Disney: And So They Lived
Title: And So They Lived
Fandom: Disney's Beauty and the Beast
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Infidelity
Notes: I've finally crossed that line and ruined Disney! Yay! Although this fic is dedicated to everyone who thought the Beast was a better catch than the Prince, this was a request fill for
vellum, who donated to UNICEF in support of Haiti relief. Thanks bb! Although I think I kind of went off in an unexpected direction with your prompt, I couldn't help a semi-happy ending. The other fic you asked for is in progress. Beta-read by the ineffable
rhaegal.
Summary: Belle is marrying the Prince, but she fell in love with the Beast. This isn't how a fairy tale is supposed to go.
Belle had learned a lot from books, but there was an important lesson they'd neglected to teach her: endings aren't always happy.
That night, in the tower, when the Beast was dying, it had been unthinkable for Belle not to run to him, to hold him as close as she could, as if she could shield him from death. The words she'd been too afraid to say had slipped out of her mouth almost of their own volition. When the magic had thrummed through them both, electrifying his fur, the elation of a second chance sang through her even more strongly. Not that she'd deserved a second chance after treating him so terribly, but she was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
The change had been unexpected. She was sure, though, that he was still the same man she loved, only two hundred pounds lighter and with far less hair; that was what she kept telling herself.
Her own, real-life Prince Charming.
She was getting a fairytale ending to a horrible ordeal, and she was determined to enjoy it. So what if she looked at him sometimes and missed the horns and fangs? She was obviously delusional; he was gorgeous now, even more than Gaston had been on the outside. Belle had never been one for change and she acknowledged this about herself. It made her anxious; as a child, losing Mama, moving around, enduring Papa's increasing eccentricity, she'd created elaborate dream worlds to escape to. It was tempting to do so now, sometimes, when she found herself curled up in the library with the door shut, staring into space, but she was going to live in the moment for once if it killed her. Some change was good, after all.
The engagement party was exhausting. She wore that yellow dress and she smiled a little to see that he had chosen a familiar style of suit; it felt lovely, a warm, sure pool of happiness in her stomach, to rekindle that earlier dance as they twirled around the floor. He was a better dancer with knees that bent in the right direction.
Things went downhill during the rest of the reception, and she felt the strain of smiling and nodding and graciously thanking miles and miles of well-wishers. Later on, Mrs. Potts made some offhand comment about planning the wedding as Belle walked by, looking for Papa, and the realization nearly made her legs give out from under her. She was getting married. She was having a wedding. A gigantic one. She'd have to organize it.
She went and found the champagne instead of Papa.
It's okay, she thought much later, lying half-undressed and unpleasantly drunk on top of her bedcovers. It's anxiety. I will acclimatize and it will be perfect. He is the same man inside, after all, and isn't that the point? She tried to console herself with how much more physically attractive he was now.
Then her lady's maid, Monette, came in to help her get ready for bed, still in her own dress from the party.
“Oh dear,” Monette laughed from the doorway, as Belle idly watched the ceiling rotate. “Let's get you out of that dress before you pass right out in it! You certainly had a good time tonight, Miss.”
“Well,” said Belle, “I'm very excited about the engagement.”
Monette beamed. “We're all so happy for you two. Mind you, I'm also happy not to be a jewelry box anymore. But mostly for you.” She winked, and Belle couldn't help a little smirk through her melancholy.
“Bet you can't wait to move into the master's chambers, eh?” Monette teased as she unlaced the back of the corset.
Belle stared up at the ceiling, trying to keep her balance. “Monette, you'll make me blush.”
Monette giggled. “Sorry, Miss.” She helped Belle get the nightgown on over her head. “There you are! To bed with you, then! I'll bring you something for your head in the morning, maybe.”
“Probably a good idea,” Belle mumbled back as she staggered over to the bed. It felt nice to burrow under the heavy quilt.
She was asleep almost before Monette managed to wish her a good night, enjoying the dreamless sleep of the inebriated.
***
How long, Belle thought two months later, should it take for anxiety to go away? Usually not this long, surely. She spent a lot of time with him, given that they lived under the same roof and were to be married, and in that time several things had become clear to her.
First, he was still obviously in love with her. He was all warm looks and hair-petting and spontaneous gifts and boundless enthusiasm. It would have been adorable if he still had a tail.
Second, he was not the same as he had been before. She knew this for a fact because she couldn't stop comparing him to how he was as the Beast. The differences weren't just physical, either; where the Beast had been awkward and shy, the Prince was assured and outgoing. Endearing clumsiness had given way to effortless grace in everything he did. Gruffness was replaced by poise and education. And he'd had all of the mirrors taken out of storage and put back up around the castle. She'd been conducting private observations for a week and figured out that while he didn't always stop in front of mirrors to examine (or admire) his reflection, he couldn't seem to pass one by without making eye contact with himself.
Perhaps worst of all, his former anti-social tendencies had been obliterated in the change. They had parties and socials and balls every damn week. After the first month, Belle wanted to barricade herself in the library in her rattiest old dress with her hair up in a rag at the first mention of the word 'guests'. Instead, she found herself breathing in deeply as Monette wrestled her into gowns and then spending the evenings calculating how few people she could cross paths with on the way to the nearest glass of wine, and how many of those she could down before her stomach disagreed with her and her fake laughter became too loud.
She felt sick to think it, but she missed the Beast. Terribly. This man who had replaced him was faultlessly kind and beautiful and charming, but he was not the man she loved.
But that was no fault of his, and there was a wedding to be planned.
“Belle,” Mrs. Potts said, a bit sharply.
Belle was jolted out of her reverie. She abruptly realized that her chin was in her hands and that she'd probably missed several repetitions of her name. “Sorry, yes?”
The canny old woman arched an eyebrow at her and tutted a little, under her breath. “What shall we do for the second course: fish with lemon butter and a side of artichoke hearts, or a light pork loin and glazed carrots?” she asked patiently.
Belle stared at her for a moment and then rubbed her eyes. “I don't know. What do you think?”
“I think you look terrible, dear. I also think you haven't been eating properly. Whatever is wrong?” Mrs. Potts frowned. “Is it the stress? I know planning a wedding is a great deal of work. We can spread a little more of it among the staff, you know.”
Belle looked away, staring down at the grain of the dining room table. “It's the stress,” she agreed quickly. “It's... it's a lot all at once.”
Mrs. Potts put down her pen and notebook and gave Belle a serious, thoughtful look. “When was the last time you went to visit your father?” she asked.
Belle thought. He'd stayed for a few days after the engagement party before going home to work on the chimney-sweeper project some more. “It's been a couple of months,” she said finally.
