“With you?” Cogsworth sputtered. “What makes you think anyone would enjoy your company for a full evening? You know how annoying you get when someone has been around you for just a few minutes. You wouldn’t wish to spend the whole evening with him, would you Mrs. Potts?”
Cogsworth stood at the bottom of the ladder Lumiere had scaled to pin up the garland. It was Cogsworth’s job to keep the ladder from tipping, but now he let it go to address Mrs. Potts.
The plump woman scoffed. “I will not be dancing. You should know by now I don’t dance.”
Chip grinned from where he helped Belle pin holly to the tops of the red, velvet curtains.
“I guess that means we all have to take turns dancing with Belle,” he said.
“With me?” Belle asked.
“Well, I’m not dancing with Lumiere, or Cogsworth, or even Mr. Prince. Sorry, sir.” And Chip tried to keep a straight face.
“I’d turn you down even if you did offer,” Mr. Prince solemnly told him, then winked at Belle. “But as the oldest one here, I think it is only fair I get the first dance with Miss Maurice.”
Holding the holly in one hand, Belle curtsied to Mr. Prince. “I would be honored to let you have the first dance,” she said.
Cogsworth grinned with boyish glee up at Lumiere. “I do believe your charm has lost its spark,” he said.
Lumiere smoothed back his hair. “Oh, trust me, my round friend, it won’t take me long to get it back.”
Five
The day of the ball proved to be the best day of the winter they had had so far. Belle woke to cool air that nipped at her nose and received a surprise when she hurried into the kitchen. Instead of being greeted by Mrs. Potts alone, she found Mr. Prince at the table where three bowls of porridge had been laid out instead of the usual two. Mr. Prince cast her a smile she had never seen before, one which looked nearly like the mischievous one Chip so commonly wore.
“I’m trying something new,” Mr. Prince told her as he pointed his spoon at her usual seat which he now sat beside. “I must say, I think I could get used to porridge in the kitchen.”
Sliding next to him, Belle plucked up her own spoon and asked, “Does this have anything to do with us reading Kidnapped? Are you wanting to try out kitchens and porridge because of David Balfour?”
Belle didn’t realize until moments like this how comfortable she had become around Mr. Prince. She never would have thought, when she first met him, that she would ask him silly questions about books she never would have read if left on her own. In some ways, she had come to love Mr. Prince’s book suggestions more than her own.
“Why else? Though I must say, your company is far more pleasant than David’s uncle.”
Mrs. Potts clicked her tongue. “Look at the pair of you, like a couple of children. No wonder my Chip refuses to grow up with you two as examples,” she said fondly.
“How can we think of growing up with the fun we have planned for tonight?” Mr. Prince asked. “Now, Mrs. Potts, don’t you have something you wished to show Belle?”
Mrs. Potts’ suddenly looked like a little girl, her face alight with a fun secret. She held her hand out to Belle and, when Belle took it, pulled her from the room and up many stairs and down many halls. They stopped when they reached the back part of the mansion Chip had yet to explore with Belle. Opening one of the bedroom doors, Mrs. Potts led Belle into a brightly colored room overlaid with a layer of dust.
The room was one of the brightest Belle had yet seen in the mansion. The walls were a soft off-white color and what had once been matching curtains hung over the windows. The bed frame was also white, with pink flowers and green leaves painted on it. Pictures of landscapes and black and white photos of France hung in frames on the walls. The floor was hard, polished wood. A small table stood by the bed, a large desk under the window, a bookcase beside it, and on the opposite wall a wardrobe.
“This room is so pretty!” Belle whispered.
“It is.” Mrs. Potts dabbed at her eyes with the end of her apron. Belle wanted to ask what was wrong, but something in the older woman’s eyes stopped her. Instead, she watched as Mrs. Potts went over to the wardrobe and opened it, revealing rows of dresses.
Smiling mysteriously, Mrs. Potts reached back into the dresses, then grabbed one and pulled it out. Belle stared in awe at the garment she held. It was a long, old-fashioned dress with a full skirt. The main part of the dress was a light rose color with a gold lining which ran down the front and lace on the sleeves and neckline.
