Clarice and Elizabeth, Isabelle’s stepsisters, volleyed inside, their voices overlapping with frantic chatter that made her head spin. The complete lack of blood ties showed well; Clarice and Elizabeth were as similar to Isabelle as day is to night—and they’d inherited their late mother’s animosity for her.
As usual, they both wore long shawls and even longer scowls. They flung the garments over Isabelle’s head as if she were a designated coatrack. She expelled a long-suffering sigh and flipped the page of her book. It was all very ritualistic and exhaustingly expected.
“And no wrinkles! I daresay those shawls are worth more than your wardrobe,” Clarice said before resuming her chatter. Isabelle peeled the shawls away without batting an eyelash or stopping her reading. Then she tossed the garments into the hearth with a rebellious smile. Justice prevailed, and the shawls shriveled into ashes.
The commotion quickly crescendoed. Lowering her book, Isabelle stopped her reading to observe the scene. Papa tensed in the rocking chair as Clarice and Elizabeth flanked either side of his body. Manipulated by Clarice’s arm, the chair dipped into a deep and unsettling sway. A familiar rage flushed through Isabelle as Papa clutched his chair for dear life.
“Mon beau père! I hardly recognized you when I walked in.” Clarice pinched one of his sunken cheeks. “Why, you’re looking better by the moment. Don’t you think so, Elizabeth?”
“I shall say so. Finer than any prince!”
Dust rose into Isabelle’s face as she slammed her book shut. She watched from her spot by the hearth, inwardly seething while Elizabeth idly meddled with Papa’s shirtsleeves. “Oh, Papa, you shall never guess what happened! I took a walk with the baker’s boy today. You should have seen him, looking dreamy as ever!”
Mutely Papa nodded while Clarice and Elizabeth shared a sly glance; it was a look Isabelle knew all too well. She clasped her fingers together, overcome with the urge to slap those grins off their wretched faces. Inhaling a calming breath, her eyes descended to the silver cross hanging from her neck—a precious keepsake that had once belonged to her mother.
Give me patience and strength...
“He asked me to the Lachances’ ball! Can you believe it?”
“How come you always have all the luck? Well, you and Isabelle,” Clarice added with a scoff. “How she managed to land Vicomte Dumont, I shall never comprehend...”
Whatever semblance of peace Isabelle felt moments before faded away. The mere mention of Vicomte Raphael Dumont eclipsed her mood and sent shivers racing down her spine. She hung her head and massaged the tender skin of her temples, nursing what promised to be a splitting migraine.
“Gah! What’s wrong with you?” Clarice spat, poking Isabelle’s shoulder with her index finger.
Elizabeth huffed and flicked her long, plaited hair over her birdlike shoulder. “Oh, enough about her for once! It’s unfortunately tragic that I won’t be able to go. To the ball, I mean,” she pouted, slinking closer to Papa. “See, all my dresses are tattered and terribly stained. Why they wouldn’t even let me through the door!”
Anger welled inside Isabelle as she examined Elizabeth’s crisp, clean dress. She was taking advantage of Papa’s deteriorated vision; that much was painfully obvious.
“Can’t I buy a new dress, Papa? Just one!”
“Oh, I really don’t know. I—”
“Please, Papa! Courting the baker’s boy shall make me happier than anything in the world! You want me to be happy, don’t you? Maman would have ensured I went, looking my very greatest...”
A protective instinct flowed through Isabelle. Nearly pulsating from her anger and frustration, she clutched the book against her chest and shot onto her feet. “That’s quite enough! There’s hardly money for food, let alone dresses. And Elizabeth—the one you’re wearing could pass as new.”
Elizabeth slinked toward Isabelle, wearing a sneer on her thin, pale lips. Snatching the book away with a shrill giggle, she said, “And when did you get this? Let me guess. When you were out buying ‘groceries’? You’re just a little hypocrite, nothing more.”
“Papa gave it to me years ago. On my birthday, you might recall, had you been around.”
“Why should we care about your stupid birthdays? Everything revolves around you. It’s not fair. Papa’s always favored you, always ensured your happiness.” Tears sprang to Elizabeth’s silver eyes; they looked foreign and cold to Isabelle. They were Theresa’s eyes. “You both are so cruel to us!”
