‘You did not mind dressing for dinner?’ I queried, as I passed her the glass.
She glanced down at the fine fabric of her skirts and said, ‘No. I believe I had a choice tonight, but this was laid out.’ She darted a look at me. ‘You yourself have all your finery on.’
I had never been one for glib flattery and smooth compliments, and now any words I might have said stuck in my throat. I barely managed some gruff, dismissive remark. There was an awkward moment, which I eventually dispelled by asking her how she liked the wine.
‘Very nice,’ she said. ‘Is it your own?’
‘A good question,’ I answered, relieved my person was no longer the focus of her attention. ‘I believe there was a vineyard on this estate once. I had nearly forgotten it.’
She looked surprised.
‘How large is your estate?’ she asked.
‘I think the forest covers what used to be my lands. However, within my gates they exist much as they once did. Although …’ I paused, thinking of my unnatural weather, and the rose arbour grown from nothing in a night. ‘The magic that keeps this place has allowed me to make certain changes.’
‘I see,’ she said, and I could not tell what she was thinking.
‘Do you like my grounds?’ I asked, fishing for a way to continue our conversation.
‘Yes,’ she said, turning to face me. ‘They are extraordinarily beautiful. I am afraid I have spent the entire day lying in the sun in your orchard and eating the fruit off the trees.’
The picture this formed in my mind was entirely charming. My pleasure must have been evident on my face, for she smiled. A little tight at the edges, perhaps, but still, I had made her smile.
‘I should thank you,’ she said. ‘Today, at least, was a true holiday for me. I have not had such time to myself for … many months.’
I had to swallow my surprise. ‘I am glad,’ I managed to respond, ‘you found such pleasure in my gardens.’ I could not tell her how relieved I was she had not spent the day weeping in her room, or running from me in mortal terror, which is what I had feared would happen.
She seemed to notice my discomfort, for she placed her empty wine glass back on the small table, and said to me, ‘Well, I am hungry. Shall we go in to eat?’
I agreed, and would have offered her my arm, but I could not face the possibility of rejection in case she could not bear to be near me. I settled for holding the door open for her, and breathing in the scent of wisteria she carried with her as she brushed past me into the dining room.
The meal served up that evening was a little different to what I would normally have eaten and I wondered if this reflected her preferences after all. I had momentary nightmares of lobster, still in its shell, but I was relieved to find none of it required any unusual dexterity to eat.
Our conversation stalled for a while as we ate, but eventually when the silence grew protracted I asked another question preying on my mind.
‘You do not mind the solitude?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘not at all.’
I looked at her in surprise. At this point, I could not imagine the kind of solitude I had to offer being anything but a burden. She saw my expression and gave a wry smile.
‘As the youngest of three sisters, I have the ill fortune to combine the worst traits of both of my elder siblings, without any of their redeeming virtues,’ she explained. ‘Like my eldest sister, I am solitary, but where Marie is studious, I am idle. Claude is idle, but her pretty, open manners make her a delight in company and somewhat sought after.’ Isabeau laid her spoon down on her plate and stared at her meal in a way that made me think she had forgotten I was present.
‘We used to live in Rouen,’ she said, ‘but it was too busy for me. I never felt at home, there.’ She blinked and came back to herself, snatching up her spoon and turning her eyes back down to her meal.
‘You lived in Rouen?’ I enquired. ‘You are not from your village?’ For an answer she shook her head and quickly took another mouthful. I swallowed my curiosity; it appeared this was a tender subject. Still, she had given me several morsels to treasure: the names of her sisters and her descriptions of their personalities. None of which threw any light on what I had witnessed that morning.
I ate in silence for a few minutes, to allow her to regain her composure. After the dessert arrived I asked, ‘So if you are both solitary and idle, what is it you like to do?’ She looked up at me and her mouth twisted into another brief smile.
