The Beast Queen

by Felicity Partington

  “That must be it. So, did you see him again?” Her eyes were lively, normal. There was a part of Isabelle that envied her. Maggie didn’t remember anything, whilst she was still set on a path which could only lead to damnation. Unfortunately, Isabelle didn’t have the patience nor the mental capacity to talk about Erik. He was the one thing she wanted to get out of her head.

  “Do you have a mop and bucket? I’ll clean up the mud from the hall.” The brunette changed the subject hurriedly. If Maggie was offended by the brush off she didn’t show it, instead, she cheerily left Isabelle and Charlotte to it. As she vanished off, Charlotte dropped her tone and stepped closer to Isabelle.

  “How is your leg this morning?”

  “It’s fine. I can barely feel it.” Isabelle lied. It throbbed terribly, but she preferred it like that. It reminded her that last night hadn’t been a dream. “I made the mess, at least partially, I should clean it up.” Isabelle didn’t wait for approval. If she sat upstairs in her room anymore she might actually lose her mind.

  She walked to the cupboard and stumbled again, tumbling onto the smooth flagstones. Swearing, she sat up and dusted off her hands. She tugged at the skirt and ripped a strip off at the bottom. It was uneven. On one side the dress stopped above her ankle, the other her knee, but at least she wouldn’t trip over again.

  “Isabelle.” Charlotte crouched down beside her, “Is everything okay?”

  “I didn’t sleep very well,” Isabelle confided, meeting the older woman’s eyes. For a split second, she was tempted to unload everything, all of the pent-up emotions which were overwhelming her. She stopped herself just in time. It was only then that she understood the true concern behind the question. “He didn’t come to find me if that’s what you’re asking. I just…” she trailed off. “Can you use that for rags?” She handed the discarded fabric to Charlotte who took it with an amicable nod.

  Isabelle pulled herself to her feet and offered a hand to Charlotte to help her straighten herself. Was there anything more humiliating than getting old and having your body grow stiff and fail you? Once she was sure Charlotte was on her feet, Isabelle finished collecting supplies.

  “She just ripped her dress; it must have cost a fortune.” She heard Maggie whisper loudly. Isabelle didn’t look up; she didn’t have the energy.

  “It can’t be easy, she’s lost her family and her freedom, it will take her a while to adjust. Let’s be gentle with her.” Charlotte answered quietly, if Isabelle hadn’t been listening for a reply, she might have missed it.

  It was the first lenient thing she’d had anybody say about her since she arrived. Isabelle shot her a thankful smile, before vanishing back upstairs.

  Chapter Seventeen

  There was more mud than she realised. Isabelle placed her own foot next to one of Beast’s enormous footprints. She was being pathetic, and she was ashamed of herself. Angrily she dipped the mop into the bucket and then swiped away furiously at the mud. It didn’t do much more than spread the dirt around.

  Isabelle threw the mop to the floor and collapsed onto the bottom stair, holding her head in her hands and trying to control her temper. This wasn’t who she was, she didn’t have outbursts of emotion and she certainly didn’t spend her days moping over a man.

  She wasn’t the girl that sat at home, pining for someone who didn’t want her. She wasn’t the type to stare wistfully at footprints and wonder where he might be now, or to look at the still ajar door of the room in which they last spoke.

  What was wrong with her?

  It felt like her head wasn’t her own. She pulled at the frayed edge of her skirt, trying to cover her knees for the sake of propriety. She needed a distraction, something to focus on, she’d let the pointlessness of her new existence overwhelm her. Of course, the beast would be the only thing that appeased her, she’d convinced herself he was the only important thing here.

  She chewed her lip thoughtfully as her fingers teased the hem of her dress.

  There really wasn’t anything else to do.

  She wanted to talk to Erik.

  She wanted his attention, no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise. But sulking on the stairs wasn’t going to get her anywhere.

  What did she want?

  Erik; consequences be damned.

  So, the question became; how did she get him?

