Beautiful Monster by Hanna C. Howard
Beautiful Monster
By Hanna C. Howard
Copyright 2010 by Hanna C. Howard
Smashwords Edition
“Loveliest of lovely things are they,
On earth, that soonest pass away.
The rose that lives its little hour
Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.”
- William Cullen Bryant
“A woman’s first duty is to be beautiful.” – Theophile Gautier, 1811-1872
France, 1882
Near Le Crozet, the Rhône Valley
Chapter One
Le Livre
The Book
I am already desperate to leave. In the sunny breakfast salon of our chateau my family sits divided: half pretending we are civilized, the other half making no effort to disguise the fact that we are not. My sisters’ quarreling is maddening anywhere, but inside the house it can make a person’s brain writhe like a worm in the sun. And my eldest brother Ansel only makes things worse by interfering.
I tip the last of my coffee into my mouth and shut my eyes, trying to block out their inane argument, wondering how quickly I can escape and get back to my book. A breeze drifts in from the open window carrying the scent of honeysuckle and magnolia. The scent of summer. It curls through my long hair and I focus on the sensation of its invisible tendrils, snaking across my neck and over my cheeks.
“Who on earth is that?” my father’s voice interrupts, cutting off both my reverie and my sisters’ verbal fencing match. While Elita and Dore blink at him, I turn with my three brothers to follow Father’s gaze.
The front lawn of our country estate stretches grandly before us like the garden of a palace. Each hedge is carefully pruned, each flower meticulously planted, each stone lining the paths chosen with care. Even the fountain—the jewel in the setting—seems to spout in a perfect arc, letting no drop of water go astray. And now, shambling down the path from the village road like a bold, bright insect swimming through a glass of milk, there is a ragged gypsy woman.
My father sighs, as if this incongruous sight pains him.
“I’ll take care of her,” I offer quickly, screeching my chair legs over the tile floor in my haste to get up. An excuse to leave. Before anyone can object I gather my skirt into a fist and hurry across the parlor and out the door.
I cross the lawn quickly, keeping to the cropped grass in my bare feet. The gypsy slows her gait, regarding me with curiosity. Unlike the swarthy gypsies I have seen before, this woman’s skin is fair and her eyes are a startling green. But that is all I can see of her features; her head is wrapped in a bright kerchief and a gauzy veil hangs over the lower half of her face, hiding her nose, mouth, and chin. I wonder if perhaps she has some kind of disease or disfigurement. The idea warms me to her. I am partial to imperfection. I smile.
And immediately she banishes my good opinion. The veil wavers slightly as she says, “My, but you are a beautiful girl.”
Beautiful. My smile drops at the word. I scowl at the gypsy, but her green eyes tilt upward into what I am certain is a smile.
“Did you want something, Gypsy?” I ask coldly.
“No,” she replies, sounding cheerful. “But you do, I’ll wager. Come, have a look.” She turns and I see a knapsack slung over her shoulder, packed to bursting with baubles and treasures to be peddled. My curiosity flares. I sigh and follow, deciding with an effort to overlook her quick judgment.
She crosses the lawn, making for a carved bench on the corner of the terrace; out of view, I notice, of the parlor window. She sits with a rustle of her colorful skirts and shifts her sack onto her lap. Patting the bench beside her, she motions for me to sit, too. I oblige, pursing my lips.
The gypsy’s eyes crinkle into a smile again and she rummages through the knapsack a moment. “I expect,” she says slowly, “that you have little interest in trinkets like these…” She extracts a glittering diamond necklace; the kind of thing Dore would swoon over.
I nod impassively. “You’re right.”
“Nor would you be terribly tempted by something like this…” She removes a jeweled filigree mirror, intricately detailed from handle to crown, and rotates it swiftly toward me so that it flashes in the morning sunlight.
I snort, turning away from my reflection. “My sister would adore it,” I say flatly, imagining the squeals of rapture that would come from Elita’s mouth at the appearance of such an object. “But I don’t really like mirrors.”
The gypsy does not reply. When I look back at her, she has replaced the mirror and the necklace in her sack and is holding some kind of leather book in her hands, her eyes bright and unsettling. Without a word she passes the book to me and raises her eyebrows.
I take it carefully, my breath coming quicker. Furtively, I steal a glance at the woman, fighting the sudden ridiculous suspicion that she is more than a common peddler.
But no, the book was surely just a perceptive guess. I run my fingers over the binding, across the soft, brown leather and the faded gold etching of a rose on the cover. It is exquisite. Lifting it to my face I inhale deeply, closing my eyes at the scent of old paper, leather, and ink.
“How much?” I ask, lifting the cover with careful fingers.
But the gypsy does not respond. I look up—and startle.
She is gone.
I did not hear the clatter of her bracelets or the jangle of her earrings; did not smell any sharp whiff of patchouli when she stood to walk away. It is as if she simply vanished. Clutching the book I stand and race the length of the terrace, gazing out over the broad sweep of lawn. On the right the vibrant grass runs uninterrupted to the cobbled road which leads to Le Crozet; on the left it ends in forest. She did not come this way. Could she have doubled around, toward the hills?
Taking to the grass I sprint across the front garden, the chateau passing in a blur on my right. I come around the wall of white and ocher stone and stop, breathing hard. The Rhône Valley cascades into rolling hills at my feet, but nowhere in the heart-stopping landscape do I see any human at all—much less a brightly-clad gypsy woman. I chew my lip, dumbfounded, remembering the uncanny expression in her emerald eyes.
“Don’t be silly, Yseult,” I tell myself quietly. “She was just a gypsy.”
Slowly I begin to walk back toward the front garden, opening my new book and smoothing back the first page. It seems to be a diary. The first entry is dated January of 1880—over two years ago—and written in an even, slanting hand. I turn to the next page and frown. The entry is only two pages long, and after that the book is unused.
