The Beast’s Heart

by Leife Shallcross

  ‘Goodnight, Beast,’ she said.

  ‘Goodnight, Isabeau,’ I replied and left her, sitting in the firelight.

  When I awoke the next morning, I discovered in myself a greater sympathy for Isabeau’s longing to live in the world of her dreams. I did not know what formed the substance of the fantasies luring her away from wakefulness and life, but for the remainder of the night my own phantasms were constructed entirely of the sensation of her in my arms, clinging to me, crying out, ‘My Beast!’ It was with a very great reluctance I allowed my eyelids to open and admit the day. But her solemn promise to meet me again in the music room spurred me to rouse myself and thus, I was there, at the appointed hour. To my relief, it was a cleaner and brighter place than it had been of late, and even the flowers had been refreshed.

  True to her own word, Isabeau did not keep me waiting for any more than half a minute. If she still looked thin and worn, at least today that strange light was not in her eyes, and she greeted me like a friend and not an imposition. Either she or her invisible servants had taken care with her wardrobe today; she wore a gown of the muted pink that suited her so well and her hair was dressed in a manner both soft and elegant.

  I suspected she may well have shed more tears that morning, for her eyes were a little red and her lashes still damp. But she appeared to be at least trying to hold herself together.

  I stood as she entered. She came towards me and gave me her hands and again I brought them to my mouth in my own sad imitation of a gallant’s kiss.

  ‘Will I sit in the other room today?’ I asked tentatively, not wanting to overwhelm her.

  She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said ruefully, ‘I have been too long alone. I will probably not play much today – just a few scales to warm my hands up. But I would be grateful for your presence.’

  I nodded and seated myself in my usual chair. In the event, she played to me for over an hour. Certainly the first half was largely made up of uninspiring exercises to help her fingers back to nimbleness, but after that she decided she did not want to stop and continued on to run over some of her favourite pieces. I certainly had not spent a more satisfying morning for some weeks.

  When she finally confessed herself tired of playing, she asked me if I would mind very much if she took her morning walk alone again today.

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘You only promised me this morning and you have given me twice the time you pledged. How could I begrudge you a solitary walk now?’

  ‘Thank you, Beast,’ she said, smiling at me from over the virginal. ‘I believe you are good for me, after all. I need a walk by myself now, to think on some things, but do you think …’ Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

  ‘Anything you wish is yours for the asking,’ I said, trying not to sound as serious as I felt. Isabeau laughed.

  ‘All I wish, Beast, is … well, would you be so good as to meet me in the library this afternoon and read to me again?’

  Joy flooded my breast.

  ‘You see,’ she continued, with an air of self-deprecation, ‘I fear if I wait until tomorrow to meet with you once more, I might be carried off again by my dreams.’ She laughed nervously and I could see she really did fear it.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘It will be my pleasure.’

  ‘Thank you, Beast,’ she said and I could hear the true gratitude in her voice.

  After she left me, I went to my study with a much lighter heart than I had known for nearly three weeks. I had thought to try to while away the morning by reading, or perhaps looking in upon the de la Noues. But I found a much more satisfying pastime awaited me. Isabeau had today chosen not to take to the yew walks and the orchards as she had customarily done over the past few unhappy weeks. Instead, as I looked out of my study across the pleasure gardens below, I saw her walking there in view of my own window. It was a pretty scene of neat pathways, garden beds and hedges forming patterns, showing to advantage from the height of my window. I found it was very easy for me to while away my morning by simply leaning my head upon one paw and watching Isabeau wander about.

  It was quite late in the morning when she stopped to admire a particularly elegant flower bed close to the house. She stood with her back to me looking at it for some time, then suddenly she turned and looked directly up at me in my window.

  I experienced a strange shock of warmth – not unlike being caught in the pantry with my fingers in a jug of cream as a child. Isabeau smiled and lifted her hand in greeting. I waved back, then retired shyly from where she could see me in my window. I felt slightly giddy and shaken and could not bring myself to go near my window again for nearly half an hour.