  How did she lure the Beast away from propriety, away from his own morality?

  The same way she did with everybody else.

  Lust, need and desperation.

  Rip. She grinned naughtily. The skirt tore easily, why stop at such a modest length? Isabelle stood and tore a straight line up the stitching of the patchwork, she kept going until the hemline was almost level with the top of her inner thigh, the curve of one creamy buttock easily discernible. Then, she tore it across, ridding the dress of any sense of any excess decency it might have had left. Her legs were free to the world, the swollen, angry scratches making an obscene line, pointing beneath her skirt like an arrow. Isabelle was still smiling.

  She was going to burn for this; might as well enjoy the descent.

  She picked up the rest of the dress from the floor, bending at the waist and beaming indecently from the notion that almost the entire expanse of her smooth legs were on show.

  Isabelle hopped off the step, swept over to the mop bucket and dropped the dress in, swirling it around with her hands, moments later it was on the floor. With a quick, hopeful glance upwards, she was determined not to be disappointed by the empty higher balcony.

  No matter that he wasn’t there to observe her transformation, this floor would take her all day. Only when the floor was drenched, did Isabelle kneel. She slowly leant forwards, warm soapy water slickening her legs. There on her hands and knees, Isabelle took up the sodden vestiges of her modesty and with smooth seductive motions; she traced the pattern of footprints across the floor.

  She continued in this way for what felt like hours until her knees were sore, and her arms ached. It was nice to have something to focus on, a hard task which required nothing more than repetitive actions and determination.

  Lunchtime, she opened the doors so the breeze from outside would dry it quicker, she wasn’t hungry, she didn’t even feel the cold breeze snaking in. Erik had seen her, passed by the door and watched her for a while. Isabelle could feel his presence, but she hadn’t looked at him or stopped her task. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that every part of her had been aware as he stood there.

  When he left, she felt the grasp of his attention fall immediately, like a weight dropping away. She had no idea if her little display had achieved anything. What she did know was that the floor was the cleanest she had ever seen it.

  Other people had passed by. Thomas had dropped something he was carrying; Mr Hands had made a quiet comment that she hadn’t heard properly. One of the stableboys had almost skid half-way across the room having lost his footing. Normally she would thrive on putting on such a show, but not today. Isabelle felt so far removed from everything, it seemed like it was all happening to somebody else.

  “Oh my goodness!” Came the surprised, familiar voice of Mrs Hands. Isabelle’s eyes snapped up, awaiting admonishment.

  “My dress kept getting wet and I couldn’t clean properly.” Isabelle justified pre-emptively.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen the floor this clean in years.” Charlotte seemed entirely oblivious to Isabelle’s dress. “Dinner will be ready within the hour since you missed lunch and breakfast, I thought I’d come and make sure you’re planning on eating today.”

  “I got a bit carried away.” Isabelle explained with a shrug, “I’ll just change, and I’ll be there.”

  “Good. You’ve done a wonderful job Isabelle; you should be proud of yourself. Do you see what happens when you knuckle down and concentrate on the task at hand?”

  Proud, of a clean floor? Isabelle just felt sore.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  When s
he met the others in the kitchen she was wearing a much more appropriate dress, white cotton with a blue pinafore. Though she had left the top few buttons of the square neckline undone, her neck was aching and even the light fabric touching it was too much. Apparently, her dabble with masochism had come to an end, now she just wanted to be able to move without hurting. She would just have to endure the strange looks.

  Isabelle had anticipated the gentle chatter she had come to expect of the others whilst eating, but to her surprise, they were already engaged in a heated discussion. She’d never seen them so animated. Frowning, she sat down and tried to put together bits of the conversation.

  A pack of wolves had ravaged a farm in the city, a few sheep had been killed. Ultimately that was the disappointing cause of all the excitement. It was a problem they’d had at home a lot, Isabelle’s father kept chickens and they’d had awful trouble with foxes and wolves. It was a shame when a few got killed, but it was hardly the enormous tragedy the others were making out.

