Isabeau’s progress along the gallery was always slow and at first I thought this would give me time to further compose myself. However, I entered the anteroom when she was but halfway along, and the many minutes I had to wait soon turned into a kind of torture. I had to keep reminding myself I was only asking her to dine with me; the real test was to be met this evening. Eventually she came to the end of the gallery, spending, as she always did, a few minutes contemplating the blank wall where my own portrait should have appeared. I went to stand by the window, where she would see me directly as she came in.
A few moments later she entered, and while she had evidently not been expecting me, her face broke into a smile.
‘Beast!’ she exclaimed. ‘You did not come to the music room today. Or the library.’
‘I apologise,’ I said, bowing. ‘I … had some things to attend to.’
‘I missed you,’ she said, smiling.
A tingling warmth spread throughout my body. I felt almost giddy and when I spoke, I could not keep my intense pleasure from my voice.
‘You missed me?’ I asked, hardly daring to believe I had heard her correctly. It was one thing to watch her leave the music room in apparent disappointment, but quite another to hear the words from her own lips.
‘Well, yes,’ she said, looking slightly embarrassed now. ‘I can’t shower myself with praise like you do,’ she added lightly. I could not help but smile.
‘I will not stay away again,’ I promised her. There was a slight pause and I took a deep breath. ‘I apologise for leaving you alone for so much of the day, Isabeau. I was wondering if you would like to dine with me again this evening?’
‘Of course,’ said Isabeau, looking puzzled at the gravity of my air.
‘Thank you,’ I said and bowed and turned to go.
‘Beast!’ said Isabeau again and I halted. She hesitated, as though she too was gathering her courage to ask her question. ‘Could you tell me … there is a space at the end of the gallery where another painting once hung. What happened to it?’
It was now my turn to hesitate. How much could I tell her without breaching the Fairy’s condition of secrecy?
‘There was,’ I said carefully. ‘I had it taken down.’
Isabeau frowned. ‘Why?’
‘It disturbed me,’ I said eventually.
‘May I ask where it is now?’ said Isabeau, looking at me searchingly.
‘It is in the attic,’ I said quietly, half wanting her to find it and see it, and half afraid she would. ‘You may go and look at it if you like.’
‘You would not mind?’ she asked, curiously.
‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘There is nowhere here you may not go.’
She thanked me and I took my leave of her. As I went, Isabeau stared after me with a puzzled expression on her face. I hoped I had not been too abrupt.
I retreated once more to my study and attempted to compose how I would address Isabeau that evening. I remembered how I had upset her the first time we had dined together, when in something of a passion I had demanded she tell me if she considered me fit to marry. Naturally I did not want to repeat that scene. I wanted to go gently, prepare her for something uncomfortable, but assure her no reprisal would follow the refusal she would of course give me. I wrote out words and threw them into the fire. I paced about, rehearsing speeches. Once more I shredded the fabric covering the arms of my favourite chair. Eventually I decided I was trying far too hard and, desperate for some distraction to bring some peace to my buzzing brain, I went to the mirror again to see what Isabeau’s family were up to.
This time I saw not their house, but a muddy street in what must have been the village nearby. On the opposite side was an inn, the painted sign hanging over the door declaring it to be the Crossed Keys. Claude was hurrying along, wrapped in a heavy shawl and trying to avoid the mud and icy puddles. Beside the inn was a small field, dotted with trees currently bare of leaves. A few stout wooden tables under the trees closest to the inn indicated its use as additional seating in a more clement season.
Claude entered the inn and the image of the street faded, replaced by what was evidently the interior of the tavern. A sturdy, rosy-cheeked woman hailed her and bade her take a seat, then disappeared through a door behind the counter. Shortly Marie appeared, dressed in a large apron.
‘Have you eaten?’ she called across the largely empty room. Claude shook her head. ‘One moment!’ cried Marie and vanished again. She reappeared carrying a bowl of stew and some bread on a plate. She made her way over to Claude and kissed her, then put the bowl in front of her sister with a strange smile.
