Beastly Beauty

Thirteen

Josephine the washerwoman sat deep in her rocker, warming her old bones by the fire.

“After all these years, someone actually manages to raise the portcullis, and this is what wanders in?” she said disgustedly. “He’s a waste of time. The worst of them all. There’s no chance with him. None.”

One of the maids, darning a sock at the servants’ table, lifted her head.

“He’s sneaky and sly,” Josephine added. “A liar, a rogue, and a thief. All in one.”

The maid burst into tears. She threw down her darning and ran from the room.

Lucile, the gardener’s wife, a busy, bright-eyed woman, lowered her knitting. “Really, Josephine. Did you have to do that?” she scolded.

“Do what?”

“Dash Claudette’s hopes. The poor girl’s in love.”

“In love?” Josephine echoed in surprise. “Who with?”

Lucile leaned forward in her chair. Her eyes gleamed in the firelight. “Florian!” she whispered.

“Florian?”Josephine said with a snort. “He’s a half-wit. Can’t she find someone better?”

“And where, exactly, would she do that? At the market? At a village dance?”

Josephine had the good grace to look shamefaced. “Well, I wouldn’t pin my hopes on the thief if I were her.”

A pall fell over the two women, and the rest of the servants, too. They were sitting in the kitchen as they did every night. The older ones relaxed in cushioned chairs close to the fire, drinking brandy. The younger ones sat around a long pine table, sewing or playing cards, and sharing a pot of hot chocolate.

Percival was the first one to break the silence. “Who did it? That’s what I want to know. Who had the … the …”

“Balls?” Josephine offered.

“Temerity,”Percival continued, “to unlock the gatehouse, turn the winch, and raise the portcullis? And how did they get my key?”

Josephine cocked an eyebrow. “How do we know it wasn’t you?”

The rest of the servants laughed.

“Not our Percival,” said Phillipe, still wearing his white chef’s jacket. He gave the underbutler a fond pat. “He’s as loyal to the mistress as the day is long.”

“Maybe it was you, Josephine. You’re strong as an ox.” That was the gardener, Gustave, a bulky man, wearing a woolly sweater and smoking a pipe. He nudged Percival. “She could’ve done it, you know. Why, just look at her hands … each one as big as a ham!”

“You’re as stupid as a ham, Gustave,” Josephine retorted. “I was sick in bed with a chest cold that night. Slept through the whole thing.”

Gustave took a long, thoughtful pull on his pipe. “Valmont?” he said, breathing out a cloud of smoke.

Percival shook his head. “He was with me, playing cards.” He pointed at the chef and the head groom in turn. “Phillipe, you can vouch for him. You were there.” As the chef nodded, Percival turned back to the gardener. His eyes narrowed. “Maybe you did it, Gustave.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m asleep by nine,” said Gustave with a dismissive wave. “Claudette, perhaps? She certainly has a motive—she’s in love.”

“Claudette? Operate a winch?” Phillipe scoffed. “She can barely work an eggbeater.”

“I think it was the kitchen boys,” said Percival. “They’re always up to no good. I asked them, but they denied it, of course.”

As Phillipe poured more brandy, Gustave worked his way through the remaining suspects: Martin the farmer, and his daughter, Mirabelle. The huntsman, Jacques. Josette, the other maid. The footmen. The scullery girls.

Gustave had just proposed that Louise the seamstress, bent-backed and so thin she looked as if a summer breeze could blow her away, had done it, when they heard a noise. It was coming from the back door. It sounded like scratching, followed by a hard thump.

Percival jumped. “It’s not midnight yet!” he said.

“It’s only ten o’clock!” whispered an alarmed Lucile.

“So it can’t be …” Gustave’s voice trailed away.

“Then what is it?” Percival whispered.

Bears roamed within the castle’s forest. Mountain lions. Wolves, too. One had killed a ewe just last week.

“Stand back!” Gustave shouted, rising from his chair. He pulled a pair of pruners from his trouser pocket and valiantly thrust them toward the door.

Henri grabbed a cleaver, Phillipe a carving knife. As they all crept closer, there was another loud thump, and then the door banged back on its hinges. Lucile jumped. Josephine gasped. But no slavering wolf, no lumbering bear, appeared. Instead, Camille emerged out of the cold night, shaking leaves from the hem of her cloak, the handle of a willow basket looped over one arm.

“Camille! You gave us a fright!” Gustave angrily shouted, shaking his pruners at her.

Camille looked at him in surprise, then put her basket down. “I’m sorry,” she said. “The door was stuck.”

“What on earth are you doing outside the castle at this hour?”

“Picking spiderbane,” Camille replied, hanging her cloak on a hook. “There’s a patch of it still alive under the old oak.”

“Spiderbane? What do you want with that?” Gustave demanded. “It’s poisonous!”

“Valmont sent me for it. He says it’s not poisonous if it’s mashed with silverstick and brewed into a tea,” Camille countered. “He says it soothes the heart.”

Gustave’s scowl melted into a worried frown. “How is the mistress?”

Camille’s eyes found his. “Restless.”

“And Valmont thinks he can soothe her with a cup of tea?” Gustave asked, shaking his head.

“I’d better get busy,” Camille said, picking up her basket and starting toward the pantry. “Midnight’s not far away.”

“Midnight’s never far away,” Lucile said, her eyes on the door.

“Where is Valmont?” asked Percival, his voice fretful.

“Making his rounds through the castle with Florian, checking that everything’s locked down for the night,” Gustave replied.

“Camille …” Percival called.

The baker stopped. She looked back over her shoulder. Her eyebrows lifted.

“Do your best. This is our last chance.”

With a brisk nod, Camille was gone.

Gustave watched her go, then turned back to the others. In a hushed, conspiratorial voice, he said, “Maybe it was her!”

“Our little baker?” Phillipe said with a laugh. “She makes sweets, Gustave. Dainty cakes and tarts. Why, I have to get the heavy pots down off the shelf for her. Raising a portcullis is a man’s work, and a strong one at that. Camille couldn’t do it if she wanted to.”

Gustave put a hand on Phillipe’s shoulder. His blue eyes, rheumy and faded, were full of heartache. “If, my old friend?” he said. “There’s no if about it. Of course she wanted to. We all want to. Who among us wishes to die?”