The Beast’s Heart

by Leife Shallcross

  ‘Is that …?’ she asked, but left the question hanging. We sat down and Isabeau, her face expectant, uncovered the dish closest to her. It became immediately apparent this was where the aroma issued from and Isabeau laughed in delight.

  ‘It is!’ she cried, revealing a dish remarkably similar to that which Marie had served up to Claude that afternoon. ‘I don’t believe it. Here, Beast, you must try some.’ Curiosity reignited the appetite nerves had previously dispensed with and I assented, a silver ladle moving of its own to serve me.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Mm!’ murmured Isabeau, savouring the first mouthful from her plate. ‘My father employed a rather brilliant chef when we lived in the city. This was his signature dish, and he made a great to-do about never revealing the secret of the ingredients. He claimed the recipe had been passed to him in the strictest confidence by his master when he had finally mastered his trade. We were never sure whether to believe him or not.’

  I wondered to myself at this dish turning up on our dinner table on the very night Isabeau’s family were apparently sitting down to the same meal. As well as tasting very good, it had the pleasant effect of causing Isabeau to become very talkative, reminiscing about Loussard the chef and his idiosyncrasies for some time. This was very convenient for me, as I did not feel up to making conversation that evening. I was content to listen.

  Eventually, though, Isabeau ceased talking, and after we had been sitting in silence for a few minutes, she said, ‘Beast, have I done something to upset you?’

  ‘No,’ I said, surprised. ‘Not at all. Why do you ask?’

  ‘You have been so quiet tonight and I have barely seen you all day.’ She set her spoon aside and looked at me carefully. ‘I confess my story about the meringue tower disaster usually makes most people smile at least. You look so very grim. Are you sure there is nothing wrong?’

  ‘I am sorry, I am just distracted,’ I said, realising the time had come. I took up my wine glass and looked down at it, dreading to look up into her face. When I did, I saw that same look of concern.

  ‘Isabeau, forgive me, I must ask you a question,’ I said heavily.

  ‘Of course,’ she said curiously.

  ‘Please understand I need you to give me an honest answer,’ I said, looking directly into her eyes so she might know I meant it. ‘There will be no reprisals for giving me an answer you think I may not like.’

  She nodded and I was relieved to see she did not appear afraid, but the worried expression remained on her face. ‘I also …’ I stopped. This was the part it had been so hard to find words for.

  ‘It is an uncomfortable question, I am afraid,’ I said, ‘but I do hope it will not make things uncomfortable between us for long.’

  Isabeau sat looking at me, waiting for the terrible question.

  ‘Isabeau,’ I said, unable to meet her gaze, ‘will you marry me?’

  I heard her shocked intake of breath and raised my eyes. Her mouth was open and she looked nothing so much as surprised. She stared at me for a few moments and then slowly her cheeks began to grow pink.

  ‘You are serious,’ she stated, as she realised I was.

  ‘I am,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Oh, Beast,’ she said in a choked voice, ‘what can I tell you?’

  ‘Just give me the answer your heart tells you,’ I said bravely. She looked quite shocked.

  ‘Oh no, Beast, I couldn’t,’ she said, having the decency to try to hide the horror building in her voice. ‘I can’t, I have to go home to my family, I—’

  I held up my hand to quiet her.

  ‘I understand, Isabeau,’ I said, unable to keep the sadness from my voice. ‘I expected nothing else.’

  Isabeau put her hand over her mouth, on the verge of tears.

  ‘Please forgive me for upsetting you. It is not at all what I would wish,’ I said. And although her answer was exactly as I had expected, a great sorrow settled over my heart. I stood to leave and remembered one more thing.

  ‘Again, I must ask you to forgive me,’ I said, ‘but I will have to ask you this question again. I am sorry.’

  ‘Must you?’ she asked, sounding panicked. ‘I will never be able to give you a different answer.’

  ‘I am afraid so,’ I answered, remembering the Fairy’s words: my only chance. And if she was truly resolved against me, then in less than a year she would be back with her father and sisters and this would only be an unhappy memory. I bowed and left the room.

