‘Beast,’ she cried out when she saw me, excitement filling her voice. ‘Come with me this instant!’
‘What is it?’ I asked, hurrying forward.
‘Oh, it would spoil the surprise if I told you!’ she cried, and turned and ran out the door again. I hurried after her, the length of my stride allowing me to catch her without difficulty.
‘I have something to show you,’ she said, looking up at me as I drew close. ‘I think you will like it.’ After this she would not say any more, but just shook her head at me, smiling.
She led me into the rose garden. As we entered the gates, she laid her finger over her lips. Then, impulsively, she took my paw in her hand and led me down one of the paths following the wall. A little way along she stopped and pointed with her free hand into a thick tangle of climbing rose. For a moment I saw nothing, then there was a flash of brilliant red and a robin flew out of the briar and up on to the wall. He lighted there and filled the air with a merry trill, before darting off again out of the garden.
‘Stay,’ whispered Isabeau, pressing my hand with hers.
In a short time, we saw him dart back again, this time with his beak full of something that wriggled. He disappeared back into the briar. After a few moments he emerged again and was off to forage for more.
We stood, watching him for some time. I was rooted to the spot, overcome by the presence of something more truly and more deeply magical than anything I had yet experienced in my enchanted house. Isabeau stood beside me, her warm hand clasped in my black paw and together we watched a tiny robin bring home food for his family. Rabbits venturing into my lifeless realm had been one thing. But robins choosing my garden as a fit place to rear their chicks! I was humbled and elated.
Eventually Isabeau tugged at my hand and drew me away. Instead of relinquishing her hold, however, she tucked her arm cosily through mine.
‘Thank you,’ I whispered, as we made our way out of the arbour.
‘I thought you would be pleased,’ she said happily, as we strolled back towards the house.
‘More than I can say,’ I acknowledged gruffly.
Isabeau turned her face up to mine and favoured me with the most enchanting smile.
‘First rabbits, now robins. Your domain is coming alive again, my lord!’ she said, a hint of mischief in her voice.
I assented, but in my heart I wondered whether, if I could not convince Isabeau to stay, the new denizens of my domain would also leave at the year’s end.
Chapter XXVII
After that day, Isabeau did not again give me true cause to worry for her health. If she still preferred to take her morning ramble in solitude, she spent much of the rest of her day in my company. And indeed, to my intense pleasure, she now adopted the habit of passing under my study window at least once during her walk, at which point she always waved to me and waited for me to do so in return.
Her dreams seemed to recede somewhat, although I do not think they stopped. I would sometimes catch her with a wistful, faraway look on her face. Or, if she had been dozing or daydreaming in my presence, when she woke I would see, in that brief moment when a slumberer must reacquaint themselves with the world, an infinitesimal expression of loss cross her face. But, if the sadness that had almost consumed her before remained at all, it was much abated, and was locked away in some secret part of her heart. She clearly did not mean it to trouble her waking hours, so I tried not to let it trouble mine.
Now the weather had settled and warmed away the last vestiges of winter chill, we began to move our reading sessions outside. Sometimes we sat in chairs set up on my terrace, or on the lawns. Then, one afternoon, when the weather began to grow hot, Isabeau came running into the library where I was choosing a book, greatly excited over a marquee that had materialised on our favourite lawn by the house. It had not been my idea, so I, too, was pleasantly surprised by its appearance. It stirred memories of elegant, lazy summer parties from very long ago that, if I did not scrutinise my recollection too deeply, were largely happy. Isabeau also moved her drawing materials out to the marquee. Thereafter, whenever we repaired there, its comfort was augmented with lavish floral arrangements – which Isabeau usually dismembered to find the objects she wished to sketch that day. I would lie back in my chair watching her pull them apart, perfectly satisfied.
Sometimes, beautiful as the marquee was, we took our books to one of the orchards and lay in the thick grass under the cool green leaves. I think those times may have given me the closest thing to a feeling of complete happiness I could remember.
The first time I sat down under those twisted boughs with Isabeau, I looked up to see the signs of the bounty to come in the small, hard, green apples still in miniature form and was instantly reminded of my time spent in the orchard as a child.
That Isabeau was there with me now, her back set against the same gnarled apple tree, set those precious hours apart as true havens of bliss. I could even forget at such times that the year must roll on and come winter, I might find myself shut indoors, surrounded by snow and with no one to read to.
Hope was all I had and hope was what I clung to. Happily, there were occasional things – little things – that let me fuel my small flame, although it never grew very large.
One afternoon, we settled down against our usual tree to read that day’s selection. But, soon after I began, Isabeau complained her side of the tree was unaccountably knotty that day and she could not get comfortable.
‘Move over, Beast!’ she begged.
‘On no account!’ I retorted, being in fine humour that day. ‘I am most comfortable. If I move I will end up against the knots and have to go and lie in the grass. And I cannot read to you like that.’
Isabeau flashed me a delighted smile – she seemed to enjoy being crossed every now and then – and went to lie in the grass at my feet. But a few minutes later she was sitting up again, scowling, complaining the grass was full of tussocks.
‘Beast,’ she said winningly, ‘might I lay my head against your leg? You will not mind? I promise not to wriggle.’
