A Dream Not Imagined Read online

  “Ellie,” the prince said as they moved gracefully in the steps of the dance, “if I may call you that. I feel we have met before, am I right?” His voice was warm and oozing with confidence.

  Ellie had to tip her head back a little to see his face clearly. “Well yes, I believe we have met in passing . . . of sorts,” she replied willingly, her heart dancing.

  Prince Charles smiled. “Remind me of the occasion, will you? Was it at the Vandeen’s dance two weeks past?”

  “Oh no,” Ellie glanced down. “No. I . . .” Did he not remember her lowly attire? Would he care that she was a maid? But he smiled at me when he saw me in the street as a maid. He said he hoped to see me again. She met his eyes again, certain he wouldn’t care about such things. “It was on the street a week or so past. I was standing there when your carriage . . .” Her voice trailed off as she saw revulsion flit over the prince’s expression.

  “Oh, oh yes,” he said, his hand suddenly loosening on hers as he frowned. “I do believe I recognize you now from that day. The blue eyes . . . But why were you wearing such humble apparel, Miss Abbington?” His eyes became further disgusted as he noticed the brown stains on her gloves.

  Ellie went cold at the look in his eyes, the way he suddenly used her proper address again. She breathed out uncertainly. “Uh . . . Your Highness. I was . . .”

  “Don’t mumble.” The sharp tone of his voice pierced her heart like a knife; and he jerked her roughly to straighten her in the dance position.

  A little gasp escaped her mouth and her heart-beat froze for an instant. “Prince Charles.” Her voice was pleading. “I pose as a maid to my family, but—”

  “A maid?” His voice was incredulous. “And I prefer to be addressed as Your Highness. What are you doing at my ball? I invited only eligible young women.” His eyes glared down at her.

  Cowering beneath the sudden change in the prince’s attitude, Ellie whispered, “Please, I am an Abbington, I just—”

  The prince jerked to an abrupt stop and held up a hand to halt the musicians.

  The music came to a startling close, and people turned toward Prince Charles, looking confused and disoriented. Silence reigned.

  Ellie’s breath came in little gasps and she reached out slightly toward the prince. The man who was supposed to be her hero; her dream come true. Vulnerability encased her. Please . . .

  “You don’t belong here, maid,” Prince Charles said with distaste, looking down his nose at her. In a louder voice, he commanded, “Leave at once! Guards, see that she leaves the palace.”

  Shocked gasps and twittering whispers immediately filled the ballroom.

  Ellie’s mind spun and she felt her world spiraling down to slow-motion. She numbly scanned the crowd for Lord and Lady Abbington, or even her stepsisters. But she couldn’t find any of them.

  “I issued a command,” the prince said in a hard voice.

  Her heart squeezing, Ellie searched the brown eyes for a hint of the charm and admiration she had seen in them earlier. There was now only cold disdain.

  No . . . With a little cry of distress, Ellie lifted her blue skirts and fled the room in a daze.

  Nasty whispers followed in her wake; but she could only see Prince Charles’s disgusted expression; could only hear his harsh voice.

  Sobs bubbled up in her throat but she descended the massive staircase that led to the outside gardens without making a sound. At the last step, her ankle twisted, and she left one glass slipper behind her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  FACE PALE IN the darkness outside, Ellie ran until her chest ached and her legs burned. She wound through the garden until she could scarcely breathe and then abruptly dropped to the ground by an elegant stone bench. Her mind whirled, but the last thought that came was: “What are you doing at my ball?”

  Her chest heaved and she began to weep inconsolably. Oh God! her heart cried out. Oh God, please let this be a nightmare! Please, God, make it stop! Please! She looked up at the sky, tears streaming down her cheeks. Prince Charles doesn’t accept me because I’m a maid! Why? Don’t You care about me?

  She cried until she was exhausted.

  And no one came from the ballroom to comfort her.

  The garden was considerably darker when at last she lifted her head, though tears still made their silent trails down her ashen cheeks.

  “Are you done, then?”