  I did not return to my study, though. It was too familiar, too comfortable, too human. What I wanted was to hide myself and my horrible, beastly form away somewhere dark, in some unlit corner where I truly belonged. And so I ended up in the curtained musician’s gallery where I had hidden to spy on Isabeau’s father. Here, with the thick crimson drapes pulled close and no lamps to illuminate the space, I could barely see my talons if I held my paw before my face. Here I sat and wept for some time.

  Eventually my sobs ceased and in the quiet I heard a noise. My grief exhausted for the present, I pushed aside the heavy velvet drapes the merest crack. Looking down I could see Isabeau, only now returning from the direction of the dining room. She walked quickly, one hand pressed to her bodice, the other to her temple. As she mounted the stairs, she leaned heavily on the banister and when she reached the top, she paused, bending forward as though struggling for breath. She gave a small hiccoughing sob and picked up her skirts and hurried away in the direction of her bedchamber.

  I shook my head in dismay, my own feelings suddenly immaterial. I had not wanted to upset her this much. Could I do anything to repair the damage? I stood and made my way back to my study, trying to think of how I could make it up to her. Gifts of any magnitude were largely meaningless in this house, owing to one’s ability to conjure just about anything from thin air. But something small, perhaps, just a token to help my apology? And it would also serve to reassure her I meant what I said about there being no punishment for refusing me.

  She had often shown a preference for chocolate in selecting desserts. Perhaps I could send something to her room? It seemed fitting as I had all but ruined our dessert this evening.

  I arrived at my study and went to my desk. Some elegant notepaper was already placed on the blotter, with a newly sharpened pen beside it. For some reason this made me feel as though my plan had some sort of approval. From whom, I couldn’t say.

  I seated myself and wrote:

  Dear Isabeau,

  Again I apologise for causing you so much distress. Please accept this in the hope it will revive your spirits. I want you to be comfortable in this house

  I paused, then added:

  for the duration of your stay.

  Kind regards,

  I stopped again, wondering how to sign myself. Eventually I wrote:

  Your friend, the Beast

  I folded it neatly and a small silver tray appeared in front of me. I set it on this. Now, what to send her? I decided on a cup of hot chocolate and the tray vanished. A minute or two later I heard, by that strange magical echo in my house, a soft sigh and Isabeau’s voice saying quietly, ‘Thank you, Beast.’

  I smiled to myself, relieved my gift had been accepted in the spirit in which it was given.

  Chapter XX

  With my breach with Isabeau mended, I decided I would look in on Isabeau’s family again – just to see whether or not Marie did invite Dufour to dine with them that evening. I turned from my desk to find my easy chair had moved a little away from the fire to the best position to view the mirror and, as I went and settled into it, the curtains moved aside, revealing the de la Noues’ parlour. Dufour and Isabeau’s father were seated in two chairs close to the fire, with Claude engaged in some sort of sewing activity on a bench by the wall. Marie was bending down by the hearth, swirling something in a heavy earthenware jug. I noticed Claude’s mysterious wooden dog had now joined Isabeau’s box on the mantelpiece, as promised.

  ‘Now if I just had som
e orange peel,’ Marie murmured, ‘that would be the very thing.’

  ‘The only place you might find oranges around here is in the Vicomte’s hothouses – if indeed he has any,’ said Dufour doubtfully. ‘What do you want oranges for?’

  ‘I’m sure Loussard used oranges,’ said Marie wistfully. ‘It would just set the other flavours off so nicely.’ She peered into the jug. ‘Oh well, shall I pour?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Claude, looking up briefly from her work. ‘I can smell it from here. Oranges or none, it smells lovely.’

  ‘I shall ask the Vicomte if he grows oranges when I see him next,’ said Dufour, frowning. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘May I be of assistance?’

  Marie gave him a self-conscious smile. ‘No,’ she said, covering her confusion by handing him a pewter cup filled with mulled wine. ‘Papa, for you?’

  Without waiting for a reply, she poured some gently steaming wine from the jug into another cup and pressed it into her father’s hands. She took a third cup over to Claude, who set aside her sewing to take it. Then Marie poured one for herself and sat down on a low stool by her father’s chair. Dufour frowned again.