‘You must be frozen,’ said Marie, ‘try this, it will warm you.’
Claude protested at first, saying she was not so hungry, but Marie insisted. Eventually she relented and Marie watched her carefully as she took a spoonful. At first I thought the attention she focussed on her sister meant Marie was still worried about Claude eating enough, but as Claude tasted the stew her eyebrows rose and she looked up in surprise.
‘Marie, this is so good!’ she exclaimed. ‘It is just like Loussard used to make!’
Marie broke into a delighted grin.
‘Well, the cuts of meat are perhaps not so choice,’ she said with an attempt at modesty, ‘but I think I have cracked his secret for the flavouring of it!’
‘Well done!’ said Claude, taking another mouthful and clearly savouring the taste. ‘I hope you wrote it down. Will you bring some back for dinner tonight? Papa would love it.’
‘Yes, I’ll bring some,’ said Marie, sitting back in her chair. ‘But I have tasted it so often this afternoon, I think my tongue is numb.’
Just then the door of the inn opened and a gentleman walked in, followed by a manservant. He wore clothes that were evidently fine, without being at all ostentatious. He went and stood by the fire to warm himself, passing Marie and Claude on his way. As he passed, Claude followed him with her eyes, although very demurely, and I doubt he noticed her watching him.
‘Who is that?’ she asked, after he had gone by.
‘I think,’ said Marie uncertainly, ‘it must be the Vicomte de Villemont. He has an estate hereabouts where he spends a lot of time. I heard he grew up there. Madame Minou speaks very highly of him. He is apparently very generous to his tenants and is well liked around here.’
‘He is very handsome,’ said Claude sadly, returning to her stew.
‘Yes, he is,’ said Marie in a knowing tone.
Claude raised mournful eyes to her sister.
‘Please don’t tease me,’ she begged. ‘I have had enough of handsome, rich men, no matter how good they are. My heart has been broken once and that was enough. I just want to live with you and Papa until I die.’ She looked down at her plate again, her lip trembling.
Unseen, Marie rolled her eyes, but then relented and reached over and patted her sister’s hand.
‘Come now,’ she said soothingly.
Behind them, the gentleman, having chased the chill from his bones, went to sit at a table not far away. He had noticed the sisters and was now watching them intently, but in a way that suggested he would prefer them not to notice him. As Claude finished her lunch in silence, Madame Minou appeared with a tray of food and wine for the gentleman. As she set it down she said something to him, smiling, and then placed the bowl of what looked very like Marie’s stew before him. He looked at it with interest and tasted it, and evidently found it to his liking. Madame Minou laughed and indicated Marie. They continued to speak for a few minutes, and I thought perhaps, from the way they frequently looked over at Marie and Claude, he questioned her about the sisters.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Claude, pulling my attention back from the newcomer. ‘But I almost forgot!’ She bent down to lift her basket onto the bench beside her. ‘You are going to say I am extravagant, but I could not resist, and it was only a few copper coins.’ She pulled an object wrapped in a plain handkerchief from the basket and set it before Marie. Mari
e looked at her wonderingly and unwrapped it. It was a carved wooden dog. It sat up on its hind legs, its paws raised, an eager expression on its endearing little face. As Marie turned it over, it became apparent a handle set into its back opened the jaws of its pointed muzzle.
‘Oh, Claude,’ she said.
‘You know why I had to have it,’ said Claude defensively, taking back the wooden dog. She looked fondly at it, her broken heart apparently forgotten. Marie shook her head.
‘You goose,’ she said.
I stared at the little dog in Marie’s hand and wondered what its significance was.
‘Do you think Papa will mind very much if I put it on the mantelpiece?’ Claude asked, her hands in her lap and her attention on the carving. Marie shrugged and a wry look crossed her face.
‘He spends so much time avoiding looking at Isabeau’s box,’ she said, ‘I doubt he’d notice if we mounted a boar’s head above the fireplace.’
‘Oh Marie!’ said Claude, shuddering, by which I understood hearths ornamented by boars’ heads to be worse than passé. Then she looked about the inn with interest, her glance resting only momentarily on the newcomer. She smiled politely as her eye caught his, but she did not pay any more attention to him.
