Beauty of the Beast (Fairy Tale Retellings Book 1)

by Rachel L. Demeter

  The mood shifted. Darkened. Beyond the walls, the wind howled a grim melody and rattled the nude trees. Branches clawed against the wooden panels and sent tremors racing down Isabelle’s spine. Studying Papa’s pale complexion, she seized his hand. She smoothed her thumb pads across the delicate web of bones and raised veins. He felt impossibly fragile... like he might slip from her reach at any moment. She increased the pressure of her hold, as if the movement might prevent him from ever leaving her.

  “I love you, Papa. More than anything else in this world. You know that? And there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Nothing I wouldn’t do for us.”

  Chapter Two

  “There is many a monster who wears the form of a man; it is better of the two to have the heart of a man and the form of a monster.”

  Jean-Marie Leprince de Beaumont

  The next day met Isabelle with an overcast sky and a wintry breeze. The cold winds had risen seemingly overnight, sweeping Demrov in an icy fist. Isabelle wandered the dirt pathway leading to her cottage at a brisk pace. She clutched a wicker basket against her chest, which she’d filled with the few blooms that had survived the winter. Softly she hummed a lullaby under her breath while a chilly breeze rustled her curls. The flowers’ sweet aromas mingled with the crisp air and helped relieve her tumultuous thoughts.

  Strange, she mused, caressing one of her roses as if it were a priceless treasure. Usually all the flowers have died by this time so late in the season...

  Slipping into her inward fantasies, she turned her face to the frozen air and allowed her eyes to slide shut. The rustling of branches heightened her senses; winter had stripped the trees of their foliage, leaving behind only a smattering of colorful blooms.

  Isabelle exhaled a long breath, opened her eyes, and scanned the row of skeletal shrubs. A burst of color ensnared her attention; she secured the cloak about her shoulders, then halted in front of a rosebush. A single, crimson rose decorated its branches. Isabelle ran her fingertips over the delicate petals. Cupping it in her palm, she leaned forward and inhaled the honeyed fragrance.

  “Whatcha doin’ that for?”

  Isabelle pulled away from the rose and smiled down at little Timmy. As usual, his red curls looked wild and unkempt, and mud and dreck splattered his clothes and freckled face. He really was too adorable for words. She’d imagined her family’s circumstances were quite bleak, yet the sight of Timmy, whose father had died in a reckless duel and whose mother labored in factories almost fourteen hours a day, reminded Isabelle to count her blessings.

  “Oh, bonjour, Monsieur Timmy!” Isabelle plucked the rose and held it out for Timmy to admire. “Isn’t it lovely?”

  He nodded, grinning from ear to ear.

  Isabelle playfully propped a hand on her hip in mock scolding. Gaping and staring down at his muddy grin, she exclaimed, “Goodness! Now, aren’t you a sight? Pray tell, what sort of mischief have you found this morning?”

  Timmy straightened his posture, thoroughly pleased with himself. “I’ve been catchin’ frogs!”

  “Oh, were you now? And in such cold weather?”

  Puffing out his chest with the audacity of a warrior, he said, “I sure was! You oughtta see ’em for yourself.” He swept back a step and positioned his stained hands wide apart. A prideful grin appeared on his face while his eyes sparkled with youthful fire and indignation. Isabelle swallowed back her laughter as warmth spread through her body. Indeed—she saw a bit of herself in the bright-eyed child. “They were this big!”

  “That cannot be.” Isabelle dramatically gasped and pressed her palm to her breast, feigning shock. “I simply don’t believe it!”

  Timmy gave a shy off look as his mud-streaked cheeks visibly pinkened. Grasping his filthy coat, which was missing half its buttons, he wrung the material between blistered fingers and dirt-clogged nails. Eyes fixed on the path below his feet, he murmured, “You can come with me to catch ’em next time, ya know, if you wanna.”

  “Why, of course,” she said with a curtsy, as if she’d been invited to a ball. “I would be most honored.”

  “Oh, boy!”

  “So let me guess... that’s why you’re not bringin’ any back home to your maman?” Isabelle held her hands wide apart. “Because they’re this big?”