  ‘Are you sure you will not take this chair?’ he asked, making as though to rise.

  ‘I will not,’ Marie demurred. ‘You will have had enough of hard, uncomfortable wooden seats by the time you arrive home. And yours will not be so warm as mine.’

  Dufour’s frown twitched and became a smile. ‘You do me no favours,’ he said. ‘The seat in my rig will be all the colder and harder now when I go.’

  I watched them talking easily together for another hour or so. Their poor parlour had nothing like the comfort of any one of the rooms in my house – but I knew where Isabeau would prefer to be at this time. Eventually Dufour rose from his seat. He made his goodbyes, regretfully saying he required a certain amount of sleep to be able to fulfil his duties the next day. He bowed to Claude and shook hands with their father, but when it came to Marie, he took her hand and kissed it. Marie went pink and I had to smile at the surprise on her face. Even her father looked pleased, trying to hide his own satisfied smile.

  At the door, Claude handed Marie a heavy shawl and blandly suggested she go out with Dufour to light his way to the tumbledown shelter beside the cottage where his horse was stabled.

  ‘Please, do not trouble yourself,’ said Dufour instantly. ‘It is far too cold!’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Marie, looking self-conscious. ‘It is far too dark!’ She gave Claude a furious glare as she turned to take the lamp from her.

  However, after Dufour had harnessed his horse and ridden out through the gate looking perfectly content with life, Marie stood outside in the cold, looking after him for quite some time.

  When she arrived back inside, Claude was pouring her father more wine.

  ‘I like that young man,’ Isabeau’s father announced to Marie as she replaced the lamp on its hook. Marie looked pleased and became very busy divesting herself of her shawl. Claude watched her with a smug smile on her face.

  ‘He has been very kind to us,’ said Marie, a little too blandly.

  Isabeau’s father took several more sips of his wine, then drained the remainder in one draught.

  ‘Well, I too must go to my bed,’ he said, rising. Claude began to fold away her sewing.

  ‘And I,’ she agreed. ‘Will you come up now, Marie?’ she asked.

  ‘Not just yet,’ said Marie. ‘I have a few things to do before I go to bed. I will be along shortly.’

  When her father and sister had left, she went and fetched her pen and paper from the kitchen and, taking her book to lean on, settled herself with a self-conscious smile into the chair Dufour had only recently vacated. Then she began to write to her sister.

  ‘Dear Isabeau, we have just passed the most pleasant evening,’ she began. ‘Today Claude insisted I invite Monsieur Dufour to dine with us this evening. She made it sound as though it would be the height of rudeness not to, given he brought me a present of three hens for my new henhouse. So I did, and how glad I am! We have all of us talked the evening away as though we are old friends and even Papa took the trouble to say how much he liked him. I am so comforted he has found a friend with whom he can talk with such ease!’

  Here she stopped for a moment and her smile became a disconcerted frown.

  ‘I now have only one problem,’ she wrote, her cheeks growing pink. ‘Claude has begun declaring he is my beau. I do not know what to say to her. I do like Monsieur Dufour very much, but I dare not contemplate anything of the sort. I cannot begin to think he might have any particular affection for me. The very thought is ridiculous.’

  She stopped and looked down at what she had written, frowning.

  ‘Still, I would very much like for you to meet him so I might hear your opinion of him. He is kind and good and amusing. He manages Papa very well and he is even gallant enough to say he likes my cooking. I would never tell Claude in a hundred years, but if you will keep my secret, I will own he is very handsome.

  ‘Isabeau, you will think me such a goose!’

  Marie stopped and spent a good minute staring thoughtfully into the fire. Then she remembered her letter and dipped her pen once more in her inkpot.

