The last time I had drawn apart the drapes, I had seen Claude walking in the market with her basket over one arm. As usual she stopped at her favourite stall – the one selling ribbons and laces – and was in the act of purchasing a length of heliotrope ribbon. She had just handed over her coins and was putting the little packet into her basket, when a young boy ran up to her and stopped beside her, his hands clasped behind his back.
‘Excuse me,’ he cried, ‘are you Mademoiselle Claude de la Noue?’
‘Why, yes,’ she said, puzzled.
The little boy drew his hands from behind his back and held out a neat posy of flowers to her.
‘This is for you,’ he said, standing very straight.
‘Me?’ she asked, taking it nervously and glancing all around.
‘There’s a note,’ confided the boy, then added, in the manner of one who has had a particular instruction drummed into them, ‘and I’m to stay in case you’ve anything to send back.’
A little awkwardly, on account of the basket, Claude managed to locate a folded strip of paper wrapped around the stems of the flowers. As she unwrapped it, I saw something glinting beneath it. Claude saw it too, for she stopped very still for a moment to stare at it. It was a small, golden, filigree heart on a length of delicate gold chain. There was only one person it could have come from.
Covering the jewellery carefully with her hand, Claude unfolded the note and smoothed it out. The image of the paper filled the glass. On it I saw in elegant handwriting the following message:
Dear Mademoiselle,
I would say you had stolen my heart, except I give it freely to you. There is no one else I’d rather held it. If it is too heavy a burden to bear, please return it and we will part as friends. If you choose to keep it, I will have hope; hope that one day I will see you wear it. On that day I will know I may come and ask for your heart in recompense for the heart you have captured. I hope I may make it a fair exchange.
Yours,
HV
The note was suddenly folded away again and once more I beheld Claude, staring all around her with considerably heightened colour, breathing quickly. She did not see what she was looking for, however, and once more her eyes fell on the child in front of her.
‘Do you have anything to send back?’ asked the little boy impatiently.
Claude looked down and opened her hand a little, looking again at the tiny golden heart glinting in her palm, the chain tangled among the flower stalks.
‘No,’ she said shakily. She closed her hand again around the posy, hiding the chain, and walked back down the street. I watched her as she went, wondering if perhaps the Vicomte had overshot his mark. However, by the time Claude had reached the edge of the village and started back upon the path to the cottage, she was smiling softly and all but glowing, and I had to concede the Vicomte’s aim was true.
How to similarly impress upon Isabeau the depth and sincerity of my own affection, I could not tell. Dufour had simply proposed to Marie. The Vicomte’s path was a little more difficult, yet even he was making progress. I racked my brain for some strategy to further my suit with Isabeau. Some act that would inspire her to love me. Some thing I had overlooked.
Looking back now, it is easy to curse myself for my stupidity. Especially after I had witnessed Claude receive the Vicomte’s letter. It was such a simple thing, after all. To do myself justice, though, at the time I had no notion of it being so important, nor did it seem as though it had any effect. But, knowing what I know now, I have a notion this thing, this very small thing I had so clumsily overlooked, was something akin to setting light to a wick that burns away with a tiny flame until it finally reaches the powder keg and sets the world on fire.
Chapter XXXIV
Despite my fervent wishing for time to slow, the seasons continued to turn and soon I was waking up to frost upon the lawns every morning. Delicate ice flowers bloomed over the windows during the night and when we looked out through the misted panes we saw mostly bare branches, with only a few bright leaves clinging here and there. Isabeau had taken to wearing a shawl about the house and when we went out to walk in the gardens we needed thick cloaks and gloves against the cold.
I noticed more and more the songs Isabeau chose to play in the mornings were solemn, languid pieces. She drew less, preferring now to sit by me as I read, pretending – as she said – she was back lying in the long grass of the orchard under the trees. And my occasional proposals began to distress her once again.
