Bella and the Beast

by Olivia Drake

As if to mock her, a gust of wind blew cold raindrops at her face. Bella drew the green shawl up over her head. Wishful thinking accomplished nothing. Dreams wouldn’t fill their bellies.

  A steady drizzle began to fall as she made her way toward home. At least she and her siblings had a roof over their heads. They belonged here, she reminded herself. Papa had been a baronet. Their blood was as English as any of those nasty ladies in the shop.

  Bella had been born in Oxford twenty-nine years ago, though she had no memories of the place. She had been very young when she’d gone abroad with her parents so that her father, Sir Seymour Jones, could pursue his interest in ancient civilizations. Her childhood had been an endless adventure of wandering through foreign lands, finding ruins in jungles, discovering giant statues carved into mountainsides, exploring old palaces from long-forgotten empires.

  Yet always it was England that had captured her imagination.

  By the campfire each night, Mama often had related stories of their native land. She would tuck Bella in at bedtime and describe a gently rolling countryside, a misty green place of forested hills and winding roads where you might spy a princess riding in a gilded coach or a fairy peeping out from a clump of ferns. It had sounded far more fascinating than the turbaned natives of the East or the caravans of smelly camels.

  Now, the cold rain made her shiver. The hem of her skirt grew sodden from the many puddles. Life in England was no enchanted tale. Though the surrounding landscape was indeed lovely, with cultivated fields and pastures of woolly sheep, she had not the leisure to admire it.

  Near the edge of town, she quickened her steps along a dirt lane that was lined with small homes. She tried to boost her spirits by telling herself that it would be pleasant to spend a few days with Lila and Cyrus. She could help them with their chores and lessons.

  As the rutted track meandered past a stand of oaks, Bella came to an abrupt halt. She blinked to clear the raindrops from her eyelashes. Straight ahead lay the house that had been her father’s legacy. The ivy-covered cottage had glass windows and two upstairs bedrooms tucked beneath the thatched roof. Wisps of smoke drifted from the chimney. In the tangled garden, a few yellow roses provided splotches of color.

  But that wasn’t what held her attention.

  Parked by the garden gate was the most magnificent vehicle that Bella had ever seen. The cream-colored coach had fancy gold scrollwork on the door and enormous gilt wheels. A burly driver sat on the high perch, rain dripping from the brim of his tall black hat as he held a team of four white horses. By the cottage door, a footman in a leaf-green uniform stood guard beneath a black umbrella.

  Bella gawked. The carriage looked as if it had sprung straight out of a fairy tale. But why was it here, in front of her cottage? Had it taken a wrong turn? Then why wasn’t the coachman asking directions of the inquisitive neighbors who peered from their doorways?

  Who was the owner of the vehicle? More to the point, where was this esteemed personage? Inside the cottage?

  Her heart lurched. Had one of the customers in Fothergill’s Fashion Emporium recognized Bella, perhaps from a prior job interview? Had the lady come to berate Bella for her deplorable behavior?

  Surely not. She had seen no one familiar in the shop.

  Then who else could it be?

  Perhaps some calamity had befallen Cyrus or Lila. Perhaps they had ventured into town against Bella’s orders. Lila usually obeyed the rules, but her brother was prone to wandering off to explore the neighborhood. Maybe he had trespassed onto private land. Maybe at this very moment he was being taken to task by some royal grandee. A villain as horrid and judgmental as Fothergill.

  Bella’s fingers briefly touched the hilt of the hidden dagger. Her sturdy half-boots squelching through the puddles, she darted behind the coach and made haste toward the cottage.

  The garden gate opened with a squawking of hinges. Her skirt caught on a bramble as she hurried down the flagstone path. As she stooped to disentangle herself, the shawl slipped from her head and plopped into the muddy garden. Brackish water stained the green yarn.

  Bella rolled the soiled garment into a ball and stuffed it beneath her arm. The white-wigged footman by the door cut his gaze toward her. Though his young features remained impassive, she felt rattled, her nerves on edge.

  She marched to him. “Who is your master? Why are you here?”

  “It is not for me to say, miss.” He stepped to the door and opened it. Then he waited like a marble statue for her to enter the cottage.

