He raised his head. “If there are no more tales today, what is it you have planned for the afternoon?”
“I would like to see your beautiful gardens.”
His stood, his tail flipping once more in the air. “I would like to show them to you.”
Hansel & Gretel
Her face had a hood over it, which was thick enough that if she breathed too quickly she felt as if she was suffocating. Her hands were tied behind her, and her legs were bent upwards, her knees against her chest with a rope to secure her into a tight little package. In this way she was transported; her hands brushed against a wood floor and she knew there was a roof, for she heard rain instead of feeling it. She counted her days by the number of times she was lifted out of what she guessed was a carriage. Her hands and body were then untied and she would spend some time waiting as her body shook and ached and protested before she could walk. Her hood was never removed – instead she was lead to a bush or tree and not even aware if she was watched or not, had to slowly feel her surrounding and determine how best to relieve herself.
Food was given after she had rearranged herself, and she learned to eat slowly to draw out the time before she was required to be retied. Her meal consisted of stagnant water with a hint of sweetness that later made her wonder if she had been drugged, and a slice of bread that was so stiff it broke in her mouth. She wondered if not seeing it made it more palatable or the fact that each time they stopped she was too hungry to care what she ate. Afterwards, she was trussed up once more and set back in her spot. She knew it was night after each meal, for there was no movement, and no one else with her in the carriage.
She had tried to protest the first day, to find out anything of her horrifying situation, but immediately the carriage stopped, she was taken outside, untied and beaten. She tried only once more, a feeble attempt to escape as she reached for her hood and tried to run. There was a glimpse of a tree trunk as the hood was shoved back down, and once more she was beaten, and this time she counted to thirty-two before it stopped. From then on she made no sound, praying only for dreams that would help her escape this nightmare.
Possibly a week later, the carriage went down a road that jostled and bounced her so much that her captor had to hold her down with his arm. He smelled of acrid sweat even through her hood.
They slowed and there was a shout and the barks of dogs as the door slammed shut and she was left alone. It was some time, how much she did not know, when she heard voices coming closer.
“…cannot understand why you brought her here.” This was from a woman, her voice haughty and disgusted.
“You will need to trust me, Rose. I have a plan that will enact revenge while saving you from that fate.” The voice sounded familiar, but her head felt too fuzzy to focus; surely it had not been Mr. Manwaring?
“But what am I to do with her?”
“For now, anything you like. You have been complaining about needing another servant, and here is one handed to you who will never complain of her pay or how much work you give her, because she has no other choice.”
“Hmph.”
The man left, his shoes crunching the gravel, and the door opened as she heard the woman snap, “Barker, untie her and bring her out.”
There was a grunt as familiar hands grabbed her, roughly untying her and pulling her out of the carriage, which rocked at the movement. She was set on the gravel, where immediately she fell, unable to support her weight. A hairy arm grabbed her own shaking arm and hauled her up to her feet. She collapsed again, her face hitting the gravel.
“Oh, dragon dung. What am I to do with her?”
Barker spoke. “Would you like me to stand her up again?”
“No. Leave her. Pull off her hood, though, I want to talk to her.”
Abruptly, her hood was pulled off, her head bouncing back to the ground since she hadn’t been quick enough to hold it up. Something wet trickled sideways across her face, and as she slowly opened her eyes, focused on the woman looking down at her. Her face was so smooth it looked like a mask, with roses for cheeks. Her eyes were a sky blue and her hair was so light that it looked like the silk of ripened corn. She was perfectly exquisite excepting the look of contempt on her face that sat as naturally as if she were born that way. As Helen looked into her eyes, searching for answers, she twisted her lips and spoke.
“When you have decided to get up off your lazy ass, I would like you to scrub yourself. There’s a well at the back of the house. When you’re done with that, I need you to weed the kitchen garden. When you’re done with that, you’ll help Cook. Look sharp now, you hear?” Before she could respond, the woman named Rose turned on her heel and left.