With my increasing ambivalence towards entertaining myself by looking into the mirror in my study, I had to find other ways to keep myself busy when I was not with Isabeau. Sometimes I walked alone, sometimes I fenced alone and sometimes I read, but always I was conscious this would be my entire lot when she left.
One day I sat down to read in the velvet chair before the fire in my entrance hall – that same chair I had found myself lying beside when I first came back to the house – but my mood was bleak and I could not concentrate on the book in my hands. Instead I found myself staring into the fire, contemplating how very much more bleak it would be when Isabeau was gone. I was so deep in my thoughts I did not notice Isabeau had walked into the hall. When I finally became aware of the warmth of her presence, I turned to see her standing there with such a look of sadness on her face my heart stuttered. But then she recovered herself and said something bright and trivial and the moment passed.
The day after this I noticed a new catch in her voice when she said, ‘No, Beast, I cannot.’ A few days later when I chanced to make another proposal, she again ran from the room.
‘Isabeau, I am sorry!’ I cried out at her departing back. But she didn’t stop. She came looking for me later and refused to hear my apologies, so I refused to hear hers and we both went to our beds that night feeling dissatisfied with ourselves. But the next morning she made me shake hands and played a selection of determinedly cheerful songs.
Two nights later it came to a head.
As the dessert plates began to vanish and small crystal glasses of liqueur appeared before us, the now-familiar air of uncomfortable expectation began to gather. Isabeau avoided looking at me and took small sips of her drink.
‘Isabeau,’ I said, trying to keep my burgeoning disappointment from my voice, ‘will you marry me?’
‘No, Beast,’ said Isabeau, sounding as upset as ever. ‘I cannot.’
I nodded and put down my unfinished glass.
‘Very well,’ I said sadly. I rose to offer her my arm so we might remove to the library, but she looked up at me, clutching her glass so tightly I was afraid the stem might snap in her hands. Her face was pale and the very set of her shoulders radiated a brittle unhappiness. I felt wretched.
‘Beast,’ she said desperately, ‘you know what my answer will always be. It only ever causes the both of us distress. Why must you keep asking me this?’
I was instantly assailed by the impossibility of ever finding a way to explain myself adequately. To tell her of the curse was not only expressly forbidden, it would also make my question – which came from the bottom of my heart – sound hopelessly mercenary. And in any case, how could I hope to put into words the vicious circle that confronted me? That I loved her, but to have any hope of winning her affection I knew I needed to regain my human form, yet to do that, I first had to win her affection and her promise to wed me. I wanted to beat my hands against the blank injustice of it.
Then, in that moment, something crystallised for me. I had to put my hand on my vacated chair to steady myself.
‘Because I love you,’ I said.
Four simple words. And I had never thought to speak them to her.
She did not say anything, but sat, staring at me, her face white and shocked. She raised one trembling hand from her lap and pressed it to her mouth. At once I found I was trembling myself. Lowering my gaze to my black, hairy paw clutching at the gilt scroll of my chair, I said with as much gentleness and control as I could muster, ‘I am s
o very sorry to distress you again. Goodnight, Isabeau.’
I left the room. But rather than hearing the door click shut behind me, as I expected, I heard the infinitely more painful sound of sobbing. I turned back to look at the door, which stayed open for another moment, as if to reproach me for upsetting her so much. Then it did close, with such a final and decided click, I wondered if I could have opened it again if I tried. Not having the courage to attempt it, I left; and not having the heart to think of anything else to occupy myself, I went straight to my bed.
Of course sleep proved elusive and for several hours I was tormented by visions of her distraught face, and the remembered sounds of her sobs. Did I really love her? I knew I did, but how could I keep asking her this terrible question when I knew the embarrassment it caused her? I tossed and turned trying to reconcile this selfishness on my part. Surely if I truly loved her, I would give up my hopes of returning to humanity and leave her in peace. Indeed, the only thing preventing us from being perfectly comfortable together was my obstinate insistence on proposing to her every few days. Why was I compelled to persist?