Isabelle didn’t doubt the sincerity of Elizabeth’s words, no matter how twisted and delusional they sounded. Guilt stabbed her as she was reminded of Elizabeth’s young age. Even though they’d only seen fourteen and seventeen years respectively, Elizabeth and Clarice made themselves impossible to love. “Oh, if only Maman were here to witness this cruelty.” Elizabeth spun toward Papa and gave his chair a hard kick. “You—you are glad she’s dead, aren’t you? Go on, admit it: You let her die, right in this room, and now Clarice and I have no one. No one! I shall never forgive you, you old, useless fool.”
“Please, Elizabeth... do try to settle down,” Papa cut in, his thin chest spasming from the force of his coughs. “You know very well I did all I could. The pneumonia was quite past any help. Now I—” Another chain of coughs shattered his words. They sounded thick, dangerously guttural.
S’il vous plaît, Dieu. Not another infection.
“Shh... it’s fine. Don’t unsettle yourself. Hush now, Papa, hush...” Isabelle stood behind him and gently massaged his shoulders until the coughs subsided. Then she moved in front of his body—blocking Clarice and Elizabeth’s paths—creating a flesh-and-blood barricade in front of her beloved father. “What’s the matter with you two? Can’t you see how sick he is?” As usual, her plea fell on deaf ears and stone hearts.
“About as sick as Maman was before the wretch let her die,” Elizabeth said with an unsettling smirk.
Those words cut far deeper than she dared admit; they struck with the audacity of an ice-cold wave.
“The book—may I see it for a moment, my dear, sweet, lovely sister?” Clarice asked Elizabeth with mocked politeness.
“Most gladly,” Elizabeth replied, dipping into a well-practiced curtsy and passing the book along.
“Hand it back.” Isabelle thrust forward and attempted to grab her book. “You are upsetting Papa again.”
Elizabeth shrugged, then tossed the book to Clarice. They made a game of their cruelty, throwing it over Isabelle’s head and baiting her with it each time. Clarice drew backward and flipped through the pages with feigned interest.
She made an elaborate show of clearing her throat, then read from the pages: “‘He therefore turned to mankind with regret. His cathedral was enough for him. It was peopled with marble figures of kings, saints, and bishops who at least did not laugh in his face and looked at him with only tranquility and benevolence. The other statues, those of monsters and demons, had no hatred for him—he resembled them too closely for that.’” Clarice surrendered to a harsh laugh and shook her head. “What kind of senseless melodrama is this?” Continuing her dramatic narration, she strutted over to the hearth and threw the book in the roaring fire.
Horrified, Isabelle rushed past her stepsisters and collapsed to her knees. The flaming hearth immediately drew sweat from her brow and singed her cheeks. Hardly thinking and overcome with anger and despair, she reached into the fire and attempted to rescue her treasured book.
Elizabeth clutched her stomach while her reed-thin body rolled with laughter. “T’es un imbécile! You never were the smart one. If only Maman could see you now!”
Silent and still, Isabelle watched the pages curl and disintegrate into ashes. Then she felt Clarice’s hand on her shoulder and heard her voice in her ear. “My sweet sister... now, you have nowhere to hide.”
Ruillé’s marketplace was an engine of chaos the following morning. Lost within the sanctuary of her private thoughts—grateful to be free of her stepsisters—Isabel
le wandered the unpaved walkways in silent contemplation. This part of Demrov lacked the manicured appearance of Lavoncourt and the other surrounding provinces, which mimicked Paris’s cobbled streets. Indeed, ever since France had adopted Demrov and taken the former kingdom beneath its expanding wing, the island had lost a little of its rustic nature in exchange for Paris’s rising culture.
Yet Isabelle felt perfectly at home. She knew these paths like the back of her hand and could blindly maneuver them without a single misstep. Weaving in and out of the booths and rolling carts, she dodged her fellow citizens and returned their jubilant greetings.
Off to the side, a handsome couple embraced under the bough of an old elm. Isabelle paused in midstride and watched them with an ache in her heart. The gnarled trunk hovered above their hugging bodies, its mass grotesquely deformed and fraught with age. In contrast, the young man looked dashing, clearly in the prime of life. He leaned in close and gripped his darling’s waist, never intending to let go. Beneath an earnest sigh, he whispered sweet nothings and peppered kisses upon her brow. The wind carried her heartfelt laughter as she reciprocated his affection. Ever so gently, he cupped her cheeks and lured her into another timeless kiss. It was a kiss she’d remember for years to come, a kiss that whispered a thousand unspoken secrets. Standing below that monstrous elm, the two of them were shamelessly head over heels in love...
