at Anne.

Anne watched her younger sister go, then turned toward the staircase, a smile of satisfaction curving her lips. “Really, Catherine, I cannot fathom how you fail to keep your bucket upright after so much practice.”

 Anne’s foot caught the rim of the pail. The water sloshed violently, spilling over the freshly scrubbed floor and straight upon her polished boots.

A startled squeal escaped her.

 Kitty pressed a hand to her mouth, laughter bursting forth before she could stop it. The sound was quick, bright, and entirely unguarded.

Anne spun on her. “You find this amusing?”

 Kitty quickly schooled her features but remained silent. Any retort would be tied to some sort of punishment from her stepmother.

Just then, the front door opened again. Clarissa swept in, her steps precise upon the wet floor, Beau the poodle trotting closely behind her, leaving small muddy paw prints across the stones.

Why is everyone so muddy already this morning?

Kitty leaned back to rest on her heels and exhaled patiently.

“What is all this noise about?” Clarissa asked, voice calm and dangerous. Her gaze slid from Anne’s drenched hem to Kitty’s kneeling form. “Have you nothing better to do than cause commotion in my home?”

“Her bucket, Mama,” Anne began plaintively. “She let it spill. My boots are ruined! ”

 Kitty rose quickly, twisting her hands in her apron. “It was an accident, stepmother.”

“Clarissa,” her stepmother corrected smoothly. “How clumsy you are, Catherine. Such a burden to this household, and yet I keep you from the street out of charity.”

Beau barked once, sharp and high, as though punctuating her cruelty.

Mary said softly, “Anne, perhaps if you —”

“Oh hush! Do not even start, Mary!” Anne squealed with all of her anger targeted toward her younger sister.

Anne sniffled and lifted one boot for display. “Mother,” she whined. 

Clarissa cast a look of practiced pity upon her eldest daughter. “There, there, my dear. We shall have the leather dried and polished anew. As for you…”

Her eyes fixed upon the girl with quiet satisfaction. “You will repeat the washing until this hall shines twice over. Then see to the kitchen hearth and polish the silver before supper. Perhaps diligence will teach you grace.”

 Kitty bowed her head. “Yes, Clarissa.”

“Good. Now, clean this up.”

Clarissa turned aside, murmuring something to Beau, who yipped and pranced after her, continuing to muddy the floor around him. Anne followed with a triumphant smile, and Mary trailed behind, her face pale with silent apology.

When they had gone, Kitty stooped to gather the overturned bucket. For a moment she looked toward the high windows where the morning light fell thin and gray. Then she straightened, and walked out toward the servants’ entrance.

She paused in the narrow passage beside the kitchen, setting the pail upon the stone ledge. Her skirts clung cold and heavy to her legs, the hem dripping little trails across the flagstones. She quietly slipped past the housekeeper, and up the servants’ stair to her quarters.

Kitty unpinned her wet apron and hung it upon the chair back to dry. The warmth from the coals was faint but welcome. From the chest which sat at the foot of her narrow bed she took another plain, gray muslin, patched at the cuffs but clean.

 When she stepped back into the hall, fresh soapy water in the pail, the air smelled faintly of polish, vinegar, and mud. The places she had scrubbed earlier had already dried with the mud, and she knew it would take her twice as long to get it clean again.

She took up a clean brush and went over the entry again, careful to leave no dull streak to provoke Clarissa’s notice.

By the time she finished, the floor shone faintly under the midmorning light, each stone square and orderly, as though nothing untidy had ever passed through the house.

Mrs. Beale appeared from the kitchen right as she finished. Her round face flushed from heat and worry. “Miss Catherine, the mistress has left us with errands in town. Liddy will go with you to Covent Garden. The baker, modiste, and the greengrocer are to be called upon before dusk.”

“Yes, Mrs. Beale.”

 Kitty gathered her shawl and basket. Liddy waited by the door, tugging on her gloves with impatient little jerks. 

 They kept to the narrow lanes, Kitty’s shawl pulled tight as she followed the other maid toward the market square. Covent Garden was bustling and packed full of people. She let her eyes graze over the square. The common sounds of the calls of traders, the clatter of wheels, and the laughter of hawkers always gave her a thrill.

“Do not dawdle,” said Liddy. She was a tall woman with sharp elbows and very little patience. “You will have us late to the modiste’s.”

Kitty nodded, clutching her basket. “We could just split at the crossroads. It’ll take less time.”

Liddy narrowed her eyes at her for only a brief moment before she raised one eyebrow, tilting her head in agreement. “I was going to suggest that anyway. You move so slowly. No wonder the mistress is always frustrated with you.”

Kitty shrugged as Liddy turned and led the way through the market square toward the crossroads. When they reached them, Liddy waved her off. “You retrieve the bread and the vegetables. I will meet you by the apothecary in half an hour.”

Left alone, Kitty drew a steadying breath and turned toward the greengrocer first, collecting the vegetables required on the list that Mrs. Beale gave her. Then she turned to the bakery. The warmth of its hearth struck her at once, rich with the scent of yeast and fresh loaves.

“Kitty!” called a familiar voice.

Eileen Griffiths emerged from behind the counter, a dusting of flour on her sleeve and laughter in her brown eyes. “You look half-starved, as always. Sit a moment before my father sees you standing about like a ghost.”

“I cannot stay long,” Kitty said, though her smile faltered. “I am on errands for Clarissa.”

Eileen handed her a small roll, still warm. “Eat. Let her wait. You have grown thinner since I saw you last. I’m sure of it.”

 Kitty hesitated, then accepted. The bread’s warmth startled her fingers. She took a small bite, savoring the simple taste of kindness.