  “We used to have traps.” Isabelle offered sensibly. All eyes fell on her and she felt a little embarrassed, they probably already had traps and guns aplenty. “Will they be very hard to replace?”

  “It’s not the sheep.” Mr Hands sighed, he regarded her with the utmost condescension, Isabelle bristled. “It’s the principle of the thing. We don’t have wolf problems in our forest.”

  “Everybody has wolf problems.” Isabelle laughed. “They’re pests.”

  “Not us.” He snapped; his seriousness was enough to curb Isabelle’s mirth immediately.

  “How do you manage that?” She asked, tone dripping with feigned attentiveness.

  “The Master has a vested interest in keeping our perimeters safe.”

  “Well, I suppose even he can’t catch every wolf.”

  “No. I suppose not. Especially when he’s spending most of his time inside the castle.” Mr Hands glared at her pointedly. Isabelle picked at the food on her plate and tried not to snap at him, she forced herself to remain indifferent to the conversation.

  His meaning was clear; they blamed her for their misfortune. How deluded were these people? They imprisoned her here, she was held captive against her will, and now they were intimating that she was distracting their pet beast from his duties.

  Was that all their precious master was to them, a guard dog?

  “There’s a meeting at the town hall tomorrow afternoon, we’ll put it right Joe.” Charlotte put a hand on her husband’s arm soothingly. “There’s always something to be done. This isn’t the first time a wolf has slipped through. The Master can’t be everywhere at once.”

  “He could try harder.”

  “Maybe you should suggest that to his face, instead of hiding down here and whispering behind his back.” Isabelle intervened, unable to stop herself. “You probably just have; his hearing is impeccable.” Mr Hands shook his head, ignoring her jibe. “I’d like to see that actually, can I go? To the meeting?”

  “No! You most certainly cannot.” Joseph Hands made it very clear that this was his final word on the matter.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Isabelle was alone in the castle.

  That fact made it seem altogether bigger.

  She had grown so used to the place, strange that not so long ago she had worried she would never find her way around. It took her by surprise how quiet and empty it seemed. It wasn’t like she saw the others often, at most they had brief conversations punctuated by vanishing off in different directions. Apparently, knowing they were there, made a big difference. Isabelle had watched them embark on their road to the city. She’d watched them until they’d vanished from sight, swallowed by the curve of the mountain and the enormous trees.

  She’d told herself time and time again that whatever was going on in the city, it was nothing to do with her. It didn’t make it hurt less, for where else did she belong except here? Isabelle was not one of them, she would never be one of them, she was grateful for that fact, but it increased her homesickness exponentially.

  Isabelle was the problem.

  Alas, it had never been them she had wanted to see, and so knowing that the meeting would be boring, wasn’t helping. She wanted to be where Erik was. The scratches on her leg were healing over now, she hadn’t seen him since he’d created them.

  The logical thing to do would be to escape, now, whilst everybody was away. Without her guards, she could easily sneak from the castle, take a horse and be on her way home before any of them returned.

  The problem with this jailbreak was heartbreakingly simple; the prisoner didn’t want to leave.

  Isabelle wanted more of her captor, not less of him. She was probably losing her mind, her father had books on psychological conditions in which abuse victims fell in love with their captors. She had no idea if that was happening to her, all she knew was that the longing which she felt for Erik hadn’t abated in his absence. It had grown more urgent.

  She needed to find something to do to entertain herself, or she was going to end up thinking herself into a frenzied stupor. Again.

  Isabelle made her way through the kitchens, had a peek in the attic rooms to see where the other girls slept, she even poked her nose into the small cottage next to the stables, where Mr and Mrs Hands lived. It was abysmal how boring their lives all seemed. Not a cushion or blanket out of place. She had already explored Erik’s rooms, and it seemed somewhat perverse poking around in there when he wasn’t around to catch her. There were his parent’s rooms, but that seemed too far over the line, even for her.

