[fic] Beast and Beastliness, ch. 2
Chapter 2 of ???
Fandom: Disney's Beauty and the Beast
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance (in every sense of the word!)
Alas, as Isabelle was making her way out of the bookseller's shop, her new purchase in hand, she found her egress suddenly blocked.
"Good morning, Miss Morris."
"Lord Stonesbury," Isabelle said, lowering her book with a stifled sigh. She attempted to get to the door, but he stood, feet apart and arms akimbo, a muscular colossus in the doorway. "What a surprise to see you in a bookstore. Have you lost your way?"
Behind him, Jack gave a poorly-disguised snort, and was rewarded by a swift elbow to the midsection.
"You will find I am a man of many surprises," Lord Stonesbury pronounced. Catching sight of Isabelle's book, he plucked it from her grasp, examined the cover quizzically, then flipped through the pages. "Pirate romances? Is this truly suitable reading?"
"If you try to dismiss The Corsair as tawdry rubbish, I will become exceptionally vexed," Isabelle said with some heat. "The poet has a dazzling grasp of language, and more insight into the beauty and despair of the human condition than anyone since Robert Herrick."
Lord Stonesbury greeted this outburst with a blank stare, then his face reverted to its usual charming smile. Outside, a group of three young ladies, each with a head of yellow curls, sighed in rapture at the sight. "Miss Morris! Surely you know that too much reading is a blight upon the fairer sex. Science has shown that if a woman lives too much in her head, instead of her heart where it belongs, it can have terrible effects on her. It could give you brain fever, or dry up your womb."
"Science has shown this?"
"Indeed!"
Isabelle seemed about to ask another question, then sighed and shook her head. "I believe Mrs. Wollstoncraft would have something to say about that," she said instead.
Lord Stonesbury frowned. "I don't believe I know that lady. Have we been introduced?"
Isabelle bit back yet another response. "Milord, may I please have my book? I need to return home and finish preparing for the trip to London."
"Of course! Safe journey, and I shall see you in London."
"My book, if you please, Milord?"
Lord Stonesbury looked down at the volume still in his hands. "Do forgive me," he said, and handed it back, the stepped aside to let Isabelle exit the store.
***
One safely out in the street, where Lord Stonesbury could no longer accost her without giving the appearance of most dreadful impropriety, Isabelle gave a sigh of relief. Opening her prized new book, she plunged into its pages, eagerly devouring the words, as her feet took her faithfully along the well-known route back home.
Lord Stonesbury stepped out of the store a few decorous minutes later, and nodded to the trio of yellow-haired misses - all of whom instantly vanished behind their fans in a mad fit of tittering. Jack glanced at them appreciatively.
"Perhaps milord might consider...?"
"Nonsense, Jack. Once we are in London and the Season is underway, Miss Morris will come to her senses. In the meantime, why, I shall enjoy the chase."
***
"Papa!" Isabelle said, bursting into the foyer of her modest country home. "I've finally got it! And you'll never guess who... why, Papa. What's happening? Angie, why are you crying? What's wrong?"
"Isabelle," Mr. Morris said, "I'm so sorry, but we can no longer afford to retain Angie."
"What?" Isabelle cried, stricken. "Why, Angie has been with us since I was a child. She's a part of our family - we cannot simply turn her away!"
"I'm sorry, my dear, but there's nothing we can do."
"Nonsense. We can cancel the trip to London."
"Oh, you mustn't!" Angie, a small, comfortable, white-haired woman, made haste to wipe the tears off her cheeks. "I won't have you throwing away your chances on my account."
"But, Angie..." Isabelle protested.
"Go. Make yourself a good match, and you'll do me proud."
"But what will become of you?"
Angie hesitated, twisting her apron. "Lord Maitland has put out an advertisement for a housekeeper. I will apply for it."
Isabelle gasped. "What, that recluse who lives in the middle of the forest? Angie, you cannot. I forbid it."
"He is the only one seeking help, and I've got mouths to feed back home," Angie said sadly. "But don't you fret, Miss - even if he is a monster, I'm too tough of an old bird. Now, come - breakfast is laid out for you."