“Well, that's that, then,” Mrs. Potts said brusquely, closing her notebook and jumping to her feet. “You're going to visit for a while. It does a daddy's girl no good to say goodbye to her daddy so abruptly. Some time with family will do you good, I think.”
Belle blinked up at her. “Really?”
“Yes, really. Now go and start packing; I'll send that silly girl Monette up to help you. We'll send you off in the morning, and don't you dare come back before you're feeling better. Shoo, I have people to rope into planning this wedding while you're away.”
Belle was hustled out of the dining room and toward the staircase before she knew what was going on.
***
He came to see her off the next morning, and helped her up into the carriage.
“Hurry back,” he said, kissing her hand. “And write to me all the time while you're there. Say hello to your father for me.”
“I will,” she smiled, and kissed him on the cheek. It was a relief to settle back into the seat as the carriage made its way down the drive. At a fast pace, it would take until the late afternoon to reach the village where Papa lived these days. Belle opened a book. It wasn't a fairy tale; it was about the Roman Empire.
The drive whizzed by while she was reading about Caesar, and when her stomach rumbled for want of supper, she looked up and saw that they were coming up on a signpost for the village. She leaned out of the window to talk to the driver.
“How much farther?” she asked.
“Perhaps half an hour,” he called back.
“Let's stop just outside the village. I think I'm going to walk the rest of the way.”
He did a double-take at her but nodded. “All right.”
He helped her out of the carriage a mile outside the village and handed over her suitcase, looking doubtful.
“Are you sure you want to walk the rest of the way? I can carry your suitcase,” he tried.
“No, it's fine, thank you. I managed to pack light; I think I can handle it.” She smiled. “I could use the exercise.”
“If you insist, Miss. I understand you're going to write when your visit is over?”
“Yes, thanks. I'll be here at least a couple of weeks. Have a safe trip back.”
Belle watched the carriage disappear into the woods before stepping onto the road, hoisting her suitcase. It really wasn't that heavy, despite Monette's best efforts to make her over-pack. It was a warm day, and an early summer breeze teased its way through the trees to pick up wisps of her hair. A spring found its way into her step as she walked, and when the first buildings came into sight, she smiled.
It was pretty large for a provincial village, and Papa had told her that the neighbours were nice. She was always glad to hear that there were places where his eccentricities could be tolerated; he'd only gone back to their old house in the last town to pack up his things before moving on in a hurry.
So far, Belle approved of this place. The woman that she stopped to ask for directions certainly smiled at her warmly enough, although her eyes were curious. Belle realized belatedly that her travelling clothes were a bit high-quality, but there was no point in worrying about it now; she was new in town anyway so people would talk even if she was in rags.
Since she'd left home and he'd had to move, Papa had chosen to cut down his living space; now he was living in a boarding house that allowed him use of the shed for his work; she stopped in front of it and looked up with a smile. It was a big stone house with several windows and a thatch roof, and it beckoned to her invitingly. So did the landlady, when she answered the door; she chatted away about the town and the tenants as she led the way up the stairs, to the first door on the left. She knocked, waited, and then took a key out of her apron pocket.
“I think he must be out in the shed,” she said. “Did he know you were coming?”
“Yes, but I'm sure he forgot. He's not much for telling time.” Belle followed the landlady (whose name was Marie) into the room and set down her suitcase.
Marie chuckled and Belle grinned back. It seemed Papa was the same as ever.
“Well, here you are. Why don't you freshen up and then go see if you can drag him in for supper? Tell him it's beef stew tonight.”
“Thank you, I will.”
Belle shut the door behind Marie and then leaned against it, surveying the room. It was fairly clean and orderly, with sun coming in through the window; Marie obviously had someone in to do the cleaning, or did it herself. Belle opened her suitcase, pulling out a clean dress and shaking out the wrinkles, and then made her way to the basin in the corner to wash her face.
As she picked up the towel, she reflected that she was already feeling rejuvenated; it was like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Avoidance was a wonderful thing.
***
“It's so good to see you,” Papa said as they crossed the yard from the shed to the house for supper. It was the third time he'd said it; Belle smiled.
“You too, Papa. I've missed you. So, how is this town?” she asked, looking around as she spoke.
“Oh, the people here are fine, just fine. Marie is lovely, as I'm sure you've noticed. She takes care of me.”
Belle hummed acknowledgement; that was interesting, for sure. She'd have to keep an eye on her father and the landlady.
“The other tenants in the house are good people, too. We'll see how many show up for supper tonight.”
“How many are usually there?” Belle wasn't sure how much she wanted to be in a crowded room of people for her meals.
“Oh, there are seven of us in the house besides Marie, so probably three or four at supper on any given night. Maybe more at breakfast. There's an inn across the street with pretty good food, you see.”
Belle relaxed a little and smiled ruefully when she caught Papa grinning at her. He knew her a little too well, sometimes.
Their tablemates at supper were just Marie and a man about Papa's age who trained horses. Belle was allowed to eat in mostly silence while the three older people chatted; Papa answered most of the questions directed at her, for which she was grateful. It had been a long trip.
“How long are you planning to stay?” he asked as they climbed the stairs to his lodgings.
“I'm not completely sure. I said a couple of weeks, at least. Is that okay?”
Papa hugged her. “My darling, stay as long as you like. We've made up an extra bed in here for you.”
***
Belle spent her first full day in the village indoors, alternately helping Papa with his latest project and finishing her book on the Romans. By the second day, she decided she felt refreshed enough to go exploring the village. That only took her about an hour to do thoroughly, but once she found the bookshop she was perfectly content to while away as long as possible in there.
A bell over the door tinkled merrily when she opened it, making her look up and smile. The inside was warm and quiet with the books lining the walls; the shopkeeper sat behind his counter and nodded at her as she walked inside.
“Hello,” she said with a smile.
“You're new in town?” he asked.
“Visiting my father. Maurice.”
“Ah, yes. He comes in sometimes for books on mechanics. Funny fellow. You like books, too?”
“Oh yes,” Belle said, “I adore stories.”
The shopkeeper grinned knowingly. “Princesses in towers, knights in shining armour?”
Belle bit back a smile. “I'm also beginning to like true stories. I just finished a book about the Roman Empire.”
“Oh?” he said in surprise. “You're my kind of girl. All my daughters read is silly fluff and nonsense. There are things to be learned from books.”
“Yes, indeed,” Belle said dutifully.
“Well, go ahead and look around,” he said, waving. “I'm here if you have any questions.”
The shop, she shortly discovered, continued in a winding tunnel of books some way farther back than it appeared to from the entrance. She followed the shelves around a little bend behind a staircase and abruptly came face-to-face with a dark-haired young man.
