The Drizella Diaries

PRIVATE!

This book belongs to DRIZELLA

In solidarity with dutifully displaced daughters and the philosophically oppressed, I solemnly mark this occasion of beginning journal thirteen, signifying my fourth spring in the Loire Valley of France.

As you, my little black book are aware, I began these writings as an alternative to carving tally marks on my bedroom wall (an attempt foiled by Ella, my charwoman of a step-sister) after Maman married miserly Sir Francis and my sister Prunella and I were unceremoniously dragged from Paris into cultural exile.

In these dark days, the blank journal before me cries out for adventure. Although I tuck maps and illustrations between its bindings, the pages beg to be filled with the vibrancy of life. I feel both inspired and mocked by their promise.

Henceforth, let the future commence…

Wednesday, May 1

Day 2,415 at Chateau Le Tedium

Ella’s been at it since dawn. Mon Dieu! Who cares about cultivating silkworms? I caught her monogramming the silver last week and before that she organized hen eggs by color. She has stripped our fields of Bachelor’s Buttons to produce blue dye. Her latest money-making scheme.

Yesterday, Maman begged her to stop scrubbing the chateau’s stone entry on her knees with her artisanal lye, because you know, people talk. She looked a bit mad, really.

Not to be deterred, she excitedly informed us she would be sweeping all the chimneys and could we please refrain from lighting fires? Evidently, my entrepreneurial step-sister is testing formulas for removing smoke and ash stains. Her intent: to revolutionize our standard of living and free us all from domestic mediocrity. Her words. She announced with great fanfare that, forthwith, she wants to be called Cinderella (for branding purposes).

Sometimes I could strangle that little blonde head.

In other news, a paunchy guy wearing the king’s colors rode through the village today and announced a ball on the eleventh of May. Everyone is invited. Maman is freaking out. Who invites people with ten days notice? I’m wondering if another village turned them down.

My map of Spain arrives via courier this afternoon! I’m eager to study the terrain.

Thursday, May 2

Day 2,416

Sacre bleu!

Maman is on a tear. Rumor has it the castle’s big do is a thinly-disguised cattle call to root out brides for “Charming” aka Prince Charminsky. The idea of a royal son-in-law has our fearless matriarch in a lather. Unfortunately, we are the suds.

She’s forcing me and Prunella to get fitted for new gowns. Ella refuses to go (said she’d rather go starkers and will fend for herself!), so it’ll just be the two of us getting stuck with pins until we bleed. She’s a sadist, that one. The dressmaker, not Ella.

The cartography of my new map is masterful. I slept with it under my pillow. I’m going to commission one for Africa or America next. Can’t decide.

I wish I could use Maman’s money for a steamship crossing instead of wasting it on a dress.

Friday, May 3

Day 2,417

Ella’s being very secretive. I saw her sneaking into the carriage house with a cageful of mice. I don’t even want to know.

Honestly, I don’t care what she does as long as she leaves my stuff alone. Yesterday, I found her clearing my black notebooks from the bookshelf. She called it “decluttering”? As I hauled her from the library she kept shrieking about whether or not they bring me joy. WTF.

I’m beginning to worry about her.

Prunella and I let her paint portraits of us in the garden and the good news is, we finally discovered something she failed at spectacularly —the bad news: we look like trolls. Of course, Ella showed them to everyone.

Villagers say the meanest things. Get. Me. Out. Of. Here.

Saturday, May 4

Day 2,418

I’m no fashionista, but I think Ella’s taking her cottage core, romantic-peasant look a bridge too far. She’s sporting a dish rag as a kerchief and has distressed all her clothes. Today, she gleefully layered a burlap apron over her newly stonewashed, artfully shredded dress. She is unrecognizable.

The willow broom is a nice touch (she intends to sell them!). I’ve never seen Maman turn that shade of red.

All anyone can talk about is the royal ball.

The anxiety has transformed dear Maman into a banshee. She has always been prickly, but this is next level.

My Spanish language studies are really coming along. Ole’!

Sunday, May 5

Day 2,419

From my window last night I noticed a strange glow coming from the smithy. I crept boldy through the empty courtyard to spy on whatever malice was afoot --but it was only Ella, practicing glass blowing, surrounded by a circle of mesmerized mice. Creepy, but not worth losing sleep over.

Maman fed us lettuce with radishes (scientifically: Raphanus Sativus) for breakfast, lunch and dinner —a beautification regimen. Maybe. If we were rabbits.

Merde. I hate my life.

Tuesday, May 6

Day 2,420

I find myself at a rare loss for words.

The confection that is my frothy frock obliterates indication of a personage beneath the puffery. If it weren’t for the miracle of engineering that pushes my bosom to my chin as though on a platter, I would be invisible. I am mutton dressed as lamb.

Prunella didn’t fare any better. She looks like a lemon tart (not the pastry). I sense desperation on Maman’s part.

We spent the rest of the day creating up-dos. Sweet Prune agreed to have a birdcage woven into the hair atop her head. I draw the line at ornamental livestock.

Ella is nowhere to be seen.

Which is farthest away from Chateau Tedium: New Guinea or the Americas? Must research.

I have been practicing with my compass. True north versus magnetic north is fascinating! So much to learn.

Wednesday, May 8

Still. Here. Day 2,422

Maman drilled us on table manners until I wanted to stab her in the eye with an oyster fork.