‘Monsieur Dufour has not come yet?’ she asked.
‘He was here early,’ said Marie, ‘but is returning this afternoon.’
‘And will you ride home with him again today?’ Claude asked, her voice a little too carefully neutral.
‘Yes, he promised to bring me my hens today,’ said Marie, hurrying to explain.
‘Ah, the hens,’ said Claude, and this time she could not keep the mischief from her voice.
‘I can hardly carry the cages home myself!’ protested Marie.
‘But if it were not for the hens, you would surely walk home,’ returned Claude saucily.
‘Really, Claude,’ said Marie, giving in to exasperation, her cheeks pink. ‘I may not tease you, yet I have to endure such insinuations!’
‘Your lover has not broken your heart and turned you away without a word,’ said Claude primly, taking back the dog and rewrapping it in its kerchief.
‘He is hardly my lover!’ exclaimed Marie in an embarrassed whisper. Claude waved a hand impatiently.
‘And, lover or not, this is the first time I have ever had the opportunity to tease you about such things, whereas you have been taking liberties with me for years. And while I will admit the argument you are about to make, that your teasing was not unfounded, I will point out that therefore you have to bow to my greater experience in these matters when I declare him to be your beau!’
Claude stood up, smiling triumphantly, pushing her empty bowl away. She picked up her basket and returned the wooden dog to it.
‘Why don’t you bring home enough of your ragout for four and ask him to dinner?’ she asked. ‘It is about time he had a meal with us – at the very least so he does not have to drive all the way home again on an empty belly, after so kindly filling the henhouse he built for you.’
With that she left. Marie stood, staring after her with a look on her face of utter confusion. This was very shortly replaced by one of real pleasure when the door of the inn opened again and another young man walked in. His clothes were rather plainer than the gentleman’s and more suited to practical, physical work. But they were well cut and spoke of a man who had resources enough to employ a good tailor. When he saw Marie his own broad, handsome face lit up with delight.
‘Mademoiselle de la Noue!’ he said happily. ‘I hoped to find you here. Minou said I should this afternoon.’
Marie went very red, looking considerably less sure of herself than I had hitherto seen her.
‘I have your hens,’ he added.
‘Thank you kindly,’ Marie replied, standing up hurriedly. ‘I confess I hoped you would bring them this week.’
‘Ah, I promised, did I not?’ asked the man who could only be René Dufour.
‘I didn’t like to presume,’ she responded, looking down at her hands. At this point, Dufour caught sight of the gentleman sitting at the table behind Marie.
‘Sir! Good afternoon to you!’ he cried, bowing to him.
‘Monsieur Dufour, how do you do?’ asked the gentleman, rising from his seat. He sounded genuinely pleased to see Dufour, although also slightly abashed, as though he were naturally rather shy. Dufour made his way over and the two shook hands.
‘Will you introduce your friend to me?’ the gentleman asked, looking at Marie.
Dufour turned to beckon her and said, ‘Sir, may I present to you Mademoiselle Marie de la Noue? Her family has only recently moved into this area. Mademoiselle, this is the Vicomte de Villemont. You will have heard of his good works from my sister.’
Marie went forward and curtsied to him and he bowed politely to her.
‘Er, that was your sister, whom you spoke with earlier?’ asked Villemont. He sounded anxious, whether because he found making conversation with strangers trying, or because he was very eager to know the answer. Possibly it was a little of both.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Marie. ‘My sister Claude. My youngest sister Isabeau is currently away from home.’ I felt a guilty jolt and saw a tiny crease appear between Dufour’s eyebrows. Does he know? I wondered sadly.
‘And you live in the old cottage out by the forest?’ asked Villemont, frowning.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Marie.
‘That is a long distance for your sister to walk, is it not?’ asked Villemont, sounding genuinely concerned. ‘If she is walking home,’ he added.
