The Beast’s Heart

by Leife Shallcross

  ‘I’m sorry—’ I started to say, but she interrupted me.

  ‘No, please,’ she put out a hand as though to detain me but then drew back with a start. Embarrassed, she made a fist and hid her hand in her skirts. ‘It is I who must apologise for my behaviour last night. I was rude, and ungrateful. I am sorry.’

  I turned back to stare at her in astonishment.

  ‘Please don’t think of it,’ I growled, embarrassed at her belief that she had anything to apologise to me for. ‘You were distraught. It is nothing.’

  ‘You have been nothing but hospitable,’ she replied, addressing the lace on my collar as though she had been rehearsing this speech all night. ‘And I thank you for that hospitality.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘Ah, I’m afraid I don’t know your name,’ I said. I wondered whether I could induce her to look at me again, but an overwhelming consciousness of my hideous face crushed the impulse to try.

  ‘Isabeau de la Noue, sir,’ she said, and dropped a brief curtsey. Her next question caught me unprepared.

  ‘And what am I to call you, sir?’

  ‘I am …’ I started, and then paused. I felt a rush of shame. How could I even think to tell her my name? For so long I had thought of myself only as the Beast.

  ‘I’m just the Beast,’ I said.

  ‘Very well, Lord Beast—’ Isabeau started to say, but I interrupted her.

  ‘No! Not Lord or Sir, just Beast. That is all.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, sounding distressed and frightened. I was instantly contrite.

  ‘No, please forgive me,’ I said, trying to make my beastly voice gentle. ‘I’ve been alone for too long. My manners were never good and I have not used the little I have for many years.’

  Isabeau nodded, but did not look up. She appeared to be chewing her lip. We stood in silence for a few moments.

  ‘Have you been here very long?’ she asked eventually.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, watching for her reaction. ‘I don’t know exactly how long. As long as the forest.’

  She looked straight at me for a moment, too startled to be shocked by my appearance.

  ‘Then it was you,’ she gasped. My confusion must have shown upon my face, for she hurriedly explained. ‘The people in our village warned us against going into the forest.’

  And look what happened when your father did. The words hung between us, unspoken.

  ‘Is your village close to my forest?’ I asked tentatively. Instantly her face clouded over and she looked away.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied shortly.

  Despite my oppressive size, beside her I felt small and mean. I wanted to turn away from her and howl. Again the silence fell.

  ‘Will you tell me about your sisters?’ I asked after a few minutes had passed. She shook her head and it was evident she was finding it difficult to retain her composure.

  I turned away, towards the pavilion. What more did I want of her? I had met her twice, spoken to her twice. Even if I wanted to argue that her family owed me something for sheltering her father from that bitter winter night, she had more than discharged the bargain I had forced upon him. I could not entertain the thought of holding her a prisoner further against her will. She had shown me her courage and compassion in being courteous and civil to a ghastly creature she must surely view as nothing but her gaoler. I had to show myself worthy in some way of the effort she was making.

  ‘I am sorry,’ I said. ‘I am sorry that my actions have separated you from your family. From your friends. Perhaps from a suitor.’

  She gave her head a brief shake. ‘There was no one like that,’ she said without looking at me.

  Some tiny knot, hidden within me somewhere deep and ignoble, loosened.

  ‘Isabeau,’ I said, ‘will you grant me a favour?’

  ‘What favour?’ she asked, half turning to peer into the shade of the pavilion.

  ‘Please, come and sit with me,’ I asked. She quickly wiped her eyes, then came and sat opposite me, looking down at her lap. I sank onto the wooden bench.

  ‘You must think me a monster – from my actions, not just from my appearance,’ I started, and ploughed on before she could respond. ‘I offered shelter to your father, without which he would have died. Then I forced him into bringing you to me.’

  Isabeau made a small noise, but I did not look at her.

  ‘I confess it was nothing but trickery. Had he not brought you, I would have done nothing. I …’ How could I tell her about my dreams that night? It would only embarrass us both. ‘I only wanted to meet you.’