With a reverent sigh, Isabelle tore her eyes away and continued down the path. Years ago, Maman and Papa had read her a certain fairy tale. She’d been only six years old, yet the story of the maiden awoken by true love’s kiss had spoken to something deep inside her. She’d never forgotten those beautiful words, which seemed to have been spun from an unworldly magic. The stories had planted themselves in her heart—and throughout the years, they’d blossomed into a throbbing desire. One, she’d come to realize, that would never be fulfilled.
Although she was a grown woman, Isabelle knew she remained a child in numberless ways. Fanciful. Seduced by pretty stories and romantic dreams. Far too curious and impulsive for her own good. Half the time, she floated on a cloud, which drifted on a horizon that only she perceived—
“Fresh caught oysters, straight from the coast of Demrov!” Isabelle nearly collided into the passing oyster cart.
Snapping out of her inward thoughts, she mumbled an apology, then inhaled and welcomed the crisp air into her lungs. The clamor intensified and reached a crescendo while society awoke for the day. Men and women opened shop, greeting their awaiting clientele. The clatter of hooves and creaking wheels filled the air as phaetons, mail coaches, and even a lacquered carriage whizzed by.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Isabelle! So good to see you again,” a merchant called out as he pushed a cart full of hand-blown glass wares down the dirt road.
Isabelle returned his enthusiastic wave. “Ah, bonjour, Monsieur Reyer! Aren’t you looking well this morning?”
“The madame has no cause for complaints, I suppose.” He turned to her as he passed, wagging a playful finger in midair. “Your father and I never did complete our trade. Let ol’ Bernard know I’m still holding him to it!”
Isabelle pushed back the uneasy sensation, nodded, and then journeyed on again. The town baker rolled his cart, whistling a cheerful tune with his bread rolls still warm and steaming. Without warning, his cart gave a violent lurch and dipped into a gaping hole. Isabelle rushed over as he attempted to pull it free. Despite the overcast weather, sweat beaded down his face in a matter of moments.
“Monsieur Lafitte! Wait—let me give you a hand!”
His wrinkled face brightened at the sound of her voice. He loosened his grasp on the cart and reeled back. Blotting the sweat from his brow, he said in a breathless voice, “Ah, Mademoiselle Isabelle! Stop that now, ma chérie. I won’t stand for it. You mustn’t exert yourself so!”
His portly belly swung as he attempted to aid her. She playfully slapped his beefy hand away. Then she grunted and flashed a strained smile while she released the cart. Brushing her dirt-covered hands against her dress, she said, “There we are! I assure you, monsieur—I’m quite stronger than I look.”
“Well, yes, one can’t argue that.” He adjusted his spectacles, pushing them up a hooked nose. “Say... a congratulation is in order if I’m not mistaken!”
Isabelle gave a small laugh and adjusted her grip on her basket. “For my newfound strength?”
“Why, no, no—because of your engagement, of course! To our very own Vicomte Dumont.”
The words felt like a punch to the gut. She fought to retain her smile, though a quaver rocked her voice. Bowing her face to hide her disdain, she replied, “Oh, yes, how silly of me. Merci, monsieur.”
Monsieur Lafitte edged closer, eying the errant buzz of Ruillé. Several Demrovians yelled greetings to Isabelle; she shifted her feet and returned them with an uncomfortable smile.
Monsieur Lafitte gently nudged her in the side, as if he were about to share a well-guarded secret. “To be completely honest, I never cared for the Dumonts much. I’ve heard, well, unsavory things, to say the least. Didn’t want to believe the whispers.”
Isabelle emphasized with his apprehension. Unlike France, the nobility still held the upper hand in Demrov, though the hold had loosened ever since the rebellion twenty-five years before. And the Dumonts were the worst kind of nobles. Extortion, brutal slave labor, and fraudulent business deals were only the tip of the iceberg. It was common knowledge they’d climbed France’s political ladder through bribery and even bloodshed; in turn, they’d sold privileged information to Demrov’s representatives before turning their backs on their homeland. Striving to see the best in Raphael, Isabelle found his charming demeanor had acted as a blindfold.