Belle yelped, startled, and when the man jumped as well, blinking up at her from the book he'd been reading, she blushed and stammered.
“Sorry! Sorry. I didn't see you there.”
“That's alright,” he said, snapping the book shut and smiling. “You're new. I'm Jean.”
“Belle, and yes, I am new,” she said distractedly, cocking her head to read the title of the book in his hands. “China?”
“Fascinating place. You know anything about it?”
“No.”
He handed her the book. “I recommend the chapter on tea ceremony.”
She took it eagerly, flipping it open. “There are ceremonies about tea?”
“There are ceremonies about everything,” he said cheerfully. “Well, nice to meet you, Belle. I'll see you around.”
“I'm sure,” she smiled back, waving goodbye as he left the shop. Then she started reading about tea.
***
On her fifth day in the village, Belle woke up and decided that fresh-baked bread was in order. She hadn't made bread since moving in with the Beast but she felt up to the challenge, if Marie had the necessary ingredients. That led to a productive morning of baking; she turned out three loaves, to Marie's delight, and she and her father ate some with butter for lunch.
“Fantastic as ever, my dear,” he said when they'd finished, leaning back in his chair. “You take excellent care of me.”
“I try, Papa,” Belle said, brushing crumbs from the table into her cupped hand.
Papa gave her a kiss on the cheek and went back out to his shed, and Belle and Marie were left to clean up the lunch things.
“That really is some excellent bread, Belle,” Marie said enthusiastically. “Can I convince you to bake more often?”
Belle smiled. “I suppose I can be persuaded.”
“The lodgers don't often eat here but I don't think food this good could keep them away. Say, if you don't mind, you could take some of this upstairs for me, for the boy at the end of the corridor. I think he's more absentminded than Maurice, and if I don't feed him at regular intervals, he completely forgets to eat.” She rolled her eyes.
“I... Yes, I can do that,” Belle said.
Marie beamed and wrapped up a loaf end in cloth for her. “Off you go, then. I'll finish the dishes.”
So Belle took the bread, climbed the stairs and went to the door at the far end of the hallway. She hesitated with her fist a scant inch from the door, but took a deep breath and knocked.
“Coming!” someone yelled from inside.
The door swung open; the man was already speaking. “And you are you today, Mar-” He stopped when he saw Belle, looking confused and then smiling broadly.
“Jean?” she said, bewildered.
“What brings you to my door?” Jean asked, looking down at the bundle in her hands.
“Um, I made bread. W-would you like some?” She offered it awkwardly.
“I'd love some,” he said, beckoning her inside. “Are you staying here?”
She looked around, taking in the mess, and then hesitantly put her bundle down on a bare corner of his desk. “Yes. With my father. Maurice.”
“Maurice is your father?” Jean said incredulously.
Belle flinched in anticipation.
“I can't believe it. I love Maurice! He's a genius.”
“Really?” she asked before she could stop herself. “I mean-thank you. He's a lovely man.” She looked around again, feeling a little more relaxed but still awkward. “You have a lot of papers,” she said absently.
“Excuse my mess, I kind of throw things everywhere when I'm working.” Jean moved to shuffle some papers into a slightly tidier pile, as if that was going to improve the atmosphere.
“Working? What do you do?” Belle wandered to the nearest pile and glanced at the page on top.
Jean moved back to his chair, dropping into it with a sigh. “I'm a writer.”
Belle blinked. “What?”
“I write books?”
That got all of her attention. “You actually write books? What kind of books?”
His lips quirked up. “Stories. Make-believe. Dragons and castles and magic spells, frequently. Two of my books are in Claude's shop.”
Belle picked up her bread to place it directly in front of Jean, and took up the newly empty space by leaning on the edge of the desk. “What are you working on now?” she asked breathlessly.
***
Belle's routine was thereafter changed: after breakfast when her father went out to his shed, if she didn't have something more pressing to do she would wander down the hall to Jean's door and knock. He was home most of the time, and she would spend a good portion of her afternoon with him, either talking or reading quietly while he wrote. They talked mostly about books and writing, which was a rich enough source of conversation, but sometimes the topic meandered onto other things.
“Where did you come from, Belle?” Jean asked, slouching in his chair and staring at her where she sat on the windowsill (which she had cleaned off for the purpose).
“Oh,” she said, tucking her hair back behind her ear, “I was gone for a while. I'm here to visit my father.”
“How mysterious,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “How long until you vanish again?”
She'd been there nearly two weeks already. She shrugged. “A little while yet.”
She should have been honest and shared at least the less fanciful parts of her story-that she was engaged to a prince, at any rate-but for some reason the words wouldn't come out, and so she just contented herself with silence. It was like pretending to be a different person, and she found she enjoyed it.
“You read so much,” Jean said one day, “I bet you could write books too, if you wanted.”
“I've never really thought about it,” she said honestly, surprised at the idea.
“What would you write about?” he asked, slouching in his chair and playing with a pencil. “Something true?”
She smiled, running her fingers over the cover of her current book-a history of Charlemagne. “Maybe.... A girl is captured by a fierce beast and forced to live with him as his hostage. But then she gets to know him, and falls in love.”
“That's not a true story,” Jean laughed.
Belle kept smiling. “Maybe it's true for someone.”
“All right,” he said. “How does it end, then, authoress?”
She stretched out a leg, studying the dirt on her shoe. “I have no idea.”
One day, after a month of easy afternoons of conversation, Belle hopped off of Jean's warm windowsill to go get her father for dinner, and Jean stopped her on the way past his desk with a hand on her wrist. She turned in his grip, gentle and caressing, and he stood up in a smooth motion and kissed her. When she didn't react, he pulled away, but with a gasp she buried both hands in his hair and pulled him in for another. She shut her eyes, losing herself in the feeling.
That night, she lay in bed and stared up at the dark ceiling. Sleep eluded her all night and she felt sick with guilt, recalling over and over again the feel of Jean's lips on hers, and the flutter she'd felt in her chest the entire time. She couldn't go back to him. It wouldn't be right.
That lasted an entire day, which she'd spent losing her place over and over again in a book and staring out the window at the trees. When she saw Jean the next day, he brushed her hair back behind her ear and smiled, and she felt that giddiness and sickness again, all at once. This was wrong, she thought. She was engaged. But only one person here knew she was engaged, and the giddy feeling was intoxicating; she kissed him back, until the flutter in her chest overpowered the lead in her stomach.
“Papa,” Belle said, a week later. They were in Papa's room with the lamps lit for the evening; Belle had spent the afternoon listening to Jean read her his latest story, punctuating scenes with soft kisses.
“Yes, my dear.”