  She drew in her breath sharply and I looked up to see her staring straight at me. I looked down again.

  ‘I cannot leave here. I have tried. The magic here bars the gates to the forest against me. They won’t open for me. Your father was the first person I have seen in many, many years. You were the second. I saw you in his dreams …’

  I dared to raise my eyes again. She was still staring at me, her face a picture of shock and surprise.

  ‘Isabeau, would you stay?’ I paused. ‘I have no right to request this of you. I can only beg it as a favour. Would you stay and talk to me, and teach me about the world?’ I spread my hands helplessly. There was much more I could not ask for.

  ‘Stay?’ she echoed. ‘But, I thought …’

  I watched her realise she was not bound to spend the rest of her life imprisoned in this lonely place with only a beast for company.

  ‘Would you think on it?’

  ‘For how long?’ she asked. It sounded as though she found it as difficult to breathe as I.

  How long? How could I set the term of my one chance of respite from the endless solitude of this curse?

  ‘A year?’ I blurted out, my mouth dry.

  ‘But I can leave now if I wish?’

  I nodded, unable to speak. I could not say any more. I heard my heart beating in my ears again and I heard her draw in her breath and, for the briefest moment, I thought I heard something else, but it was too vague and quick to put a name to.

  Eventually I rose and bowed briefly. It occurred to me she was only waiting for my absence so she could run to the gates. I turned away from the pavilion as though sleepwalking. I was so blinded by despair, I almost stumbled into the reaching branches of a large rose bush, as unyielding as my iron gates and full of cruel, hooked thorns. Utterly bewildered, I plucked uselessly at the canes tangled in the lace of my collar and cuffs, trying to free myself.

  There was a soft cry of ‘Oh!’ from behind me, and a moment later she was there, pushing between me and the rose bush, unsnagging the delicate cloth with nimble fingers. When she had freed me, she guided me onto the path and stepped back, looking up at me in consternation.

  ‘You have truly been alone all this time?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said hoarsely.

  ‘You must be so lonely,’ she said.

  I could only nod. I could not look at her. I could only stare at my feet and will the humiliating tears filling my eyes not to fall. She backed away from me. I thought she was twisting her fingers together.

  ‘A year is not so long,’ she said, almost to herself. ‘They hardly think to see me again at all. Very well.’

  I held my breath, my heart suddenly thundering so hard against my ribs I shook.

  ‘Beast, I’ll stay for a year. I will.’

  I went to my study after I left Isabeau. All at once the world seemed too bright for me, and I needed somewhere quiet where I could reflect on this turn of events. The incandescent joy flaming in my breast was overwhelming – I was almost too afraid to contemplate it too closely lest it somehow burn me up. Why would she choose to stay with me? I could only assume she pitied me – which showed a certain greatness of heart after the way in which I had brought her here. A glass of wine appeared by my chair. As I picked it up, I noticed my hairy hands were shaking once more.

  A year; she had given me a year of her life. And after the year was u
p, what then? Banishing visions of my vast, empty house was easy when for now I could see it filled with the sunshine of her presence. Who knew what would happen in a year, in this place where magic hung thick in the air? I had determined to walk like a man, and my very bones had shifted and stretched, so now I stood upright with no trouble. Perhaps there were other changes awaiting me.

  Chapter VII

  I took up a book I had been reading, and tried to concentrate. Naturally it was difficult, with my thoughts continually flying away from the dry, printed words and towards the living, breathing woman who was somewhere in my domain. I made little headway and was reading the same page for the third or fourth time, when I was once again distracted, this time by a dancing glimmer of light in the corner of my eye. I laid aside my book, a little more tattered around the edges than it had previously been, and stared at it. It was a winking gleam on one wall, obviously a reflection from some shining object. I turned to find the source, and noticed the draped mirror that had appeared on the wall the previous evening. A sliver of the glass stood exposed where the drape did not fully cover it. A sunbeam, glancing in from the window where the curtains were only partly drawn, struck the silver edge and brought its ghostly twin to life on the opposite wall.