  Timmy glanced down and kicked at the dirt path with his toe. “Non. See, Mama don’t like ’em too much. Says ‘they’re ugly as sin.’ And they ‘spread warts like the devil’s plague.’ Well, I think they’re jus’ beauuutiful!”

  Isabelle let go of her laughter. The release felt liberating, and a heavy weight lifted off her heart. “I would say so. Back when I was a girl, I used to kiss ’em, you know.”

  “Oh, gross! What’d you do that for?”

  “Why, to find my prince, of course.”

  “Now that’s just silly!”

  “What’s a young maid to do?” Isabelle’s heart warmed from the exchange, and her worries briefly thawed. “Wait... wait a moment...” Narrowing her gaze, she crouched beside him and suspiciously glanced about. Then she signaled him near with a hooked index finger and lowered her voice to a conspicuous whisper. “Oh, no... It cannot be...”

  “What is it? What is it, Mademoiselle Isabelle?”

  “Now, I don’t know for certain, but... I believe something’s hiding inside your ear?”

  She reached behind his head and revealed the rose by a clever sleight of hand. Papa had often played the trick on her when she was a girl. Timmy’s eyes bugged out as she tucked the bloom behind his right ear.

  “Goodness! How’d you do that?”

  “Have I not told you? I have magical powers. Now, you’d better run along, sweeting.” Isabelle came to her feet and glanced at the darkening horizon. “Looks like a storm may be moving in.”

  Timmy tossed his arms around her legs, squeezed them in a tender hug, and then spouted heartfelt good-byes. Left alone with her worries again, Isabelle’s thoughts darkened as she recalled last night’s encounter with Raphael.

  A storm was moving in. And she and Papa had nowhere to hide.

  Papa lounged in his rocking chair, looking anything but comfortable or at peace. Isabelle’s heart stirred at the sight.

  What madness.

  She grasped her basket’s handle until her knuckles drew white. Clarice and Elizabeth hovered on either side of his body and leaned against the rocking chair, causing it to sway back and forth like a wretched seesaw. Isabelle felt a migraine stir to life as they simultaneously shrieked incoherent, overlapping demands into his poor ears. Anguish and frustration were etched in Papa’s brow, though he visibly lacked the energy to fight them off.

  “You’ll make certain it’s silk, won’t you, Daddy? And don’t you dare rely on Isabelle! Ugh! All her taste is in her mouth!”

  “Oh, and pearls! Real pearls. A strand of beautiful, real pearls!”

  “You mustn’t forget the ribbons! Maybe a pair of silver earrings, as well? Please, Papa? And I don’t mean those tin pieces of junk!”

  Isabelle set down her basket and hung the cloak on a suspended hook. She eyed the commotion in red-hot silence, her anger steadily mounting.

  Finally noticing her entrance, Clarice and Elizabeth fell silent and whispered into each other’s ears.

  “Isabelle?” Papa called out, lifting his head from the back of the rocking chair. “Is that you, my dear?”

  “Bonjour, Papa. Feeling better this morning?” Isabelle turned to her stepsisters with a pointed look. She allowed her silence to speak, knowing well that Papa needed quiet—not further commotion. Clarice and Elizabeth begrudgingly stepped away from the rocking chair and studied her with their scrutinizing glares.

  “Oh, yes. Quite better.”

  She studied his labored breathing and trembling hands. He held his head up high, though she could see the effort exhausted him. “Hmm. Is that so? Perhaps I should be the one to judge that.”

  Suspicious of his hearty attitude, she crouched beside his rocking chair while
Elizabeth and Clarice crossed the room to huddle around the basket. Giggling and trading whispers, they took turns removing the blooms and threading them through each other’s mousy brown locks.

  Good. Let them busy themselves with such nonsense.

  “Tell me... when I came in, what was all that excitement about?”

  Clarice and Elizabeth paused their movements and exchanged helpless glances.

  “Nothing that concerns you,” Clarice cut in.

  “Oh, she’s going to spoil everything. I just know it!”

  “Of course she will. She’ll do anything to make us unhappy.”

  Isabelle ignored her stepsisters’ senseless remarks. Scooting closer to the rocking chair, she clutched Papa’s hands and held on tight. His flesh was stretched over a delicate web of veins and nearly translucent. His palms trembled against her fingers, reminding Isabelle of his fragility. His hands had once been strong and sure; now, they were thin and splattered with brown spots. Even his eyes appeared deeper set and more distant, though an inner strength prevailed. She saw the determination in his gaze, could feel it surging through his fingertips.