“I....” She couldn't finish whatever she'd begun to say.
He waited until it was clear she wouldn't go on, and then smiled. “You want to stay a while longer?”
She looked down at the knitting in her lap and said nothing.
“I told you,” he said, “stay as long as you like. I'll miss having you around when you're married.”
“I know I'll miss you too, Papa,” Belle said, and picked up her knitting again.
***
She received a letter after she'd been gone a month and a half; it was from him, mostly wondering how she was and when she planned to return. He'd gone on a few hunting trips in her absence but the castle was lonely without her. And so on. She folded it up and put it away and went to see Jean.
“You wanted to know how the story ends, about the girl and the beast,” she said, watching him walk toward the windowsill. She clung to the edges of it with her fingers as he drew near, feeling the rough wood press uncomfortably into her hands.
“Do you know how it ends?” he asked, stroking her hair.
“When the girl falls in love, the beast becomes a man. But he's not the same, and she doesn't know what to do.”
“That's not an ending,” he chided, kissing her nose.
“No,” she sighed, “it isn't.”
***
“You know,” Marie said one day, as Belle helped her with supper, “Philippe is moving out in a week. The room right next to your father's will be available, if you want it. You can have your own space, finally.”
“Oh,” Belle said in surprise, “I'm only visiting. I'm not planning to stay.”
“Really? I thought... never mind.” Marie smiled and passed Belle some potatoes to peel.
Belle tried not to think too hard about what Marie thought.
But really, it had been two months now, and Papa said one night, “Belle, how are the wedding plans going? I assume the housekeeper has been looking after them while you've been here.”
“Yes,” she said. “I think they must be going well. She's very efficient.”
He smiled. “Are you getting excited?”
“Am I... yes! Yes, of course. Very excited.”
“That's good,” he said. And then, to her relief, he dropped the subject.
At least until a few days later, when Marie approached her. “Belle, I need help with the ironing.”
Which was evidently code for, 'Belle, we need to talk'.
“So,” Marie said brightly as she folded a sheet, “your father told me you're engaged to be married!”
“Yes,” Belle answered, shaking out an apron.
“Congratulations! Why have you been here for two months instead of planning your wedding?”
Belle fumbled the apron and watched it fall to the ground. “I'm sorry?”
“Belle, you're not the first girl to ever have this problem.” Marie put down the sheet. “Second thoughts are allowed. But you have to tell him.”
“I-I think I hear Papa calling me,” Belle said, dropping the apron back into the basket. She walked away toward the shed, flustered, but steered in a different direction once she was out of Marie's line of sight. Papa had asked Marie to talk to her, after all, and Marie's directness wasn't as pleasant when it was being used as a weapon.
***
Papa choosing to be direct wasn't much of an improvement. He cornered her one afternoon when she came back from a trip to the bookshop.
“I spoke with Jean, from down the hall, while you were out,” he said cheerfully. “I always have liked him; he's a nice boy.”
“Oh?” She tried her best to look innocent of any wrongdoing.
“He asked me what kind of flowers you like.”
She froze. “What did you tell him?” she asked breathlessly.
He gave her a knowing look. “I said that you like anything except roses.”
Belle looked around; they were in the middle of the entryway. “Can we please continue this conversation in privacy?”
“I would like nothing better.” Papa led the way upstairs to their room and took one of the seats by the window. Belle sat down in the other with trepidation.
“So, Jean,” he said.
“I didn't tell him anything. He has no idea.” Belle felt sick just letting the words come out.
“Belle, I am going to ask you a question, and I need you to answer me truthfully.” He blinked at her seriously and she nodded.
“Do you want to cancel the wedding?”
“I-No, I-”
“You shouldn't be marrying him unless you want to, child.”
“But I promised-I can't just leave-”
“You already saved him from a curse! Out of the goodness of your lovely heart. You don't owe him anything. He's a prince with a castle and money; he can find another wife if he wants to.”
“He loves me, Papa!”
“And you should respect him by loving him back or telling him you don't. Before you marry him.”
Belle burst into helpless tears and Papa got up to hug her tight, making soothing noises like he had when she was small.
“Papa,” she gasped into his shoulder, shamefully, “I don't know how to do this. I can't go back there-just, all the disappointment-there's no way I could look at him and tell him-”
“Belle. Don't worry. Your papa will take care of it. That's what papas are for.”
She sobbed her thanks into his shoulder.
***
And so, he fixed it with a letter, sent by courier to the castle. Belle thought she might receive another letter from the castle, but none came. She sat down three times to write her own letter, but when it came down to staring at the blank paper in front of her, all her half-formed ideas of apologies and explanations scattered from her brain. What could she say to make it better? She didn't even know how he was reacting to the news and didn't dare go back to find out, now. Maybe a clean break was best.
She hid herself in Papa's room, avoiding everyone but Papa and mostly sleeping or staring out the window, trying not to escape into her head. She thought Papa had told Jean she was ill, but wasn't sure and didn't really care for several days. It felt an awful lot like the heartbreak described in stories, considering she thought she wasn't the one with the broken heart.
“Belle,” Papa said, eventually. “What's wrong? I thought you'd be happier.”
Belle kept staring out the window, clutching a handkerchief. “I think I might be in mourning,” she said. “I don't know what for.”
He put a warm hand on her shoulder. “I think you lost your first love, dear. It just took you a while to accept it.”
She stared sightlessly at the clouds outside. “Maybe,” she said.
“There's more than one love for everybody, Belle. I've learned that myself.”
She nodded.
***
After a week and a half, Belle woke up with the morning sun warm against her back and didn't feel like there was too much lead in her limbs to move. She got out of bed, scrubbed her face, and went downstairs to Marie's raised eyebrow and a strong hug. After lunch, she put on the nicest dress she'd brought with her and went to knock on Jean's door. He opened it with a smile.
“She lives!”
“Against all odds!” she agreed. “Would you like some fresh bread?” she held out a loaf wrapped in a cloth.
“Would I ever,” he said, taking her by the elbows and drawing her into the room for a kiss. She barely managed to set the bread down on the desk, next to his manuscript.
“I'm taking Philippe's old room,” she said between kisses.
“Not for too long, I hope,” he said back, his lips moving against her ear. “I don't know about you, but I'm anxious to travel a little. See the world.”
That sounded nice, actually. She wound her arms around his neck and smiled up at him.
“So, authoress, does your story have an ending yet?” he teased.
“It does. Really, it's the same as any story.”
“Most stories are. What happens?”
“A man and a woman meet, and they fall in love.”
“And then they live happily ever after?”
“I hope so.”