  In the afternoon I went down to await her in the library. I was relieved to find today it did not smell so strongly of mice. I had only just selected a book from my collection when she entered at the door. I could not immediately greet her; my breath caught at her loveliness, for she was smiling and her arms were full of flowers.

  ‘Good afternoon, Beast,’ she said and if the brightness in her voice sounded a little forced, at least she was trying.

  ‘You see, I mean to pick up my new hobby where I left off,’ she explained, putting the blooms into a vase of water on the desk, apparently sitting there just for that purpose. ‘Will you read to me while I draw?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, bowing and settling myself into my chair by the window. The sheer pleasure of reading to her again was only very slightly compromised by the frustration of having to look at the page instead of gazing upon her as she worked.

  I read to her until the light began to fail and the shadows lengthened and stretched across the garden outside. Then at last, she laid down her pencils and paints and thanked me.

  ‘Perhaps I have given you fodder for some new dreams?’ I asked her, putting aside the book. A look of startled guilt crossed her face, but then she smiled at me ruefully.

  ‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘Anything is better than the grief of the old ones.’ With that curious utterance she went away, leaving me to wait out the evening and the night.

  Chapter XXVI

  It was probably as well for me I was able to distract myself by looking in on the de la Noues that night. Upon drawing the velvet drapes, my mirror instantly showed me a view into their parlour. Monsieur de la Noue was seated in his chair closest to the fire, watching his daughters with a curious expression of affection and longing on his face. His daughters were engaged thus: Claude was standing in the middle of the room dressed in one of the garments from her father’s saddlebags. Marie was kneeling at her feet, engaged in unpicking an extravagant flounce from around the hem of the gown. Claude was looking slightly forlornly at a pile of silk roses and gilt ribbons lying upon the floor.

  I could not help suppress a groan at the outrageous inappropriateness of the gifts of clothing I had sent. At once, the flounce suddenly unravelled and fell into the astonished Marie’s hands. Claude began to giggle at the look on her face.

  ‘What did you do?’ she asked.

  ‘I have not the least idea,’ said Marie, completely puzzled.

  I, too, had to laugh. I wondered if the dress Marie had set aside for herself to wear might be found to have shed a large proportion of its finery.

  De la Noue coughed and shifted in his chair.

  ‘Ah, my angels,’ he said, ‘I had never thought to see you dance again!’

  ‘Father!’ protested Marie fondly. ‘You still look so darkly on everything! Our lives are not so bad! We no longer live in luxury, surely, but we are comfortable and lack nothing truly essential! Indeed, I think we have been fortunate indeed to find ourselves among such people as we have …’ Her voice trailed off, for her father was looking thunderous.

  ‘Fortunate?’ he spat. ‘Lacking in nothing? When your own sister’s bones might lie in some dungeon in that castle, picked clean of flesh—’

  ‘For pity’s sake, control yourself!’ cried Marie, the sharpness of the grief in her tone cutting her father’s words off cle
anly. ‘If you want us to sink under the weight of our sister’s fate …!’ Her words were swallowed up by a sob. She looked down and when she had mastered herself, she looked back up into her father’s shocked, white face. ‘I cannot live thinking Isabeau has sacrificed herself. Until I know otherwise, I will hope for her return. Please do not try to take that from me, Father. If you do, I will never have any joy in this new life we have forged.’ She looked back down and began to fuss with some imaginary fault in the hem of Claude’s dress. Claude, also pale and distressed, glanced from father to sister and back. Marie’s words found their mark, for her father sat in his chair for some minutes, anxiously plucking at the arm of it, his countenance gradually crumpling in shame and dismay.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ he finally said, in a distracted voice. With that he rose and made his way across the room to the door. As he passed, Marie reached out and caught her father’s hand and pressed it to her lips. He stopped for a moment, but then tugged his hand out of her clasp and left the room.

  The two sisters were silent for a space of time, then Marie spoke. She did not look up at her sister and her voice was almost lost in the folds of silk she held in her hands.