  ‘Speaking of my cooking, can you guess what we had for dinner tonight? I believe I have found out the much-guarded secret of our friend Loussard’s special ragout. I was at the Crossed Keys again today and, as I was making up the normal pot of stew for the evening’s dinner, I thought to make it a little more interesting with some of the ingredients from my spice chest. I was trying to decide which to put in and as I sniffed at one (a curious little star-shaped nut with a pungent odour) the combination of its scent and the aromas from the stew reminded me of Loussard’s ragout. I thought it would be fun to try to recreate it. It isn’t quite the same, but it was so nearly right both Claude and Papa recognised it at once. And Minou said she thought it was quite the best stew she’d ever tasted! I also received a number of compliments from the people who came to the inn for dinner before I left. So of course I am feeling very satisfied with myself. My only misgiving is – what if Loussard himself should ever find out his own ragout is being served without his permission at a simple country inn somewhere? I’ve had nightmarish visions of him looking fierce and pulling on that terrifying moustache of his and banging his pans at me!

  ‘I also met the local Vicomte today. He came to the inn while I was there. He is tolerably good-looking – at least Claude thought so. I tried to tease her about him, but she reproached me on the grounds of insensitivity to her broken heart and I couldn’t in conscience continue. According to Minou, he asked a great many questions about us and, although I didn’t feel it was perhaps quite necessary, had our entire history related to him by her. Minou seems to think it was necessary, however. He was apparently greatly saddened to hear the tale of our being reduced to our current situation. He has a notoriously soft heart and Minou is sure he intends to try to find something he can do to assist us in our present difficulties. I know Minou meant well, but I have not told Papa or Claude of this as I’m sure they would not be at all comfortable knowing our difficulties are being so discussed. (I am not sure I am so very comfortable about it either.)

  ‘On a more amusing note, do you know what Claude has done? Today she bought a carved wooden nutcracker in the shape of a dog. While I will own a nutcracker is a very practical thing, I do not think she was thinking of cracking nuts with it. No. She bought it because its dear little face has something in it of your darling Bijou. She has put it up on the mantelpiece. Dear Claude, I am certain whenever she looks at it she doesn’t see a wooden nutcracker on a shelf in our poor bare parlour, she sees Juju sitting on a velvet cushion in the morning room of our old house, with a satin bow about her neck.

  ‘That is something very particular to our Claude, I find: the ability to treasure an object for the beauty it implies rather than for just itself. Perhaps that is why she
is able to glean such satisfaction from a newly swept floor, or a well-hemmed kerchief. I believe you and she are similar in that way, only your talent lies more with people. For example, you were the only one of us who was never terrified of Loussard. This gives me some hope you will perhaps find something worthy in the Beast that Papa was not able to discern. Perhaps he is truly a lamb in wolves’ clothing?

  ‘At least he appears to be a generous Beast. Truly, due to him we are a household of the strangest contrasts! We have a rustic wooden nutcracker to decorate our mantelpiece, while upstairs in our bedrooms both Claude and I have caskets overflowing with jewels. We dine off the ugliest pottery imaginable, and our pillows are thin and flat, yet our bedlinen is of the finest quality. And this is to say nothing of the comparison between our poor, plain, patched daywear, and the luxurious ball gowns we hide in our chests.

  ‘My final piece of news is that spring is truly arriving now. I wonder if you will notice in the Beast’s enchanted gardens? I remember Papa describing flowers and sunlight when he had just come there from a fierce midwinter storm. I have found some clumps of daffodils that must flower soon. I am especially eager for spring to arrive, not just for the greater warmth and fewer draughts it will bring to our poor house, but because Monsieur Dufour has cautioned me against planting my first lot of seeds too early. I anxiously await his instruction to begin poking around in my mostly bare patch of dirt. My only misgiving is I know the warmer weather will make the journey from here to the village that much muddier. Oh well.’

  Here Marie paused again and her face broke into a mischievous smile.

  ‘I am going now to sleep and dream some dreams of handsome farmers (I hope),’ she wrote. ‘Au revoir!’

  Marie signed her name and folded the letter, then sat looking at it for a few moments, her smile gone and her brow creased in a worried frown.

  ‘Oh, Isabeau,’ she whispered in the dark. ‘I hope he is good. I hope his intentions are noble.’ For a moment I thought she was entertaining inexplicable doubts about Dufour, and then I realised: she meant me. Clearly she put only her most positive thoughts about Isabeau’s situation into her letters, and that despite her continued outward optimism, she was still troubled by doubts. Why would she not be? I wondered bitterly.