‘I read a little, but only for pleasure I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘I do not do critiques and translations and essays, and I prefer a good story to anything philosophical. I am fond of music and I play several instruments. But again my unstudious nature is against me and my talent is strictly mediocre.’ She sighed heavily, and I sensed she was used to comparing her own achievements and virtues against those of her sisters.
‘I did keep several pets.’ She smiled at the memory, but my heart sank at this information, as I knew the only animals that dared to set foot in my forest or my grounds were the kinds of creatures one did not try to tame.
‘In the city I had quite a collection. Two funny little dogs, a cat, a bird, even a darling monkey …’ Her face grew sad again for a moment. ‘But I had to leave them all behind when we came to the country. I hadn’t had time to make many friends at our new house.’ She smiled sadly. ‘I had begun to put seed out for the birds, and milk for the hedgehogs.’
‘I am very sorry,’ I said heavily. ‘You will find no other animals here. Only myself.’
She frowned at me. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘A very long time ago,’ I told her, biting down on my shame, ‘I roamed the forest. I was a very angry beast and those animals I did not kill for food I terrorised. No animal has dared enter my forest or my grounds since. Even the birds shun this place. You will find only mice and crows here.’
She looked at me thoughtfully and took another spoonful of sorbet. She ate it slowly, then said, ‘Well, your reputation wanes. I saw rabbits skipping on the lawns today. It seems they have followed my father’s example and are returning.’
My mouth gaped open and my spoon fell with a clatter into the crystal dish. Before I could digest this news or compose myself, she asked another question that sent a new jolt of surprise through me.
‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘do you really class yourself among the animals? Surely you believe yourself to be something more?’ This question caught my heart painfully in my chest and the misery of my beastly form rose up and choked me.
‘Can you ask me that?’ I said roughly, unable to keep the pain out of my voice. It was her turn to look startled. In my distraction, I rose from my seat and leaned across the table towards her. ‘You can barely look at me. Tell me, Isabeau, could you pledge to spend your life with such a one as I? Could you marry me, Isabeau?’ At my question she recoiled, shrinking back, away from me.
‘Oh no,’ she said in the most horrified tone of voice. It was like a bucket of cold water over me. Instantly I remembered myself and backed away from her. In that moment she too realised what she had said and put her hands over her mouth. I straightened my jacket and bowed briefly.
‘I am sorry,’ I said formally. ‘I have distressed you enough tonight. I beg you will excuse me. I will trouble you no further.’ I left the room, the image of her sitting pale and straight as a moonbeam locked in my mind.
Chapter VIII
After that unfortunate evening we avoided each other’s company for several days. I kept largely to my study, although there were times when I could not help but follow the warmth of her presence into my gardens. I never came near enough to her to let her know I was there, however.
She spent a great deal of time rambling over the grounds. The rose arbour she avoided. On the occasions when I followed her into the gardens and skulked cow-heartedly in the shadows, I also looked vainly for a sign of the rabbits she claimed to have seen on the lawns. But I never saw so much as prints in
the snow.
Even watching her family in my strange mirror did not divert me as much as I had anticipated. They had obviously lived a privileged life in the city, with servants to attend to all their daily needs. These next few days only showed me their miserable attempts to grow accustomed to doing for themselves. There was not much entertainment to be had in watching Marie grimly scrub floors and dust shelves, and Claude weeping into her mixing bowls and constantly burning her fingers as well as anything she tried to cook.
A kind of tension began to permeate the atmosphere of the house. I was too cowardly to meet with her. I did not want to force my company on her and the memory of her shocked face still burned. She seemed equally as intent on avoiding me. As each day passed, the house itself grew more unsettled. My clothes chests became infested with a plague of tiny, black, voracious beetles and as I dressed each day, my hair was tweaked and pulled, as though a normally attentive servant had become cross and irritable. Clouds of moths began to inhabit the drapes.
