Cogsworth ran a finger over a baseboard, inspected it, and paled.
“Dust? No one said anything about dust! I have delicate innards,” he fretted, patting his casing. “Screws, posts, gears—one little speck in the works, and everything grinds to a halt!”
Lumiere wrinkled his nose. “That is so much more than we needed to know.”
“I’ll supervise, shall I?” offered Cogsworth. “To me, ‘dust’ is a four-letter word.”
“‘Dust’ is a four-letter word to everyone,” said Lumiere.
“‘Work’ is also a four-letter word,” said Plumette, under her breath. “Perhaps that is why monsieur strives to avoid it?”
Cogsworth pulled himself up to his full height—all twelve inches of it. “I heard that, mademoiselle!” he thundered.
Plumette shook her feathers and flounced off to dust a chair.
Lumiere put an arm around a fuming Cogsworth. “Look, old friend, I know the library’s in a terrible state, and I know the task ahead seems impossible. But all we need to do is begin. The rest will take care it itself. A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step.”
“Quite right!” Cogsworth declared, barreling for the door. “I say we journey back to the kitchen, find a nice, cozy seat by the fire, and rethink the whole business.”
But Lumiere intercepted him. He hooked his arm through Cogsworth’s and turned him around.
“Belle can’t do this alone. She needs our help,” he said. “The library makes her happy. And we want her to be happy.”
Cogsworth sighed. “My springs will never be the same.”
Belle, overhearing their exchange, felt a stab of guilt. The servants had volunteered to help her at breakfast, but they hadn’t known what they were getting into. While the library hadn’t fallen to the same level of disrepair as the rest of the castle, it was still in need of a deep cleaning—one that Cogsworth didn’t seem to be up to. His gears often got stuck and he frequently threw out his pendulum.
Worried, Belle hurried over to the two servants and knelt down. “Lumiere, Cogsworth,” she said anxiously, “I can manage on my own. You have other things to do.”
Cogsworth, who was already launching into another round of griping, had the good grace to look abashed. He quickly tried to make amends.
“Would it make you happy, my dear?” he asked. “Having the use of this place?”
Belle nodded. “Very,” she said.
“As happy as you were in your village?” he asked hopefully.
“My village?” Belle echoed, flustered by the question. She sat down on the floor. “Well, I didn’t….I mean, I wasn’t….”
How could she tell them the truth? It was hard enough to admit it to herself.
“What’s the matter, child?” Cogsworth asked.
Mrs. Potts heard him. “Is something wrong?” she asked, hurrying over. Plumette followed, her feathers rustling. Even Chip and Froufrou stopped what they were doing and drew close to Belle.
Belle thought about making up an innocent fib or laughingly brushing aside their concern, but when she saw the worry in their eyes, genuine and deep, she knew she could do neither.
“The truth is, I wasn’t happy in my village,” she explained. “Not really. I was happy in my home, of course, with my father, but that was the only place I felt I belonged—there and in the pages of the books.”
“Why, Belle?” Mrs. Potts asked.
Belle took a deep breath. “It was a small place. And the people…well, many of them had small hopes and small dreams. It was hard to find a friend there. There were so few people who understood me. My father did, of course. And Pere Robert, the clergyman with all of the books. And Agathe, a beggar woman. Everyone else thought I was odd,” she admitted, blushing a little.
“You are odd, Belle,” Chip piped up. “But we don’t mind!”
Everyone laughed, even Belle. Only Mrs. Potts didn’t. Instead, she raised a painted eyebrow.
“But Mama, she is!” Chip insisted. “She wears boots with a dress. And reads Latin. And rides her horse like a bandit!”
“Chip…” Mrs. Potts cautioned.
“It’s not a bad thing, Mama. We’re not exactly normal, you know. I mean, I’m a talking teacup!”
A wisp of steam rose from Mrs. Potts’s spout.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Potts,” Belle said. “I suppose to the people of Villeneuve, I was odd. Because I wanted to leave. I wanted to travel and see something of the world.” She smiled ruefully. “And because I liked books more than I liked Gaston.”