Then, somewhere in the very early hours of the morning, a new question emerged. If the Fairy had not told me how to break the curse, would I ever have had the courage to tell Isabeau how I felt?
That was an easy question to answer. Never. But it led to a new question. What was it I was offering her? The pillows I had thrown around in my restlessness returned to the bed, plumped and soft, and I settled into them to contemplate this new conundrum. What could I possibly offer Isabeau? Why should she accept me? Again I considered the lack of randomness in my cursed house and a tiny tingle wriggled down my spine, growing stronger as another new thought clarified itself. If Isabeau had been sent, or brought, because she was the one woman whom I could truly love, was it possible the reverse was true? Had I been kept imprisoned here for so long, waiting out the endless years, because I was the one for her? Every hair of my thick pelt stood upright with something like fear. I pressed my paws to my temples in consternation. Me make her happy?
In a terrifying flash, I realised that if I did not accept this was the case and I continued to pursue her, I was, in essentials, no better than my brutish father.
My heart was racing and a chill sweat settled about my neck and shoulders. This new thought triggered a reaction close to panic. I forced myself to confront the question: could I make her happy? I revisited memories of the happiest times we had spent together, when we were both comfortable and at ease. She found pleasure in my company – of this I was certain. An image arose in my mind, of Isabeau at the dining table, hearing my proposal with her eyes closed, her lips moving to form the longed-for words of assent; all my hopes falling to ashes when she opened her eyes.
I pressed the heels of my paws to my eyes. Given what I saw every time I stared into the mirror, I could hardly blame her for keeping any deeper feelings for me at bay. But what could I possibly do? If I had, indeed, managed to win her heart, however unwillingly, my mystification over how I had achieved that was no help in determining how I was to convince her to accept it.
Supposing I had in fact won her heart.
I would just have to continue as I had and perhaps some new strategy would suggest itself. I closed my eyes. I would just have to wait and see.
As it happened, I never got the chance.
Chapter XXXV
My mind was just beginning to settle into a tenuous prelude to sleep after the previous whirlwind of thought, when I was startled out of all drowsiness by a sudden, thunderous hammering on my door.
‘Beast! Beast!’
Isabeau’s voice was high and shrill with desperation. I was instantly awake and struggling out of the bedclothes. I threw open the door as the candles in the nearby sconce flared dramatically into life. Isabeau practically fell into my arms.
‘Isabeau,’ I said in consternation as I saw her face, white and wild-eyed.
‘Beast, it’s Claude! She is ill, she is dying,’ she cried, clearly distraught, grasping at my nightshirt.
‘What?’ I asked, confused.
‘I had a dream,’ Isabeau sobbed, ‘she was wasting away. It was my fault! I left her to die, I must go home.’ With this, all strength seemed to leave her and she collapsed.
‘Come and sit down,’ I said, trying to contain my own alarm. I half-led, half-carried her to an armchair and set her in it. She was shivering, and had clearly left her room in such a panic she had forgotten her robe. Almost instantly a blanket appeared beside the chair. I covered her knees with it, then shrugged into my own robe and knelt beside her. A cup of camomile tea appeared on a tray, hovering in the air. I took the cup and placed it in her hands. She did not seem to notice it and stared at me with wide, frightened eyes.
‘Now tell me,’ I said, ‘what has happened?’
Isabeau opened her mouth and gave a small hiccoughing sob, then swallowed and began again.
‘I had a dream, Beast,’ she said in a shaking voice. ‘It was so real. I dreamed Claude was on the verge of death, wasting away. She was nothing more than skin over bones and her eyes held such reproach in them. I knew it was my fault!’ She covered her eyes with one hand and began to sob in earnest. ‘I was the only one who could coax her to eat. She was pining away. And I left her to die.’
‘Isabeau,’ I said, putting my paw on her knee and shaking her gently, ‘it was a dream. Claude is well and happy. You know that from Marie’s letters.’