Ella has resurfaced and commandeered the tower room for sewing projects. Gothic chic?

I must have been very bad in a past life.

Thursday, May 9

Day 2,423

Charming galloped through town today astride his white stallion. He may not be the sharpest tool in the royal shed but he does cut a handsome figure in epaulets and a crown. Not everyone can pull off tights like he does. An extremely long, ornately jeweled scabbard rattled at his side. Withholding comment.

The sighting seemed a bit gratuitous, but of course the villagers were in a complete swoon. They also think the earth is flat…but I digress.

I have commissioned maps of both Africa and the Americas. I used the money I was supposed to spend on new undergarments.

Friday, May 10

Day 2,424

We are 24-hours away from storming the castle. Maman has undertaken our social siege with strategy and precision that would make Napoleon blush.

Nothing left to chance. She will be leaving it all on the field.

In other news, I counted an inordinate number of empty Sancerre bottles in the pantry.

Saturday, May 11

Day 2,425

Maman spent the morning in bed with cold compresses and the drapes closed.

A horse drawn carriage arrives at five to ferry us to the Castle of Dreams. You can’t make this stuff up. Maman assured us she’s attending.

Ella is MIA. She arranged her own transport and I’m jealous. I offered to ride with her, but she said no and flounced away in her tatters.

No lunch today in preparation for the tightest corseting possible.

Insert expletive HERE.

Sunday, May 12

Day 2,426

It is half past one a.m., and I am writing by candlelight. Not a creature is stirring at Chateau Tedium, not even the genetically modified mice...but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Where to begin? It was like a fairytale really.

Trumpeting heralds announced our arrival as we promenaded down a royal red carpet and into a grand, gilded ballroom lined with mirrors and glittering crystal chandeliers.

The food was magnifique! Jesters! Violins! An artist drew charcoal caricatures! The string orchestra was divine. God bless the Queen, she knows how to throw a party.

Her intentions, however, were anything but altruistic: All the other monarchs have grandchildren. This was about keeping up with the Windsors.

I was making another beeline for the buffet tables when I came bosom-to-face with poor Charming. He seemed so much taller on his steed.

It was my turn to dance with the prince.

We were halfway through a spirited polka when a mysterious, masked woman wearing cornflower blue silk appeared on the mezzanine. Framed between pillars, she posed dramatically before sweeping down the marble staircase with ethereal grace and dainty glass slippers that peeked out beneath voluminous skirts. She was a vision.

Even the orchestra skipped a beat.

Charming couldn’t take his eyes off her. In one practiced move, he twirled me into oblivion and strode regally to the staircase.

They made an enchanting pair. He held her gloved hand to his lips and bowed low. She blushed prettily.

The ballroom was abuzz. Who was this slip of a girl with golden hair and flawless beauty?

I held my tongue.

That distinctive silk was obviously the work of Eri silkworms --we have a barn full of them; and that particular blue is only produced by the natural dye of wildflowers that surround our estate. As for the glass slippers? I would recognize that craftsmanship anywhere.

Ella and the prince danced beautifully. It was around midnight when they waltzed past Prunella and I and we overheard him regaling her with the amenities of castle life:

“....we have legions of chefs,” he boasted, “twelve marshalls manage a battalion of maids and groomsmen, gardeners, carpenters, falconers and masons. We have dressmakers and weavers, decorators and laundresses, chimney sweeps and chamberlains, portraitists, poets and astronomers, even a keeper of the swans!” He paused, beaming, “you will never have to lift a finger again!”

Her eyes went wide and she paled beneath her skillfully beribboned mask.

As the clock began to strike twelve, Ella gathered her skirts in her strong, capable hands and ran for the doors. A gasp of surprise echoed through the ballroom as she sprinted past.

Charming froze in bewilderment, then gave chase.

By the time he reached the gates, however, his beloved was gone. The pumpkin-spice scented carriage pulled by a team of white, pointy-faced horses with long, hairless tails had vanished. All that remained was a single glass slipper, a broken-hearted prince and a crestfallen queen.

Monday, May 13

Day 2,427

On my trip to market this morning there was parchment nailed to every roadside tree. Closer inspection revealed charcoal drawings of the lost glass slipper --and a royal reward: twenty-thousand francs for identification of the runaway bride.

I quickly prised each one down and tucked them in my basket. I have a plan --liberty is in reach!

In other news, an enormous, elaborately carved pumpkin with peeling paint is rotting in our compost pile. Go figure.

Friday, July 14 (Bastille Day)

Day 1

Vive l' indépendance!

Life has been a whirlwind, but after brokering the royal Wedding of the Century, my dreams have come true. I have a queen’s ransom (literally) and I am free.

Ella negotiated absolute reign over all upkeep, renovation, restoration, decoration, publication, photography, writing and patents, et al., related to the Castle of Dreams in perpetuity.

She is captain of her fate, and I am mine.

The prince is besotted, my step-sister is giddy with potential patents, expansion projects and commercial opportunities --and the in-laws are hopeful.

My train to Madrid leaves at noon, then on to Algiers, and beyond.

Ella made me a pumpkin locket, and I promised to keep in touch. Royal Cartographer and Correspondent has a nice ring, oui?

There’s the whistle.

Destiny calls. Let the future commence.