  Ellie jumped and whirled around to see who belonged to the gentle voice.

  It was an old woman with snow-white hair, a plump figure, and a grandmotherly look in her eyes. She wore a plain, dove-gray dress that seemed to cast off a glow in the darkness.

  “I . . . Who are you?” Ellie whispered with a slight hitch to her voice.

  “Oh, just one of the palace servants. My name is Lottie,” the old woman said kindly. “I heard you crying, dearie, and thought perhaps I should see if I could be of help. What’s your name?”

  “Ellie . . . And no one can help,” Ellie said, sliding a hand down her wet face. “M-my dreams are shattered. I’ve been treated unjustly and humiliated. And—and my heart just hurts.” The words sounded a bit silly to her own ears, but it was the only way she could think to describe how she felt. Fresh tears welled up in her eyes.

  “Oh, come now.” The woman knelt beside her and pulled out a handkerchief to dry her tears. “You’ve a broken heart, have you? Was it the prince?”

  Ellie’s heart burned at the word and she turned away. “He treated me with such charm and consideration . . . as if I were a special person to him. But when he found out I pose as a maid to my family, he ordered me to leave.”

  Lottie murmured sympathetically.

  “Oh, Miss Lottie,” Ellie wailed a little. “I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. I didn’t act in any terrible way. All I wanted is for my life to change from the life of service . . . to know what it was like to fall in love. Why would God let this happen?”

  Lottie squeezed her hand. “Now don’t be calling me Miss,” she said. “And could I ask, is Prince Charles the only man to fall in love with?”

  Ellie looked at her in confusion.

  “There comes a time,” Lottie went on gently, “when we need to stop and let God write our love stories. In that moment, something will happen; you’ll stop ruining your life.” She chuckled softly, then went on with steady eyes, “And a dream will come true. A dream you’ve not imagined.”

  Ellie wiped a hand across her eyes, staring at her smudged gloves. “What do you mean?”

  “Think about your dream, Ellie. To marry Prince Charles and be rich and happy. But Prince Charles Edingworth is an unhappy man. Riches don’t make him happy. Neither would a wife. He pays attention to women only for their beauty . . . and will only marry a woman who is both rich and beautiful. He wouldn’t have truly cared about you, Ellie, even had you met his conditions. Now what kind of dream is that?”

  Ellie turned away, eyes smarting. “I don’t know. It just seemed so . . . glorious.”

  “Of course it did. But you never looked for a different option. God has a dream out there for you that you can’t even imagine. And it will truly be beautiful. But you must walk His path.”

  Ellie massaged her forehead, trying to process this.

  Lottie patted her hand. “The prince was not for you, dearie. God has a different man He ordained for you.”

  Ellie sniffed and said, “Thank you.” Because she couldn’t think of what else to say. Is there truly someone else? Is there truly a dream better than what I imagined?

  And then the old woman left, saying she must get back to her duties.

  Ellie lay with her arms on the bench, looking off through the garden. This night had horribly failed her expectations. The prince had shunned her when he had learned she was a maid. Lottie had said she was ruining her own life. After several moments passed, Ellie whispered into the starry night, “God . . . will You write my love story? Will You write my life story? I just don’t believe I can do it on my own. My heart
will shatter into a million pieces long before I get it right.”

  Several more moments passed, and then she sighed softly and struggled to stand up without tripping over her long, voluminous skirt.

  “M’lady.”

  Ellie spun around, part of her traitorous heart hoping the manly voice belonged to a contrite Prince Charles.

  But alas, it was not to be. A manservant stood before her with a glass slipper in his hand.

  It’s a good thing . . . Ellie told herself silently, willing back tears.

  “I believe this is your shoe,” the servant said, his voice holding traces of gentleness and sympathy.

  “Thank you,” Ellie said in a ragged voice, taking the shoe from the young man.

  He looked into her face with green eyes, giving a slight nod.

  A strange feeling passed over Ellie. Then she realized. “You are the man I saw in the village . . .” Embarrassment heated her cheeks as her voice trailed off.