  ‘I still write to her,’ she said, ‘and every time I place a new letter in her box, the last is gone. I have to believe she receives them. I cannot think why else they go.’

  At this Claude bent down and clasped her sister’s hands.

  ‘You are right, Papa is not. He just feels so sad and so guilty. The Beast will look after our Isabeau. He cannot help but love her as we do!’

  Marie laughed shakily. ‘Sometimes that is what I pray for,’ she confessed. ‘But then I think perhaps it is best if he does not love her so well. Then he might grow tired of her and send her back to us!’

  How can I describe how such scenes made me feel? Miserable with guilt; terrified at the thought of her departure. At least now, though, I was confident she would last the year and not sink away into her mysterious dreams and be lost to us all.

  In the mirror, Marie sat back and looked up at Claude, an expression of critical assessment on her face.

  ‘Yes,’ she said at last, ‘I think you will do very well. The dress has survived its de-beautification very nicely. You look not so grand that people will start to believe Papa has played his creditors falsely, but quite lovely enough to dance with a Vicomte.’

  Claude bit her lip and smoothed the skirt of her dress nervously, but said nothing.

  ‘Have you spoken to him yet?’ asked Marie.

  Claude shook her head.

  ‘Come to the Crossed Keys tomorrow around midday,’ said Marie. ‘I believe he is meeting Monsieur Dufour there in the afternoon. He is bound to take his luncheon there first. You will have the opportunity for a private word with him. Unless you would prefer me to take a message.’

  ‘No, no!’ said Claude quickly, going very red. ‘I will come. Will you be there?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marie. ‘Madame Minou has asked me to help her there tomorrow afternoon. And Monsieur Dufour said he would bring us some more meat from his farm. He will bring me home.’

  The sisters were silent for a minute and Marie stood up and began to undo the lacings at Claude’s back. Gradually the anxious look faded from Claude’s face and she began to look more thoughtful.

  ‘Monsieur Dufour is very generous,’ she said archly.

  Now it was Marie’s turn to go red and she ducked her head to hide her face. ‘Do not be unkind,’ she said. ‘I have promised not to tease you. Why should you tease me? Monsieur Dufour has not asked me to dance with him, in particular.’

  Virtuously, Claude refrained from responding, but she was not above raising her eyes to the ceiling in exasperation.

  The next morning, Isabeau did, indeed, look much improved. To be sure, she was not as vibrant as I had sometimes seen her, but she looked as though she had passed a peaceful night. More importantly, she was happy.

  ‘I can see you slept well,’ I commented after I had greeted her.

  ‘Yes, Beast, I thank you, I did!’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Only pleasant dreams?’ I tentatively queried.

  Intriguingly, she flushed. ‘Yes, only pleasant dreams,’ she said, becoming absorbed in arranging the music on the stand.

  I swallowed my burning curiosity and forbore to enquire any further, settling down to listen to her play. After warming up, she chose a number of extremely pretty, cheerful pieces to play, which I enjoyed immensely. I wondered if she had chosen them for my benefit, because as she played she glanced over at me often. Usually she became absorbed in her playing and would forget me, so the attention was unnerving.

  Eventually, when she stopped to change her music at one point, I asked, ‘Isabeau, am I disturbing you today? Should I go away?’

  ‘Oh no!’ she exclaimed. ‘Not at all!’

  ‘But,’ I said nervously, ‘I seem to be distracting you.’

  Isabeau went pink again. ‘No,’ she said, fussing with her sheet music, ‘it’s just nice to have you there. Listening to me.’

  ‘Oh!’ I responded, somewhat gracelessly. A warm glow spread through my chest, and I fear I smiled quite ridiculously. From then on, when she looked up at me she smiled.

  When she finished playing, she actually gave me her hand before she left the room to go out on her walk. She didn’t ask me to accompany her and I didn’t offer, thinking she had already given me so much that morning. I hoped eventually she might ask for my company. But it was hard to be disheartened by her disappearance into the garden alone when she had again begged me to read to her in the library that afternoon. Thus it was with a light and happy heart that I repaired to my study to see if Claude would go to the Crossed Keys to speak to the Vicomte.

