The Servants and the Beast

by R. A. Gates

  For the next couple days, we all followed Angeline around, at a distance, cleaning up the discarded handkerchiefs she littered throughout the castle as every little thing reminded her of her precious Philippe. Even Victor had grown tired of her tears, repeating a dark, ominous motif whenever she drifted out of earshot.

  “I don’t know what else to do!” The Beast slammed his fists down on the arms of his chair, causing poor Theodore to flinch. Victor and I had wandered in, hoping to offer inspiration with a melody. “I invited her to stay at the castle as long as she’d like. She is beautiful, educated, and refined. I could build a life with her, curse or no curse. But everything she sees reminds her of Philippe; the chandelier, the pattern on the rug in her bedchamber, even that damn fairy’s sparkles reminds her of the way his golden hair shines in the sunlight.” He flexed his fingers to expose his sharp claws. “If I ever meet this Philippe, I will tear him apart limb from limb for making me endure the very mention of his name. Repeatedly.”

  “She will get over him,” I assured him while Victor gently played in the background. If she accepted his offer, maybe I could teach her all about the wonders of playing a cello. I could instruct her on how to properly hold a bow and stroke it across my strings.

  A sob slipped under the doorway, coming from the hall. The Beast sighed and rolled his eyes before standing. “I should make sure she’s all right,” he said as he shuffled to the door. He stopped, one paw on the handle. “I’m not sure there is room enough in her heart for me, too.”

  “Oh,” Angeline said as soon as the Beast came into view, dabbing at her nose and eyes to clear the tears. “I was looking for you.” She forced a smile on her delicate face. “I have thought about your proposal and I’d like to accept.”

  Excitement lit up my hollow body and the urge to play a roaring song sung through my bow. She’d agreed to stay with the Beast. Would that satisfy the curse?

  The Beast stood straighter as he grinned. “You’ll be very happy here. I promise you.”

  She nodded, lips pressed into a thin line as fresh tears welled up. “I’m sure I will be.”

  I stood still, breath held, waiting for sparkles to whip up into a frenzy and turn us all back to our former glory. I couldn’t wait to have my old body back. To eat again. To play my lute again. To woo that lovely little Frostine in the kitchen. She had always saved the very best croissant for me at breakfast.

  The Beast fidgeted as he stood in front of her, glancing all around, obviously waiting for something magical to happen too.

  A loud pounding on the door interrupted the awkward silence. The door creaked open and a blond man peered inside. “Hello? Is anybody…?” His gaze fell on the girl and he pushed himself inside. “There you are!” He ran to her and wrapped her up in his arms. “I’ve been searching all over for you,” he said into her silky hair.

  “This must be Philippe,” I whispered to Victor. I had to hold my little friend back from attacking the man with his bow. Whether to avenge his treatment of the girl or to get revenge for making us endure endless stories of him, I wasn’t sure.

  She pushed the man away and stepped closer to the Beast, whom he apparently hadn’t noticed until just then, if the way his eyes widened was any indication. “I’m surprised you even realized that I was gone,” she said snidely.

  “This will be fun,” I whispered to Victor as we watched from the parlor. “A woman scorned and all.”

  Philippe pulled out a dagger from his side sheath and pointed it at the Beast. He grabbed the girl by her wrist and pulled her away and behind him. “Are you all right? Did he steal you away?” He was either extremely brave or extremely stupid. My money was on the latter.

  “I’m quite all right,” she clipped as she pulled away from the man and then walked to the Beast’s side. “And no, he did nothing of the sort. I got lost in the forest when the storm hit, and the Beast was kind enough to offer me shelter. He has taken excellent care of me and has even invited me to stay permanently.” Her eyes narrowed as she glared at the man. “And I accepted.”

  “Accepted?” The man staggered back, the arm holding his dagger falling back to his side. “To stay with this…this…monster?” Disgust distorted his handsome face as he sneered at the Beast. He brandished his dagger again, eyes narrowed. “He probably plans to eat you.”

