Belle: A Retelling of “Beauty and the Beast” By Cameron Dokey (9 page)

kitchen and a pantry. The upstairs was divided into two long, narrow rooms that ran from the front of the house to the back, as opposed to the downstairs rooms, which were side to side.

One of these would serve as a bedroom for my parents, the other, for my sisters

and me. Maman had actually given us permission to place our beds in whatever position we liked, though we had selected our places in order of birth. Old habits are hard to shake.

Celeste placed her bed in the center of the long wall that divided the two rooms, with her dressing table alongside. April tucked hers under the eaves. That left me to place mine precisely where I would have chosen, had I been allowed to go first: beneath the center window along the outside wall. During the day, I could look out and see the hills rolling away toward the Wood. At night, I could look out and see the stars.

Those first weeks, we kept busy, putting all thoughts of the city resolutely from our minds as we moved furniture and supplies, arranging and rearranging them as we learned how to make this strange new house our own.

It was Papa and Grand-père Alphonse, both of whom had grown up without

servants, who showed the rest of us how to build a fire in the wood stove in the kitchen, how to bank it at night so that it would not go out, and then how to stoke it up once more the following morning.

I learned to tell – by how fast water dried on my hand – whether the oven was a

fast oven, hot enough to bake a pie, or had cooled down enough to be called medium, just right for bread or rolls. Last was the slow oven to be used for things like custard, which would curdle if it got too hot too fast, but which could stay in a cooler for a long time.

Celeste caught on to this the quickest and soon assumed most of the cooking

duties, much to all of our surprise, including, I think, her own. She had always been clever. This much, we knew, for all too often we had felt her cleverness through her sharp tongue.

But I don’t think it had once occurred to any of us that part of Celeste’s sharpness might have been because she was bored by what our old life had to offer. To me it seemed as if my oldest sister had always had the life she wanted, though all it asked of her was that she be Beautiful. And this she could do as easily as breathing; it took no thought or effort at all. Now it was as if working in the kitchen gave Celeste a purpose, a reason to be clever, where she’d had none before.

While Celeste took on the cooking, April and I struggled to master the rest of the tasks needed to keep a household running, for we were determined to spare Maman as much of the heavy work as possible. She protested at this until Papa remarked how much lovelier the downstairs rooms would look with new curtains at the windows, and,

personally, he’d always been very fond of embroidered ones.

That was all it took to get Maman to settle right to work making some. This left

April and me free to take on the remainder of the chores, all of which seemed to involve mopping, dusting, or scrubbing. By the end of the very first week, I had a whole new appreciation for Marie Louise, the housekeeper we’d had to leave behind in the city, as well as all the maids we’d employed.

Now it was April’s turn to surprise us, for no task seemed too difficult or dirty for her. The more challenging the task, the more she seemed to like it, in fact. It was almost as if she wanted to wear herself out, so that she wouldn’t have the energy to worry about Dominic – though this was pure supposition on my part, as she still refused to speak of him at all.

With Celeste mastering the kitchen and April the cleaning, I worked outdoors

with Papa and Grand-père Alphonse. Together, we laid out a plot for a kitchen garden. It was still too earl, the ground too cold, to plant the seeds that we had brought. But at least I could get a head start on deciding where they’d go.

After Papa, Grand-père Alphonse, and I had laid out the garden, we went to work

refurbishing the barn. It was as well-made as the house, so this was mostly a matter of getting the horses settled into their new homes.

But at the very back, in a space that had once been a tack room, I did my best to create a new workshop for Papa. This was a tricky task, as I had to do it on the sly. The rest of the family was in on the secret, of course. Everyone helped to keep Papa distracted and out of the way. Grand-père Alphonse turned out to be the greatest help.

You could live in the city without knowing who your neighbors were, he said. But

in the country, it was a good idea to at least know
where
they were, in case you needed to ride for help. So, while Celeste mastered the kitchen, Maman the curtains, and April the rest of the house in general, Grand-père Alphonse took Papa farther into the countryside.