“Tell me,” Eileen said, leaning upon the counter. “Does your stepmother still treat you like a servant in your own home?”

 Kitty glanced toward the door, half fearing one of Clarissa’s acquaintances might enter. “It grows worse each day.” 

“And to think no one stepped in when they could. Now it’s just too late for everything. No one remembers that you are Edmund Arden’s daughter and rightful heiress to Alderwick.”

“What do you mean?” Kitty asked, confused where her friend was taking the conversation.

“People always said you were sent away,” Eileen added gently. “To live with relations abroad. That is what everyone believed. And now, if anyone were to say anything about you or the countess, they’d be scoffed at.”

 “I know, Eileen. I was so young, then. I did not know otherwise.”

“She made you disappear. The entire ton have no idea that you are even here, right under their noses. I know we have discussed this before, but it makes me to mad to think about. Why would an adult do that to a child?”

“You know the reason why already. She told me to make myself small and invisible to make the house more pleasant and not be a reminder of him because it was hurtful to her. She told everyone at the house, who she didn’t replace, that they were not supposed to speak to me or even look at me because it made me uncomfortable and that I liked doing all that work. To keep me busy. And ‘everyone grieves differently’. Anyway, I am alive and well, and grateful she did not truly send me away. I just wish that Anne and Mary did not delight in it… Well Anne delights in it. Mary is just…”

Eileen’s eyes flashed. “What have they done?”

Kitty sighed, shoving the rest of the roll into her mouth before she rolled her shoulders back and told her friend everything on her mind. Starting with the endless chores, the small cruelties, and the laughter that followed in her wake.

Eileen shook her head. “If my mother were still alive, she would give that woman a proper talking-to. You must stand up for yourself, Kitty.”

“I have nowhere to go if I do,” Kitty said. “And Clarissa knows it.”

They fell quiet. Outside, the bells of St. Paul’s struck the half hour. Eileen smiled suddenly. “One day, we shall leave this wretched city behind. We will go to my uncle’s farm near Bath. You shall have flowers instead of ash upon your hands.”

Kitty laughed dreamily. “And you will bake every day.”

“I will, and you shall read to me in the evenings. That will be our life. The best of friends. Taking care of one another!”

For a moment the thought brightened the room like sunlight. Then the door opened and Liddy appeared, breathless and severe.

“There you are,” she snapped. “If you mean to gossip, at least do it quickly. Have you even gone to the greengrocer? I will not stand about waiting to be recognized in company with someone so untidy and unthoughtful. ”

Kitty set down the half-eaten roll slowly. “Liddy.”

Eileen rolled her eyes. “Yes, Liddy, Catherine Arden is the very picture of disgrace,” she said dryly. “I know you’re new to the household, Liddy, but do you even know who —?”

Kitty placed a hand on her friend’s arm, to halt the tirade from revealing too much, “It’s okay, Eileen. She has every right to be cross with me. I got distracted.” 

Liddy scoffed, rolled her eyes, and turned on her heel, “How you are still employed by the countess is beyond me…” Kitty followed, offering Eileen a faint smile as she passed.

“Save me,” she mouthed, and Eileen laughed under her breath, flour swirling from her apron.

The crowd in the market pressed close as Kitty and the maid hurried toward the carriage stand. The sky had turned a pale silver, threatening rain. Kitty shifted her basket against her hip, careful of the loaves within.

“Keep up,” Liddy called over her shoulder.

“I am quite literally on your heels, Liddy,” Kitty said, though her voice was lost in the noise.

A man in a dark coat stepped from a nearby shop just as she turned the corner, and t hey collided magnificently. The basket flew from her grasp, spilling bread and apples across the cobbles.

“Oh, forgive me, miss,” the man said quickly, stooping to gather what she had dropped. His gloved hands moved deftly, brushing against hers for the briefest instant. “I was not looking.”

“It was my fault, sir,” Kitty murmured, reaching for the fallen loaf. Her heartbeat hard, more from shock than the mishap itself.

When she looked up, t he stranger’s eyes gripped her. They were warm, brown, familiar and startling all at once. He was tall, broad, finely dressed, and his dark, auburn hair was touched by wind and travel.

 I know this man.

For a moment, memories flashed across her mind. Summer afternoons in the Rosewood gardens, childish laughter, the young master who had once lifted her upon a pony’s back.

Russel Atteberry. Now, the Earl of Shaftesbury.

He studied her with polite concern. “Are you hurt, miss?”

She shook her head, unable to speak. He did not seem to know her, though a faint crease marked his brow, as if something about her stirred a distant recollection.

 Kitty lowered her gaze. Her gown was plain, her hands raw from work. No wonder he hesitated. To him she must look like any servant girl in London.

“I am quite well,” she managed.

He held out the basket. “Allow me.”

“Thank you,” she said, her voice too quiet to reach him.

He smiled faintly, courteous and distant, then turned to go.

As he straightened, her reflection shone in a puddle by his boot. She winced at the sight of her pale, tired, and small frame, scar along her cheek, standing meekly beside the polished figure he cut. The ache in her chest spread like the cold. He had not recognized her.

“ We must make haste! ” the maid called sharply.

She clumsily curtsied out of habit and took the basket from his hand. The warmth of his glove lingered a moment against her palm.

“Good day, sir,” she mumbled softly as she turned and followed the maid into the crowd, her head bent low. Each step felt heavier than the one before.

He had once called her Kitty with laughter in his voice. Now he had looked through her as though she were air. Why had her stomach fluttered like that? It made no sense.

She told herself it did not matter, that she had no right to wish otherwise. Yet as the market noise closed around her, the sting of it settled deep, a reminder of everything she had lost.