  Bella’s anxiety deepened. The visitor must be someone very rich and very important to have such a discreet, well-trained servant. How long had Lila and Cyrus been at the mercy of this stranger?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Chapter 3

  As Bella stepped inside the cottage, the rainy day cast gloom over the tiny entry hall. Ahead lay a narrow stairway and, beyond it, the corridor that led to the kitchen. A lighted candle flickered in a sconce.

  She hastily hung her shawl on a wall hook. Through the doorway to her left, the dining table was littered with abandoned books, as if the twins had been interrupted at their studies. Three wooden crates stacked in the corner held all of her father’s scholarly papers. To her right lay the entry to the parlor where she and her siblings gathered in the evening to read aloud or to review lessons.

  The murmur of voices tugged Bella in that direction. Her fingers on the sheathed dagger, she stopped just inside the doorway. A fire hissed on the stone hearth, warming the room with its scattered chairs and tables. Age-darkened landscape paintings decorated the walls.

  Upon their arrival, the cottage had had a musty aura of neglect. Lila and Cyrus had taken the oversized Turkish rug outside to beat away a quarter century of dust, while Bella had scrubbed every inch of the stone floor. They’d opened all the windows, knocked down the cobwebs, aired out the straw mattresses in the upper bedchambers, and polished the bookcases that flanked the fireplace. They had cleaned until the place took on the fresh smell of beeswax and lye soap.

  Today, however, a trace of flowery perfume drifted in the air.

  Bella’s gaze swept the chamber. In one corner, rainwater leaked slowly into a basin from an unseen hole in the roof. Plop, plop, plop. Then she spied the visitor.

  At a small writing desk, the lady sat on a straight-backed chair like a queen on her throne. A mulberry gown trimmed with lace hugged her slender figure. As she turned her head to regard Bella, the elegant bonnet on her coal-dark hair framed a face of delicate loveliness. She was an older woman, though it was impossible to guess her age, for her skin was smooth and lustrous.

  A charming smile lit up her countenance. Her eyes were a deep violet beneath arched black brows, and despite Bella’s unease, she felt oddly mesmerized. She couldn’t look away. Never in her life had she seen anyone so exquisitely beautiful.

  “Bella! You’re home early!”

  Her brother’s voice broke the spell. Bella blinked to see that Cyrus stood beside the desk, a quill in one hand and a penknife in the other. Heaven help her, she hadn’t even noticed him. His sandy hair was mussed and his shoulders were hunched beneath his blousy shirt, for he hadn’t yet come to terms with the spurt in his height that made him tower over his sisters. At times, his awkwardness could make him ill-tempered.

  Today, however, he appeared more excited than sullen, and the anxiety constricting her heart eased somewhat. Was it possible that he and Lila hadn’t landed themselves in trouble, after all?

  Bella gave him an inquisitive look. “What is going on, my love?”

  “Lady Milford was about to write you a note,” Cyrus said in a tumble of words. “I was sharpening her pen. She’s come from London to call on us. Did you see her coach?” He glanced out the window, his boyish face aglow with excitement. “Isn’t it splendid?”

  “Quite.” Since the visitor didn’t seem to pose an imminent danger, Bella’s fingers fell away from the hidden dagger. Nevertheless, she felt a deep-sea
ted suspicion of this stylish stranger. “I don’t understand. Lady Milford, how do you know us? Why have you come here?”

  The woman arose from the desk and glided forward in a rustle of silk. “I’ll answer all of your questions in due course. In the meantime, I hope you’ll pardon my intrusion. You must be Miss Isabella Jones.”

  Bella frowned. No one ever used her christened name. Where had this lady heard it? “I prefer Bella,” she said stiffly.

  Lady Milford inclined her head in a graceful nod. “As you wish. May I say, Miss Bella Jones, I’m delighted to meet you at last.”

  The lady extended a slim hand in greeting. Bella surreptitiously scrubbed her fingers on her skirt before shaking that pristine, kid-gloved hand. She was keenly aware of the contrast between them, Lady Milford so perfectly groomed, and herself with untidy hair and a belted foreign robe that was soaked by the rain.

  She lifted her chin. “What do you mean, at last?”

  “I knew your father, Sir Seymour, quite a long time ago, before your family left England.” A somber look turned down the corners of Lady Milford’s mouth. “Sir Cyrus has informed me that your father passed away some months ago. Pray accept my sincerest condolences.”