‘It is quite a distance,’ said Marie in a tone that made me think she was now trying to set the young Vicomte at his ease, ‘but we are growing used to it.’ She curtsied again and, with another smile at Dufour, she returned to the kitchen.
Unwilling to draw the curtains on the scene at the inn and return to my own troubled thoughts, I continued to watch the two men as they had a short discussion about what the Vicomte could best do with a particular piece of land on his estate. It was an ordinary enough topic, but it held me enraptured. Once, I had held such conversations with my fellow men. Now I grew rose gardens in a night and no one cared where I put them or what other uses I might make of my grounds. When they had done, the Vicomte hesitatingly asked Dufour if it was correct Isabeau’s father was previously in business in the city. Dufour replied he had been and gave the Vicomte a description of what he understood his interests to have been, based on what Marie had told him. The Vicomte thanked him and after Dufour had taken his leave of him, he remained staring at his empty plate with a thoughtful expression for some minutes. Eventually his manservant returned to tell him his horse was ready and he left.
The glass had little of interest to show me after that and I found myself in a quandary, wondering how I might spend the time until dinner. I was filled with a nervous restlessness, and decided physical activity was warranted. I went to the dusty gallery upstairs where I usually went to fence with shadows and phantoms and spent an hour trying to work off the strange energy consuming me.
Eventually, I determined I ought to dress for dinner. I lingered and dawdled on my way to my rooms and fussed over the clothes that appeared for me to wear, but still I was ready early. I was also still restless and perhaps my invisible servants recognised this. For, when no more could be done to make me any more presentable, I turned to find a cup of camomile tea sitting on the small table at my elbow. This made me laugh, as I could not remember having tasted it since childhood. I sat myself down on the edge of my armchair and drank half of it very quickly, despite its heat. Then I took some deep breaths and settled more comfortably into the chair, forcing myself to drink the remainder of the tea more slowly. Something had a good effect because by the time I had finished it, some knot of tension had loosened, and I felt calmer. It was not as though I did not know what answer to expect from Isabeau, I told myself. I was quite prepared for that. I just hoped what I was about to do would not completely ruin
the tenuous friendship we had established.
Chapter XIX
After the tea was gone, I went downstairs to wait for Isabeau in my usual place by the stairs. Although I was still earlier than usual, I did not have long to wait at all.
There was another pleasant surprise in her appearance. Since the evening when I conjured fireworks for her, Isabeau had been wearing much simpler attire to dinner, as she had expressed a wish to do. But tonight, if the dress she wore was not as fine as the one she had worn on the night of the fireworks, it was very nearly so. This time she looked like a queen in gold silk and velvet the colour of amber, with a wreath of glittering golden gems at her throat. Her heavy, honey-coloured hair was caught back in a net of gold threads, scattered with pearls. Her face told me she was feeling self-conscious, but her jaw was set in a way that suggested she was determined to overcome this. As she arrived at the bottom of the staircase, I offered her my arm.
‘You decided to dress up again tonight?’ I asked her, looking down at her. Isabeau kept looking straight ahead.
‘Yes,’ she said, offering no explanation. I felt a compliment was in order, but did not want to overdo it and embarrass her.
‘That colour becomes you very well,’ I said at last and was justly rewarded when her shoulders relaxed a fraction and she smiled up at me. I have to admit, at that moment, I very nearly decided to abandon my determination to propose to her. She looked so very lovely, and as I glanced down at her slender white hand resting on the velvet sleeve above my own hairy paw, I cringed at my audacity. To pair such a one as her with a creature like myself seemed very wrong. A heavy sigh escaped me and Isabeau looked up at me again in alarm.
‘Beast, is something wrong?’ she asked.
‘No,’ I replied, shaking my head – as much to disperse my misgivings as to emphasise the negative. ‘Forgive me, my mind was elsewhere.’
Isabeau’s brow creased in a puzzled frown, but she said nothing.
As we entered the dining room and saw the banquet laid out for the two of us, I became conscious of an unusual and entirely delicious aroma. Isabeau noticed it, too, and she looked around at the array of dishes.
The Beast’s Heart Page 13