All of her excitement over The Corsair gone, Isabelle divested herself of bonnet, shawl, and book, and followed her father into the dining room.
"Papa," she said when they had seated themselves, "how has it come to this? How have we fallen to this state?"
Mr. Morris sighed. He was a small, stooped man with thinning grey hair, who looked older than his years. "I never could manage the household the way your mother did," he said softly. "Her doctor fees took much more than either of us knew - and at the time I wasn't even looking at the numbers. I would have done anything, agreed to anything, if I thought it would make her whole, or even just take away a little of the pain."
He paused, lost in memory, as the teapot scuttled over in a series of whirs and clicks to refresh his cup.
"And now...well, I'm sure my tinkering doesn't help matters."
"Nonsense! Why, the things you build are marvels!" Isabelle gestured at the mechanical teapot. In the sitting room, a feather-duster whisked its disembodied way across a shelf of knicknacks.
"Do you really think so?" Mr. Morris brightened visibly, then shook his head. "No - my 'marvels' will land us in the poorhouse, and then what will become of you, my beautiful, brave girl?"
The feather-duster chose that moment to dust its way off the shelf and crash to the floor in a spectacular cloud of smoke, flying sparks, and the noxious smell of oil and burnt feathers. We will leave Mr. Morris and his daughter as they rushed into the sitting room to assist their remaining servants in tending to the small disaster and cleaning up the soggy mess that resulted, and follow the fortunes of the freshly-dismissed housekeeper. She tearfully gathered up her belongings and packed them into a small, neat trunk, then made her way out to the street where a hired coach was waiting to take her to her new prospect.
The bright, clean roads of the town gradually grew narrow and dim, increasingly hemmed in by trees and ill-kept shrubbery. Then the trees closed in overhead entirely, and the road became a thin, bumpy thread winding through a forest that entirely blotted out the bright young day.
Angie shivered and drew her cloak tightly around herself, peering anxiously out into the gloom. To her horror, a pair of glowing green eyes stared back at her; she gave a muffled shriek and shrank back from the window.
At length, the trees finally thinned, and the woods opened out to reveal a magnificent gothic estate, so brave with towers, gargoyles, and stonework that it could have been a castle. It would have been a dazzling sight were it not for the gloom that hung over it, as though the beautiful, bright morning had been left on the other side of the forest. The land on which it sat was clear of trees but overgrown with straggling weeds and leggy, seedy flowers. The one exception was a rose garden, carefully tended and alive with blooms of every conceivable shade, from purest white to glowing gold; from pale pink to a crimson so deep it seemed nearly black. Behind the manor, the forest closed in again, holding the entire estate in its shadowy embrace.
The carriage drew up to the servant's entrance, and, trying to quell her misgivings, its passenger disembarked. The door swung open silently as she approached, revealing a long, dimly-lit corridor. She stepped inside, then jumped as the door swung shut behind her.
Angie stood uncertainly, looking around for someone to greet her or escort her to her prospective employer, but there was nobody to be seen. She stood waiting for a long, silent space, then accepted the futility of staying put any longer and set off down the hallway. Her booted feet rang shockingly loud against the stone floor, and as her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she realized that what little light there was came from torches that flickered overhead and cast long, wavering shadows down the hall.
After what felt like an eternity, she reached the end of the hallway, where she found a massive, iron-clad door standing slightly ajar. Angie pushed through the opening and found herself in a vast room - easily the size of the the Morris's entire country estate to her awestruck eyes. At the far end of the room, a fire smouldered in a fireplace that took up half the wall, casting the room's only light, and in front of the fireplace sat a man in a huge easy chair. The chair was turned toward the fire, so all Angie could see of him was a single hand on the arm-rest, and the shadows of his feet.
"Who is there?" The man in the chair did not move or rise; his voice was deep and sonorous, almost a growl.
"Sir, if it please you, I am Mrs. Angela Potts, and I've come..."
"Ha! You've come to gape at the Beast of Maitland Manor! Is that it?"
"No, sir." Angie gathered her courage in both hands and took a step closer. "I've come about the position."