“It’s so pretty!” Belle said.
“It was the height of fashion in France in the 1740s,” Mrs. Potts said with a glint of patriotic pride in her eyes. “And it is yours to wear tonight.”
Belle couldn’t believe it as Mrs. Potts pressed the rustling folds into her arms.
“Really?” she asked.
“Really.” Mrs. Potts said. “If the men didn’t want to dance with you before, they certainly will now!”
The day passed in a blissful blur. Everyone helped Mrs. Potts in the kitchen, making all sorts of treats for the evening. Afterward, they set the long table in the ballroom before they went to change into their party clothes. Mrs. Potts helped Belle into her dress and even did her hair for her before she went away to dress.
Sooner than she thought possible, Belle stood outside the ballroom door and listened to the record play a classical waltz. Belle laid her hand on the door to enter when Chip appeared. He wore short pants, long white socks, and a long, flaring coat. Her hand over her mouth, Belle giggled, and Chip wrinkled his nose at her.
“I’m not giggling at you,” he said, though then he winked. “Not that I could. You look rather nice in French clothes. You should consider moving to France.”
Belle opened her mouth to say something about being a hundred percent British but closed it when Chip held his arm out to her.
“Shall we?”
She accepted the gesture and followed him into the ballroom. Candles flickered and cast an enchanting glow over the room. Belle smiled when she spotted Mr. Prince, who wore the same fashion as Chip.
“My dear,” Mr. Prince said. He walked over and bowed. “You look beautiful. May I have this dance?”
Belle accepted his outstretched hand, and together they spun around the room just as Mrs. Potts entered. She wore a dress which matched Belle’s in style. Somehow Chip managed to talk his mother into a dance, and they joined Mr. Prince and Belle while Cogsworth and Lumiere stood by and watched. It was one of the happiest moments in Belle’s life, but at the same time, it was the shortest lived.
Belle didn’t hear the doorbell ring which called Lumiere away. She barely noticed him leave or return and only realized he’d been gone at all when the song stopped and he walked over to her. She thought he intended to ask for his dance until she saw the telegram in his hand.
Lumiere didn’t smile as he turned the paper over in his hand. Belle couldn’t take her eyes from it.
“He said he tried to come earlier, but he had trouble finding the house,” Lumiere said quietly before he held the paper out to Belle. “It’s for you.”
Her hands shaking, Belle accepted it and opened it. Her eyes blurred with tears as she read and re-read the black words printed on the paper. Unable to speak or answer her friends’ questioning looks, Belle handed the telegram to Mr. Prince, who read it and then folded her into his arms. She buried her head in his chest as he explained to everyone else.
“It’s from her mother. Her father was wounded in battle and might be dying. Mrs. Maurice wants Belle to join them back in London.”
Mr. Prince’s words sounded distant, but they slowly sank into Belle’s head when he said them. Hearing them spoken made them real.
Her dad might be dying.
Mr. Prince helped Belle pack. They said little to each other, and much of the time Mr. Prince would catch Belle as she stared wistfully and sadly out the window. When they were finished, Mr. Prince helped her carry her things downstairs
and to his car. He had decided he would drive her to the train station himself.
Everyone hugged Belle goodbye before she left; Mrs. Potts even cried, though Belle showed little emotion. She returned their hugs, then got into the car but said nothing for much of the journey. It was only as they neared the station Mr. Prince remembered the surprise he had planned to give her the night of the ball but had forgotten about when the telegram arrived.
Unloading her baggage, Mr. Prince bought her ticket, then met her on the platform. He had much he wanted to say to her, but the ache in his own heart made words impossible. He felt old wounds open, ones which he had suffered the day he’d lost his wife and daughter. Every part of him wanted to stop Belle from boarding the train. He hadn’t realized how much he’d come to love her until that moment, though he didn’t think she returned his love. How could she love a grumpy old man?
“The war is like a beast,” Belle whispered. “It’s destroying everything it touches, and nothing can stop it.”