It was some minutes before she felt the feeling in her legs return, the pain flowing through them, building while she clenched her teeth and gripped bits of gravel in her fists. Crawling the short ways to the carriage, she took a breath before pulling herself up using the wheel, praying it didn’t move. It held, and when she stood, she waited until she didn’t feel as though she would faint. Moving forward towards the door she concentrated, one step at a time towards the light. It was midday, she realized, and with it came the warmth of the sun as she raised her head and closed her eyes. More barking interrupted her thoughts and she wondered if she should just lay back down and relish the relative comfort of hay and straightened legs.
Her eyes pulled down and she noticed the well, just across the yard. The thought of fresh water pushed her forward. Soon she was there, grasping the bucket, pulling reserves of energy in anticipation of a long cool drink. Afterwards, she poured a bucket of it over her and stood there dripping and grinning and feeling better.
A slow survey of the yard revealed the laundry, the kitchen garden, the distant orchards, the stables she had come from, and the barn. Clucks from chickens and a snort from a horse meant they weren’t in a city, but she saw no clue to her new home’s whereabouts. The house itself was grand, a brick two-story with a porch and large windows, all with curtains in them.
Making her way over to the kitchen garden, she looked down at the weeds choking the herbs and vegetables planted without a seeable pattern. She warred with herself, for a garden could always call to her, but she still felt the pull to rebel and the desire to escape at the first opportunity. A sound startled her, and she looked up to see Barker sitting on a stump smoking.
“There’s nothing for ages. And even if you thought you could, the punishment isn’t worth it. You wouldn’t walk again, I’d warrant.”
Truth. He never even looked at her as she said this – how could he know what she was thinking? He stood and walked toward the barn, her eyes following him. This was the man who had kidnapped her, she was sure of it, which meant that had been Manwaring’s voice she heard. And worse, Mr. Brown had been right, and she was a part of Manwaring’s scheme. She eyed Barker pensively. She would need to steer clear of this quiet man that seemed without conscience. And she would need to plan. She looked at the garden, her eyes filling with tears she couldn’t afford. She would take the first opportunity, cost what it would. With her chin set, her stomach empty and her eyes clear, she knelt down and began to weed.
The Matchmaker &
the mother
Weeks flowed by as Helen settled into her new home, the promised sanctuary bringing peace to her scarred soul. Story telling became a daily habit, while walks in the gardens were always with Luke at her side. Their conversations came more naturally, and easy silences were only a reminder of their growing friendship.
One morning, Helen looked out the window as Stella held up a cream dress with a scoop neck, shaking it to get her attention.
“Helen, if you want to go outside so badly, you must get dressed first.”
“Oh Stella, I was wondering about those clouds. Do you think they might pass?”
“Oh pish, it’ll never rain today.”
“But how can you, oh do you have a knack for weather?” Helen allowed herself to be dressed.
&nbs
p; Susan came forward with a hairbrush. “She just knows it won’t rain with the mood he’s in, that’s all.”
“I don’t understand. Does he make the weather?”
Susan nodded. “His mood is reflected in it. Took us weeks to figure it out, remember?”
Stella groaned. “All those thunderstorms. That first year we even had a blizzard. In fact, it’s never been so bad, except that time that Gen –” Susan poked her. “Ow! That is the weather is always fairly reasonable, although lately it’s been much sunnier.” The last thought made her stop for a moment, then smile.
Susan rolled her eyes. “It won’t rain today, miss.”
“What did you mean anyway when you asked about his knack?” Stella neatly folded Helen’s nightdress.
“Well I thought you might all have them, but…you don’t have something you just sort of know how to do?”
“Well, sure. When I make a bed, I make it very well.” Stella’s hand was on her hip as she grinned at Helen, who shook her head.
“You are a tease, Stella. You can’t just do something without being able to explain how?”