  It was an extremely pleasant spring day and my mirror showed me the Vicomte de Villemont seated at one of the tables in the orchard beside the Crossed Keys. The trees were a riot of pale pink blossom and clumps of golden daffodils littered the grass, which had brightened from tawny brown to green. On the table before him was a plate of bread, cheese and pâté, and a large tankard of ale, to which he was only paying the barest attention. What distracted him so, I could not at first see, but presently the form of a young woman came into the frame of the mirror and I realised he had been watching Claude approach up the roadway. The hem of her dress and boots showed the mud from her path across the fields, but the walk had brought colour into her cheeks and disordered her hair in quite a charming manner. As she passed by the Vicomte’s table, he sprang to his feet and bowed, saying, ‘Mademoiselle!’ in an eager voice. Claude stopped, and curtsied.

  ‘Sir, may I speak to you for a moment?’ she asked hesitantly.

  ‘Of course,’ said Villemont, coming forward to place a bench for her to sit on. Claude went pink, but sat down gracefully, placing her basket on the ground.

  ‘Can I get something for you? A drink, or something to eat?’ Villemont asked, anxious to please.

  ‘Oh, no!’ said Claude and indeed, she looked far too nervous to eat. Her hands were twisting in her lap.

  ‘I mean, no thank you, sir!’ she amended quickly. ‘I want to say something very particular to you, but …’ If possible she went even redder.

  The Vicomte looked extremely concerned. ‘You do not mean to withdraw from the dance?’ he asked fearfully.

  ‘No, no!’ she said. She took a deep breath. ‘I fear I may be about to be very presumptuous, but if I am, I hope you will forgive me and not think very ill of me for it!’ She looked at him beseechingly and I was amused to see Villemont look shocked at the idea of thinking ill of Claude.

  ‘Of course I will!’ he cried. ‘I mean – I could not think ill of you! Pray, speak, mademoiselle! I am honoured by your confidence.’

  Claude nodded and looked down. ‘I was very honoured when you asked me to dance with you,’ she said, speaking into her lap. ‘And very happy, too!’ she added. ‘But my sister said I must speak to you about … I must tell you …’


  ‘Go on, mademoiselle,’ urged the Vicomte, beginning to look seriously alarmed.

  ‘When we lived in Rouen,’ Claude said, her voice trembling slightly, ‘I was very nearly engaged to a young man there. When Papa was ruined, he cast me off.’

  A large tear rolled down her cheek and fell onto her tightly clasped hands. The Vicomte managed to look relieved and appalled at the same time.

  ‘I was very unhappy for a long time,’ Claude continued, her voice growing stronger, ‘but I hope – I believe – I have put him behind me now. But if you mean to … if you …’ She stopped and gave a little hiccough, unable to go on.

  I watched the light in the Vicomte’s eyes change as he comprehended what she was asking of him. For a young man who had been so at a loss as to how to approach the object of his interest, he now did everything perfectly. He reached out and lifted Claude’s hands from her lap and brought them to his lips, then placed them back on the table. Claude was surprised into looking up at him.

  ‘Mademoiselle de la Noue,’ he said earnestly, ‘I can think of nothing more abhorrent than toying with the affections of someone as lovely and as gently reared as you. I wish for nothing more than that you will trust me with your broken heart, but I see that trust must be earned. Just give me leave to try.’

  Colour flooded her face, but Claude nodded her head bravely.

  ‘I am satisfied with that, for now,’ he said, looking quite radiantly happy.

  ‘I thank you, sir,’ said Claude, rising to her feet. The Vicomte also stood, and she darted another quick look up at him from her tear-stained blue eyes. She dropped a quick little curtsey, then took up her basket and scurried away, leaving the Vicomte staring after her.

  My attention was almost immediately distracted from the happy Vicomte, however, by the sound of Isabeau calling my name. I turned away from the mirror and quickly made my way into the entrance hall, and was just in time to see her running up the front steps.