THE END
This entry was originally posted at http://waketosleep.dreamwidth.org/24255.html. (
comments)
Fandom: Disney's Beauty and the Beast
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Infidelity
Notes: I've finally crossed that line and ruined Disney! Yay! Although this fic is dedicated to everyone who thought the Beast was a better catch than the Prince, this was a request fill for
vellum, who donated to UNICEF in support of Haiti relief. Thanks bb! Although I think I kind of went off in an unexpected direction with your prompt, I couldn't help a semi-happy ending. The other fic you asked for is in progress. Beta-read by the ineffable
rhaegal.
Summary: Belle is marrying the Prince, but she fell in love with the Beast. This isn't how a fairy tale is supposed to go.
Belle had learned a lot from books, but there was an important lesson they'd neglected to teach her: endings aren't always happy.
That night, in the tower, when the Beast was dying, it had been unthinkable for Belle not to run to him, to hold him as close as she could, as if she could shield him from death. The words she'd been too afraid to say had slipped out of her mouth almost of their own volition. When the magic had thrummed through them both, electrifying his fur, the elation of a second chance sang through her even more strongly. Not that she'd deserved a second chance after treating him so terribly, but she was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
The change had been unexpected. She was sure, though, that he was still the same man she loved, only two hundred pounds lighter and with far less hair; that was what she kept telling herself.
Her own, real-life Prince Charming.
She was getting a fairytale ending to a horrible ordeal, and she was determined to enjoy it. So what if she looked at him sometimes and missed the horns and fangs? She was obviously delusional; he was gorgeous now, even more than Gaston had been on the outside. Belle had never been one for change and she acknowledged this about herself. It made her anxious; as a child, losing Mama, moving around, enduring Papa's increasing eccentricity, she'd created elaborate dream worlds to escape to. It was tempting to do so now, sometimes, when she found herself curled up in the library with the door shut, staring into space, but she was going to live in the moment for once if it killed her. Some change was good, after all.
The engagement party was exhausting. She wore that yellow dress and she smiled a little to see that he had chosen a familiar style of suit; it felt lovely, a warm, sure pool of happiness in her stomach, to rekindle that earlier dance as they twirled around the floor. He was a better dancer with knees that bent in the right direction.
Things went downhill during the rest of the reception, and she felt the strain of smiling and nodding and graciously thanking miles and miles of well-wishers. Later on, Mrs. Potts made some offhand comment about planning the wedding as Belle walked by, looking for Papa, and the realization nearly made her legs give out from under her. She was getting married. She was having a wedding. A gigantic one. She'd have to organize it.
She went and found the champagne instead of Papa.
It's okay, she thought much later, lying half-undressed and unpleasantly drunk on top of her bedcovers. It's anxiety. I will acclimatize and it will be perfect. He is the same man inside, after all, and isn't that the point? She tried to console herself with how much more physically attractive he was now.
Then her lady's maid, Monette, came in to help her get ready for bed, still in her own dress from the party.
“Oh dear,” Monette laughed from the doorway, as Belle idly watched the ceiling rotate. “Let's get you out of that dress before you pass right out in it! You certainly had a good time tonight, Miss.”
“Well,” said Belle, “I'm very excited about the engagement.”
Monette beamed. “We're all so happy for you two. Mind you, I'm also happy not to be a jewelry box anymore. But mostly for you.” She winked, and Belle couldn't help a little smirk through her melancholy.
“Bet you can't wait to move into the master's chambers, eh?” Monette teased as she unlaced the back of the corset.
Belle stared up at the ceiling, trying to keep her balance. “Monette, you'll make me blush.”
Monette giggled. “Sorry, Miss.” She helped Belle get the nightgown on over her head. “There you are! To bed with you, then! I'll bring you something for your head in the morning, maybe.”
“Probably a good idea,” Belle mumbled back as she staggered over to the bed. It felt nice to burrow under the heavy quilt.
She was asleep almost before Monette managed to wish her a good night, enjoying the dreamless sleep of the inebriated.
***
How long, Belle thought two months later, should it take for anxiety to go away? Usually not this long, surely. She spent a lot of time with him, given that they lived under the same roof and were to be married, and in that time several things had become clear to her.
First, he was still obviously in love with her. He was all warm looks and hair-petting and spontaneous gifts and boundless enthusiasm. It would have been adorable if he still had a tail.
Second, he was not the same as he had been before. She knew this for a fact because she couldn't stop comparing him to how he was as the Beast. The differences weren't just physical, either; where the Beast had been awkward and shy, the Prince was assured and outgoing. Endearing clumsiness had given way to effortless grace in everything he did. Gruffness was replaced by poise and education. And he'd had all of the mirrors taken out of storage and put back up around the castle. She'd been conducting private observations for a week and figured out that while he didn't always stop in front of mirrors to examine (or admire) his reflection, he couldn't seem to pass one by without making eye contact with himself.
Perhaps worst of all, his former anti-social tendencies had been obliterated in the change. They had parties and socials and balls every damn week. After the first month, Belle wanted to barricade herself in the library in her rattiest old dress with her hair up in a rag at the first mention of the word 'guests'. Instead, she found herself breathing in deeply as Monette wrestled her into gowns and then spending the evenings calculating how few people she could cross paths with on the way to the nearest glass of wine, and how many of those she could down before her stomach disagreed with her and her fake laughter became too loud.
She felt sick to think it, but she missed the Beast. Terribly. This man who had replaced him was faultlessly kind and beautiful and charming, but he was not the man she loved.
But that was no fault of his, and there was a wedding to be planned.
“Belle,” Mrs. Potts said, a bit sharply.
Belle was jolted out of her reverie. She abruptly realized that her chin was in her hands and that she'd probably missed several repetitions of her name. “Sorry, yes?”
The canny old woman arched an eyebrow at her and tutted a little, under her breath. “What shall we do for the second course: fish with lemon butter and a side of artichoke hearts, or a light pork loin and glazed carrots?” she asked patiently.
Belle stared at her for a moment and then rubbed her eyes. “I don't know. What do you think?”
“I think you look terrible, dear. I also think you haven't been eating properly. Whatever is wrong?” Mrs. Potts frowned. “Is it the stress? I know planning a wedding is a great deal of work. We can spread a little more of it among the staff, you know.”
Belle looked away, staring down at the grain of the dining room table. “It's the stress,” she agreed quickly. “It's... it's a lot all at once.”
Mrs. Potts put down her pen and notebook and gave Belle a serious, thoughtful look. “When was the last time you went to visit your father?” she asked.
Belle thought. He'd stayed for a few days after the engagement party before going home to work on the chimney-sweeper project some more. “It's been a couple of months,” she said finally.