  “Yes,” the servant answered, not a hint of humor in his voice. “If I may ask . . . are you alright?”

  Ellie nodded, wiping her face again. “Yes, yes I am. Thank you.”

  “I saw what happened.” The man’s face darkened and his voice lowered. “The prince can be a beast. I’m sorry for the way he treated you, m’lady.”

  “Please,” Ellie said. “I am not a lady. Only a maid. That is why Prince Charles became angry with me.”

  A little flash of surprise appeared on the manservant’s face, but he insisted, “It was no way to treat any woman.”

  Ellie gazed at him quietly, then looked down, a little embarrassed. “You are too kind,” she said softly, truly touched by his consideration. She put the glass slipper on the ground and slid her foot into it without showing off her feet or ankles.

  “Can I fetch your carriage for you, Miss . . . ?”

  “Ellie. Ellie Abbington,” Ellie answered quietly. “And no, there will be no carriage. My . . . family is still enjoying the ball, I believe. They will need the carriage when they are ready to leave.”

  The young man looked around, running a hand through his dark brown hair. “Then allow me to escort you home, Miss Abbington.”

  “Please,” Ellie said quickly. “Just call me Ellie. I tried to become Miss Abbington today, but it didn’t turn out well. I’m a servant . . . just like you.” She usually wasn’t so forthright with her thoughts, but the previous events had worn hard on her emotions and she could hardly think straight.

  “Well . . . Ellie, then.” The servant sketched a bow. “My name is Rowen Jennings.” He held out an arm, mouth curving into a kind, caring smile.

  Ellie looked down, struck by how much of a gentleman he was. “You needn’t escort me home—I told you, I’m only a maid; not some esteemed lady.”

  “My mother taught me to treat every woman as a lady—be she maid or queen,” Rowen said gently. “Now please, let me bring you home.”

  Ellie bit her lower lip, then slowly nodded. “Alright . . . if it won’t be too much trouble.” She hesitantly placed her gloved hand in the crook of Rowen’s elbow.

  He smiled encouragingly down at her, and then guided her through the garden, matching his pace with hers. And so they went, palace servant and maid posing as a lady in a blue ball gown, now limp and damp.

  But by the time they reached the Abbington home, Ellie’s eyes had dried and a little smile touched her lips.

  And Rowen went back to his gardening duties at the royal palace with a hope in his heart.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  The weeks following the ball were difficult at best. Lady Abbington was in a dreadful mood, and Dezmarie and Adelaide teased Ellie cruelly and mercilessly about her failure with alluring the prince. At first, Ellie burst into tears at the mean-spirited insinuations, causing Adelaide to look taken-aback. But after a while she merely shrugged off the snide remarks. And shrugged off Prince Charles as well.

  Perhaps Lottie was right. Perhaps the prince had never been for her after all.

  But of course, at nights her pillow was often wet with tears as she thought too much and too hard about what could have been—about her shattered dreams.

  So she told herself over and over, “A dream not imagined . . . that’s what God has for you . . .” But when she tried to think of what that could be, she simply couldn’t.

  The prince had been all she had ever dreamed of. Being a princess had been the secret wish that had swelled in her heart. But it seemed that was not to be.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Ellie adjusted her brown kerchief and slipped a pouch of money into her basket.

  “You’ll get the lace I mentioned?” Adelaide asked, twisting her hands together in a nervous manner.

  “Of course, miss,” Ellie answered quietly.

  “Do stay away from the prince,” Dezmarie called moodily from a room over. “Since he can’t seem to bear the sight of you.”

  Ellie bit the inside of her cheek and knotted her fingers together. She’s probably fighting her own battle of broken hearts and shattered dreams, Ellie tried to convince herself.

  After all, Dezmarie had grown increasingly more irritable and touchy as each week passed with no invitation to tea from Prince Charles.

  It would seem the prince didn’t prefer any of the Abbington women. The thought popped into Ellie’s head, but she pushed it away, tired of thinking about the royal Edingworth son.