It felt strange and lonely to be in a new place without him, but it
did
give me time to compete my surprise, and the new workshop was ready the day they returned. Grandpère Alphonse would begin the trip back to the city the following morning.

“Papa,” I said, as I came into the kitchen. It was early evening, not quite time for dinner, and Papa was sitting at one end of the table drinking a mug of tea. At the other end of the table, Celeste was busy peeling potatoes.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I went on. “But there’s something I need your help

with in the barn.”

Celeste met my eyes swiftly, a look of question in them. I nodded my head ever

so slightly. Celeste turned her attention back to the potatoes.

“You can see that Papa is having his tea, Belle,” she remarked. “Couldn’t your

problem at least wait until he’s done?”

She sounded so precisely like her old cross self that I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

“I didn’t say there was a problem,” I replied. “I only said I needed him to come

and look at something.”

Papa pushed back from the table. “I can do that easily enough,” he said. “The tea will still be here when I get back.”

Celeste dropped a potato into a pot of cold water with a
plop
and said nothing more.

“I
am
sorry to make you get up,” I said to my father, as we walked toward the barn, side by side. “I know you must be tired.”

“I am, a little,” my father replied. He gave the seat of his pants a rub, a rueful expression on his face. “I’m afraid I’m not cut out to be much of a rider. I’m happy to stretch my legs a bit, to tell you the truth

“Now,” my father continued briskly, as he pushed open the barn’s great sliding

door. “What is so important that you must interrupt my tea for help?”

“It’s back here,” I said, as I led the way. “I’ve wanted to ask about this ever since you left. I’m just not sure I’ve set up this room quite right.”

I reached the room I’d worked so hard to keep secret, lifted the latch, and pushed open the door, gesturing for Papa to go in first. I’d left a lantern burning, placing it carefully so that it was safe, and so that it would illuminate as much of the room as possible.

“What do you think?” I asked. “Did I do a good job?”

My father took several steps forward, then stopped abruptly. He pivoted in a

complete circle on one heel, without making a single sound. But I saw the way his eyes moved around the room, taking in all the details. It was as close to his workshop in town as I could make it.

“You did this?’ he said finally.

I nodded. “With Grand-père Alphonse’s help. With everyone’s help, actually, for

they all kept you busy.”

My father let out a long, slow breath. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized I’d

been holding mine.

“Thank you, Belle,” he said. “I have tried not to be selfish, but I admit it gave me a pang to leave my workshop behind.”

“You are the least selfish person I know,” I said. “A selfish man would not have

given up his fine city house to care for the wives and children of sailors.”

“Ah, but you forget,” my father answered quietly. “I am a sailor’s child. Without Alphonse, I’d have had no fine things to give away.” He moved to me, and put an arm around my shoulders. “Like him, you have given me something that costs you very little, but counts for much.”

I leaned against him, putting my head on his shoulder. “And what is that?” I

asked.

“Kindness,” said my father. He dropped a kiss on the top of my head. “Now, let’s

go back inside. I think Celeste is making something special for Alphonse’s last night with us.”

With his arm still around my shoulders, my father and I walked back to the house.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Grand-père Alphonse departed the next day, riding out shortly after noon, beneath a cloudy sky. He promised to let us know the moment there was reliable word on any of Papa’s ships. Our tiny new house felt large and empty after he was gone. And, though we had been working hard at many different things, Grand-père Alphonse’s return to the city marked the true beginning of our new lives.

Our days soon fell into a rhythm, each day with its own chore. on Monday,

Celeste rose early to bake pies and bread. Tuesday, she sat and sewed with Maman while April and I heated endless kettles of water to do the washing. I quickly grew to dislike washing day. It was exhausting work and my arms and back ached by the time we were done.

Wednesday, Celeste baked again, while April did the ironing and I worked

outdoors.