It came to a head four nights after the dreadful dinner. I was in my study, trying to think of a way to pass the time. My books no longer held my interest. Indeed, when I tried to read, often as not I found the bindings had deteriorated and I would open a volume only to have the pages spill out across the floor. I had again tried to look in on Isabeau’s family, only to see Claude flee, wailing, to her room with a burned hand (again) after dropping a hot dish. The sight of Marie and their father sitting down to dinner and poking unenthusiastically at the blackened scraps they had salvaged only deepened my gloom. I left the mirror and sat down in my chair, requesting a glass of wine. The wine splashed untidily into the glass, as I had never seen it do before. I drank it and requested another. This time the bottle upended itself over the glass, the glass overflowed and I was left staring as a great dark stain spread over the carpet. There was a deep silence, as of a servant shocked at their own outburst. I had a sense of someone holding their breath, waiting.
‘Very well!’ I said wearily, holding up my paw to placate the air. ‘I promise I will speak to her tomorrow.’
The next morning Isabeau stayed in her room longer than usual and I wondered if she was growing bored of spending time in the gardens. She eventually emerged, however, and I contrived to meet her at the foot of the grand staircase in the main hall. She stopped halfway down the stairs when she saw me, then came on more slowly, her face flushed. When she drew close, I could see her eyes were reddened. She answered my good morning, then said in a low, troubled voice, ‘Beast, I must apologise for my thoughtless words the other night. I fear they must have hurt you terribly.’
‘Please do not think of it,’ I said, in a hurry to make my own apology. ‘It is I who must apologise. My manners have grown sadly lacking after all these years.’
Isabeau managed a small smile.
‘I will accept your apology if you will accept mine,’ she said. ‘Friends?’
She held out her hand.
For a moment I froze, staring at it. My first instinct was to put my paws behind my back where she would not see my terrible claws and be afraid. I faltered a heartbeat too long.
‘Will you not shake hands?’ she asked a new note of uncertainty in her voice.
‘Of course,’ I said in a rush. Tentatively I offered her my ungainly paw. She took it gently enough, but such a thrill ran through me as she laid her hand on the rough pad that served me as my palm, my very blood seemed to thrum in my veins and it was a wonder I remained upright instead of falling to my knees before her.
She could not know she was the first person I had touched in over a century.
If she felt any hesitation or repulsion as my great hairy paw enclosed her slender fingers, she hid it well. I fear I did not hide my own agitation so perfectly. As her fingers disappeared amid my pelt, my impulse was to clutch at her for dear life. Instead, I held her grip for the briefest moment, then relinquished her hand and bowed.
‘You said you were fond of music,’ I said, putting my right paw behind my back where I could unobtrusively curl it closed around the precious sensation of her warm palm against mine. ‘May I show you the music room? There are a number of fine instruments there.’
Her eyes lit up. ‘If you please,’ she said eagerly. ‘I probably will not do them justice. But what I lack in skill I can promise to make up for in enthusiasm.’
‘I’ve not heard any music for many years,’ I said gravely, ‘so I can promise you I will think your playing the finest I have ever heard. That is, if you will permit me the honour of hearing you,’ I added hastily.
She gave a self-conscious laugh. ‘Of course! It is the favourite wish of every player of mediocre talent to find an audience that can be guaranteed to think they are a great proficient.’
She looked ruefully down at her hands.
‘However, it is some months since I played any instrument, so I am bound to be rather scratchy at first.’
I showed her the way to the music room, and once we arrived, I had to smile. Owing to my inability to use any of the instruments without seriously damaging them, I had rarely come in here. My recent memories of this room were of a dark place, all the furniture and instruments hidden under dust sheets. After the last few days, I had half expected it to be shrouded in an impenetrable curtain of cobweb, or find the instruments had rotted away. However, when I opened the door, it was as though my invisible servants had been preparing for this day a week in advance. The room was filled with sunlight and, to my pleasure, a number of sweet-smelling floral arrangements. Further, every instrument Isabeau ran a lingering hand over was beautifully in tune.
