The Beast’s Heart

by Leife Shallcross

  At this Marie laughed. ‘Perhaps our own initial experiences with housework have made the other’s duties seem more attractive. Let us see what we have to say about them when we have been at them for another week.’

  The mirror clouded and shifted, then cleared and I saw Isabeau’s father. He was in his bedchamber, poor, bare room though it was. There was a simple wooden bed behind him, with only one thin blanket thrown across it. He himself sat at a small table that seemed to serve him for a writing desk, lit by a single, smoky tallow candle. Strewn across the desk were a number of letters. He was reading one and, as I watched, he appeared to finish it. He dropped it back on the table and gave a low groan.

  ‘Nothing, not a denier,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘What am I to do? What will become of us?’ He put his hands over his face and said in the bitterest of tones, ‘What a worthy father am I! I should thank that terrible Beast for removing Isabeau from my care!’ He swept up the letters lying on his desk and screwed them into a crumpled ball. Then he hit the table with his fist with such violence I jumped. He sat motionless for a few minutes further, then, with infinite weariness, pushed back his chair and rose and left the room. I was left peering into the dimness of his simple bedchamber. I noticed the saddlebags I had filled for him were lying under his bed, evidently still full. Only one had been broached, and I could see at the top of this bag were the pouches containing the money I had sent home with him. Again, only one of these had been opened, letting out a tiny gleam of gold. My heart grew heavy as I looked. He was a desperate man, but he would not stoop to using the gold I had sent him in place of his daughter. I had seen enough. Self-hatred burned once again in my breast as I stood before the mirror. All the grief I had brought to this family!

  But the mirror had not done yet. The image of the father’s room was now replaced by that of the kitchen again. Claude still sat at the table, but she was no longer weeping. She now leaned her chin on her hand and watched Marie move about the kitchen. Marie was opening all the cupboards and peering inside, looking in urns and generally taking stock of her new domain. She entered the larder, then came out a few moments later looking thoughtful.

  ‘There are eggs, bread, a little butter and some ham left,’ she said, ticking them off on her fingers. ‘There is an assortment of vegetables as well, but I haven’t the faintest idea how to cook them. I think I could manage to boil some eggs and we could toast some bread for our supper tonight. Then tomorrow for breakfast we could eat the ham on the rest of the bread.’ Claude wrinkled up her nose briefly, but said nothing, and on the whole looked relieved Marie had taken charge.

  ‘Now, how long do I boil the eggs for?’ Marie asked herself.

  ‘I know that one!’ said Claude, laughing delightedly. ‘Three minutes! Loussard always used to do three-minute eggs for me.’

  I must admit I was pleasantly astonished. After seeing her for the first time, I could not credit Isabeau’s description of her middle sister. However, watching her face light up as she laughed, I found myself believing that Claude could be charming company.

  ‘Yes, but do I put them in the pot when the water is cold, or when it is boiling?’ asked Marie.

  Claude shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well,’ said Marie, ‘it will be easy enough to find out. I will do one each way as an experiment. Do you think you could manage if I was away for most of the day tomorrow?’ Marie looked across at Claude, who sat up straight in her chair looking curious and mildly alarmed.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘I thought I might go to the inn tomorrow,’ said Marie, ‘and offer my services for the day if Madame Minou would teach me something of cooking. I can at least scrub pans.’

  ‘She has been very good to us,’ said Claude. ‘I think she would agree.’

  ‘However,’ said Marie in a more serious tone, ‘learning to cook will be of limited use if I have nothing to cook with. If only Papa would use some of the Beast’s money. Lord knows we have nothing of our own left.’

  There was a short silence, as though Marie had said something very shocking.

  ‘He says it is blood money,’ whispered Claude.

  Marie considered this, and then shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is. But we need it,’ she said. ‘The landlord must be paid, and we must eat.’ She suddenly sat down opposite Claude and put her hands over her eyes.