Utterly blank.
I look up again, torn between being irritated and mystified. “What is this?” I ask aloud, hoping fancifully that the wind will carry my question to the gypsy—wherever she is now.
I cannot be sure, but after a moment I think the wind brings me a reply. It is the faint sound of laughter: musical, like a harpsong.
Chapter 2
La Rose
The Rose
I do not believe I am deceiving myself when I say I have a good memory. Better than most, as far as memories go. Even so, I have no recollection of the first time I was called beautiful. Or for that matter, the second time, or the third. I suppose that is why my real name, Yseult, has not been used since my mother died; since then I have only been called Beauté or Bella, as if that one quality were my only defining attribute.
I am told it is wonderful to be beautiful. That there is nothing better in the world than a pretty face. But I disagree. People are blinded by beauty. When they look at me, it is all they see.
“Beauté,” my father calls shortly after the gypsy’s disappearance, summoning me from the base of the poplar tree where I sit examining my new book. “Come inside please.”
I push myself up and brush off my skirt, pondering the diary as I trail inside. The lone entry was as puzzling to me as the book itself, speaking of nothing to indicate the author’s identity, save that he is a young man, and that he seems to have recently undergone something dreadful. I cannot fathom why the gypsy possessed the diary in the first place, but her reason for giving it to me is even more baffling.
Inside, Father is pacing the sitting room. Elita and Dore—fraternal twins who have just turned nineteen—are already waiting, along with our second-eldest brother Faber. Crumbs from breakfast still cling to Dore’s round cheeks, and Elita is plaiting her blond hair with a satisfied expression. Neither glances at me, as usual.
“Come, sit down,” my father says, gesturing to the settees and chairs that remain empty as Ciel—just thirteen months ahead of my sixteen years—and Ansel enter behind me. “I must speak to you all.”
Father is a merchant. He is probably going away again, like he does so often.
“I’m going away again,” he says, his arms clasped behind his back like a general. “But I want you all to know before I leave that I am in grave danger now…”
I sit up straighter, my eyes wide. Elita scoffs, not bothering to do so quietly. Dore giggles and leans against Elita, but Ciel, Ansel and Faber share my concern.
Father swallows once and continues, “…in grave danger of losing my fortune.”
My brothers and I slump back in mild relief. Loss of wealth is a serious matter, but it does not leave us in any imminent or mortal peril. However, my sisters seem to think differently: Dore and Elita leap up together with tandem shrieks.
“What? Father, what do you mean—”
“How could we lose—oh Father, you mustn’t let it—”
Father quiets them with a raised hand. “I just received a letter. I must set out for Marseilles at once. I have hope that one of my ships may have arrived early enough to save us. If it does, we shall be quite well-off. Richer than before, I daresay. But if not…” his voice trails away suggestively.
Elita and Dore are upon him like angry wasps, their cheeks red and their eyes fierce.
“I was meant to attend the Comte’s ball next week,” wails Dore, her face splotchy with sudden tears.
Elita is not crying, but her rage is impressive. “And I was meant to be presented to the Duke of Genève!” she says. “What is to become of me now? Who will marry me, now that we are poor?”
As the youngest, my opinion matters little, but I cannot keep myself from muttering, “Heavens above, what could be worse than not finding someone to marry you?”
Elita whirls on me, her features distorted. “You little brat,” she hisses. “Do you think spinsterhood is a joke? Of course you think you can say such things—of course, because you could marry any man with that face. Well, not after I’m through with it.”
Before anyone can stop her, Elita swipes her fingernails at my cheek like some kind of feral cat. But I am too quick for her. I dodge the blow and leap up, bringing my bare heel down on the toe of her satin slipper. She howls in pain, collapsing onto the settee so that she can clutch her foot properly.
Ciel chokes on his laughter.
“Beauté,” Ansel says in a longsuffering voice, pinching the bridge of his nose, “that is no way for a comely young lady to behave.”
“But she—”
“Ansel is right,” interrupts my father. “But attacking your sister with a handful of claws isn’t appropriate either. Come, children. I cannot leave for Marseilles when my house is full of squabbling beasts. Be civil toward one another. And come tell me what I should bring you when I have secured our fortune once more.”
Elita forgets her foot and her eyes brighten. “Oh, Father, I shall have a new gown, made all of lilac silk and spun gold!”
“And I shall have a ruby necklace, and bracelets and rings to match!” says Dore.
Ansel wishes for a new cloak, Faber a pair of thick boots, Ciel a new sword. I inch toward the door, anxious to escape the frenzy and get back to my mysterious new book.
“Beauté?” my father asks, turning his doting eyes toward me. “What would you like?”
Elita rolls her eyes. “Another book, Father,” she says mockingly, pretending to hold a volume up in front of her face. “For reading is the only thing worth doing. I am so pretty that I have no need for a new gown or sparkling jewels.”
I feel the heat flood my face. My palms itch with the desire to slap Elita. Father looks disapprovingly at my sister, and she simpers and turns her face down repentantly. But I see the smile she tries to hide.
“Beauté,” Father says gently. “What will you have?”
Furious tears prickle the backs of my eyes. If Elita had any idea how I feel about my own fair complexion, my silky dark curls, my brilliant blue eyes… my disgusting perfection. She could have it all, if it would make her—and the rest of the world—treat me like a human being. “I only want you to return safely,” I mutter to my father.
Elita turns to Dore and pretends to retch.
Father does not seem to notice. He beams at me, with that smile he never uses on any of my sisters or brothers. The smile he saves only for me; his favorite, his most beautiful child. I wish he would not. “Surely there is something you’d like?” he presses. “A certain book? A little sapphire necklace to match your eyes?”