‘What if the letters are not real?’ sobbed Isabeau, not meeting my eyes.
I sat back a little to absorb what she had implied.
‘They are true to my knowledge,’ I said after a moment. ‘If they are not, then I have not been a party to the deception. Indeed, I have been subject to it as well.’ Here I hesitated again, but in the face of her distress, my reluctance lasted less than a second.
‘Let me show you something,’ I said. ‘It is the best I can offer to reassure you your sister is as the letters tell you.’
Isabeau looked at me wonderingly, but her panic had subsided for the moment.
‘Drink your tea,’ I said, and she gulped it down. I noticed what must have been Isabeau’s own robe now lying across the foot of my bed. I helped her into it and took her hand as I led her out of my room towards my study. She followed meekly.
‘Beast,’ she said in a very small voice as we walked, ‘I am sorry to wake you.’
‘Who else would you rouse at this hour?’ I joked, trying to make her smile. I succeeded, although it was a very wan and tear-stained smile.
‘Never mind it, I was not asleep,’ I said. Her fingers tightened their clasp on my hairy paw.
We came to my study and I steered her across the room until she was standing in front of the curtained mirror, then I pulled aside the drapes. At first she frowned in puzzlement, but then her mouth opened in amazement as her reflection began to grow hazy.
I stood to the side, looking on in a state of sick apprehension. How would she respond to the knowledge I had been keeping this from her all this time? Would she be angry I had essentially been eavesdropping on her family’s private life?
The mirror cleared and – of course – showed us a picture of Claude, sleeping sweetly, curled on her side with one hand under her cheek, looking the picture of health and contentment. Isabeau stared at her for the longest time. Eventually she stretched out her hand to touch the glass and, as if in response, Claude shifted in her sleep and rolled over. As she did so her pillow moved and out fell the filigree heart Henri had given her. It hung there, dangling from its chain. Isabeau brought her hand to her mouth and I saw fresh tears welling in her eyes.
Then the mirror blurred again, and Isabeau uttered a small, disappointed, ‘Oh!’ before it cleared and revealed Marie, asleep in her bed. She lay on her back, breathing evenly, her dark hair strewn across the pillow, so different to the way she usually wore it pulled neatly back. On the hand lying on top of the covers, she wore the ring René had given he
r. I turned my attention back to Isabeau, who now had her fist against her mouth, tears sliding down her cheeks. Then the mirror changed again.
This time the image was of Isabeau’s father, asleep. Isabeau uttered another low cry and covered her mouth with both hands. He was propped up on several pillows and, unlike his daughters, he was not sleeping peacefully. He twitched and moved his head and hands, and muttered unintelligible syllables. The sight of her father affected Isabeau far more than had the images of either of her sisters and she began to shake her head.
‘Oh, Papa,’ she moaned into her hands. Then the mirror began to cloud again and this time it returned to a simple reflection of my study. The curtains fell closed of their own accord. Isabeau turned to me.
‘Beast, he is so ill,’ she said, clearly upset anew. ‘I dreamed it was Claude who was ill, but it was Papa, all this time.’
‘I never knew him before he came here,’ I said, ‘and I do not think he was ever well since that time. But you know him much better than I. Has he so declined since you left?’
Isabeau clasped her hands in front of her.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, worriedly. ‘Looking at him then I thought so. But perhaps it is the moonlight.’ Her voice trailed off, as though she was trying to think of some other excuse for her father’s poorly appearance.
‘I know he worries about you a great deal,’ I said heavily. ‘That is my fault.’
Isabeau nodded silently. ‘Perhaps there is some way I could reassure him?’ Isabeau wondered out loud. ‘Marie writes me letters, could I write to Papa?’
‘Would he credit it?’ I asked her, knowing the answer.
Isabeau bit her lip and shook her head. ‘I …’ she said and then fell silent.
‘Isabeau?’ I asked, an icy sense of expectation taking hold of me.
The Beast’s Heart Page 25