“Gaston?” Lumiere echoed, a puzzled expression on his golden face.
“The village show-off,” Belle replied, shaking her head at the memory of the handsome, preening braggart who had practically demanded that she marry him, then nearly fallen over backward when she had said no.
“Reading became my sanctuary,” Belle continued. “I found so much in those books. I found histories that inspired me. Poems that delighted me. Novels that challenged me…” Belle paused, suddenly self-conscious. She looked down at her hands, and in a wistful voice, said, “What I really found, though, was myself.”
Cogsworth, so full of complaints only moments ago, stepped forward and took Belle’s hand.
“And you will find yourself again, child, in this library, if I have any say about it!” he declared, thrusting his chest out.
Belle looked up at him, surprised by the fervor in his voice.
“You have awoken this old soldier’s martial spirit! We shall take back the library from the spiders and the mice! Once more unto the breach, dear friends! Never let it be said that Colonel Cogsworth of the Fourth Hussars backed down from a fight!”
He swiped a rag from the half dozen or so draped over Lumiere’s arm and marched off, head held high, to do battle with the filthy windows.
“Colonel, is it now?” Lumiere remarked. “Last week it was captain, and the week before lieutenant. He’ll promote himself to brigadier general before long.” He turned to Plumette. “Shall we, cherie?”
Plumette gave him a flirtatious smile, and together they attacked the dark corners, with Lumiere shining his candlelight over them and Plumette sweeping them clean.
Mrs. Potts joined Cogsworth at the windows. As she blew steam on the panes, Cogsworth rubbed the dirt away, his small brass arms working furiously. Even Froufrou and Chip helped. At Chip’s request, Cogsworth tied rags to the footstool’s four feet, and the two raced off again, dusting the floorboards as they careened around the room.
As Belle watched them all, a lump rose in her throat. They were all so good to her. So kind. They wanted to help her. To make her happy. To be her friends.
And then there was the Beast.
A storm of conflicting emotions swept through her as she thought of him. He was the reason she was a captive in this dark, remote castle. He was also the reason she was standing in this incredible library.
The Beast wasn’t like the others. Mrs. Potts, Lumiere, Plumette…they were warm and funny. Cheerful. Boisterous. He was difficult. Gruff. Enigmatic. Reclusive. And yet, in his own strange way, he wanted to make her happy, too. He’d proven that last night.
When Belle thought of what he’d done…
It was unbelievable. Impossible. Even now, it made her heart race.
Anyone else would have allowed her a glimpse of his collection. Loaned her a precious book or two. But the Beast, Belle was learning, was not anyone else.
She dunked her mop in her bucket now, squeezed it out, and started to clean in earnest. Unlike the Beast, she couldn’t read, work, or do much of anything in the midst of a mess.
Belle didn’t care if she finished at midnight. She didn’t care if her muscles ached, her back groaned, and her legs wobbled from running up and down the stairs with buckets of water. She thought only about the happiness that awaited her once she finished her task.
For last night, the Beast had given her an unexpected present—a gift more valuable to her than his cast
le and all his lands, one more precious than jewels or gold.
Last night, the Beast had given her his books.
IT HAD HAPPENED AT DUSK.
Belle remembered it so clearly.
“I have a surprise for you,” the Beast had said, in his usual brusque tone.
Belle had just come in from feeding her horse, Philippe, and was standing by the kitchen’s back door, shaking snow from her cloak. She’d taken one look at him—at the scowl on his face, at his clenched paws, at his awkward stance—and said, “No, thank you.”
The Beast had blinked, taken aback by her refusal. His scowl had deepened. “I said I have a surprise for you!”
“And I heard you,” Belle had replied, “but I’ve had enough surprises to last me a lifetime. Including cold, dark cells, packs of wolves, and tantrums.”
“Tantrums? Tantrums?” the Beast had sputtered. “I can’t believe…How can you say…That wasn’t a tantrum! And it wasn’t my fault! I told you not to go to the West Wing. I told you—”
Belle had given him a sidelong look. “You’re right. What was I thinking? You’d never throw a tantrum. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to hang up my cloak.”