“Well, that's that, then,” Mrs. Potts said brusquely, closing her notebook and jumping to her feet. “You're going to visit for a while. It does a daddy's girl no good to say goodbye to her daddy so abruptly. Some time with family will do you good, I think.”
Belle blinked up at her. “Really?”
“Yes, really. Now go and start packing; I'll send that silly girl Monette up to help you. We'll send you off in the morning, and don't you dare come back before you're feeling better. Shoo, I have people to rope into planning this wedding while you're away.”
Belle was hustled out of the dining room and toward the staircase before she knew what was going on.
***
He came to see her off the next morning, and helped her up into the carriage.
“Hurry back,” he said, kissing her hand. “And write to me all the time while you're there. Say hello to your father for me.”
“I will,” she smiled, and kissed him on the cheek. It was a relief to settle back into the seat as the carriage made its way down the drive. At a fast pace, it would take until the late afternoon to reach the village where Papa lived these days. Belle opened a book. It wasn't a fairy tale; it was about the Roman Empire.
The drive whizzed by while she was reading about Caesar, and when her stomach rumbled for want of supper, she looked up and saw that they were coming up on a signpost for the village. She leaned out of the window to talk to the driver.
“How much farther?” she asked.
“Perhaps half an hour,” he called back.
“Let's stop just outside the village. I think I'm going to walk the rest of the way.”
He did a double-take at her but nodded. “All right.”
He helped her out of the carriage a mile outside the village and handed over her suitcase, looking doubtful.
“Are you sure you want to walk the rest of the way? I can carry your suitcase,” he tried.
“No, it's fine, thank you. I managed to pack light; I think I can handle it.” She smiled. “I could use the exercise.”
“If you insist, Miss. I understand you're going to write when your visit is over?”
“Yes, thanks. I'll be here at least a couple of weeks. Have a safe trip back.”
Belle watched the carriage disappear into the woods before stepping onto the road, hoisting her suitcase. It really wasn't that heavy, despite Monette's best efforts to make her over-pack. It was a warm day, and an early summer breeze teased its way through the trees to pick up wisps of her hair. A spring found its way into her step as she walked, and when the first buildings came into sight, she smiled.
It was pretty large for a provincial village, and Papa had told her that the neighbours were nice. She was always glad to hear that there were places where his eccentricities could be tolerated; he'd only gone back to their old house in the last town to pack up his things before moving on in a hurry.
So far, Belle approved of this place. The woman that she stopped to ask for directions certainly smiled at her warmly enough, although her eyes were curious. Belle realized belatedly that her travelling clothes were a bit high-quality, but there was no point in worrying about it now; she was new in town anyway so people would talk even if she was in rags.
Since she'd left home and he'd had to move, Papa had chosen to cut down his living space; now he was living in a boarding house that allowed him use of the shed for his work; she stopped in front of it and looked up with a smile. It was a big stone house with several windows and a thatch roof, and it beckoned to her invitingly. So did the landlady, when she answered the door; she chatted away about the town and the tenants as she led the way up the stairs, to the first door on the left. She knocked, waited, and then took a key out of her apron pocket.
“I think he must be out in the shed,” she said. “Did he know you were coming?”
“Yes, but I'm sure he forgot. He's not much for telling time.” Belle followed the landlady (whose name was Marie) into the room and set down her suitcase.
Marie chuckled and Belle grinned back. It seemed Papa was the same as ever.
“Well, here you are. Why don't you freshen up and then go see if you can drag him in for supper? Tell him it's beef stew tonight.”
“Thank you, I will.”
Belle shut the door behind Marie and then leaned against it, surveying the room. It was fairly clean and orderly, with sun coming in through the window; Marie obviously had someone in to do the cleaning, or did it herself. Belle opened her suitcase, pulling out a clean dress and shaking out the wrinkles, and then made her way to the basin in the corner to wash her face.
As she picked up the towel, she reflected that she was already feeling rejuvenated; it was like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Avoidance was a wonderful thing.
***
“It's so good to see you,” Papa said as they crossed the yard from the shed to the house for supper. It was the third time he'd said it; Belle smiled.
“You too, Papa. I've missed you. So, how is this town?” she asked, looking around as she spoke.
“Oh, the people here are fine, just fine. Marie is lovely, as I'm sure you've noticed. She takes care of me.”
Belle hummed acknowledgement; that was interesting, for sure. She'd have to keep an eye on her father and the landlady.
“The other tenants in the house are good people, too. We'll see how many show up for supper tonight.”
“How many are usually there?” Belle wasn't sure how much she wanted to be in a crowded room of people for her meals.
“Oh, there are seven of us in the house besides Marie, so probably three or four at supper on any given night. Maybe more at breakfast. There's an inn across the street with pretty good food, you see.”
Belle relaxed a little and smiled ruefully when she caught Papa grinning at her. He knew her a little too well, sometimes.
Their tablemates at supper were just Marie and a man about Papa's age who trained horses. Belle was allowed to eat in mostly silence while the three older people chatted; Papa answered most of the questions directed at her, for which she was grateful. It had been a long trip.
“How long are you planning to stay?” he asked as they climbed the stairs to his lodgings.
“I'm not completely sure. I said a couple of weeks, at least. Is that okay?”
Papa hugged her. “My darling, stay as long as you like. We've made up an extra bed in here for you.”
***
Belle spent her first full day in the village indoors, alternately helping Papa with his latest project and finishing her book on the Romans. By the second day, she decided she felt refreshed enough to go exploring the village. That only took her about an hour to do thoroughly, but once she found the bookshop she was perfectly content to while away as long as possible in there.
A bell over the door tinkled merrily when she opened it, making her look up and smile. The inside was warm and quiet with the books lining the walls; the shopkeeper sat behind his counter and nodded at her as she walked inside.
“Hello,” she said with a smile.
“You're new in town?” he asked.
“Visiting my father. Maurice.”
“Ah, yes. He comes in sometimes for books on mechanics. Funny fellow. You like books, too?”
“Oh yes,” Belle said, “I adore stories.”
The shopkeeper grinned knowingly. “Princesses in towers, knights in shining armour?”
Belle bit back a smile. “I'm also beginning to like true stories. I just finished a book about the Roman Empire.”
“Oh?” he said in surprise. “You're my kind of girl. All my daughters read is silly fluff and nonsense. There are things to be learned from books.”
“Yes, indeed,” Belle said dutifully.
“Well, go ahead and look around,” he said, waving. “I'm here if you have any questions.”
The shop, she shortly discovered, continued in a winding tunnel of books some way farther back than it appeared to from the entrance. She followed the shelves around a little bend behind a staircase and abruptly came face-to-face with a dark-haired young man.