Susan snorted. “Well, sure, we all want to know how she can keep both Ben and Nate on her hook at the same time, but I’m not sure that’s special.” Stella threw a pillow at her, but Susan only ducked with a laugh.
Stella looked at Helen. “Do you have a knack, Helen? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“Well…yes. But everyone does. At least, everywhere I’ve been they have them.”
Stella and Susan looked skeptically at each other.
“No, I mean it. My brother Paul can tell someone’s intentions, whether they’re good or not. Jack can predict the weather. My father can…” Here her voice broke. “He can build anything, and it will work perfectly. He is an inventor.” Her voice grew smaller.
“And you, Helen? What is your knack?”
“I can tell when someone is lying or telling the truth. I can even tell when they’re holding back part of the truth. It’s not as clear here, though. Sometimes I can’t tell.”
“I expect it’s the curse.” Susan nodded to herself.
“How interesting for everyone to have something they can just do.”
Stella hummed in agreement. “Nate’s never said anything. Ben either, and they’ve both been to town.”
“Have they?” Helen looked up, distracted, surprised anyone could leave.
Susan looked thoughtful. “You know, I expect that’s why you’ve taken to the master so well.”
Stella’s eyebrows shot up. “Of course! Everyone has a hard time, but you’re the best of friends in a matter of weeks.”
Helen nodded. “Yes, it did help, although I’m not sure I would have had the strength in the beginning to run away regardless.”
Stella’s eyes grew bright. “Well, I should love to be able to do something well, better than anyone else.”
“It’s not always better than anyone else, and sometimes they’re not even useful.”
Susan countered. “Yours is very useful.”
“Most of the time.”
Stella frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I knew a man whose knack was the ability to lie and anyone would believe it. His knack didn’t always work on me and mine didn’t always work on his.”
“That must have been frustrating.”
Helen gave a wry smile. “I got very good at reading his expressions.”
Susan saw her face and changed course. “Well, what’s the best knack you’ve ever heard of?”
Helen thought a moment. “There was a woman in a little village near our town who worked as a matchmaker, because her knack was knowing who could be happy together.”
“Oooo! What a lovely one.”
“Did you ever see her match someone together?” They both halted their chores, anticipating a story.
“Yes. Once as a young girl my mother and I saw her in town as we walked to market. She sat on a three-legged stool with a sign that showed her prices. I decided to stop and watch her, for she was haggling with a woman and I wanted to know why.” Helen’s voice changed as she started her story; happy memories were surfacing.
“You see, the woman had come to hire her to matchmake her daughter and a wealthy young man she hoped to make her son-in-law. She was trying to pay her to tell her daughter that they would be happy together. The matchmaker told her she couldn’t do that, for she didn’t know the future. The mother, confused, didn’t understand. The matchmaker explained she couldn’t tell people when they would be happy together, only that they could be. The mother said she was fine with that and pressed her money on her. The matchmaker sniffed and said that just because people could be happy together didn’t mean that they would be, and was the mother willing to pay her regardless?”
Stella and Susan leaned forward, their eyes wide. Helen smiled, caught up in her story.
“The mother was so sure that she ran home to retrieve her daughter, and of course I waited, for I had to know what would happen. When she brought the daughter back, she was grumbling at her, something about throwing herself away on a no-account young man that would never be good enough for her. The daughter was red and grumpy, and when she saw the matchmaker, beseeched her to tell her mother she was wrong. The matchmaker explained, ‘I do not give manipulative mothers advice, only prospective brides’.
The mother, now also rather red in the face, stepped forward and asked her to move it along. The matchmaker looked into the daughter’s eyes, stepped back, and said that she could be happy with her mother’s choice. The mother, now triumphant, went off to find the young man’s family. The girl slumped her shoulders and started to cry. The matchmaker then whispered these words:”
Stella and Susan leaned so far forward that their tower of linens fell off the bed.