  A low growl came from the Beast as he stared down the man, rising to his full height. His knuckles popped as he clenched his fist. Really, if the Beast wanted to eat her, he’d be picking his teeth with her bones by now.

  “Besides,” Philippe continued, his gaze shifting back to the girl. “You belong with me.”

  “I belong with you?” The girl laughed. “Are you sure it is I you want to marry? Not Elizabeth?”

  “Elizabeth?” Confusion wrinkled Philippe’s brow as his attention bounced back and forth between her and the Beast. “Why would I…?” Realization dawned on him as he focused solely on her. “There is nothing between her and me beyond acquaintance. I was merely helping her with her horse.”

  “Is that what they call it?” I whispered to Victor.

  The girl’s resolve slipped ever so slightly at his revelation, but she schooled her features before saying, “That isn’t what it looked like when I saw you with her in the stables.”

  Philippe placed his palm to his chest, the presence of the Beast apparently no longer a threat as he spoke. “I swear to you that there is nothing between that woman and me and there never will be. You are the only one for me. My heart will shrivel up and die if you do not return with me now.”

  I could feel the chance to break the curse slipping through my strings the longer the girl watched him plead his love for her.

  The Beast turned to the girl. “I can offer you everything you could ever want,” he said, taking her delicate hands. “There is nothing I would ever deny you. You would be very happy here.”

  Philippe dropped to his knees. “I cannot offer you the riches that this beast can. But I can promise that I will dedicate my life, nay, my soul to your happiness.”

  She slipped her hands free of the Beast’s hold and then wandered over to the ornate mirror. She watched her reflection, slipping a stray curl behind her ear as doubt warred in her eyes. Who would she choose?

  “You’ll learn to love the Beast,” Archambault said as he leaned in closer, the weight of the enormous feather tipping his hat forward.

  The girl jumped back. “Who said that?” She stared at the coat rack and his pink fur coat before her gaze drifted over the hall. She stepped backwards, pointing accusingly at the rack. “I keep hearing voices. Whispered voices in empty rooms. And music playing. This castle is haunted.”

  The Beast shrugged. “Enchanted, actually…”

  Philippe placed his hands on her shoulders as soon as she was within arm’s reach. “I heard it, too. Let me take you home,” he said as he turned her around to face him. “I will keep you safe.”

  “Oh, Philippe,” she whispered and then threw her arms around him. He picked her up and carried her out of the castle and into the forest, never to be seen by any of us again.

  The Beast fell back into Theodore, his shoulders slumped as he ran a paw down his face. “That could’ve gone better.”

  I peeked out of the window in hopes that she had changed her mind, but she was gone. So much for our music lessons.

  Chapter Six:

  Surely the Next One…

  In which the kitchen dreams of better days

  “W

  hat’s on the menu tonight?” Samuel the stove asked to the kitchen staff at large. He sparked up a large flame inside his oven in anticipation.

  We’d all been so excited to cook for people again since the weeping young woman appeared days ago. Not that I do any of the cooking, of course. Iceboxes don’t have the right equipment. “Anything will do,” I said. “As long as it has cheese in it. I’m practically overflowing with the stuff.” Dealing with dairy wasn’t new to me as I was the dairy maid before
that wretched good fairy drowned the castle in those pesky sparkles.

  “Oh, Frostine,” Marthe the mixer said to me. “How we French love our fromage.”

  “Do you think she’d like a nice fondue?” Samuel asked. The pots and pans hanging from the rack above him rattled as a couple fell from their hooks and landed on his burners.

  “She might.” I tossed out the fromage and vegetables that had a few good days left onto the cutting board. “At least it will use up all this food.” The knives snapped to attention and chopped up the produce and a nice baguette while Samuel got the cheese ready. The mix of wine and cheese swirling around the kitchen filled me with happiness. Before the curse, our chefs were known for their delicious dishes of duck l’orange, coq au vin, and boeuf bourguignon. But when we were only feeding the Beast, he desired less our fancy culinary feats and eventually preferred simpler dishes and the occasional steak tartare. The young woman’s presence had sparked our creative juices again and brought us back to life, so to speak.