"So, you're the housekeeper, then."
"Yes, sir."
"Hmph." The man shifted slightly in the chair. "How is it that you find yourself at loose ends? Were you turned away for thievery? Idleness? Being a slattern?"
"Not in the least, sir!" Indignation entirely chased away fear, and Angie strode up to the side of the hair. "I was last retained by Mr. John Morris, but he has fallen on hard times and had to turn me out."
The man in the chair was a black silhouette against the ruddy firelight. "I know John Morris. Down on his luck, is he?"
"Yes, sir. And poor Miss Morris is taking it all very hard. Poor girl...I do hope she is able to make a good match this Season."
Angela Potts did not know at the time she uttered them, what a strange and fateful chain of events those words would unleash. What she did know was that as she spoke, the man in the chair raised his head abruptly, not unlike a hound that has caught a scent.
"So, John Morris has a daughter...and she is out in society," he said. "That is very interesting indeed. Come, Mrs. Potts - we must make ready for a journey."
"Does that mean I have the position?" Angie asked, scarcely daring to believe it.
"Yes, yes - of course it bloody well does, woman! Have your things brought in, and don't be all day about it. I have matters to attend."
He rose from the chair, throwing his face into light for the first time. Angie gasped, for what she saw was not what she had expected to see.
---
Author's Notes:
The Corsair is an epic poem by Lord Byron, who was essentially a rock star of the Regency - young, handsome, titled, and talented. The Corsair was first published in 1814, and the first printing sold 10,000 copies in a single day.
Mrs. Wollstoncraft was the mother of Mary Shelley, and an early feminist. She was the author of the famous essay, "A Vindication of the Rights of Women."
Angie Potts: We never learn Mrs. Potts' first name in the movie, so I gave her the first name of her voice actor, Angela Lansbury. Angie is an affectionate nickname given by Isabelle.
Mechanical dolls and toys were very popular in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, so it seemed in keeping with Mr. Morris' character to have him create them. It also allowed me to fit some "cameos" from the movie into the more realistic setting of this story.
Chapter 1: The Bluestocking
Fandom: Disney's Beauty and the Beast
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance (in every sense of the word!)
Alas, as Isabelle was making her way out of the bookseller's shop, her new purchase in hand, she found her egress suddenly blocked.
"Good morning, Miss Morris."
"Lord Stonesbury," Isabelle said, lowering her book with a stifled sigh. She attempted to get to the door, but he stood, feet apart and arms akimbo, a muscular colossus in the doorway. "What a surprise to see you in a bookstore. Have you lost your way?"
Behind him, Jack gave a poorly-disguised snort, and was rewarded by a swift elbow to the midsection.
"You will find I am a man of many surprises," Lord Stonesbury pronounced. Catching sight of Isabelle's book, he plucked it from her grasp, examined the cover quizzically, then flipped through the pages. "Pirate romances? Is this truly suitable reading?"
"If you try to dismiss The Corsair as tawdry rubbish, I will become exceptionally vexed," Isabelle said with some heat. "The poet has a dazzling grasp of language, and more insight into the beauty and despair of the human condition than anyone since Robert Herrick."
Lord Stonesbury greeted this outburst with a blank stare, then his face reverted to its usual charming smile. Outside, a group of three young ladies, each with a head of yellow curls, sighed in rapture at the sight. "Miss Morris! Surely you know that too much reading is a blight upon the fairer sex. Science has shown that if a woman lives too much in her head, instead of her heart where it belongs, it can have terrible effects on her. It could give you brain fever, or dry up your womb."
"Science has shown this?"
"Indeed!"
Isabelle seemed about to ask another question, then sighed and shook her head. "I believe Mrs. Wollstoncraft would have something to say about that," she said instead.
Lord Stonesbury frowned. "I don't believe I know that lady. Have we been introduced?"
Isabelle bit back yet another response. "Milord, may I please have my book? I need to return home and finish preparing for the trip to London."
"Of course! Safe journey, and I shall see you in London."
"My book, if you please, Milord?"