I can sense Elita’s hatred swelling like an inflamed sore, poisoning the room. I know I must ask for something and end this conversation, or she will unleash her wrath on us all.
“A rose,” I say, realizing suddenly that this is an honest wish. “I have not seen a truly red rose in a long time. I should like you to bring me back a rose, if you find one.”
Father does not look satisfied, but he nods anyway. “Of course, my dear. I shall bring back a beautiful rose for my little beauty. Now I must be off. Please be good in my absence. Ansel, I leave you in charge of your brothers and sisters. Keep them safe and well.”
Ansel nods gravely, as serious in this undertaking as he is in all others.
Father kisses us all and hurries out the door to his coach. He is gone in moments, leaving us to wonder what our lives will be like when he returns.
Chapter Three
Un Prétendant et une Tempête
A Suitor and a Storm
After several agonizing days spent pondering it, I become resigned to the strange diary forever remaining a mystery, and allow myself gradually to forget it. The gypsy woman, too, fades from my mind and ceases to bother me, except in those rare instances when something—a smell or a sound—draws me back into the unsolvable puzzle.
Father is away for many months. The greens and blues of summer give way to autumn’s fiery kaleidoscope of burnished color, and soon after, the dreary blankness of winter sets in. It deadens the hills and forests and throws its cold shadow over the villages, houses, and farms. It feels endless.
Ansel, Faber, and Ciel are all becoming stronger, turning into men. I have grown taller, and am now a full forehead above Elita, though I have hardly been close enough to her to check. I have spent as much time as possible out of doors, away from my sisters—who somehow hate me more than ever before.
They have taken to calling me Belladonna, after the poisonous nightshade plant, twisting my nickname into something mocking. I wish I could be Yseult again, for the name was my mother’s idea, and has no similarity at all to the word beauty—a word I now dread above any other.
Despite the cold, I read outside or in the barn, eager for the solitude the temperature provides. Sometimes Faber or Ciel come with me, but Ansel is wary of my love for books. He says they will put dangerous ideas into my pretty head, and that my time would be better spent working on my trousseau.
Ciel is bemused by my hunger for stories, but he makes no argument against my reading them. He laughs at my jokes, and teases me good-naturedly when Ansel gets exasperated over my wrinkled and dirtied dresses. I am almost as glad for his company as I am for the chance to escape the house.
“Beauté!” Ansel calls today, his anxious tenor ringing over the barren hills. “Bella, please come in! Quickly!”
I sigh and climb to my feet, patting the sheep beside me as a thank you for its warmth. Clutching my book to my chest and pulling the wool of my cloak tightly around me, I hurry out of the barn for the house. “What is it?” I gasp, my breath coming in visible puffs against the chilly air.
Ansel’s face drops at the sight of me. I must be a mess.
“You’ve a caller. A suitor,” he says urgently. “His name is Sir Guillermo of Toulouse, and he is a very important man. He might wish to marry you if you can make yourself presentable before he grows tired of waiting.”
Now it is my face’s turn to drop. A suitor? Marry me? I feel nauseous, weak. I am old enough to marry by most standards—but until this moment the thought of betrothal has never seemed close enough to present any danger.
Ansel’s eyes are wild. “Go! Change clothes, comb your hair—do something!”
I drop the cloak and scamper up the stairs, my arms still crossed over the book at my chest. Marry me! Why?
Would a husband let me wander off and read? Would I have to do as he said, set to work producing needlework and heirs? Would he only see me as some beautiful piece, an addition to his collection of lovely things, or would he look deeper and perceive the person beneath the façade?
I step out of my brown wool dress, smudged with dirt and stuck all over with bits of hay, and slip into a jay-blue frock that belonged to my mother. My hair is wild, but I know combing it will only make things worse. I tie it back with a ribbon and hope I do not drop any grass or straw onto my visitor when I move my head. Licking my thumb, I wipe a few spots of dirt from my face and sprinkle rosewater onto my neck to mask the sheep smell.
Fighting waves of panic, I turn and hurry for the stairs.
“Ah, Beauté,” Ansel says pleasantly when my footsteps sound in the hall. He steps through the door of the parlor, a polite smile fixed to his face. Not far beneath it is the stretch of anxiety he has failed to hide. “Come. Allow me to present our visitor.”
He offers me his hand, which I take reluctantly. When he leads me into the drawing-room, I immediately bob into a curtsy. I am afraid to look up.
“Sir Guillermo of Toulouse, heir to the Chateau Blanche.”
Sir Guillermo stands and bows. We both straighten, and he eagerly fixes his glittering eyes on me. They are deep onyx, a color to match his shoulder-length hair. He smiles, flashing teeth as white and straight as a row of ceramic tile. He reminds me of a marble sculpture, the kind you might see in an art hall or a palace. If I didn’t have such an aversion to the word, I would classify him as beautiful.
Probably, I should be silly with gratitude that this man would call on me. I resolve to try and make myself agreeable. Perhaps he will not be so beastly as I imagined.
“Miss Beauté,” Guillermo says in a low, silken voice. “I have heard much of your loveliness. Yet, it seems even the rumors have not done you justice.”
No doubt he interprets my flush to mean I am modestly pleased—not irritated. He reaches out and takes my hand, bringing it slowly to his lips. I try not to squirm.
We sit, and Ansel takes his place on a far wall, our silent chaperone. I search my keen memory for a time I felt more uncomfortable, and find nothing.
“Tell me, Miss Beauté,” Guillermo says, turning his body to face mine on the settee. There is a greedy look in his eyes, but he folds his hands on his lap as if preparing to rehearse a speech. “What are your interests? What do you like to do?”