  “What, pray tell, is going on?”

  “This weekend... it’s the annual Merchants’ Fair. Isn’t that grand?” An impish grin rearranged the wrinkles that embedded his face, making them appear deeper in some places and nonexistent in others.

  The Merchants’ Fair.

  Those words slammed into her like a steel fist. She drew her hands away in stunned silence. Clarice and Elizabeth’s smirks were visible from the corner of her eye—something that escalated Isabelle’s frustration tenfold. “What? How... how can you even think of leaving? Especially when you’ve been feeling so ill! You’ve gone quite mad if you believe I—”

  “Why, it’s tradition! Your mother, God rest her soul, would never forgive us, should we miss a year.” His grin melted away at her blatant disapproval. He expelled a long sigh. Then, in a hushed tone, he said, “It’s our only chance, Isabelle. My last chance. Travelers come from all over Demrov... You know it’s true. It could secure us for months. You might even find what your mother and I had.” His voice dropped to a whisper; Isabelle had to lean forward to decipher the words. “Come now, ma petite. How happy does Raphael make you, really? Is this the life you truly want?”

  That question, the seeming awareness in his voice, took Isabelle by surprise. Perhaps Papa wasn’t as blind as she thought.

  “No, it’s not,” she heard herself answer.

  Her thoughts crawled back to the conversation they’d had the previous night. How much could Papa really see? Isabelle knew her unhappiness was quite apparent; with each passing day, disguising her tears with feigned smiles and empty laughter was becoming more difficult.

  A hopeful thought wriggled in her mind—one she couldn’t shake away.

  This could mean our freedom. Her mind began to formulate a plan—to lay out the groundwork for an adventure that would sweep them away from here and Raphael’s iron clasp.

  “Where? How far this time?”

  “Oh, just off the port, in Le Florin. The journey shouldn’t take us more than three days.”

  A light rain descended from the bruised horizon as Isabelle stood outside the Dumont Chateau. Unmoved by its grandiose beauty, she glared at the impressive monument, examining the ornate buttresses and curved arches.

  The chateau was indeed beautiful, as grand as any palace or castle... and also cold, empty, and bleak. As always, the smooth, pristine stonework inspired no feelings of awe—and the French Baroque cathedral ceilings only roused a sense of claustrophobia. A chill crawled down her spine. The pair of large conservatory windows returned her stare, resembling black eye sockets in a death’s skull.

  Isabelle inhaled a steadying breath. Then she latched on to her silver cross and murmured a silent prayer. After a moment, she reluctantly paced toward the massive front door. Every fiber of her being screamed to return home, to find another way to make this journey. But time was running short and her options shorter still.

  The Merchants’ Fair was the perfect excuse to land a carriage and the necessary funds; she would use Raphael, that cold-hearted fool, just as he meant to use her.

  The brass knocker, which bore two roaring lion heads, seemed to echo her apprehensive stare. Summoning her courage, she grabbed hold of the ugly thing and banged on the hefty wooden door. The knock echoed ominously inside the chateau’s walls.

  A portly footman answered almost at once. He wore his taut expression with as much severity as his tied-back queue. There was no emotion in his strange ashen eyes; in fact, he appeared to stare straight through her.

  She fought back the chill and forced a sweet smile to her face.

  “Bonsoir.”

  “Bonsoir, mademoiselle. Monsieur le Vicomte is presently entertaining company.” The footman smoothed down his fine navy livery before finally meeting her gaze. The lack of warmth she encountered in those eyes sent another chill down her spine.

  “Regardless—I must speak with him right away.”

  A brief silence took hold. The only sounds were the puttering rain and the wind’s low moan as it whistled through the stripped trees.

  “I don’t believe he is expecting you this evening.”

  “I’m sure he shan’t mind. In fact, he may be pleasantly surprised.” The footman said nothing; he simply raised his winged brows and smoothed down his pristine livery again. Her frustration mounting, Isabelle vainly hugged her body and rubbed both shoulders. “If nothing else, surely you can see how cold and wet it is. Now, let me pass, or Raphael shall know the reason why.”