Lord Stonesbury looked down at the volume still in his hands. "Do forgive me," he said, and handed it back, the stepped aside to let Isabelle exit the store.
***
One safely out in the street, where Lord Stonesbury could no longer accost her without giving the appearance of most dreadful impropriety, Isabelle gave a sigh of relief. Opening her prized new book, she plunged into its pages, eagerly devouring the words, as her feet took her faithfully along the well-known route back home.
Lord Stonesbury stepped out of the store a few decorous minutes later, and nodded to the trio of yellow-haired misses - all of whom instantly vanished behind their fans in a mad fit of tittering. Jack glanced at them appreciatively.
"Perhaps milord might consider...?"
"Nonsense, Jack. Once we are in London and the Season is underway, Miss Morris will come to her senses. In the meantime, why, I shall enjoy the chase."
***
"Papa!" Isabelle said, bursting into the foyer of her modest country home. "I've finally got it! And you'll never guess who... why, Papa. What's happening? Angie, why are you crying? What's wrong?"
"Isabelle," Mr. Morris said, "I'm so sorry, but we can no longer afford to retain Angie."
"What?" Isabelle cried, stricken. "Why, Angie has been with us since I was a child. She's a part of our family - we cannot simply turn her away!"
"I'm sorry, my dear, but there's nothing we can do."
"Nonsense. We can cancel the trip to London."
"Oh, you mustn't!" Angie, a small, comfortable, white-haired woman, made haste to wipe the tears off her cheeks. "I won't have you throwing away your chances on my account."
"But, Angie..." Isabelle protested.
"Go. Make yourself a good match, and you'll do me proud."
"But what will become of you?"
Angie hesitated, twisting her apron. "Lord Maitland has put out an advertisement for a housekeeper. I will apply for it."
Isabelle gasped. "What, that recluse who lives in the middle of the forest? Angie, you cannot. I forbid it."
"He is the only one seeking help, and I've got mouths to feed back home," Angie said sadly. "But don't you fret, Miss - even if he is a monster, I'm too tough of an old bird. Now, come - breakfast is laid out for you."
All of her excitement over The Corsair gone, Isabelle divested herself of bonnet, shawl, and book, and followed her father into the dining room.
"Papa," she said when they had seated themselves, "how has it come to this? How have we fallen to this state?"
Mr. Morris sighed. He was a small, stooped man with thinning grey hair, who looked older than his years. "I never could manage the household the way your mother did," he said softly. "Her doctor fees took much more than either of us knew - and at the time I wasn't even looking at the numbers. I would have done anything, agreed to anything, if I thought it would make her whole, or even just take away a little of the pain."
He paused, lost in memory, as the teapot scuttled over in a series of whirs and clicks to refresh his cup.
"And now...well, I'm sure my tinkering doesn't help matters."
"Nonsense! Why, the things you build are marvels!" Isabelle gestured at the mechanical teapot. In the sitting room, a feather-duster whisked its disembodied way across a shelf of knicknacks.
"Do you really think so?" Mr. Morris brightened visibly, then shook his head. "No - my 'marvels' will land us in the poorhouse, and then what will become of you, my beautiful, brave girl?"
The feather-duster chose that moment to dust its way off the shelf and crash to the floor in a spectacular cloud of smoke, flying sparks, and the noxious smell of oil and burnt feathers. We will leave Mr. Morris and his daughter as they rushed into the sitting room to assist their remaining servants in tending to the small disaster and cleaning up the soggy mess that resulted, and follow the fortunes of the freshly-dismissed housekeeper. She tearfully gathered up her belongings and packed them into a small, neat trunk, then made her way out to the street where a hired coach was waiting to take her to her new prospect.
The bright, clean roads of the town gradually grew narrow and dim, increasingly hemmed in by trees and ill-kept shrubbery. Then the trees closed in overhead entirely, and the road became a thin, bumpy thread winding through a forest that entirely blotted out the bright young day.
Angie shivered and drew her cloak tightly around herself, peering anxiously out into the gloom. To her horror, a pair of glowing green eyes stared back at her; she gave a muffled shriek and shrank back from the window.