She inspected the harp in the corner, and after drawing from it a few notes of trembling sweetness, she stepped back and said, ‘Now I wish I had paid more attention to my music master.’ She selected a lute from a stand, played a few more notes and replaced it. Then she moved to the virginal. Here she stayed for an hour or more. After a few minutes I went and seated myself unobtrusively in a corner. Mostly she played various scales and arpeggios, and it is true, especially initially, her hands did falter. But I was disposed to be entranced. When she played some pieces she evidently knew by heart, I was transported, despite the scattering of wrong notes. Eventually she closed the lid and looked over at me.
‘I’m afraid I am sadly out of practice,’ she said.
‘It was beautiful,’ I said sincerely.
‘How am I to believe that?’ she asked, sounding amused. ‘I heard myself how poorly I played. And you had already promised to be pleased, so you can hardly renege on your word and give me an honest appraisal.’
‘Have you ever eaten a simple, coarse meal after being hungry all day?’ I asked. ‘If you equate how good such a meal tastes to your playing, you can understand how I enjoyed it.’
Isabeau grimaced.
‘I am happy with the comparison between my playing and a meal of dry bread and salt pork,’ she said.
The next morning, I had to pause at my breakfast to listen to the thread of arpeggios winding its way up to my bedchamber from the music room. The day after that I rose a little earlier and went to stand at the music room door only a short time after she had started. She paused in her exercises when she saw me, and made a wry face at me, but then she returned to her playing without objecting to my presence.
After that, music echoed through the halls of the house every day. Either Isabeau had overstated her disinclination to apply herself to the study of music, or her new situation gave her cause to find in music a way to spend her time. I did not care. She seemed happy for me to sit quietly in a corner of the music room whenever she played, although she never sang if I was in the room. Consequently there were days when I contented myself with sitting in the parlour next door, and creeping quietly away when she finished, just so I might hear her voice. I had never made much time for music in my previous life; however, like so many other things, I welcomed it wholeheartedly when it reappeared in my world after such a long absence.
; Chapter IX
That afternoon, after Isabeau had retired from her initial musical pursuits, rubbing her aching hands ruefully, I returned again to my study. I was feeling as though a heavy cloud had lifted, and I remembered the breath of new magic that had followed my wish for Isabeau’s father’s good fortune. Was it too much to hope his family’s situation had shown some improvement as ours had? I gathered myself and pulled aside the curtain shrouding the mirror. My spirits were not immediately lifted by what I saw.
Marie and Claude sat at the kitchen table in front of a dish of something unrecognisable and blackened. Marie had an arm around Claude and looked tired. Claude had her head buried in her arms and was sobbing.
‘I cannot go on like this!’ she wailed.
‘I agree,’ said Marie wryly, ‘we will all of us starve.’
‘I was not meant for such work!’ She raised her face from the table to stare pitifully at Marie and, despite her apparent misery, I noticed there was markedly more colour in her cheeks than the first time I had seen her. Marie looked at her thoughtfully for a moment.
‘Perhaps we should exchange duties?’ she suggested. ‘I cannot pretend dusting and scrubbing will afford you any joy – they are odious enough tasks. But, at the very least, they do not offer the same opportunity for injury cooking seems to present you with.’
Claude looked at her with tear-stained gratitude. ‘Oh, would you, Marie? But this is such a hateful job.’
Again that wry smile crossed Marie’s features. ‘I would not be sorry to never scrub a step again. At least with cooking one may create something others will enjoy, but no one ever notices a step.’
While Marie had been speaking, Claude was eyeing the gently smoking dish on the table as though she could not credit cookery with being an opportunity to create something others would appreciate. When Marie had finished, however, she shook her head.
‘On the contrary, sister,’ she said, as though Marie had overlooked an important point, ‘at least when you have finished your tasks the house looks nice. That is always a comfort.’
The Beast’s Heart Page 6