Things had been strained between the Beast and Belle ever since she’d gone to the West Wing in search of answers. A single rose had made her a captive, and she wanted to know why. When she asked the servants, all she got were evasive replies. From the Beast, she got nothing at all.
Fine, she’d thought. If no one will give me any answers, I’ll find them myself.
The West Wing was the Beast’s private domain. He’d forbidden Belle to venture there, and such a stern command, issued by such an imposing creature, would have been enough to frighten most people into unquestioning obedience.
But Belle was not most people. She questioned everything and was obedient to only one thing—her heart.
It had been dark in the Beast’s chambers, but Belle’s eyes had soon adjusted. As she’d moved through the once-beautiful rooms, she’d seen that all the fine furniture they contained had been broken; the costly bed hangings, shredded; the gilt mirrors, smashed.
“The Beast did this,” she’d whispered.
She’d witnessed his anger, and knew he was more than capable of upending a table or flinging a chair across a room. Her eyes told her that the terrible destruction was borne of this anger. Her heart, however, saw its deeper cause—despair—and it ached for him.
Belle had continued to walk through the Beast’s rooms, righting furniture, nudging shards of glass into a pile with her foot, looking for her answers.
Here I am, living in a remote castle, in a forest where it’s always winter, she’d thought. I talk to clocks. Joke with candlesticks. Play fetch with a barking footstool. That’s what I do now. This is my life. There has to be a reason things are the way they are here. If only I can find out what it is.
Ruined paintings hung on one wall, among them a portrait of a family: a man with a cold, imperious bearing; a woman with a warm smile and intelligent blue eyes; and a small boy who looked just like the woman.
Another portrait showed a handsome young man—blue-eyed, just like the boy. At least, Belle thought it showed a man. The portrait had been slashed so badly, the subject’s eyes were almost all that remained.
“Who are you?” Belle had thought.
With a defeated sigh, she’d turned to go. She was no wiser than she had been when she’d entered the Beast’s chambers.
And then she’d seen it—a single red rose. It was floating upright on a table, sheltered by a delicate glass cloche. Its head was drooping and several of its petals had fallen to the table. Belle had walked over to it, bent down, and peered through the cloche. As she’d watched, another petal dropped. Mesmerized, she lifted the glass to get a better look at the flower.
That’s when the Beast had discovered her.
“What are you doing here? What did you do to it?” the Beast roared.
“Nothing,” Belle responded.
“Do you realize what you could have done? You could have damned us all! Get out! Go!” he’d raged, covering the rose with his form, upsetting Belle so badly that she’d fled from the Beast, the West Wing, and the castle.
She’d run to the stables, thrown a saddle on Philippe, and galloped out of the stables at breakneck speed. Through the woods they’d sped—straight into a pack of wolves. The vicious animals would have killed her if not for the Beast. She’d tried to fight them off herself, but there were too many. Just when she was certain they’d tear her apart, the Beast had come charging out of the woods and driven them away, but not before they’d wounded him badly.
With the help of Philippe, Belle had gotten the Beast back to the castle, tended to his wounds, and helped him to bed. She’d still been upset, thought, and as the Beast had slept, fitfully tossing and turning, she’d asked Mrs. Potts how he and the other servants could stand by the Beast when he behaved so badly.
“Because he has a good heart,” Mrs. Potts had said.
Belle had given her a look of disbelief. “Are we talking about the same person?” she’d asked.
Mrs. Potts had chuckled sadly, and then she’d sat Belle down and told her the Beast’s story. He had been a prince, the son of a wealthy and powerful man, she’d said. His mother, who was kind and gentle, died when he was still a boy.
“Are those the people in the paintings?” Belle asked. “In the West Wing?”
“Yes, they are,” Mrs. Potts had said.
She went on to explain that the Beast’s father had been a cruel man who’d abused his only child.