  Bella inclined her head in wary acknowledgment of the woman’s sympathy. How odd to hear her brother called Sir Cyrus. Yet he had inherited the baronetcy. The entire situation seemed very peculiar. What could her scholarly father have had in common with such a frivolous female? “How did you know Papa?”

  “We were acquainted through a mutual friend—”

  Before Lady Milford could expound on the connection, or explain her purpose in traveling to Oxford, they were joined by Bella’s sister.

  Carrying a large tea tray, Lila glided into the parlor. She was so much the image of a pretty English girl that Bella felt a swell of pride. Unlike Bella, Lila had a natural flair for fashion. She was quite clever with a needle and had altered her native robes into gowns that would not look out of place at Fothergill’s Emporium. Today, she wore a dress of spangled sky-blue cotton that fit her slim waist to perfection. Her golden-brown hair was fastened with a blue ribbon that matched her eyes.

  Beaming at their visitor, Lila said in a bubbly voice, “Do forgive me, my lady, the water took ever so long to heat.”

  She set down the tray on the table by the fire; then her eyes widened on her older sister. “Oh, my goodness, Bella! You’re sopping wet! Come, let’s go upstairs at once and I’ll help you change your gown.”

  Bella reached up to smooth her damp brown hair. Half of her longed to tidy herself as a matter of vanity; the other half—her prideful half—resisted the notion of conforming to the standards of a noblewoman. A lingering resentment toward the snobs in the shop only made Bella want to dig in her heels all the more.

  “I’ll sit by the fire,” she said. “My garments will be dry in no time.”

  “But you’ll catch a chill,” Lila argued. “I’m sure her ladyship won’t mind waiting for a few minutes. Cyrus can keep her company.”

  “Be happy to do so,” their brother said, ambling closer to cast a ravenous look at the contents of the tea tray.

  “No, my love, I’m fine,” Bella said firmly, giving her sister a warning look. She stepped to the best chair, the only one without moth holes in the embroidered seat, and motioned to their guest. “Lady Milford, pray sit down. Lila, if you’ll be so kind as to pour the tea.”

  The girl thrust out her lower lip in a pout. But she obediently took up the rose china teapot and began to fill the cups.

  Lady Milford cast a pensive look at Lila before taking a seat and addressing Bella. “Thank you, Miss Jones. I daresay, you strike me as a very practical young woman. So long as you are comfortable, a little dampness won’t matter.”

  “I’m quite comfortable,” Bella affirmed, though the truth was, she did feel rather wet and chilled. She took a chair by the fire, arranging her skirt with its drenched hem to take full advantage of the heat. At least the brown fabric served to minimize any mud stains.

  China clinked as Lila passed out the cups in saucers. Bella added a crumb of sugar and stirred the steaming tea with a spoon. Questions crowded her mind. Had Lady Milford come to call on Papa? It seemed she’d expected to find him here. But why would she think he was back in England after nearly thirty years abroad? And why would she travel all the way from London to find out? Why not simply post a letter?

  Before she could ask, Cyrus lowered his gangly form onto a stool and said bluntly, “How d’you know our father?”

  Lady Milford smiled warmly at him. “Sir Seymour and I met some three decades ago. May I say, with your sandy hair and blue eyes, you resemble him quite remarkably. He was a charming man and an excellent dancer.”

  Cyrus nearly choked on a gulp of tea. “Papa, a dancer? But he was always out tromping the countryside or digging up antiquities—when he didn’t have his nose buried in a book.”

  “Young men can be very eager to please when they’re courting. You see, Sir Seymour hoped to win your mother’s hand. Lady Hannah Scarborough was one of the most sought-after beauties of the season.”

  “Season?” Bella asked in confusion. “Was it winter or summer?”

  “The season is always in the spring,” Lila piped up. She was flitting back and forth, offering paper-thin slices of seed cake. “It’s when the nobility goes to London for parties and balls.”

  Bella glanced at her sister in surprise. “How do you know that?”

  “Mrs. Norris showed me drawings in a fashion book.” Setting down the plate, Lila turned to Lady Milford and explained, “Mrs. Norris is our neighbor. She’s the widow of a vicar, and she used to be invited to a great many parties. She said the ladies wear the most splendid gowns. Oh, how I should adore seeing all those pretty dresses.”