Her forlorn expression and the tears in her eyes snapped Mr. Prince out of his own grief. He could hear the train’s whistle which announced its approach and realized he didn’t have much time.
Kneeling in front of Belle, Mr. Prince took both of her hands in his. He smiled even though he had to force it.
“I was wrong, Mr. Prince,” Belle told him. Tears fell from her eyes. “There’s no magic in the world.”
Reaching up, Mr. Prince brushed her tears away. “Don’t ever say that, Belle,” he said. “There is magic because God still cares about us. You showed me that, and you have to believe it too. I know you’re scared, but God still loves you and is going to take care of you. I think He might have sent you to me so I could help with that. Belle, Christmas is in three weeks. Your father should be able to travel by then. I want you and your mother and father to come back; to come here, in three weeks. Alright? Come and stay with me, forever if all of you like.”
Belle dragged her sleeve across her eyes and nodded, but a little later as she climbed on board the train and didn’t look back to wave, Mr. Prince felt hope sink to his shoes. She wouldn’t come back. All the fatherly love he had tried to show her had been for nothing. She had a father, and there wasn’t enough room in her heart for two.
Mr. Prince turned his back and pulled his hat down low over his eyes. He returned to his car while he felt part of his heart pull away on the train.
Six
~Three Weeks Later~
Christmas Eve was not a day Mr. Prince woke up to with feelings of excitement. As a boy, like most children, Christmas had been his favorite holiday. Since the death of his family, he has found few reasons to celebrate. That feeling worsened with Belle’s departure and lack of letters. Mr. Prince had harbored the secret hope she might at least remember him and write, but no word had come from her during the weeks she had been gone. Now, all hope of ever seeing her again was taken from him.
During the first week, Mr. Prince suffered in the same despair in which he had spent the last nineteen years. He’d nearly slipped back into his old habit of keeping everyone out of his life. This time, however, he realized he couldn’t do it. Belle had shown him a world he refused to see before, and he couldn’t stop seeing it. Not now. It would have been a thankless way to show everyone what she had done for him.
Therefore, he prepared for Christmas. He’d gone out with Chip to find a tree, and he ate porridge, though sometimes his heart wasn’t in his work. Chip helped when he could. He even kept his seat beside Mr. Prince in the evenings; it was a small gesture, but one which meant a lot to Mr. Prince.
On Christmas Eve Mrs. Potts spent the day baking. Even though Mr. Prince had stopped celebrating Christmases in the past, no one else had, and now he tried to join back in. He did his best to help in the kitchen. Neither he nor Mrs. Potts spoke of Belle, but he knew they both thought of her and missed her the same.
When they were done in the kitchen, Mr. Prince prepared to take his leave to clean up and change out of his flour-covered clothes. He knew everyone liked to gather in one of the parlors and sing Christmas carols together. He determined to join in even though his heart ached even more now that the sun had set and Christmas day crept closer.
As he prepared to leave, Mrs. Potts reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“I know it’s been hard on you, Adam,” she said. It had been years since she’d used his first name and it warmed his heart. “But she would be proud of you.”
“Of course she would,” he replied as he returned her smile. “My dear wife would love to find me in the kitchen, making little tarts.”
Mrs. Potts laughed and nodded. “She would, but she wasn’t the one I was talking about. I meant Belle.”
His little Belle. His smile warmed.
“I can only hope she is going to have a Merry Christmas,” he said.
The parlor was warm and bright. Lumiere, Cogsworth, and Chip had decorated the tree, and somehow it hadn’t fallen over even though Cogsworth and Lumiere worked on it together.
While they sang, and Mrs. Potts played the piano, Mr. Prince admired the tree. The candles winked on it and brought an extra feeling of warmth to the room that reached all the way down into the depths of Mr. Prince’s heart. This was the kind of Christmas Eve he used to love. All he missed were his daughter’s hand in his and his wife’s head on his shoulder.