  Lady Abbington was away visiting some prestigious family, and Lord Abbington was probably at the nearest tavern; so Ellie was free to go where she wanted . . . as long as her stepsisters didn’t deter her. And thankfully, neither of them seemed interested in doing that.

  So off Ellie set to the village, hoping she’d get back before Lady Abbington did, so her temperamental stepmother would never know. “Some days she scolds me for going into the village without permission, other days she expects me to go without her saying anything at all . . . I hardly know what to think,” Ellie muttered as she left the Abbington courtyard.

  She arrived at the village and made a beeline for the dressmaker’s shop, ignoring all the glances cast her way. She had been the talk of the village since the royal ball, and the rumors still hadn’t died down.

  “Ellie, what can I do for you?” the dressmaker asked kindly, setting down his spiraling measuring tool and shears.

  “Um . . . I’d just like some lace and a length of the plain red you have in the back,” Ellie said softly, pulling out her money pouch.

  “What’s the occasion?” the older man asked as he gathered up a pile of pretty red material. His shears began to snip.

  Ellie dipped her chin, lifting both shoulders in a shrug. “I’ve been saving up money. I haven’t had a new dress of my own for a while.”

  For while the blue satin gown she’d worn to the ball wouldn’t fit Dezmarie or Adelaide, it had disappeared soon after Ellie had taken it off. And she hadn’t seen it since.

  The dressmaker folded the length of red cloth and handed it, along with some creamy lace, to Ellie in exchange for some coins. “There you are, young miss. I’m sure you’ll look right lovely in it.”

  Ellie’s cheeks flushed, and she smiled. “Thank you.” Then she hurried out of the shop. She almost ran into a man on her way out, but he grabbed her arms and steadied her. “Oh!” she exclaimed, clutching her basket and purchases. “I’m sorry!”

  “Ellie,” a familiar, warm voice said.

  She looked up. “Oh, Rowen.” She smiled a little self-consciously at the palace gardener. “I didn’t mean to almost run you over.”

  “It’s alright,” he chuckled, guiding her by her elbow away from the shop door. “How have you been?”

  She’d actually seen Rowen Jennings several times since the night of the ball, and he always started out their usually-lengthy conversations with that question. And always, she was touched by his thoughtfulness.

  “I am well.” She lowered her eyes momentarily, folding the lace and red cloth smaller to fit in
her basket. “And you?”

  “Same,” he answered.

  “Wonderful, then.” Ellie smiled.

  They unconsciously drifted slowly away from the people milling about, talking comfortably. When they came upon an alley, Rowen leaned against the stone wall and Ellie perched on a wooden box near him.

  “So I was talking to my dear friend Lottie yesterday and she mentioned she had spoken with you, once, in the palace gardens.”

  “Oh . . . yes.” Ellie nodded. “I am very thankful to her. She said things about letting God write my”—she swallowed—“love story.”

  Rowen nodded. “It’s one of Lottie’s favorite lectures to give.” He was smiling, but his eyes were serious. “And, I think perhaps, it’s a good one?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “I think so.” Ellie smoothed her kerchief. “It’s why, the night of the ball, I asked God to write my . . . love story for me.” She looked down, blushing slightly, a little uncomfortable telling this to a man. But Rowen seemed to draw these things out of her.

  For a brief moment, Rowen took her hand in his. “I’m glad, Ellie. Because I know God takes good care of all His princesses.”

  The idea was sweet and Ellie treasured it in her heart. It was a healing balm, mending the jagged cracks in her emotions.

  “And my life story, I asked Him to write as well,” Ellie went on sincerely. “Because it occurred to me, after Lottie’s talk, that I have all these wild dreams . . . but I never stopped once to consider what God’s plans were.”

  “Often we do that,” Rowen agreed. “Never imagining that our Creator’s plans for us are the absolute best.”

  Ellie mulled over this. Why did I never think? Why did I never stop and think the obvious; that the God who created me has a beautiful plan for me? “It’s a wonderful thought,” she at last murmured.