  It wasn’t until she walked past the closed door of Mr Hand’s office that an idea occurred to her. She had poured over the library extensively and found nothing about Erik or his family. What if it was locked away? And where better to lock it than the forbidden, private domain of the castle caretaker?

  Isabelle paused for a long moment, debating, surely the door would be locked? Feeling daring, she grasped the beautiful polished handle. It turned without hesitation. Isabelle was surprised, she glanced guiltily down the corridor, half afraid Mr Hands would leap from the shadows to beat her.

  There was nobody there.

  She crept inside. The first thing she noticed was the warmth, the sun was shining in through the window illuminating the mahogany furniture and the thick red carpet. It certainly didn’t look like a caretaker’s office. Isabelle padded across the luxurious carpet. On the wall, there was a portrait of a woman, a very expensively dressed woman. It was old, and the oils were fading because of the sun. Isabelle appraised it curiously. It certainly wasn’t Charlotte Hands, yet it had pride of place over the fireplace, a random purchase, a gift? It seemed unlikely as Isabelle recognised the castle’s great staircase in the background. An expensive, personalised portrait like that would definitely only be done on commission, this was no photograph snapped hastily, or drawing done by an amateur.

  This portrait was painted for that exact spot. Ergo this office hadn’t always been the butler’s. Once it must have belonged to somebody important. Perhaps even to Erik’s father? Did they know the connection between this castle and Erik? How could they, she chastised herself, nobody here knew the truth. To them, the woman was likely just some unknown lady on a wall.

  There were shelves upon shelves of binders and files. She ran her fingers over the thick leather-bound books on the bottom shelf, each embossed with dates, estate accounts spanning hundreds of years. Isabelle picked one from the middle and placed it on the desk, running her fingers over the faded ink. This book was hundreds of years old. Starting at the back she read the signature which signed off the last entry of numbers. J Hands. It seemed that the Hands family had been a rather permanent fixture.

  She flipped back through the book, the numbers made no sense and started to blur. Once that book was done, she grabbed another, holding the pristine volume in awe. This was one older still, over three centuries old. Isabelle began skimming the signatures again, from the back and continued until one made her p
ause. Until then, every signature had belonged to a member of the Hands family but suddenly instead of J Hands it read; HRH. M. Jaques. No introduction or explanation, just that hastily scrawled signature.

  HRH? It was not an abbreviation she was familiar with. Unsurprising, given how old the entry was. Isabelle found nothing to explain it, and so moved along.

  She flipped back a few pages, whoever he had been, his accounts were not as thorough as Mr Hands’ ancestors. Jaques scrawled nearly illegibly, there were crossings out, three-hundred-year-old inkblots, smudges. They were the signs of a careless man, but whilst they told her what he was like, they left no clue as to who he might be. Was he employed before the first Mr Hands? Were these the accounts from when Erik was human? No, Isabelle reasoned, it would be impossible. The entries were written three hundred and twelve years ago, almost exactly. Erik was old, but he couldn’t be that old. Could he? Isabelle closed the book and replaced it, exactly as she had found it, she had a new mission.

  She was looking for any mention of M. Jaques in the other files.

  There had to be something, somewhere.

  At least this was proof that life had changed in the castle, if not for a very long time, it was more than she had learnt before. These were solid facts, not just tales born of frightened whispers, actual proof of life before the beast. If she could find out more about M. Jaques, then she could find out more about Erik.

  Her optimism began to wane as she read through the other tomes. There was nothing personal in any of the books surrounding it. If she’d wanted to study the land ownership of the Kingdom, or memorise the levies and tax rates, this was the place. For anything else, it was coming up short.

  Everything corresponded to properties in the city, rent books, income, expenditure, funding to lords, promotions, demotions, deaths. There wasn’t a single Jaques amongst them. He owned nothing. So, either he was very important, and owned everything, or very unimportant and owned nothing. At this point, it could go either way.