  ‘Oh, Claude, I have to believe he is an honourable Beast. I have to believe he is as good as his word. The idea Isabeau has gone to some horrible doom is too much to bear.’ She looked up and her face was stained with tears. ‘I must believe that, somehow, this Beast is our saviour.’

  Claude looked at her gravely. ‘What else do you think he put in Papa’s saddlebags?’ she asked. ‘It cannot all be money. Papa said there was a little food, but there must be other things.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Marie. ‘But we must ask Papa to let us open them.’

  ‘Open what?’ Their father entered the kitchen and both sisters turned to face him.

  ‘The saddlebags, Papa,’ said Marie, firmly. ‘We have so little food left, we need to buy some more. I know we cannot have any of our own money left.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said their father, his face darkening with rage.

  ‘Very well,’ said Marie, and while her voice was completely calm and composed, there was an edge in it that said she would rise to any challenge. ‘Tomorrow I will go to the Crossed Keys and offer myself in service to Madame Minou. Perhaps I can at least earn enough to pay the landlord when he comes for his rent in a fortnight. If she has no need of me, she may at least know of someone who does.’ My heart swelled with admiration. I had no doubt that if her father did not relent, she would do as she said.

  ‘You will not,’ he said.

  ‘I will not starve and be turned out of this home. That is what I will not do.’

  At this her father flinched as though she had slapped him. Something in him seemed to crumple.

  ‘Very well,’ he said bitterly, ‘do as you please.’ He turned to leave the kitchen.

  ‘Papa,’ said Marie, in a much gentler voice, ‘please let us not quarrel. The Beast saved you from the storm. Perhaps he is saving us even now. Perhaps he took Isabeau to live with him in luxury because she has worked so hard looking after us over the last few months. Now it is time for us to look after ourselves.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said again, but his voice had lost its bitter edge. ‘Go into the parlour. I will bring the bags down. We will open them together.’

  The sisters went into the parlour together and a few minutes later their father joined them dragging the heavy bags.

  As I watched them I thought hard about the fine things I had filled the bags with. I now understood the clothes and jewellery I had thought would please them would be completely impractical. I wondered if, at this great distance, I could add to the bounty contained in the bags. Blankets, I thought, remembering the father’s bed, and linen. Wax candles, fine paper and pens and … I waved my hand impatiently. Whatever else they may need.

  Their father reached into the first bag, bringing out the leather pouches full of money. Six in total. Then came the fine clothes I was embarrassed about now. Silk, lace, velvet, spangles, feathers, gold and silver trim, exquisite embroidery soon spilled over the laps of the sisters and across the floor, making something of a mockery of the poor, simple furnishings. Marie turned her eyes to the sky in exasperated astonishment, but Claude looked at the finery with a tender expression.

  ‘I had nothing so fine when we lived in the city!’ she murmured.

  ‘And where, pray, do you intend to wear it here?’ asked Marie. ‘No one has parties and we would look ridiculous should we wear it to church!’

  However, Claude was not deterred from lovingly caressing the fabric, and exclaiming over the decoration. At least, I thought, this gift has warmed one heart. Next came three caskets, each with a name wrought on the cover: Marie, Claude and Isabeau. Marie caught h
er breath when she saw Isabeau’s and Claude put her hands to her throat, but their father put it aside on the mantelpiece, saying, ‘We will leave it for her to open when she returns to us one day.’ Marie and Claude then lifted the lids on their own caskets and both gasped in astonishment.

  ‘Oh my,’ said Marie weakly, lifting out an ornate necklace flashing blue with sapphires. Wordlessly Claude lifted out a long rope of pearls with diamonds at the clasp, followed by matched earrings and a bracelet. More jewellery followed, until it lay in glittering heaps on their laps.

  ‘Well, he is a generous Beast,’ said Claude, eyeing a golden locket as big as a goose egg.

  ‘But not very practical,’ pointed out Marie, echoing my own misgivings. ‘What are we to do with all of this?’