Belle yelped, startled, and when the man jumped as well, blinking up at her from the book he'd been reading, she blushed and stammered.
“Sorry! Sorry. I didn't see you there.”
“That's alright,” he said, snapping the book shut and smiling. “You're new. I'm Jean.”
“Belle, and yes, I am new,” she said distractedly, cocking her head to read the title of the book in his hands. “China?”
“Fascinating place. You know anything about it?”
“No.”
He handed her the book. “I recommend the chapter on tea ceremony.”
She took it eagerly, flipping it open. “There are ceremonies about tea?”
“There are ceremonies about everything,” he said cheerfully. “Well, nice to meet you, Belle. I'll see you around.”
“I'm sure,” she smiled back, waving goodbye as he left the shop. Then she started reading about tea.
***
On her fifth day in the village, Belle woke up and decided that fresh-baked bread was in order. She hadn't made bread since moving in with the Beast but she felt up to the challenge, if Marie had the necessary ingredients. That led to a productive morning of baking; she turned out three loaves, to Marie's delight, and she and her father ate some with butter for lunch.
“Fantastic as ever, my dear,” he said when they'd finished, leaning back in his chair. “You take excellent care of me.”
“I try, Papa,” Belle said, brushing crumbs from the table into her cupped hand.
Papa gave her a kiss on the cheek and went back out to his shed, and Belle and Marie were left to clean up the lunch things.
“That really is some excellent bread, Belle,” Marie said enthusiastically. “Can I convince you to bake more often?”
Belle smiled. “I suppose I can be persuaded.”
“The lodgers don't often eat here but I don't think food this good could keep them away. Say, if you don't mind, you could take some of this upstairs for me, for the boy at the end of the corridor. I think he's more absentminded than Maurice, and if I don't feed him at regular intervals, he completely forgets to eat.” She rolled her eyes.
“I... Yes, I can do that,” Belle said.
Marie beamed and wrapped up a loaf end in cloth for her. “Off you go, then. I'll finish the dishes.”
So Belle took the bread, climbed the stairs and went to the door at the far end of the hallway. She hesitated with her fist a scant inch from the door, but took a deep breath and knocked.
“Coming!” someone yelled from inside.
The door swung open; the man was already speaking. “And you are you today, Mar-” He stopped when he saw Belle, looking confused and then smiling broadly.
“Jean?” she said, bewildered.
“What brings you to my door?” Jean asked, looking down at the bundle in her hands.
“Um, I made bread. W-would you like some?” She offered it awkwardly.
“I'd love some,” he said, beckoning her inside. “Are you staying here?”
She looked around, taking in the mess, and then hesitantly put her bundle down on a bare corner of his desk. “Yes. With my father. Maurice.”
“Maurice is your father?” Jean said incredulously.
Belle flinched in anticipation.
“I can't believe it. I love Maurice! He's a genius.”
“Really?” she asked before she could stop herself. “I mean-thank you. He's a lovely man.” She looked around again, feeling a little more relaxed but still awkward. “You have a lot of papers,” she said absently.
“Excuse my mess, I kind of throw things everywhere when I'm working.” Jean moved to shuffle some papers into a slightly tidier pile, as if that was going to improve the atmosphere.
“Working? What do you do?” Belle wandered to the nearest pile and glanced at the page on top.
Jean moved back to his chair, dropping into it with a sigh. “I'm a writer.”
Belle blinked. “What?”
“I write books?”
That got all of her attention. “You actually write books? What kind of books?”
His lips quirked up. “Stories. Make-believe. Dragons and castles and magic spells, frequently. Two of my books are in Claude's shop.”
Belle picked up her bread to place it directly in front of Jean, and took up the newly empty space by leaning on the edge of the desk. “What are you working on now?” she asked breathlessly.
***
Belle's routine was thereafter changed: after breakfast when her father went out to his shed, if she didn't have something more pressing to do she would wander down the hall to Jean's door and knock. He was home most of the time, and she would spend a good portion of her afternoon with him, either talking or reading quietly while he wrote. They talked mostly about books and writing, which was a rich enough source of conversation, but sometimes the topic meandered onto other things.
“Where did you come from, Belle?” Jean asked, slouching in his chair and staring at her where she sat on the windowsill (which she had cleaned off for the purpose).
“Oh,” she said, tucking her hair back behind her ear, “I was gone for a while. I'm here to visit my father.”
“How mysterious,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “How long until you vanish again?”
She'd been there nearly two weeks already. She shrugged. “A little while yet.”
She should have been honest and shared at least the less fanciful parts of her story-that she was engaged to a prince, at any rate-but for some reason the words wouldn't come out, and so she just contented herself with silence. It was like pretending to be a different person, and she found she enjoyed it.
“You read so much,” Jean said one day, “I bet you could write books too, if you wanted.”
“I've never really thought about it,” she said honestly, surprised at the idea.
“What would you write about?” he asked, slouching in his chair and playing with a pencil. “Something true?”
She smiled, running her fingers over the cover of her current book-a history of Charlemagne. “Maybe.... A girl is captured by a fierce beast and forced to live with him as his hostage. But then she gets to know him, and falls in love.”
“That's not a true story,” Jean laughed.
Belle kept smiling. “Maybe it's true for someone.”
“All right,” he said. “How does it end, then, authoress?”
She stretched out a leg, studying the dirt on her shoe. “I have no idea.”
One day, after a month of easy afternoons of conversation, Belle hopped off of Jean's warm windowsill to go get her father for dinner, and Jean stopped her on the way past his desk with a hand on her wrist. She turned in his grip, gentle and caressing, and he stood up in a smooth motion and kissed her. When she didn't react, he pulled away, but with a gasp she buried both hands in his hair and pulled him in for another. She shut her eyes, losing herself in the feeling.
That night, she lay in bed and stared up at the dark ceiling. Sleep eluded her all night and she felt sick with guilt, recalling over and over again the feel of Jean's lips on hers, and the flutter she'd felt in her chest the entire time. She couldn't go back to him. It wouldn't be right.
That lasted an entire day, which she'd spent losing her place over and over again in a book and staring out the window at the trees. When she saw Jean the next day, he brushed her hair back behind her ear and smiled, and she felt that giddiness and sickness again, all at once. This was wrong, she thought. She was engaged. But only one person here knew she was engaged, and the giddy feeling was intoxicating; she kissed him back, until the flutter in her chest overpowered the lead in her stomach.
“Papa,” Belle said, a week later. They were in Papa's room with the lamps lit for the evening; Belle had spent the afternoon listening to Jean read her his latest story, punctuating scenes with soft kisses.
“Yes, my dear.”