At length, the trees finally thinned, and the woods opened out to reveal a magnificent gothic estate, so brave with towers, gargoyles, and stonework that it could have been a castle. It would have been a dazzling sight were it not for the gloom that hung over it, as though the beautiful, bright morning had been left on the other side of the forest. The land on which it sat was clear of trees but overgrown with straggling weeds and leggy, seedy flowers. The one exception was a rose garden, carefully tended and alive with blooms of every conceivable shade, from purest white to glowing gold; from pale pink to a crimson so deep it seemed nearly black. Behind the manor, the forest closed in again, holding the entire estate in its shadowy embrace.
The carriage drew up to the servant's entrance, and, trying to quell her misgivings, its passenger disembarked. The door swung open silently as she approached, revealing a long, dimly-lit corridor. She stepped inside, then jumped as the door swung shut behind her.
Angie stood uncertainly, looking around for someone to greet her or escort her to her prospective employer, but there was nobody to be seen. She stood waiting for a long, silent space, then accepted the futility of staying put any longer and set off down the hallway. Her booted feet rang shockingly loud against the stone floor, and as her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she realized that what little light there was came from torches that flickered overhead and cast long, wavering shadows down the hall.
After what felt like an eternity, she reached the end of the hallway, where she found a massive, iron-clad door standing slightly ajar. Angie pushed through the opening and found herself in a vast room - easily the size of the the Morris's entire country estate to her awestruck eyes. At the far end of the room, a fire smouldered in a fireplace that took up half the wall, casting the room's only light, and in front of the fireplace sat a man in a huge easy chair. The chair was turned toward the fire, so all Angie could see of him was a single hand on the arm-rest, and the shadows of his feet.
"Who is there?" The man in the chair did not move or rise; his voice was deep and sonorous, almost a growl.
"Sir, if it please you, I am Mrs. Angela Potts, and I've come..."
"Ha! You've come to gape at the Beast of Maitland Manor! Is that it?"
"No, sir." Angie gathered her courage in both hands and took a step closer. "I've come about the position."
"So, you're the housekeeper, then."
"Yes, sir."
"Hmph." The man shifted slightly in the chair. "How is it that you find yourself at loose ends? Were you turned away for thievery? Idleness? Being a slattern?"
"Not in the least, sir!" Indignation entirely chased away fear, and Angie strode up to the side of the hair. "I was last retained by Mr. John Morris, but he has fallen on hard times and had to turn me out."
The man in the chair was a black silhouette against the ruddy firelight. "I know John Morris. Down on his luck, is he?"
"Yes, sir. And poor Miss Morris is taking it all very hard. Poor girl...I do hope she is able to make a good match this Season."
Angela Potts did not know at the time she uttered them, what a strange and fateful chain of events those words would unleash. What she did know was that as she spoke, the man in the chair raised his head abruptly, not unlike a hound that has caught a scent.
"So, John Morris has a daughter...and she is out in society," he said. "That is very interesting indeed. Come, Mrs. Potts - we must make ready for a journey."
"Does that mean I have the position?" Angie asked, scarcely daring to believe it.
"Yes, yes - of course it bloody well does, woman! Have your things brought in, and don't be all day about it. I have matters to attend."
He rose from the chair, throwing his face into light for the first time. Angie gasped, for what she saw was not what she had expected to see.
---
Author's Notes:
The Corsair is an epic poem by Lord Byron, who was essentially a rock star of the Regency - young, handsome, titled, and talented. The Corsair was first published in 1814, and the first printing sold 10,000 copies in a single day.
Mrs. Wollstoncraft was the mother of Mary Shelley, and an early feminist. She was the author of the famous essay, "A Vindication of the Rights of Women."
Angie Potts: We never learn Mrs. Potts' first name in the movie, so I gave her the first name of her voice actor, Angela Lansbury. Angie is an affectionate nickname given by Isabelle.
Mechanical dolls and toys were very popular in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, so it seemed in keeping with Mr. Morris' character to have him create them. It also allowed me to fit some "cameos" from the movie into the more realistic setting of this story.
Chapter 1: The Bluestocking