Raphael is a decent man, she’d reassured herself each night. A good man. The tales of the Dumonts wrecking lives and building their name off the misfortune of others are rumors built from ignorance and jealousy. Nothing more. The truth had quickly come to light, of course—as did Raphael Dumont’s genuine colors.
Monsieur Lafitte patted her shoulder with a tender touch and smile. The warm gesture extracted Isabelle from her meandering thoughts. “To know you’re to marry the vicomte... Well, the rumors must be nothing more than wagging tongues. I’m sure of it now. And that knowledge gives me hope.”
Isabelle nodded and forced a smile that failed to reach her eyes. Absently she clasped her silver cross and gave the necklace a tender squeeze. “Hope is a beautiful and magical thing. Grasp it tight, monsieur, and never let go.”
“Pretty words from Demrov’s prettiest girl.” He flaunted a charming, toothless grin that caused Isabelle’s heart to melt. Then he gestured her forward again with a sly wink, wheeled around his cart, and lifted the linen sheet with a flick of his wrist. Isabelle had nearly expected him to cry out, “Ta-da!” as he did so. Beneath the checkered sheet, a bounty of fresh-baked rolls glistened in the morning light. Winking again, he placed four inside her basket, his handlebar mustache twitching from the magnitude of his smile. Glancing from side to side, he cupped his mouth and said in a playful, conspiratorial whisper, “A humble gift from me to your family.”
Isabelle couldn’t suppress her laughter. “Merci, monsieur. That is most kind of you!”
“But of course, chérie. Say... how is your father’s health as of late? It pains me that I haven’t seen him for months now. Always rather enjoyed his company and quick wit. I rarely see you anymore, come to think of it. Shame on you, depriving us of your bright face! Now, why is that, mademoiselle?”
The world shifted. Darkened. Isabelle swallowed against the knot in her throat. She inhaled a calming breath, then met Monsieur Lafitte’s eager expression with an enthusiasm she didn’t feel. “Ah, forgive me, monsieur. It’s quite simple. I don’t like to leave Papa alone for long stretches of time, see...” She ignored the first part of his inquiry, not able to confront her worst fear in such a tangible form—refusing to put the reality of Papa’s declining health into words.
>
If I don’t say it, if I try not to think it, perhaps it won’t be true.
Once again, Isabelle allowed herself to slip inside the fabric of her dream world—a beautiful realm of make-believe.
Gathering the sullied hem of her dress, Isabelle sprinted up the dirt road that led to her modest cottage. In the wake of her steps, dust rose from the ground and flooded her lungs. She fanned the debris and covered her mouth and nose with a faded handkerchief.
Then she stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of a grandiose parked coach. The ornate detail and gilded coat of arms summoned a queasy sensation in her gut. Dumont was emblazoned across the black-lacquered door in sprawling script—and each letter deepened her nausea.
Not this morning. Not now.
The blood drained from her cheeks and her heart jackknifed. How she wished the ground would open and swallow her whole.
Monsieur Belmont, a kindly coachman with slick white hair and a set of bushy, tight-knit eyebrows, grinned at her from his perch in the box seat. Then he dropped his chin and lifted his bowler hat with that ever-growing smile. “Ah, bonjour, Mademoiselle Rose! Fine thing to see you again.”
Hesitantly Isabelle returned his smile as her eyes darted across those emblazoned letters. “I must say this is quite a surprise,” she said, pocketing the handkerchief. “I… I didn’t expect Monsieur Dumont this morning.” The stunning team of horses gave amicable nickers, their tapered ears rotating toward her voice.
“Yes, well. You know how the vicomte is—impulsive and erratic.”
You aren’t joking, she sardonically thought; though the coachman seemed to find humor in his words. He tossed his head back with a hearty laugh, then blew into his gloved palms and rubbed both hands together.
“Now don’t tell me he left you out here in the cold?”
He chuckled again and shrugged his hefty shoulders. “Ah, well... it’s not so terrible. I’ve got my girls for company. See,” he said, motioning toward the six striking horses.
Beauty of the Beast (Fairy Tale Retellings Book 1) Page 2