I see Ansel shift noticeably out of the corner of my eye, grappling for my attention. I know he wants me to make something up. To say cooking, or sewing, or caring for small children—anything but what he knows I will say. I turn my back on him and give my suitor a charming smile.
“Interests?” I raise my eyebrows innocently. “Oh, well to be honest, Sir, I like to read. More than almost anything else.”
Guillermo’s statuesque face falls slightly. “To read?”
“Indeed. And you, Sir? Do you read much?”
He shifts uncomfortably. “Of course I read. But…” he pauses, and suddenly brightens, as if he has realized something which puts him once more at ease. “Certainly, my dear, but I do not expect we read any of the same things. I forget there are books now that are not wholly inappropriate for such delicate creatures as yourself.” He gives me a patronizing smile.
Ansel coughs violently, anticipating what is already making its way out of my mouth, and hoping to stop it.
“I see,” I say with an arch smile. “I’m sure you are right. But, please, just indulge me. I love to discuss literature, and I had hoped we might have something in common. Have you, by chance, read Mr. Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo? I’ve just finished it.”
Guillermo is visibly startled. He looks to my brother, who is pretending to have something caught in his eye.
“Or perhaps,” I continue, feeling my self-control snap, “you’ve read Hugo’s Les Miserables? Such a raw depiction of humanity, don’t you think?”
When Guillermo turns to look back at me, it’s as if he is wheeling to face a dangerous wild animal. His face is colorless as parchment. I, a sixteen year-old girl who reads books and dabbles in the creative arts—a realm intended for men—am a horrific and terrifying thing to behold.
“I should be going,” he says hoarsely.
Ansel hurries over to see him to the door. He shoots me a look that would wither a whole bush of roses, and begins trying to patch up the tattered mess of his plans. “It’s just a phase,” he says reassuringly. “I’m sure she’ll soon grow out of. She’ll make a fine wife, Sir Guillermo—only think of how beautiful she is!”
I do not hear Guillermo’s weak reply. I do not wish to. I blaze through the house, shoving chairs out of my way and knocking over a table-lamp in my fury, unrepentant as wildfire. As the lamp shatters on the stone floor behind me, I fling open the back door. A trail of ash might be spreading over the chilly hilltops behind me as I walk, and I wouldn’t notice. Even Winter and his icy teeth are no match for my anger. My dress is too thin for this weather, but it feels stifling.
Beauty. I am only Beauty, and nothing else. Should I insinuate there is an active mind behind this cocoon of physical loveliness, I become at best a wayward thing to be subdued; at worst, a creature to be feared. I am like a painting or a flower come to life, inconveniencing and frightening everyone who realizes I live. Lovely things, after all, are never meant to have wills. They are meant to be looked at, displayed—owned.
It is a long time before I feel the cold seeping through my dress. I wrap my arms around my knees where I sit, still reluctant to return to the house. The world is enormous before me. I see the barren forest stretching out at the feet of the hills; the long, skeletal branches of the trees reaching into the sky for miles and miles. The sun sinks slowly behind their long arms, casting a pink glow over the horizon, and illuminating the world in glory for a few short minutes.
When the sky surrenders to the gray cloak of night, I push myself up on stiff legs and walk slowly back to the house to face my brother’s wrath.
Chapter Four
Ansel de Terrain
Ansel’s Plot
It has been many weeks since we last had a letter from Father. The ground is beginning to thaw, and Father left at the end of the summer. He has never stayed away this long before.
My anxiety causes me to chance speaking to Elita when she and Dore return from town in the afternoon.
“Anything from Father?” I ask.
A single word from me is usually enough to inspire a tirade of insults from my eldest sister, but today my question actually makes her stop. She meets my eyes—something she never does—and shakes her head slowly. Worry is written plainly over her face.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” I hear myself saying. “He’s probably just not had time to write.”
Elita nods, shaking off her concern like a bad dream. She and Dore traipse up to Elita’s bedchamber to try on their newly-purchased dresses.
But Father’s continued absence hovers over us all like a storm cloud: heavy, dark, and ready to pour. Ansel is growing more irritable and controlling. Today he announced that we are all to attend a neighboring viscount’s ball next week, though of course only my sisters have any interest in going. He says it will be a profitable affair for us all, since a ball in Ambierle will have more varied guests than in Le Crozet, and every one of us is of marriageable age. I want to tell him that Ciel and I are only barely of age, and that we shouldn’t have to go if we don’t want to, but somehow I suspect Ansel’s reaction to such a declaration would be worse than the ball itself. My anger over Sir Guillermo has had time to cool, and without it I am not as bold toward my brother as I might be.
The night of the ball comes at the most inconvenient time imaginable. Of course, I could not have known how deeply involved I would be in the novel I am reading, but now there is no help for it. I simply must find out what happens to Jean de Reve and his companions, or I will perish from the suspense.
“Beauté, you headstrong, foolish little girl!”
I did not hear Ansel’s footsteps approaching, and I am jolted so violently by his outburst that I drop my book and lose my place.
I glare up at him, tempted to remind him that headstrong, foolish little girls are probably not the best prospective wives, and might benefit more from a night of reading than of dancing. But one look at his wild, frenzied eyes convinces me of the wisdom of silence.
“Do you realize we are to leave this house in less than one quarter of an hour? Your sisters have been preparing all day long, and you’ve done nothing but—but read!” He yelps the word ‘read’ as if he cannot think of a more preposterous or delinquent activity. His voice sounds tense enough to split him down the middle. “And now—look at you! You’re not even properly dressed!”