Of course, what could I do but capitulate instantly? She rearranged herself with her head against my calf. I completely forgot about the book in my hands and sat simply staring at her in adoration until she turned her face up at me again and said, ‘Much better! This is the softest patch of grass I have ever encountered, I do declare. You make a perfect pillow, Beast. I am ready now – you may continue!’
Somewhat flustered, I managed to relocate my place on the page and began reading, although I have no recollection of what part of the story I related to her that day. After this, Isabeau would often lay her head on my knee as we sat under my apple trees, reading in the dappled sunshine.
All in all, the spring and the summer months passed in perfect contentment, but for one remaining point of tension between us. I mourned that, but as it was of my own creation, I could not resent it. It was, of course, my proposals of marriage to Isabeau.
After she had finally emerged from her sadness, I was at first reluctant to recommence my suit to her so blatantly, afraid she would retreat back into her bedroom and her sinister world of dreams. But then something occurred to remind me that time was not on my side, and I could not hope to win her heart by waiting for it to fall into my lap. In a way, it was again Claude’s Vicomte who inspired me to action.
The night of the Vicomte de Villemont’s summer dance drew near. This promised a rare treat not just for Marie and Claude, but also for myself, as the unknown spectator. René Dufour had offered to bring the de la Noues to the dance. Claude had expressed some misgivings about travelling there in a farm cart, but at the appointed time it became apparent Dufour had made some effort to ensure his passengers’ comfort by sweeping it out thoroughly and providing such luxuries as cushions and blankets for the ladies to sit upon in the back. The cart may still not have approached anything like a fashionable vehicle, but Claude’s relief at not being obliged to hold her dress up out of the way of saw
dust and chicken feathers found voice in such charming expressions of joy, Dufour would have been forgiven for checking to see if he had in fact brought his own carriage and not, by some strange mistake, one belonging to the Vicomte.
My mirror showed me a merry party making its way out past the other side of the village to the Vicomte’s estates. If I was curious to see them, this was nothing to the expression of attentiveness on the faces of Isabeau’s sisters. Dufour, knowing the area so well as he did, was a perfect guide, pointing out various landmarks and halting his cart in several places to allow his guests to enjoy some truly beautiful views.
Marie was most entertaining to watch. René Dufour’s farm lay not far from the Vicomte’s estate, and she tried once or twice to encourage Dufour to talk about his own home. However, it became clear Dufour was making far more of an effort to highlight those aspects of the countryside pertaining to the Vicomte’s estate than his own farming interests. After Dufour expertly used several of her questions as opportunities to talk further about the Vicomte rather than himself, a look of sudden comprehension crossed Marie’s face. She turned a secret, delighted smile upon her friend, who smiled broadly back and gave her a conspiratorial wink. After that Marie was inspired to ask many questions about the exact extent and the particular virtues of the Vicomte’s lands.
Claude, bless her, remained oblivious to the current of amusement between her sister and Dufour, and continued to look about herself in enraptured interest. Their father simply sat upon the front bench beside Dufour as complacent as I had seen him yet.
When they arrived at the Chateau Villemont, the Vicomte himself was waiting upon the steps to greet them. It may be that he did so for most of his guests that evening. However, for this particular party he descended and escorted them personally to the area of his lawns set up for the evening’s frivolities.
It was entirely charming. Lines of paper lanterns on strings delineated the area set aside for dancing, and a merry band of players was set up on a small stage at one end. Around and about the dancing square, trestle tables had been erected and a little further off were tents. Some were well stocked with kegs of ale and boxes filled with bottles of wine. In other tents, platters of bread and cheese and other comestibles were set out. The Vicomte saw his guests seated at a table with a good view of the musicians and then, after renewing his request to Claude to grant him the first of the evening’s dances, he left to fulfil his duties in welcoming other guests.
The Vicomte’s lawns were crowded well before sunset. I marked a number of people who appeared to be other local gentry, but the only lady present who was clearly not a matron looked to be in the advanced stages of impending motherhood. So there was no one to take the least offence when the Vicomte appeared to bid the band strike up and then promptly made his way over to Claude and bowed, holding out his hand. Claude blushed fierily, but let him lead her out into the centre of the square, where they were joined by a crowd of other revellers so quickly her discomfort at being the centre of attention cannot have lasted long.
It was something of a bittersweet exercise, watching the Vicomte’s festivities. The music was lively and well played, and if the dancers were generally more eager than accomplished, their enthusiasm for the sport made them a pleasure to watch. But, of course, it is always more pleasant to participate in such amusements than to watch them from the sidelines.
Predictably, René Dufour led Marie out to dance. Afterwards, there were enough young men hovering about Isabeau’s sisters I did not think either of them would be in any danger of being left without a partner that evening.
After they had danced a number of dances, the last one being quite energetic, the Vicomte approached Claude again as she was being led from the dance floor, flushed pink with her exertions.