  Those words worked magic.

  Quite defeated, the footman nodded, thrust the door open, and then gestured Isabelle inside the grand foyer. He eyed the medallion floor with blatant disapproval, his gaze tracking the puddles of water Isabelle had brought with her.

  “Oh, my... I apologize for that.”

  He said nothing, merely sweeping forward with an upturned nose.

  Like the chateau’s facade, the ornate foyer was beautiful but hollow. The footman reached for her cloak’s fastening; Isabelle took an unsteady step backward and clasped the material for dear life. “No—no, thank you. I am quite comfortable.”

  The footman’s expression grew more sour if that was even possible, and his already taut skin pulled tighter. His thin lips creased into a disapproving frown. “Very well, then. I shall alert Monsieur le Vicomte of your calling.”

  “Isabelle... why, how fine it is to see you again.”

  An hour later, Isabelle turned toward Vivian Brazin’s light and airy voice. Raphael’s mistress was a vision in lavender lace and billowing damask silks as she descended the winding stairwell like some immaculate goddess. Yet her green eyes appeared cold, sharp, calculating. An abundance of red curls was swept into an elegant coiffure, exposing the pale column of her neck. That hair glowed a vibrant shade of red, burning with cinnamon highlights.

  “Vivian,” Isabelle returned in greeting, if it could be called such a thing, simultaneously lowering her chin.

  Vivian paused in midstride and gave a small, delicate shake of her head. “Madame Brazin,” she said by way of correction. Clutching a lavish fur coat, the footman rushed back inside the foyer as Vivian reached the end of the stairwell. Isabelle bit her lip to stifle her amusement; the foolish man, who was normally so smooth and unaffected, almost tripped over his own feet while he helped Vivian into the ridiculous garment.

  “How unfortunate.” Vivian sighed, petting her coat’s thick fur as if it were a prized feline. “Young ladies simply have no sense of etiquette anymore. Didn’t your papa ever teach you how to address your betters?”

  “Well stated, madame,” the footman said with a sharp nod. “My sentiment precisely.”

  “Alas. He failed to teach you, didn’t he?” Vivian asked with a huff. “A shame. From the sound of his condition, there isn’t much time left for you to learn.”

  Isabelle held her tong
ue and forced back her boiling rage. Silence filled the opulent foyer. She felt the scrutinizing burn of Vivian’s eyes as the woman visibly sized her up and down. Every fiber of Isabelle wanted to shout, Be my guest. You can have your monstrous vicomte. Take him, and go back to France. Instead, she flashed Vivian an achingly sweet smile and met her insipid gaze. Then the woman headed into the night, her challenge still hanging in the air.

  Another hour crawled by before the footman hastily showed Isabelle inside a glittering withdrawing room. Finery surrounded her—an impressive grand pianoforte, a stone hearth, Persian rugs, immaculate wainscoting, gilded mirrors, and an opulent crystal chandelier—yet Isabelle felt like she’d been tossed into a dungeon. Indeed, the rich furnishings were nothing more than a mask, a facade, which disguised a source of evil she didn’t dare contemplate. She eyed the regal Queen Anne secretary while her rebellious nature caught fire. She wondered how difficult it would be to rifle through those lacquered drawers... to uncover the Dumont’s safely guarded secrets and expose them to the world...

  Movement ensnared her peripheral vision and cut her fantasy short.

  Raphael lounged in one of the sleek chaises, sipping on a glass of brandy, his wrinkled cravat loose and hanging. A cigar lay on the nearby end table and infused the room with hazy wisps and a smoky odor. If his appearance was any sign, it wasn’t his first drink of the evening. With her luck, he was already deep in his cups.

  Stonily he stared forward and locked gazes with a hanging portrait. Both men—Raphael and the painted one—looked remarkably similar. Isabelle immediately likened the heavy brows, slick, straight blond hair, and glittering eyes to his father, the comte. Raphael shook his head in silent contemplation before soothing himself with another swig of brandy.

  Then two more.

  At last the footman’s voice split the silence. “Monsieur le Vicomte, may I present Mademoiselle Rose.” The words sounded like a death sentence rather than a formal introduction.