  ‘At least I will have something to wear if he—’ said Claude warmly, but then she bit her lip mid-sentence and was silent. Marie and their father looked at her apprehensively, and she impatiently piled all her jewellery back into her casket and put it on the floor. As she bent down she surreptitiously wiped her eyes, but when she straightened up again, she only said, ‘Well, what is next? A gilded carriage and four? The keys to the kingdom?’ Their father picked up the bag and peered inside it, then shook his head.

  ‘There is no more in here,’ he said, ‘although I scarcely would have believed all of that would fit into this bag. We will see what treasures are in the other.’

  He loosed the ties on the second bag and thrust his hand inside. I could hardly breathe. When he pulled his arm out, he brought out a blanket of fine wool. Marie could not suppress a laugh.

  ‘This is more suited to our needs!’ she cried. ‘Generous and practical. Noble Beast!’

  ‘I should not go so far as that,’ said her father, a warning in the tone of his voice. ‘You have not seen the awful creature.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Papa,’ said Marie, contritely. ‘I did not think, I’m sorry.’

  With a frown their father reached once more into the saddlebag. Five more blankets followed, then three sets of linen sheets. Then the candles I had thought of, two dozen in total, a roll of paper and a soft wallet containing a number of quills and a knife to cut the nibs, another bolt of fine linen, a bound book with blank pages and two more caskets, labelled ‘Marie’ and ‘Claude’. These caskets were much plainer than the first, which had been finely carved and inlaid. Claude opened hers first and found within skeins of coloured thread of wool, cotton, linen and silk; needles, buttons and various other bits and pieces completely unfamiliar to me, but evidently essential to a fully equipped workbox.

  ‘Oh look, Marie! Papa!’ she cried. ‘Now I can make some lovely things for the house!’ She looked beseechingly at Marie. ‘May I have that bolt of linen? Then we can have a tablecloth, napkins …’ Marie looked amused.

  ‘What I would want with the linen, I do not know,’ she said. ‘You were ever the one who devoted hours to embroidery and the like. Of course you may have it. May I have the book? I can use it to write down everything Madame Minou can tell me about cooking.’

  Claude beamed. ‘Of course. Now what is in your box?’

  Marie raised the lid and looked puzzled for a moment. Then she lifted out a few small linen bags and some tiny earthenware jars.

  ‘What …?’ she said in a puzzled voice. Then she opened one of the jars and sniffed its contents. ‘Spices!’ she exclaimed. A closer inspection of the linen bags proved they contained seeds for a variety of vegetables.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘evidently we were destined to exchange our chores. Or at least the Beast thinks so.’ She turned to her father. ‘Is there anything else left, Papa?’

  ‘I do not think so,’ he said, delving once more into the bag. ‘No, wait, here.’ He pulled out a leather workman’s pouch and unrolled it. Inside it were a range of various tools, again, mostly unfamiliar to me.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Now I can begin to make this house habitable.’

  The mirror began to grow dim again and I hurried to pull the drapes across before it cleared and showed me my own hideous face. The mirror had held my attention for the whole afternoon, and the last rays of the sun were painting my study window a glowing orange. I ached all over from standing motionless in front of the glass for so long. More uncomfortable were the varying thoughts and feelings surging through my brain. They liked their gifts. But I was embarrassed to think of them crediting me with the choice of all the items. Blankets and candles, yes, but all the other items? Still, I was relieved to think they would find them useful.

  A glowing warmth spread through me at the memory of Marie calling me noble – she was better disposed towards me than her father, at least. But I winced at the memory of his anger. Could I ever make good what I owed him?

  A note of curiosity remained regarding who might be the mysterious Gilles that was obviously very much in Claude’s thoughts. What part had he played in their lives? Was he likely to come to Claude, as she seemed to very much hope he would?

  Eventually my mind turned towards another, less comfortable matter. Uneasily, I wondered if I should show Isabeau this magic glass. Perhaps it would put her mind at ease to know that, while her family missed her, they were no longer adrift and helpless without her.