For a moment Mr. Prince closed his eyes and allowed himself to travel to distant memories. He could see his wife. She smiled at him, holly in her hair while she stood under the mistletoe and giggled. She’d always liked to stand there until Mr. Prince got close, then she would run away. Once or twice he could catch her unawares, but he always had to be quick.
In between songs, Mr. Prince’s daughter would try to guess what he had gotten her. She would squeeze his hand, beam up at him, and rattle off suggestions. Her hand was so soft and warm, her little fingers curled around his. He’d never had a chance to tell her about the roses, the same with Belle. The garden had grown wild, and the greenhouse fell into disarray until Mr. Prince and Mrs. Potts had recently worked so hard to bring it back. This time he determined to keep it blooming.
Opening his eyes even though it meant his daughter’s hand wouldn’t feel as real, Mr. Prince realized everyone stared at him. They’d stopped singing, and he had as well, though he couldn’t remember when. Other things began to dawn on him, such as how everyone smiled, and how his daughter’s hand still clutched his.
Heart pounding, Mr. Prince looked down and stared in amazement—as Belle’s face looked up into his. He would have dropped her hand in shock, but he didn’t want the apparition to fade.
“Hello, Mr. Prince,” Belle said, and Mrs. Potts lost it. She leaped up from her stool, clasped her hands, and laughed and cried at the same time.
“She’s been writing us; it was a surprise. Your Christmas present. It has nearly killed us all to keep it secret!”
Mr. Prince hardly listened. He only glimpsed the woman who stood beside a tall man as he leaned on a crutch. Mr. Prince pulled Belle into his arms and hugged her tightly, unable to find the right words to thank God for one of the best Christmases he had ever enjoyed.
Introductions were made. Belle clung to Mr. Prince’s hand, unwilling to let go. At the same time, she held her dad’s hand, fearful if she released him he would disappear from her side.
There was much to talk about, but at the moment it didn’t matter. When everyone met her parents, Mr. Prince asked Belle to follow him, and she did.
He led her down hallways and, as they walked, he talked to her. She heard the pain in his voice as he spoke but said nothing, allowing him to say all on his mind.
“My wife and daughter died of cholera when my daughter was still young. When I lost them, I thought I would never again see beauty in the world again, or laugh, or even smile. You showed me that God has been here for me all this time and has cared for me in my suffering. He sent you to me, Belle. You taught me how to be happy agai
n, you showed me how beautiful the world He has given us is.”
By that time they had come to a door. Mr. Prince stopped and took her hand, his eyes full of love.
“This isn’t much as far as thank yous go, but it is the best way I can express it. Thank you, Belle Maurice, for not giving up on a grumpy, bitter old man. And thank you for coming back to me. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
Still holding to one hand, he opened the door with the other and Belle staggered back and stared in amazement. Before her spread out a garden. A winding, cobbled walk wove through a warm greenhouse, and on all sides of the walkway bloomed roses of different colors. Never in her life had Belle seen such beauty, and it slowly sank in that Mr. Prince intended to give this garden to her. Belle turned and threw her arms around his neck.
“I don’t know what I would do without you either, Mr. Prince,” she whispered. She buried her head into his shoulder. “And I don’t think either of us will ever have to try and figure that out. Thank you for welcoming me back home.”
Author’s Note
About ten or so years ago I saw a movie about this little old Irish man who met two kids who had just lost their dad. He started to tell them about how there was magic in the world if they could find it, and when they didn’t believe him, he’d dance around in fairy rings. Between that and C. S. Lewis’ book, The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe a story idea arose.
At first, I thought this story was going to turn into a nice sized book. It would be about various children who were sent to the house of an older gentleman during the bombing of London. The idea stayed in my head for years, only coming out when I heard about a short story contest for Beauty and the Beast re-tellings.
Out of all the Disney movies, Beauty and the Beast was one of the few princess ones I liked as a little girl. I read the original story years after seeing the movie and enjoyed it as well, as it was one of the few fairy tales I read with a happy ending. I decided to enter the contest when my enjoyment of the story and the idea for my book crashed together.
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