‘Mademoiselle,’ said the Vicomte, as Claude’s dance partner retired from the scene with good, if resigned, grace. ‘Would you like to rest for a while? May I offer you refreshment?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Claude with every appearance of eagerness, and away they went to sit by her father. He had not danced at all, but appeared to be very well satisfied with watching his daughters. Most of the other revellers had to line up at the tents to get their meals, however, at the Vicomte’s bidding, a servant brought over platters of food for the de la Noue family. The Vicomte stayed to drink a cup of wine with them, during which he made Claude promise to dance with him again, before he was called away on other duties as the host. Before he rose to leave, however, he leaned forward to get Monsieur de la Noue’s attention.
‘Monsieur,’ he said, having to speak loudly on account of the noise of the music and revelry. ‘I have a matter I would consult with you about.’ Beside her father, Marie went very still and Claude jerked her head around to stare at him in alarm.
‘Of course,’ said Monsieur de la Noue, looking surprised and quite oblivious to his daughters’ attention.
‘It is a business matter,’ Henri clarified.
Both Marie and Claude visibly relaxed.
‘When shall I come to you, sir?’ asked Monsieur de la Noue, still looking puzzled.
‘No, no, monsieur,’ cried Henri above the racket. ‘Do not trouble yourself, I will come to you.’ At that he rose from his seat, bowed and left the group.
‘What do you think he could be about?’ I heard Claude ask Marie, but Marie shook her head, looking almost as puzzled as her father.
After their meal Dufour returned to carry Marie off for another dance and one of the young men from the village blushingly sought out Claude. Monsieur de la Noue was left alone once more. I found myself gazing at him as he watched his daughters and I wished the mirror would show me the dancing. It may have been my imagination, but despite the contentment in his thin face, I still fancied I could see a deep sadness lurking in his eyes and I could not help but feel responsible.
I did not have to sit looking at Isabeau’s father for long. A sound intruded over the gaiety of the Vicomte’s spring dance. Oddly, it was the sound of Isabeau’s virginal.
It was not late. The western sky still held the faded flush of the departed sun. I, myself, had only just finished my own meal, eaten in lonely solitude in my study, while watching the lives of Isabeau’s family. If Isabeau and I had dined together, as we used to do, we would most likely still be lingering over dessert, while I gathered my courage to ask for her hand once again. So my surprise was not so much that she was awake, but that she was in the music room.
Of course I left the de la Noues to their dancing and made my way there. I did not go inside – I wasn’t sure yet if she wanted my company. But I hovered in the doorway.
She was not playing the usual parlour music she most often chose in the mornings. Tonight she was playing lively tunes akin to those being performed by the musicians at the Vicomte’s dance.
She finished a piece shortly after I arrived and although I swear I had not made a noise, she turned towards me with a sheepish smile on her face.
‘Good evening, Beast,’ she said. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
‘Never,’ I said.
She made a droll face and I laughed.
‘I swear I heard music floating through my bedroom window this evening,’ she said musingly, flicking through the pages of music on the virginal before her. I stared.
‘Perhaps there is some country dance being held somewhere not too far away,’ she continued. She looked up at me again. ‘Have you never heard such music floating to you from over the forest?’ she asked.
I shook my head. ‘I never listened for it, at any rate,’ I told her.
‘Well, if you were going to hear it, this is the season for it,’ she said. She put her head on one side and her face grew sad and serious. ‘Whatever did you do here, all alone for so long?’ she asked. ‘Especially at night. I never knew how long an evening could be.’
‘Are you very lonely, here?’ I choked out, more than a little taken aback by her line of thought.
A smile twitched
up one side of her mouth. ‘Not when you are about, Beast,’ she said teasingly. ‘But I cannot be bothering you all the time.’
‘It is no bother,’ I insisted.
‘I knew you would say that, of course,’ she said, turning back to her music. ‘Will you stay and listen to me? We can’t have dancing, I suppose, but I can supply the music.’
I went and sat in my accustomed chair by the window and Isabeau began to play once more. After a few minutes, however, my gaze was distracted from Isabeau by some glimmering light in the garden outside. I turned in my seat to see what it could be. What I saw made me spring out of my chair.
‘Isabeau!’ I cried, holding out my paw towards her. ‘Come quickly!’
‘Whatever is it?’ she asked, stopping in the middle of the piece she was playing.
‘Just come,’ I insisted.
She was at my side in an instant, and with her hand in my paw we hurried through the house, through one of the downstairs salons and out on to the terrace. The moment we stepped through the doors, Isabeau gasped.
‘Oh my!’ she breathed.
Even though I had seen it from above, I was also enchanted into temporary wordlessness. To one side of us, the yew walk marched away towards the boundary hedge, and on the other my bedraggled autumn grove stood. Before us, a green lawn sloped away to the flat space usually inhabited by the marquee that had recently appeared. But now it was decked out in a very similar fashion to the lawns of the Chateau Villemont – only in substantially more lavish style. There were strings of paper lanterns hung upon poles, but these poles were garlanded with ribbons and flowers. Between them, great basins had been placed in which floated tiny candles among a scattering of rose petals and camellias. The space was further decorated with urns of box and ivy clipped into spheres and obelisks. On the other side of the dance floor stood a tiered marble fountain I had never before seen, the light catching in the falling drops of water.
The Beast’s Heart Page 20