  I stared at the velvet drapes uncertainly, my mind filled with the image of Isabeau’s family gathered together in their parlour. What if, instead, seeing them made her more homesick than ever and shook her resolve to stay her year with me?

  Chapter X

  A few days after I showed Isabeau the music room for the first time, I was struck by a brilliant idea as I awoke. Or, at least, I was struck by an idea that, because of its potential to give Isabeau pleasure, I was disposed to think of as brilliant. I decided I would make her a present of some music for her instruments. After a hurried breakfast I repaired to the library; a vast room, or series of rooms, entered directly from my entrance hall. Its walls were lined with bookshelves and the uppermost shelves – two storeys high – were approached from a balcony running around the top of each section of the library. The highest shelves below the balcony were accessed by a number of ladders on wheels – inanimate in my previous life, but now ensorcelled to trundle over to me obligingly if I so much as looked up. On the wall along the front of the house were a number of large windows. All these contained lavishly cushioned window seats and were delightful places to read, although a little cramped for an overlarge beast.

  I soon found the musical manuscripts and extracted those I remembered as favourites. When I had done I turned to see them all neatly tied in a bundle on a nearby table, with paper and a pen beside them. It took several attempts to scratch out an appropriate note making it clear they were hers as a gift, but not (I hoped) sounding desperate for her gratitude, or implying her gratitude was required. I then threw my numerous failed attempts into the fire and sent the package off to be left in her room.

  I had been aware for some time she had left the house, which was not unusual: she generally took a walk each morning. I went over to the window closest to me. I had a view down over the flower-filled parterres and lawns to the high dark hedge representing the limit to which I was allowed to roam. Only the great wrought-iron gate pierced it and the forest loomed over it on the other side. Standing in front of the gate, in a hooded cloak and looking small and far away, was Isabeau. I did not know whether she looked out longingly, or with curiosity, but she made a lonely figure against so many great, tall, dark things. I think that was what moved me to go and join her.

  She was not by any means close to the house, and it took me some time to reach her. She did not turn her head as I approached, yet she must have heard my step on the gravel of the drive, for she raised her hand to her lips and indicated I should be silent.

  I stood close behind her, staring where she watched, into the forest. I could see the road winding back and disappearing behind the fir trees. What few rays of sun penetrated the canopy looked like shards of glass hanging in the air. This close to the hedge
, I could smell the forest, too, cool notes of earth and pine. It was very still.

  After some time I heard a faint, far-off twitter, and she turned to me, her face lit with triumph, and whispered, ‘There!’, as though she had proved a point that had been in fierce contention.

  ‘What was it?’ I asked in a low voice.

  ‘I’m sure it was a wren,’ she answered, peering out into the gloom once more. ‘But I think I heard a lark as well, a short time ago.’

  ‘A lark, truly?’ I asked wonderingly. We stood there in silence for a few more minutes, but no more sounds came forth from the trees. ‘Have you seen the rabbits again?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head, then glanced up at me. ‘Although I can show you their tracks in the snow, if I can find them.’

  ‘I would like that,’ I said.

  We left the drive and walked for some distance along the hedge. I could feel the forest breathing cold at us from the other side. All my grounds were in the grip of winter this close to the forest’s edge, and we walked ankle deep in snow. Eventually Isabeau began to look around intently, and then to bend down and peer into the depths of the hedge.

  ‘I’m sure they were around here,’ she said, and then, kneeling in the snow, ‘A-ha!’

  I bent down beside her to see what she pointed at. Her finger, ungloved and rosy pink in the cold, pointed at a single clear print in the muddled snow. Beside it, caught on a twig protruding from the hedge, were a few fine, soft hairs.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘It would seem your realm is no longer shunned by—’ And to my sorrow I fairly heard her swallow the words ‘other beasts’.

  ‘— the creatures of the forest,’ she continued. I tried to give no sign I had sensed the words she nearly said and we were silent for a few moments.

  ‘Isabeau,’ I said cautiously after a while, ‘you are not still afraid of me?’

  She turned to me with a thoughtful frown on her face.