“I....” She couldn't finish whatever she'd begun to say.
He waited until it was clear she wouldn't go on, and then smiled. “You want to stay a while longer?”
She looked down at the knitting in her lap and said nothing.
“I told you,” he said, “stay as long as you like. I'll miss having you around when you're married.”
“I know I'll miss you too, Papa,” Belle said, and picked up her knitting again.
***
She received a letter after she'd been gone a month and a half; it was from him, mostly wondering how she was and when she planned to return. He'd gone on a few hunting trips in her absence but the castle was lonely without her. And so on. She folded it up and put it away and went to see Jean.
“You wanted to know how the story ends, about the girl and the beast,” she said, watching him walk toward the windowsill. She clung to the edges of it with her fingers as he drew near, feeling the rough wood press uncomfortably into her hands.
“Do you know how it ends?” he asked, stroking her hair.
“When the girl falls in love, the beast becomes a man. But he's not the same, and she doesn't know what to do.”
“That's not an ending,” he chided, kissing her nose.
“No,” she sighed, “it isn't.”
***
“You know,” Marie said one day, as Belle helped her with supper, “Philippe is moving out in a week. The room right next to your father's will be available, if you want it. You can have your own space, finally.”
“Oh,” Belle said in surprise, “I'm only visiting. I'm not planning to stay.”
“Really? I thought... never mind.” Marie smiled and passed Belle some potatoes to peel.
Belle tried not to think too hard about what Marie thought.
But really, it had been two months now, and Papa said one night, “Belle, how are the wedding plans going? I assume the housekeeper has been looking after them while you've been here.”
“Yes,” she said. “I think they must be going well. She's very efficient.”
He smiled. “Are you getting excited?”
“Am I... yes! Yes, of course. Very excited.”
“That's good,” he said. And then, to her relief, he dropped the subject.
At least until a few days later, when Marie approached her. “Belle, I need help with the ironing.”
Which was evidently code for, 'Belle, we need to talk'.
“So,” Marie said brightly as she folded a sheet, “your father told me you're engaged to be married!”
“Yes,” Belle answered, shaking out an apron.
“Congratulations! Why have you been here for two months instead of planning your wedding?”
Belle fumbled the apron and watched it fall to the ground. “I'm sorry?”
“Belle, you're not the first girl to ever have this problem.” Marie put down the sheet. “Second thoughts are allowed. But you have to tell him.”
“I-I think I hear Papa calling me,” Belle said, dropping the apron back into the basket. She walked away toward the shed, flustered, but steered in a different direction once she was out of Marie's line of sight. Papa had asked Marie to talk to her, after all, and Marie's directness wasn't as pleasant when it was being used as a weapon.
***
Papa choosing to be direct wasn't much of an improvement. He cornered her one afternoon when she came back from a trip to the bookshop.
“I spoke with Jean, from down the hall, while you were out,” he said cheerfully. “I always have liked him; he's a nice boy.”
“Oh?” She tried her best to look innocent of any wrongdoing.
“He asked me what kind of flowers you like.”
She froze. “What did you tell him?” she asked breathlessly.
He gave her a knowing look. “I said that you like anything except roses.”
Belle looked around; they were in the middle of the entryway. “Can we please continue this conversation in privacy?”
“I would like nothing better.” Papa led the way upstairs to their room and took one of the seats by the window. Belle sat down in the other with trepidation.
“So, Jean,” he said.
“I didn't tell him anything. He has no idea.” Belle felt sick just letting the words come out.
“Belle, I am going to ask you a question, and I need you to answer me truthfully.” He blinked at her seriously and she nodded.
“Do you want to cancel the wedding?”
“I-No, I-”
“You shouldn't be marrying him unless you want to, child.”
“But I promised-I can't just leave-”
“You already saved him from a curse! Out of the goodness of your lovely heart. You don't owe him anything. He's a prince with a castle and money; he can find another wife if he wants to.”
“He loves me, Papa!”
“And you should respect him by loving him back or telling him you don't. Before you marry him.”
Belle burst into helpless tears and Papa got up to hug her tight, making soothing noises like he had when she was small.
“Papa,” she gasped into his shoulder, shamefully, “I don't know how to do this. I can't go back there-just, all the disappointment-there's no way I could look at him and tell him-”
“Belle. Don't worry. Your papa will take care of it. That's what papas are for.”
She sobbed her thanks into his shoulder.
***
And so, he fixed it with a letter, sent by courier to the castle. Belle thought she might receive another letter from the castle, but none came. She sat down three times to write her own letter, but when it came down to staring at the blank paper in front of her, all her half-formed ideas of apologies and explanations scattered from her brain. What could she say to make it better? She didn't even know how he was reacting to the news and didn't dare go back to find out, now. Maybe a clean break was best.
She hid herself in Papa's room, avoiding everyone but Papa and mostly sleeping or staring out the window, trying not to escape into her head. She thought Papa had told Jean she was ill, but wasn't sure and didn't really care for several days. It felt an awful lot like the heartbreak described in stories, considering she thought she wasn't the one with the broken heart.
“Belle,” Papa said, eventually. “What's wrong? I thought you'd be happier.”
Belle kept staring out the window, clutching a handkerchief. “I think I might be in mourning,” she said. “I don't know what for.”
He put a warm hand on her shoulder. “I think you lost your first love, dear. It just took you a while to accept it.”
She stared sightlessly at the clouds outside. “Maybe,” she said.
“There's more than one love for everybody, Belle. I've learned that myself.”
She nodded.
***
After a week and a half, Belle woke up with the morning sun warm against her back and didn't feel like there was too much lead in her limbs to move. She got out of bed, scrubbed her face, and went downstairs to Marie's raised eyebrow and a strong hug. After lunch, she put on the nicest dress she'd brought with her and went to knock on Jean's door. He opened it with a smile.
“She lives!”
“Against all odds!” she agreed. “Would you like some fresh bread?” she held out a loaf wrapped in a cloth.
“Would I ever,” he said, taking her by the elbows and drawing her into the room for a kiss. She barely managed to set the bread down on the desk, next to his manuscript.
“I'm taking Philippe's old room,” she said between kisses.
“Not for too long, I hope,” he said back, his lips moving against her ear. “I don't know about you, but I'm anxious to travel a little. See the world.”
That sounded nice, actually. She wound her arms around his neck and smiled up at him.
“So, authoress, does your story have an ending yet?” he teased.
“It does. Really, it's the same as any story.”
“Most stories are. What happens?”
“A man and a woman meet, and they fall in love.”
“And then they live happily ever after?”
“I hope so.”
THE END
This entry was originally posted at http://waketosleep.dreamwidth.org/24255.html. (
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