  “I’ll whip up a crème brûlée for dessert,” Marthe said as her beaters spun. “It was one of the Queen’s favorites.”

  “Calm down, Marthe,” Rouge the black tea towel said as she whirled around the mixer, cleaning up the splatters coming from her bowl. “You’re making a mess to rival the one in the East Wing.”

  The kitchen door swung open just as the little tune the dishes started humming had spread to the napkins and candlesticks. Quillsby fluttered in and halted our joyous moment when he shouted, “She’s gone!”

  Only the sound of bubbling cheese could be heard after that. “What do you mean she’s gone?” I asked, not wanting to believe that our usefulness could be over so soon. “But she just got here.” It had only been a few days. We hadn’t even gotten to cook the escargot yet.

  Quillsby raced further inside and waited for the silverware to crowd around him, ready to hear the story. “That Philippe fellow barged into the castle and whisked her away, even after she agreed to stay with the Beast.”

  “Philippe?” I asked. “The one she’s been crying over since she got here? The one who broke her heart?” Why would she give someone who hurt her so badly a second chance?

  “Oh, you should have seen it,” Quillsby said, hopping up on top of Marthe so the rest of the kitchen could hear him better. “That scoundrel burst through the main doors, calling out for the girl. As soon as he saw the Beast, he brandished his sword and challenged him to a duel.”

  The little teacups gasped in unison. “No!”

  “Yes!” said Quillsby with a wave of his plumage. “He charged at the Beast, and would have run him through if not for the Beast’s quick reflexes. Philippe parried and thrust, chasing the Beast around the great hall while the girl could do nothing more than cry in the corner.”

  Of course, she was crying. But for whom? “Is the Beast all right?” I asked. Would the curse continue if he died? What would become of us?

  “The Beast is unharmed. At least physically,” Quillsby said. “Watching the girl willingly leave with that man after everything he had done for her wounded his pride and his heart.”

  “How could she leave with him after what he did to her?” I asked, opening my door to let a lagging carrot back into my cold box. “From what the China told me, he was rolling in the hay with another woman.” Literally.

  “He denied any wrongdoing, wooing her back into his good graces. The blaggard!” Quillsby slumped slightly as his ire diminished. “She didn’t even say goodbye as he whisked her off back to the village, leaving our Beast heartbroken and the curse intact.”

  The lively mood in the room melted away, leaving heavy hearts. Sam extinguished his flame and the cutlery trudged back into their drawers. “So much for dinner,” Marthe said sadly, turning off her beaters.

  Charles the cello waddled into the kitchen just as the cut vegetables returned to my shelf. “The girl has…Oh, I see you’ve already heard,” he said as his gaze fell upon Quillsby on the counter.

  “Yes, I’ve already informed the kitchen staff.” The bright white quill hopped off the counter and toward Charles, practically shoving the cello out of the door. “Let us go chat with the chambermaids in the West Wing.”

  “I can’t believe the Beast almost died!” Rouge said, folding into herself.

  “Died?” Charles asked, glancing down at the quill pushing against him. He stood his ground, not budging. “What exactly did you tell them?”

  “I told them that the girl was gone. Is she not? Now, about the chambermaids…” Quillsby tried to hop past the cello, but Charles’s bow stopped him in his tracks.

  Charles looked to me. “What have you heard, mon cherie?”

  If I still had blood running through my veins, I would be blushing. Instead, I said “It must have been quite frightening to witness the Beast being chased around the hall by a crazy man and his sword.”

  “What sword?” Charles asked, glancing sideways at Quillsby. “Do you mean that puny little dagger? No, there was no fight. That Philippe fellow found the girl and explained away the misunderstanding. But when he asked her to leave with him, she first refused, planning to honor her promise to the Beast. Until that big mouth Archambault spoke and alarmed the girl.” Charles sighed at the memory.