“‘You could be happy with him, but you will not, because you are consumed with this other young man.’ The daughter replied, ‘Of course I am. I love him.’ But the matchmaker shook her head. ‘It is not necessarily love.’ The daughter was quick to respond. ‘How can you possibly know that?’ And the matchmaker said, ‘If given time, will it blossom? Or will it shrivel and become the nothing of dust?’ Then the matchmaker packed up her sign and her stool, and left the young girl there to ponder her words.”
It was some moments before the maids realized Helen had stopped, but then the protests started.
“Oh Helen, you must tell us what became of the girl!”
Helen’s eyes wrinkled in response to this new habit of smiling. “I can only tell you what I heard, and it is probably flagrant gossip.”
“Oh please miss…”
“It is rumored that her mother wanted an immediate wedding, but that the girl refused to even be betrothed.”
“For how long? Oh, but she chose at some time, didn’t she?” Susan came around and began working on Helen’s hair, while Stella absentmindedly began to pick up their fallen linens.
“Some say a year, others two. My mother thought she married the wealthy man, and I saw her myself four years later in the market with a marriage bracelet on her right arm, so I know she did finally choose.”
“But who did she choose?”
“Some say the rich man, others the poor man. But I will tell you that when I saw her, her clothes did look well made. And I will further tell you, that she looked happy, at least to inexperienced eyes.”
Susan stopped for a moment, the hair forgotten. “Do you think she fell in love with him then? As time passed?”
“But what of the poor man, do you think she spurned him, or it really was as the matchmaker suggested and a passing whim?” Stella seemed bothered by this.
Helen’s eyes shadowed. “I believe that we make our own happiness, Stella. Perhaps the matchmaker was only gifted at giving wise advice, and the young woman was shrewd enough to take it.”
Susan shook her head and placed a pin in her hair. “Well, you’re ready, miss. Would you care to take a look?” Sh
e turned her toward a mirror that now sat on its legs near her wardrobe.
“Thank you both.”
“Thank you, miss, your story was a wonderful way to pass the morning.”
Minutes later she exited the house and found herself in the kitchen garden. Her smile was quicker to come now, and she leaned down to pluck some rosemary which she held to her nose.
“The kitchen garden is preferable to the roses then?” His husky voice familiar, she turned, her smile staying.
“I have always enjoyed a garden, so these herbs smell of home and happy memories.”
“And is rosemary your favorite?”
“Mmmm. I’m not sure. Basil used to grow on my kitchen sill, and thyme hung from a pot next to the sink. Oh, once my father took me to a market where we found an exotic spice called….” She wrinkled her forehead remembering. “Sin….sin….sin a…..oh, cinnamon! With a ‘c’, I remember!” Her smile was wide in her happy memory, but then it faltered and her eyes became sad.
“But you do not care for lavender?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I do not. My mother died when I was twelve. I wanted to dress her, to prepare her for…burial.” Her voice cracked and she took a breath. “The women in our town took over. I am sure they meant to be kind, but it felt as though they were shoving me aside, telling me I was too young to know what sorrow was.” She looked up to meet his kind eyes so oddly situated in his fiercesome face. “Her casket smelled of lavender and for weeks afterwards it followed me around, reminding me of how I never felt I laid her to rest.” Tears were falling now, quiet but plentiful.
“Come with me.” She automatically followed him, her hand resting on his shoulder despite now walking without a limp. She walked with him past the daisies and cornflowers, the rose garden and its fountain, the sculptures and ivy and hedges, turning down a small path she had not previously noticed. It opened up into a circle fenced in by a hedge, and she gasped.
“This is known as the blue garden.” And it was.
Blue delphinium and larkspur and blue-black iris and lilies and a variety of others she had no name for covered the area. A small path set in stones with creeping thyme bursting between the seams led to the center where a bench sat. She lowered herself on that bench and closed her eyes, the scents overwhelmingly lovely.
The Unbreakable Curse: A Beauty & the Beast Retelling Page 5