  Cyrus sneaked another piece of cake. “I’d buy you plenty of gowns if only Bella would let me learn a trade.”

  “You know that’s out of the question,” Bella said sharply. They’d had this quarrel many times. Regardless of his young age, Cyrus viewed himself as the man of the house. “You’re to focus on your studies.”

  “Then Lila won’t have any new dresses,” he said with a trace of sullenness. “So she might as well stop looking at pictures of them.”

  Lila wrinkled her nose at her brother. “Don’t be a spoilsport. Someday I’ll go to a ball. I’ll dance the night away.” Her blue skirt swishing, she whirled around the little parlor as if held in the arms of an imaginary partner.

  Bella pursed her lips. Her sister was behaving in far too familiar a manner in front of their guest. Since the conversation had drifted too far afield, she said, “Lady Milford, you claim to have been introduced to our father by a mutual acquaintance. May I ask who?”

  “He was a nobleman who shared your father’s keen interest in antiquities.” Over the rim of her cup, Lady Milford’s violet eyes took on a keen look. “Perhaps you remember him. The Duke of Aylwin.”

  Bella froze with the teacup halfway to her lips. Her throat went bone-dry. Aylwin! The fellow was a duke? She could still feel Papa’s bony fingers clutching at hers as he’d uttered that name.

  “Return to Oxford,” he’d gasped out, his face pale from the ravages of illness. “Promise me. Find Aylwin. Find the map. You have half … the pharaoh’s treasure.”

  His worsening condition had alarmed her. The cholera had struck him swiftly, and she cared nothing for any treasure, only the need to restore him to health. “Please, Papa, you mustn’t strain yourself. Rest now, and we’ll speak of it on the morrow.”

  But there had been no further opportunity for him to elaborate. In the morning he’d been dead.

  “Aylwin,” Cyrus said around a bite of cake, crumbs clinging to one corner of his mouth. “Papa never mentioned him to me. What about you, Bella?”

  She mutely shook her head. Her heart was thumping very fast. She had kept their father’s deathbed revelation to herself. Her brother and sister were only fifteen, a
nd she’d been loath to fill their heads with dreams of treasure maps and a pharaoh’s riches. They had no idea she’d been searching for Mr. Aylwin.

  And no wonder she hadn’t been able to locate the man. Aylwin wasn’t a plain mister. He was a high-ranking aristocrat. What an amazing twist of fate that Lady Milford knew him. Now, Bella had to find out more without revealing her true purpose …

  “A duke!” Lila exclaimed. “Does he live in a castle like a prince?”

  “One might say so,” Lady Milford replied. “Aylwin House in London is as large as Buckingham Palace where the Queen resides.”

  Lila’s eyes grew even brighter. “Oh, my! Have you been a guest of Queen Victoria, too? She looked ever so lovely in her coronation picture! Pray tell, is it true that she’s being courted by a prince from Germany?”

  Bella wanted no more distracting commentary. She set down her cup with a click. “I’m sure Lady Milford didn’t come here to gossip. Lila, Cyrus, do leave us now. I should like a word with our guest in private.”

  Protests erupted from the twins. “But we haven’t finished our tea,” Cyrus complained.

  “I want to hear more about this duke,” Lila added. “To think that Papa never told us he knew someone who was almost royalty!”

  Bella clapped her hands. “That’s enough, both of you. Run along this instant. And kindly close the door on your way out.”

  They continued to grumble, though both reluctantly obeyed. Lila dipped a curtsy to their visitor and then flounced out of the parlor, her nose in the air. Cyrus snagged another slice of cake and followed his sister, shutting the door with a bang.

  The fire crackled into the silence. In the corner, rain dripped in slow plops from the leak in the roof.

  Lady Milford sat serenely sipping her tea, as if unperturbed by the twins’ impolite behavior. Bella wanted to pepper the woman with questions about the Duke of Aylwin. Yet she must proceed carefully. Unlike her siblings, she knew better than to trust the nobility.

  Bella released a slow breath. “I must apologize for their chatter, my lady. It has been difficult to teach them proper conduct while living abroad, among people with different customs.”