I sigh. It is senseless to try and explain Jean de Reve’s terrible dilemma, since Ansel hardly reads at all and would never pick up a novel like this one—it being a fictional story and not a historical document. So I simply scowl and scramble to my feet, surreptitiously tucking the book into my bodice as I hurry to the wardrobe for one of Mother’s finer gowns. I am ready in half-a-minute, my hair pulled recklessly back with pins and my neck adorned with a simple rose pendant on a silver chain: another of Mother’s possessions. Elita and Dore had no interest in it as it was, according to their dismissive opinions, far too plain.
The gown I choose has a convenient abundance of fabric so that my book fits beneath the sash without being noticeable. With any luck I shall be able to slip away once the ball is underway and find a quiet place to read. Ansel will be so distracted by all the festivities that he’ll never notice I am missing.
In the downstairs foyer, Ciel slaps me hard on the small of my back—just where I have hidden my book—and a loud report rings through the hallway. Elita turns to give us a disgusted look.
“My goodness! How strong you are, little sister,” Ciel says quietly through a wolfish grin.
“Ciel!” I hiss, adjusting the book to ensure it is still in place, “Are you trying to give me away?”
He laughs and hooks his arm roughly around my neck, a childish display that would have Ansel in fits if he could see it.
“I won’t give up your little secret, Bookworm,” he says softly enough to keep Elita and Dore from hearing. “Although if our brother catches you reading at the Viscount’s, you may never see another printed word again in your life.”
I shrug to prove that I am not afraid of Ansel, though in truth, his assumed power is beginning to make me more and more uncomfortable. After my encounter with Sir Guillermo, I am a little worried that one of Ansel’s goals tonight will be to find me a suitable husband. As the ‘pretty one’ he might suppose I am the easiest child to marry off, and if Father does not return we will need to find a quick remedy to our poverty. A rich, titled husband for one of us daughters is, no doubt, a very agreeable solution to everyone.
Unless, of course, I am that daughter.
Ansel shepherds us all into the coach like a mother hen leading her chicks away from a pursuing fox. “We shall be late,” he says by way of explanation, and shouts a command to the coachman. We jolt forward, all of us bumping against each other in the tight cabin, and are off, jouncing down the long, rutted road which leads to the village.
By the time we arrive in Ambierle I am ready to welcome my own execution if it will free me from the coach and my sisters. Elita has hardly stopped the flow of words from her mouth long enough to take a breath the whole course of our journey, and her subjects range as widely as her jumps from one to the next. One moment she is complaining that the seat shall wrinkle her gown, the next surmising over the probable guest list at the ball, and then—suddenly—whining that Dore’s head has bumped hers in the carriage and has surely ruined her hair. Dore herself is no better. Between the two of them, and Ansel’s occasional interjections, my own thoughts have been driven entirely out of my mind and I have almost completely forgotten my own dear Jean de Reve.
When the carriage stops I am out of it even before Ansel, and he reprimands me for leaping down without assistance.
“I don’t need help getting out of a carriage,” I mutter, but he does not seem to hear me.
After everyone is unloaded, and all dresses and coats are smoothed of their wrinkles, Ansel stalks forward and takes my arm. I see Ciel begin to protest as he realizes he must escort the still-prattling Elita, but Ansel seems determined to see me into the ball. My stomach squirms.
I do not have to wait long to find out my brother’s motives.
“Beauté,” Ansel says in a low voice as we walk up the wide, marble stairs to the viscount’s chateau. “I will not permit any ill-behavior from you this evening. I expect you to act like the distinguished young lady you are, and to dance—as well as speak—with grace, dignity, and prudence.”
Ah, prudence. In other words, speak one word that suggests there is more to you than a pretty face, and I will make you regret you were ever born. I understand your meaning, dear brother.
“And there is another thing,” he continues in a quieter, more urgent voice. “A matter most important to our family.”
My blood pulses cold, and I must fight myself to keep pace with him.
“There is a man who has become a friend to me these last weeks. He is in town on a political errand, but he has confided in me his desire to secure a wife before he leaves.”
I want to stop and turn around, to run until my legs fall off or my body collapses. I cannot hear this, I cannot do this. But what choice do I have? I am just a girl.
Ansel must feel my resistance, for he grips my arm tighter. “His name is Philippe, the Marquis de Lyon. He is a very rich man, and in favor with those in power. If Father does not return, this man would save us from a terrible fate. I wish you to allow him several dances. And if he should make his intentions plain to you—” Ansel stops and makes me look at him. His eyes are like iron. “You will accept him. You are too smart a girl to do otherwise.”
A muscle twitches in his jaw and he starts forward again, pulling me firmly up the remaining stairs with him. My head hurts and my whole body feels as empty as a corn husk. I blink back angry tears.
I have never felt so powerless in all my life.
Chapter Five
Pleine Lune
Full Moon
The ball, I’m sure, is splendid and lavish, but all I can see are the muted colors of my gray misery. Ansel has left me in order to arrange my doom, and I stand listlessly along the wall with my satin shoulders brushing a tapestry behind me.
Dimly, I see my two sisters advancing coquettishly onto men far above their station. Apparently they have their own designs to save our family from destitution. Perhaps I should inform them that I have been selected as the scapegoat, and that they may dance with the stable-boys if they wish.
I don’t know how long I stand there against the stiff, towering blockade of wall. I politely decline a number of men, not even seeing their faces as they beseech me for the pleasure of this dance. My book is hard against my back, but even my desire to finish the story has withered. All for the best, I think bleakly, as I shall probably have to give up reading in favor of needlepoint once I am married to the Marquis.
Finally I see my brother, the Angel of Death, walking purposefully toward me with a walrus of a man at his side. The Marquis must be part giant, for he is a whole head taller than Ansel, and at least twice as big around. His belt seems ready to burst, and the buttons on his jacket are straining against his bulk like tiny soldiers trying to hold back a platoon. His blond hair is plastered back over his melon-skull, and a thin, whitish mustache perches on his upper lip like a baby caterpillar.