Belle had been shocked to learn that, and filled with sorrow. Her mother had died young, too, when Belle was only a baby, but unlike the Beast’s father, her father had been kindness itself.
“How frightened he must’ve been, and lonely, and sad. A poor, motherless boy in the hands of such a brutal man,” she’d said.
Mrs. Potts had nodded, her eyes downcast. “After years of such terrible treatment, the prince grew up to be as callous and thoughtless and selfish as his father had been,” she’d said. “And then one day, he threw an extravagant ball and invited the most beautiful ladies of the realm to attend. In the midst of the dancing, a beggar woman entered the ballroom and asked the prince for shelter from the wind and rain. He laughed at her and told his guards to throw her out. But the old woman was really an enchantress. She cursed the prince, turning him into a beast. She cursed us, his servants, too. And from that day to this, we’ve been like this. Unable to go back to our old selves, and our old lives.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Potts,” Belle said, heartsick for her friend.
“So am I, child. So am I.”
“Is there nothing you can do?”
Mrs. Potts turned her gaze to the Beast. When she spoke again, her voice was faraway. “You have so many questions, child. And who wouldn’t? Let me at least answer your first one: we stay with our master because we will not abandon him twice.”
“Twice?” Belle had repeated. “I don’t understand.”
“We knew how terrible his father was to him, and yet we did nothing,” Mrs. Potts had said, clearly distressed by the admission. “That man was the true beast, and we were too frightened to stand up to him. Our master needs us now as much as he did then, and this time we will not forsake him.”
Belle had pressed. “I want to help you. There must be some way to lift the curse.”
The Beast had groaned in his sleep then, and Mrs. Potts had rushed to his side.
“It’s not for you to worry about, lamb,” Mrs. Potts had said. “We’ve made our bed and we must lie in it.”
The Beast and Belle had traded some sharp words that night, both before the wolf attack and after, and they hadn’t talked much since, which was why Belle had been in no mood for his surprise.
After she’d turned him down, she’d walked through the kitchen intending to find Chapeau, the coatrack, and hand him her cloak. As she did, Cogsworth and Mrs.
Potts exchanged concerned glances. Cuisinier, the cookstove, was so worried, he started to smoke.
Lumiere had hurried over to the Beast. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he’d leaned in close and said, “Might I suggest, master, that you employ a smile and a friendly tone of voice to indicate that this is a happy surprise, and not, say, a trip to the guillotine?”
His words had been spoken in low tones, but Belle had heard them nonetheless. Sound carried in the vast kitchen, with its high vaulted ceilings.
The Beast had cleared his throat. “Belle!” he’d called after her. “I have a very nice, splendid, rather wonderful surprise for you!”
He’d sounded so bright and enthusiastic, so unlike his usual self, that Belle had stopped short and turned around just to make sure that it was really the Beast who’d spoken.
It was. He’d been standing right where she’d left him, smiling at her—or trying to. The expression had more closely resembled a grimace and had made him look even fiercer than he usually did, despite the fact that he’d taken care with his appearance and was beautifully dressed.
He’d been wearing a linen shirt, a ruffled cravat, and a coat made of silk. A pair of fierce black horns swept back from his temples. Fur covered his face and body, and hair like a lion’s mane cascaded down his back. His paws were massive; his claws long and sharp. He was tall and powerfully built.
But the most arresting thing about the Beast was not his size or his strength: it was his eyes. They were not golden like a tiger’s, or deep brown like a bear’s. They were a clear, piercing blue—as deep as a mountain lake, and every bit as unfathomable. Like all wild creatures, the Beast guarded his gaze, wary of making eye contact, of revealing too much.
“It is nice, Belle. I promise,” he’d said. “Won’t you at least come see it?”
Something about his expression, hopeful and helpless at the same time, had softened Belle.
He’s trying, she’d thought. They all are. Should I?
“No yelling, or roaring, or growling…” she’d warned.
The Beast had nodded solemnly. He’d held out his paw.
Belle had stared at it, deliberating. Then, with a nod of her head, she’d taken it.
Beauty and the Beast: Lost in a Book Page 2