  Nothing in this place was random, so I rose and went and stood before the crimson drape. I took a breath and carefully pushed it aside. For a moment I saw my own flinching reflection, then again it clouded. This time, when it cleared, I was looking in upon a small parlour room, sparsely furnished and looking somewhat grey. There was no fire in the grate, only cold ashes. A young woman lay in the one comfortable chair, her hands over her face. As I watched, her shoulders heaved and shook, as though she was weeping silently. A door opened and Isabeau’s father came into the room. He stood, looking at the young woman for a few moments, with a curious expression on his face, part grief and pity, and part bitter frustration.

  ‘Where is your sister?’ he asked, and his voice, while clear, sounded hollow and far away, as though I were listening to him speak from the bottom of a well.

  The young woman raised a wan, tear-stained face to look at him. Her skin was very pale, almost blue, and there were deep shadows under her eyes. She looked thin and ill, wrapped in a thick shawl.

  ‘She is still abed,’ replied the young woman, in a weak, petulant voice. ‘There is no fire, and I have not eaten. There is no breakfast.’ Isabeau’s father closed his eyes and pressed one hand to his forehead.

  ‘Isabeau is gone,’ he said in a voice flat with grief. ‘We will have to shift as best we can, and you and your sister will have to learn to do the tasks that fell to her.’

  ‘She looked after me!’ said the young woman tremulously. ‘She knew I was too ill to do housework.’ She turned her face away and her father sighed. He left the room and for a few minutes I stood watching Isabeau’s sister staring into space with her cheeks damp from crying. A hollow shame crept over me. Had grief at Isabeau’s departure injured this woman so? Or, worse, had she been an invalid, possibly dying, and Isabeau her chief nurse? Would Isabeau’s absence leave her comfortless and speed her death?

  The young woman gave a loud groan.

  ‘Gilles!’ she sobbed and put her hands over her face, beginning to cry in earnest. My horror at the possible consequences of my actions gave way to a new confusion. Was she grieving over Isabeau or someone else?

  Isabeau’s father came back into the room, followed by another young woman. She was older than the first, yet clearly young enough to be another of Isabeau’s sisters. Indeed, both had something of her in their faces. The oldest sister was darker than the others, her mouth set in a hard, bitter line.

  ‘Make a fire,’ said Isabeau’s father, ‘and see what you can do about some food for her.’ He went then, leaving the two women staring at each other. The middle sister gave a quiet sob and looked piteously up at the elder.

  ‘You will not show me kindness, even now,’ she said wretchedly, shrinking into her shawl.

  ‘I cannot see you ever needed it,’ said the elder sister. ‘And you will find none while you lie on your couch and continue to whimper about what is gone and cannot be regained.’ The middle sister sprang up from her couch, the movement belying her apparent lack of strength.

  ‘You do not know what it is like to have your heart broken,’ she cried furiously, more tears spilling angrily over her cheeks. The older sister pressed both her hands to her forehead, the gesture making her look very much like her father.

  ‘No, I do not,’ she said in a dry, resigned voice. ‘But the fact remains, Isabeau has gone, and now we two will have to stir ourselves or we will freeze, starve and die in stinking, unwashed clothes. The Beast’s money may buy us the services of a tirewoman, but we still cannot pay enough for someone to do all the things Isabeau did for love of us. I do not even know where to start.’ She looked at her sister. ‘Pick your chores. I do not care what I do.’

  The glass began to cloud over again and I was left looking into my own eyes. I hurriedly pulled the cloth to and went to sit back by the fire. My wine glass was full again and I sipped it gratefully. What did it mean? At least I knew Isabeau’s father was now safe at home. But her sisters? Was I really the cause of their unhappiness? Neither had demonstrated the profound grief their father had shown, although the middle sister was obviously deeply sorry for herself. There had not even been any particular disgust in the elder sister’s voice when she mentioned my name.