“Sir, may I present my sister to you: Miss Beauté LePrince de Le Crozet.” Ansel turns to me, and his face is all warnings. “Beauté, may I present Philippe, the Marquis de Lyon.”
I curtsy to match the Marquis’ quick bow. He is giving me an oily smile. “Would you allow me the pleasure of this dance, Mademoiselle?”
I give a jerk of a nod, and take his bulky arm, refusing to look at Ansel as we pass him. The Marquis wraps one of his meaty hands about my waist, and uses the other to secure my hand. Perhaps he thinks I will try and escape. Ansel must be a thorough informant.
“I have heard all about you, my beauty,” the Marquis says, expelling a gust of breath that would curdle moldy cheese. “But the moment you walked in the room, I decided I had to have you, no matter what your vices.” He gives what I interpret to be an indulgent smile. “You are an avid reader, yes? Ansel admitted it, though reluctantly.”
I nod, looking determinedly over his shoulder. He chuckles thickly. “Such a charming young lady. Well, don’t worry my dear. I’ll not be frightened away by merely one unbecoming habit. With that face, you’d have to keep company with the devil himself to shake a man like me.”
Perhaps I shall have to start, I think, my teeth beginning to grind. I try and consider all the things Ansel could do to punish me if I ruined his plan, weighing them against my desire to escape this man.
“You know what they say, though,” the Marquis murmurs, looming closer.
His breath smells like fish carcass. I do not answer, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“They say that books are no more for women than mice are for dogs.” His white-blonde eyebrows go up and he lets out a great bellow of laughter—a sound that is more like a circus gorilla’s roaring than a laugh.
I think I might be sick.
“You’re as clever as you are handsome,” I mutter.
The whole night passes in this fashion: Philippe the Monstrous Marquis clutching me in his paws and whispering things under his fishy breath, then laughing boisterously at his own jokes. I retreat inside myself, into the darkest, most remote corner of my being until I have almost shut him out completely.
What an existence this will be, I realize suddenly. Living like this with him forever. Will I eventually cease to be alive inside, die before my body even wears down? I suppose that would suit the Marquis perfectly: he only wants my body, anyway. I give a bitter laugh.
“What is funny, my beauty? I haven’t reached the comical part, yet.”
Oh, poor fool. He thinks I am laughing at him. What’s more, he thinks I am listening to him. Well, I will deceive him no longer.
“Pardon me,” I say flatly. “Nothing is funny. And come to that, I’m not sure anything will ever be funny again.”
The Marquis looks desperately confused, and a little miffed. I tell him I am feeling faint, and excuse myself.
The fresh night air rushes at me the moment I am through the doors. I sink onto the grass beneath a tree in the gardens where I am confident I’ll not be seen and lean against its trunk. The moon is full tonight: a brilliant, glowing orb in the endless sky. I have read that the night of the full moon is a night of magic.
It will take something like magic to save me from the Marquis, I expect.
There is a lilac bush growing beside me, and its heady fragrance makes me lightheaded. I plunge my face into the blossoms and inhale deeply, wheeling back with eyes closed in a sudden ecstasy of hope.
“I wish to be free of this,” I whisper as a breeze brushes my cheek with the lightest of kisses. “I wish to be seen for who I am, as a person—not as a decoration. I wish...” I open my eyes and look up at the brilliant moon, shimmering with power and enchantment. Up there, in the vast darkness, it is free. My hands tingle strangely and I am seized by a wave of grim determination. I clench my fingernails into my palms until a sharp pain shoots up my arm.
My voice is low. I have never been more serious. “I wish for a way out.”
Chapter Six
Un Moyen de Sortir
A Way Out
When we return home after the ball, we are all exhausted and cranky. Elita and Dore bicker all the way up the stairs until the sounds of their voices are lost in the thick wood of the labyrinth hallways of our house.
I am on my way to my rooms when Ansel catches me by the arm to stop me. “Beauté,” he says, “you did well tonight.”
I press my lips into a thin line.
“The Marquis spoke with me after the ball. He requested my permission…” Ansel trails off, looking down at his feet.
My stomach twists horribly and I feel tears spike at the backs of my eyes. I try to will them away, but I am tired… so tired. One rebel tear slips from the corner of my eye and burns a hot trail down my cheek.
Ansel does not notice. He is still staring at the ground. “Permission to marry you,” he finishes finally, in a quiet voice.
“And you gave it,” I say. It is not a question.
Ansel will not look at me. “It is for the best,” he says. “For our family.”
I do not reply, and the silence stretches between us like a chasm. I can hardly think for the overwhelming blackness in my mind.
Suddenly there is a loud slamming sound downstairs, followed by a rush of voices. The servants are shouting and jabbering, causing a terrible commotion, and there is another voice among them, a deep voice, and a familiar one. A voice I have not heard in many months.
“Father!” I cry, pushing past Ansel and flying down the stairs.
He is there, in the foyer, with the servants crowded around him. He is ragged and unshaven, and he wears a look of weariness—and something else I cannot place—on his dirty face. In his hand is a single crimson rose, drooping and beginning to wilt.
At the sight of me, Father does something I have never in my life seen him do—not even when mother died. He bursts into tears and begins to weep in earnest.
I am paralyzed at first, bewildered, terrified, and completely unsure what to do. But the servants part to let me through, and I do the only thing I can think of: I walk toward him, into his open arms, and embrace him as he holds me against his chest.
When he seems to recover, I pull away slightly. “Father,” I say, “what’s happened? What’s the matter?”
Surely this is not about our fortune. It is clear enough that we are to be poverty-stricken, but even such a thing as that would not reduce my impenetrable father to tears.