In addition to the patch for vegetables, Papa and I were digging flower beds,

particularly outside the window of the room where Maman sat and sewed. The gardens in our yard in the city had been her pride and joy. She’d brought blossoms indoors every day when the weather was fine.

While I’d been busy preparing a surprise for Papa, April had been saving one for

Maman: The trunk April had brought with her was filled with rose cuttings, one from every bush Maman had had to leave behind. At the rate things were warming up, I’d be able to plant them soon. For, though our days were often damp and chilly, we were all well on our way to spring.

And we’d discovered the reason the hills around us turned a green so intense it

brought tears to the eyes. It was because, during early springtime, the weather drizzled almost nonstop.

“I think I’m beginning to grow mold,” I remarked late on afternoon as I came into the kitchen. For once, it wasn’t raining, but was still wet and muddy outdoors. “Maybe that’s why the hills get so green. They’re moldy too.”

Celeste opened the oven door and peered inside. It was the first day of April, our own April’s birthday. Celeste was baking a cake, her first, as a surprise.

“You take those muddy shoes off before you set one foot in this kitchen, Belle

Delaurier,” she said without turning around.

“Thank you for the reminder,” I said tartly. Celeste may have gotten easier to live with, but she was still bossy. I sat down on the chair that was kept just inside the door for precisely the purpose of removing muddy shoes, though I made no move to take mine off.

“This may come as a surprise to you, old and wise as you have become, but I do

know better than to track mud all over the floor.”

“Who’s old and wise?” April asked as she came into the room. She had a big

apron tied over her dress. It was her afternoon to do the dusting, a task she’d refused to relinquish, birthday or not.

“Celeste,” I replied.

April’s eyebrows shot up. “When did this happen?” she inquired.

“I’d be careful, if I were you,” Celeste remarked. She set the pan with the cake at the back of the stove with a
clank
. Apparently, it was done. “Remember who cooks the meals around here.”

“But never does the washing up,” I replied. That task usually fell to me these

days. My one consolation was that it helped keep my hands clean. No matter how careful I was to wear gloves, I always seemed to end up with dirt under my nails from working in the garden.

“Well, of course not,” Celeste said, in a tone that old me this should have been

obvious.

April shot me a quick wink.

“Of course not,” she echoed.

Without warning, Celeste whirled around, the towel she’d used to protect her

fingers from the hot cake pan still in her hands. She wadded it up into a ball and tossed it straight at April. April dodged aside. The towel hit the wall behind her, then slid to the floor.

“Thank you very much,” April said. “That’s one more thing for me to wash.”

“It’s not my fault,” Celeste said quickly. “I was minding my own business until a few minutes ago.” She actually went so far as to point a finger at me. “Blame Belle.”

I made a strangled sound of amusement and outrage, both. “What do you mean

‘blame Belle’? I didn’t do a thing.”

“You don’t have to
do
anything,” Celeste explained, as if I were an idiot. “You’re the youngest. You get blamed by default.”

“You want something to blame me for?” I inquired.

I stood up. Then I lifted on foot, still in its muddy shoe, and held it beyond the edge of the kitchen mat.

Celeste’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t
dare
,” she said.

“Get mud on my clean kitchen floor and you’re mopping it up yourself,” April

warned.

I brought my foot down, then lifted it straight back up, creating on perfect, muddy footprint.

“That’s it,” April said. “Now you’ve done it.”

“What do you say we give her
your
birthday spanking right here and now?”

Celeste proposed.

“You’ll have to catch me first!” I cried out.

I whirled, yanked open the door to the yard, and dashed down the kitchen steps.

The clatter of footsteps behind me told me my sisters weren’t wasting any time in pursuit.

I turned to face them, once again lifting my foot. I held it poised over a very large mud puddle.

“Think carefully before you come any closer,” I threatened.

“Go ahead, April. She doesn’t really mean it,” Celeste said. But we all noticed