  I uttered a half-frustrated, half-amused sigh. This family had afforded me more diversion in the last few minutes than I had ever found in this empty house in the last however-many years.

  Isabeau stayed almost all day in the gardens. I stayed inside, out of her way. If she changed her mind and decided to run to the gates, I did not want to see it, even though I resolved she would find them open to her. I was almost certain she would – for who would scruple to keep a promise made to a beast? But, she stayed away from the gates, remaining all day in one of the walled orchards. By the late afternoon, I began to be afraid she had developed a horror of my house.

  I noticed the light from my window was turning thick and golden at the same time I became aware she was returning to the house. I resolved to meet her and thank her for agreeing to stay. Perhaps I should ask her if she would dine with me, I wondered. I rose, took a deep breath and straightened my jacket, and stepped out into the hallway. The lamps and candles were only just kindling into glimmering life as the shadows deepened.

  I reached the doorway of the entrance hall just before her and stood to one side as they swung open. She was deep in her own thoughts, walking with her eyes down and her hands clasped about her arms. At my first attempt to speak my voice failed me, and I had to cough. The sound brought her instantly out of her reverie. While she flinched again on looking at me, and her eyes were very red, she seemed relatively composed. For all my attempts at elegance, however, my first words were clumsy.

  ‘You stayed,’ I said, my voice catching.

  She nodded. ‘A year,’ she said, ‘and then I will return home.’

  There was another moment of silence as we looked at each other in the dying light.

  ‘Thank you,’ I croaked. ‘Would you …’ I cleared my throat and started again. ‘I wondered if you would do me the favour of dining with me tonight?’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied politely, ‘I would be pleased to.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I murmured. ‘Please come down whenever you are ready.’

  I bowed again and in response she dropped a neat curtsey. Again I found myself wondering at her family’s background. She and her father showed a distinct gentleness of breeding and her sisters were obviously unused to ordinary housekeeping.

  ‘If you have any preferred dishes,’ I suggested, ‘you only have to make them known to …’ I gestured helplessly at the air.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, not raising her eyes. ‘I will.’

  ‘Until tonight,’ I said. She nodded and I m
oved aside to watch her walk up the staircase. She moved slowly and I was relieved she had not been too anxious to hurry from my presence.

  I dressed as carefully this night as I had for my first meeting with her, even though the unfamiliar clothing now filling my chests still irritated me.

  Eventually I heard Isabeau’s voice calling quietly, but clearly, ‘Beast! I am ready!’ Almost, for a moment, I wished for a mirror in which to check my appearance. I instantly squashed the impulse – a momentary glimpse before and after my observation of Isabeau’s family was more than enough for me in one day. But I was comforted to feel a few last tweaks and plucks from my invisible servants as they straightened my collar and smoothed back my thick, black mane.

  I had decided to abandon the cavernous entrance hall for a smaller, more intimate dining room. It overlooked a terrace that would be the perfect place to meet Isabeau. Here the walls of the chateau were purple with the blossom of an ancient wisteria vine and my magic weather was warm enough for it to be quite pleasant in the evening. I arrived to find the terrace softly lit with tiny lanterns; crystal glasses and a flask of wine standing ready on a small table. The sky was ablaze with winter stars and all that was wanting were perhaps some unobtrusive musicians to complete the scene. But musicians had I none, and there were never even any songbirds in my garden.

  I forgot all thoughts of music as a door opened further down the terrace, and Isabeau stepped out. She, too, had dressed for dinner, and while the dress she was wearing was not as rich as the one she had worn last night, it was very fine. It was made of some pale, gleaming fabric, and in it she held herself like the lady I was sure she had once been.

  ‘Good evening,’ I said, bowing low. She dropped another elegant curtsey.

  ‘I thought perhaps the candles were leading me astray,’ she said, not quite looking at me, ‘but this is very beautiful.’

  ‘May I offer you a glass of wine before we dine?’ I asked, suddenly nervous.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said graciously and waited with her hands clasped in front of her while I poured.