It is when I look up at him again that I recognize the other emotion in his eyes, the one I could not place a moment ago. It is grief.
Ansel and Faber are down the stairs now, followed closely by Ciel.
“Father! What’s wrong?” Ciel demands.
“I’ll tell you all at once, when your sisters have come down,” Father says, squaring his shoulders and blinking back his tears for his sons.
“Elita! Dore!” Ciel bellows up the stairwell.
Soon their pounding footsteps sound on the stairs, and they too are throwing themselves into Father’s arms.
“Father,” Elita says in a sugary voice, “we’ve missed you so! Did you bring my lilac silk dress?”
Apparently my clever sister has not noticed that our father may as well be a vagrant for his tattered clothes and grimy face.
He shakes his head sadly. “No, my dear. I have not brought any of you what you wished for. Except… except you, Beauté.” He hands me the limp rose and dissolves into tears again.
“Father!” I exclaim, unable to bear his crying. “Please! What is the matter?”
Ansel and Faber exchange worried looks as we lead Father into the parlor to sit down. Ansel excuses all the servants except the cook, whom he instructs to prepare a pot of tea.
When Father is seated on the settee, wrapped in a wool blanket and holding a mug of steaming chamomile tea, he commences his story.
“The journey to Marseilles is long,” he begins in a tired voice, “and longer when you have no money for the inns. When I arrived in the port city, it was still not known whether my ship would come in. I waited many weeks, hoping for the best, but fearing the worst. While I waited, I was forced to spend what money I had on food and lodgings, but was still optimistic that the cargo would arrive in time to save me from having to borrow from my friends.” He stops with a grim look and surveys us all. “You have already deduced the outcome of my stay in Marseilles. The ship did not come in. It sank off the coast of Barcelona, along with all my merchandise and the men. It was a terrible loss—for many reasons.
“I still had business in Marseilles after that, for it fell to me to contact all the families whose sons and husbands had been on my ship when she sank. Several of my friends were generous enough to house me while I remained in the city, but when it came time to leave, I had not the heart to ask for more funds. I left with only a few francs to my name, and was forced to live as a beggar and a wild-man on my journey home. I slept in the woods and hunted for my food, and often I went hungry.”
I scrutinize Father as he speaks. The things he is telling us are terrible, but his face betrays none of the emotion he was unable to hold back a few moments ago. I am on the edge of my chair, my whole body rigid while a terrible dread grows in my stomach.
“I traveled for many days like this,” Father says, “through the wilderness and through small towns. Sometimes a farmer would show me hospitality and give me food and a place to sleep, but more often I was shunned and threatened by wary townspeople.
“About three days ago I knew I was nearing our lands, but I was tired and hungry, and my judgment was foggy. I soon became lost, wandering through the woods in a sort of delirium. I must have dozed on my feet, for I woke to find myself a little way off from a pair of iron gates entangled with vines. Beyond them was a small cottage surrounded by forest. I decided to risk going inside, since I knew I was not strong enough to find my way home. But within the gates, everything changed before my eyes.
“It was not a cottage at all, but a towering structure; a castle unlike any I have ever seen. It looked to have come straight from Heaven, so great was the beauty and elegance of the place. I stood in awe at first, unaccountably terrified to go in, but soon my exhaustion won out.
“Inside, the place was splendid: well-kept, lavish, and tasteful. There was a table set before a wide window overlooking the gardens when I came in; on it was food and drink enough for one person, and I felt strangely that it had been placed there for me. I waited to see if the master of the house would enter, so I could ask his permission to eat, but he never came. Weak with hunger and fatigue, I ate, and soon after fell asleep.”
Ansel’s eyebrows are knitted together in concern, and Ciel gives me a dubious look. Father’s story is becoming more extravagant by the minute. I know my brothers are thinking the same thing I am: is he entirely well?
Father does not notice our glances. He is staring at his tea as he speaks, his face growing deeply lined with the same grief I saw earlier.
“When I awoke,” he continues, “I was in a beautiful bedchamber, in the softest bed I have ever slept upon. There was a platter set out for me as well, with a full breakfast, tea, and coffee. But still no sign of a servant, or the castle’s lord. I ate again and, beginning to feel myself once more, decided to set out for home. I searched briefly for the master of the house to thank him, but still found no one. I was on my way to the gate when I spotted a lane of rose bushes in the gardens…” Father’s voice breaks and he struggles to recover.
I swallow hard, my thoughts whirling. My siblings are all quiet.
“Clearly,” Father whispers, “I could not bring the rest of you what you asked me for, as I was penniless. But when I saw the roses…” Tears pool in his eyes and he takes a great breath. “I thought… I thought I might at least bring you your wish, Beauté.”
He looks at me with such sorrow that my heart feels like it is cracking inside my chest. An awful sense of foreboding descends on me, and the implausibility of Father’s tale seems to fall away like petals from a flower, leaving only the round, plain heart of the plant. Somehow I suddenly know that what he is saying is absolutely true, that he hasn’t embellished a single thing.
I find myself not wanting to hear the rest, but my body is rooted to the chair and Father is still speaking.
“I bent and snapped a single rose off of the bush, for you, my child… but it was my undoing. It was the gravest mistake of my life.” His voice trembles, but he does not allow it to stop him. “The moment I picked the flower, a terrible roaring sound filled the garden and I turned to find a monstrous person, a great, demented beast of a man towering over me in a fury. ‘How dare you steal one of my roses?’ he bellowed, his eyes flaming. ‘I give you a place to sleep, provide you with food and drink, and this is how you repay my hospitality? With thievery?’