  “Yes, yes,” Quillsby said, hopping in front of the cello. “And because of that, no one must ever speak to another human to come to the castle again. We can’t afford to frighten off any more women until this curse is broken. I can barely remember what it feels like to have hands to write with.”

  “Indeed,” I said, straining my brain to remember what I looked like in my human form. I knew I was a slender yet strong woman, the perfect height to milk the cows every day. But the features of my face were getting hazier. I knew I had a beauty mark, but exactly where it was seemed to change on a daily basis. If the curse wasn’t broken soon, I might never recall my face again. “May the next woman come swiftly. Before it’s too late.”

  Chapter Seven:

  Yet Another Young Lady Arrives

  In which a third visitor fails to value the finer things in life — like books

  O

  nce I was known as Lady Jayne Beatrice Anne Smythe. I thought. After all these long years, sometimes I was no longer sure. Lately, I feared my memory had been failing, just like everything else around here.

  Though I came from noble blood, I was penniless when Papa died; he left me with nothing but loneliness and grief. Fortunately, Queen Marie never judged others by class or circumstance. I’d have starved in a British gutter if not for her. After she brought me to France, we became close. I gladly cared for her books and papers, keeping her organized and on time, and she told me often how much I was appreciated. She was such a beautiful soul.

  So unlike her son.

  Even when sickness trapped her in bed, I had seen to her comfort. And at the end, she begged me to care for the Prince when she was gone. Even though I never liked him, how could I refuse her final request?

  When she died, I was left alone again. I bitterly regretted my promise over the years. I stayed, though I no longer had a real place. Still, I hoped I could turn the Prince from his self-destructive path. And I did try, truly. But he never listened — not to me, not to anyone.

  “Has it been forty years, or fifty?” I asked, not willing to trust my memory.

  And Moll Flanders, my dearest friend, said, “I am a book, not a calendar. But to answer your question, I believe it has been closer to fifty.”

  Trapped as a bookcase for fifty years, just because our prince was a thoughtless, spoilt young man. I’d never approved of his behavior before that nasty fairy came. No gentlewoman could be comfortable with his excesses. I only wished he was more like Queen Marie than his class-conscious father. Then, perhaps, we might not have been in this predicament. Though some servants didn’t expend much effort to curb his dissipations, none deserved this.

  When His Ungrateful Highness decided the Queen’s old office would make
an amiable game room for his wild revelries, he demanded Her Majesty’s books be removed. Many had duplicates in the castle library, and he ordered me to do away with them, over my strenuous objections. Which was why I was in the hallway leaning against an old bookcase, my eyes nearly blinded with tears, my arms filled with leather-bound volumes, when that sparkly pink creature cast her evil spell. It took mere moments for my body to shift, turning hard and wooden, while all those books settled neatly into place on my shelves.

  And there I’ve stood all these long, tedious years.

  The first few decades weren’t so bad as I enjoyed the various fictional narratives. Though the curse had trapped me, it somehow freed the books on my shelves. They became gifted with speech and gladly shared their stories: dashing Don Quixote, adventurous Gulliver, my daring Moll Flanders, all the glorious works of Mr. Shakespeare. So many tales of chivalry and daring and true love.

  In the beginning, I believed some young woman would come and break the curse. It even seemed romantic, like tales of star-crossed lovers who manage to find a way. I was disappointed when the first proved so obviously unsuited to be the lady of the castle. The second might have been a good match, but didn’t work out either. There hadn’t been the slightest sign of True Love with either of them. The first he couldn’t bear, while the second he merely tolerated.

  Moll Flanders and I spoke often of love, though she did not believe in True Love. Which struck me as quite peculiar - she’d married so very often.

  Our conversations rambled for hours, mostly because Moll used ten words where one would do. And she described her life in Capital Letters: “The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders Who was born in Newgate prison and during a life of continued Variety, for Twelve Years a Whore, five times a Wife, Twelve Years a Thief, Eight Years a Transported Felon in Virginia, at last grown Rich, lived Honest and died a Penitent.”