Free Bella at Midnight by Diane Stanley

strange was afoot. All in the room were ill at ease. They had something to tell me, and they did not like to do it.
    â€œBella, do you understand what that means,” Mother prompted, “that she is your aunt? This good lady is the sister of your mother.”
    I stood there, pondering this information. “Your sister?” I asked, knowing as I said it that she could not be.
    â€œNo, dear.” Mother glanced at Father, then at the lady, then went on. “You see, in truth I am only your foster mother. Your real mother died when you were born.”
    â€œMy real mother . . . ,” I repeated stupidly.
    â€œHer name was Catherine,” said the lady who was now to be called “Auntie.”
    They watched as I began to grasp the implications of what I had just learned. I looked at Father, searchingly.
    He only nodded sadly.
    And so that meant that Will and Margaret were not my brother and sister! I took a sudden breath, for somehow that was the hardest news of all. They were mine ! They were part of me!
    â€œOh, Bella!” Mother-who-was-not-Mother said, kneeling down and taking my hands in hers.
    â€œAnd my real father?” I asked. “Is he dead also?”
    â€œNo, child.”
    Now the lady spoke again. “You see, your mother was a perfect angel, and your father loved her so much that when she died, he was much disordered by grief. And so I brought you here, to this good place, until such time as your father was fit to look after you.”
    â€œWhy did no one tell me?” I cried. I was weeping now, and cared not that all were watching me. “How could you let me believe you were my family when you were not? Did you know, Will? Did even Margaret know?” I did not allow them to answer, for I fell upon the floor and screamed and wailed—I was so brokenhearted and I was so angry!
    The auntie rose as if to come and comfort me, but I shouted at her not to touch me, not to come near, and so she sat down again. They let me cry until I was spent. Then I sat up and looked around at all of them and said, “You ought to have told me!”
    â€œYes,” Father said. “We ought to have done. Truly, Bella, we meant to.”
    Now, looking at the auntie, I went on being shrewish with all the force I had in me. “And you have come here—why? Because this father of mine, this father . . . has he a name?”
    â€œEdward.”
    â€œThis father , this Edward , who sent me away as a tender child and has never once come to see me or inquired after me . . .” Here I began to weep again.
    â€œThat is why we could not bring ourselves to tell you, child,” Mother said.
    â€œThis father ,” I wailed (I would finish my thought!), “has he now decided that I must leave this house where I am happy and these people I love and believed to be my family and go live with him?”
    â€œYes, child.”
    â€œWhere? Where am I to go?”
    â€œTo the King’s City,” said the auntie. “He has a fine big house there, Isabel. He is a knight.”
    â€œ A knight! I am a knight’s daughter? Oh, wonder of wonders! How unfortunate Prince Julian did not know of this! A knight’s daughter! What else?”
    â€œOh, there is much else,” said the auntie—and I noticed that I liked the sound of her voice. “Of your sweet dear mother who held you in her arms and loved you so long ago, and did not deserve to die. Of that I can tell you much. We will talk of it on the road.”
    â€œAnd my father? Is there more to tell of him ?”
    â€œSome. Not so good to hear, I’m afraid. But he has married again, and I think his new wife will have softened him. And I will be nearby and will do all I can to ease your way.”
    â€œBut why?” I asked. “Why does he send for me now, after so many years?”
    All eyes turned to Auntie.
    â€œWell,” she said, “I confess he did not tell