“I immediately explained my situation from beginning to end, telling him about my promise to all of you, and ending with my hope to bring at least one of my children what she asked for—a simple rose. He seemed to soften at this, but told me he could not change the price of the rose: a life. He said I must either forfeit my own life to him, or choose one of my children to take my place. I told him I would never do it, but he released me nonetheless, giving me no more than five days to bid you farewell, or—” he shudders, “—send one of you instead. Else… else he will come here and retrieve me.”
Father looks at the rose hanging loosely in my hands. “Why the price of a single rose should be an entire life I shall never know.” He puts his broad, callused hands over his face and slumps down, silent sobs shaking his body.
Elita and Dore, seized by some sudden impulse of compassion, move to sit on either side of him and put their arms around his broad shoulders. I stand slowly, turning toward the window where the full moon still pours a cascade of light over the dark floorboards.
This is my fault, I realize, as a great heaviness of guilt settles over me. If I had only asked for a diamond ring, or a satin ball-gown instead. But, no. I had to ask for a rose.
I twirl the flower slowly between my fingers, and am surprised when one of the thorns pricks the soft flesh of my thumb. I watch the blood trickle down into the crevices of my hand—and then my breath catches. I look up suddenly, my mind spinning with realization. As I stare through the window-pane at the great, golden moon, I can almost hear it taunting me with the memory of my own words.
I wish for a way out.
I smear the bright line of blood over my bodice and turn back to look at my careworn father, silently weeping. An image of Philippe de Lyon pops into my head, strengthening my resolve.
I know what I must do.
Chapter
Seven
Garde le Secret
Secret Keeper
I wait until everyone is asleep before I begin making preparations to leave. I have few possessions that are of value to me, and as most of them are books—and too heavy to bring on a journey—packing is very quick work. When I catch a glimpse of the odd leather diary the gypsy gave me, however, I feel a strange impulse to bring it along, and slide it into my bag before I can change my mind. I don a dark traveling dress and a heavy cape, and tuck Father’s fatal rose into my bodice.
My most difficult task is to write a letter to my family, explaining my choice. It must be done well, or I risk disastrous repercussions, so I pen my words carefully. While I am not utterly certain that the lord of the castle will choose to kill me, I try to persuade my family that he will. His words to my father, after all, don’t leave me feeling very optimistic. The price of the rose: a life.
Calmly and convincingly as I can, I write that I will most likely be dead by the time my family discovers I am missing. This is the most important part. If my father has any reason to suspect I am still alive, I know he will attempt to rescue me, and I cannot help thinking that such an effort would end horribly.
I explain to Father that this isn’t his fault, and that he should blame no one but me; for my stupidity in asking for a rose, and for my determination to take the punishment. I sign my unending love to them all—even Ansel and Elita—and leave the note on the table at the bottom of the stairs.
Father said the lord of the castle had sent a horse with him, one of his own, to bring him back when it was time. In the stables I find a shining black stallion, decked in fine riding equipment. Strapped to his saddle are two fat, leather sacks, and I frown in sympathy for the poor beast, wondering why the stable-hands have left him so burdened.
“Poor thing,” I murmur, starting forward to remove some of his load. “No rest at all, and now I’m going to make you work again.”
I reach for the leather ties that bind the bags to his flanks, but no sooner have I brushed them with my fingertips than they begin to glow faintly. I jerk my hand back as the straps fall away and the sacks float gently to the ground, as if they are no more substantial than soap bubbles.
Despite my decision to believe the fantastical bits of Father’s tale, this bit of uncanny eye-trickery makes me tremble. Is it… I hesitate on the word… magic?
Wary now, I bend down to open one of the sacks—and have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. The contents glitter before my incredulous eyes: gold and precious stones and riches such as I have never seen. The bags are heavy—there is more than enough to save our family from destitution.
My mouth is dry. Who is this lord?
“Bella?”
The deep voice echoes through the rafters of the stables, and I whirl around, my heart pumping in my throat.
Ciel’s lanky form is silhouetted against the open door. I curse; I’m too terrible a liar to wriggle free of this one.
“Ciel,” I say, imploring. “Please go back inside.”
“You’re going, aren’t you?” he asks, his tone flat. “Instead of Father.”
I do not answer, and in the silence that follows I can hear flies buzzing around the horses as they shift in their sleep.
“I heard you get up,” he says. “I couldn’t sleep. And when I saw your note on the table, I knew where you’d be.”
My mind is spinning, searching vainly for ideas. There is a stray horseshoe on the floor. I could knock him out with it, but the very thought repulses me.
What he says next catches me by surprise. “Let me go instead.”
I stare at my brother. Does he also have an arranged marriage to escape, or is he simply trying to save me? I have always been closest to Ciel, but never close enough to expect this.
“Ciel, listen to me,” I say in as strong a voice as I can muster, leading the black stallion out of the stall. “I have to leave; I want to. If I stay here, I’ll be forced to marry someone I don’t love at all—someone I nearly hate—and to me, that’s far worse than death. I don’t know what will happen if I go, but it can’t be worse than what I’m already facing. It will save Father and the rest of you because, look: here is enough gold for Father to start his trade anew.” I gesture to the bags on the floor. “They were tied to the horse. If this lord is generous enough to spare such wealth, then perhaps he may spare my life as well.”
Ciel’s eyes widen. “Do you think so?”
I shake my head, trying to subdue the soaring hope I feel at the notion. “I don’t know. I think my odds are better than if I stayed here. But please, Ciel, don’t tell anyone that I may still live. I’m afraid of what Father would do if he thought that.”
My brother nods slowly. His eyebrows meet and he clenches his jaw. “But if you do live? How will I ever know?”
“I’ll write to you,” I say quickly, liking the idea. “But in a different hand, under a different name. I’ll inform you of my fate, as long as you promise to keep it from the others. And if you promise to write back, so I’ll know how everyone is.”