Beastly Beauty

Fifty

Beau eyed his reflection in the mirror, turning this way and that.

He had never even seen such a beautiful piece of clothing, never mind worn one. Slipping the frock coat on was like pulling a length of midnight around himself. The indigo silk gleamed in the candlelight; its silver buttons, set with sapphires, sparkled.

Beau pinched one between his thumb and forefinger, inspecting it. “What do you think one of these would go for, Perce?”

“I would not know. I am an underbutler, not a fence,” Percival sniffed, running his hands over Beau’s shoulders, smoothing the fabric. He looked over the top of his spectacles; his eyes met Beau’s in the mirror. “However, I do know that there are six buttons down the front of this jacket and three more on each cuff. And they had all better still be there when you hand this back to me.”

“Where did this come from? Was it yours?”

Percival laughed. “Goodness, no. It belonged to the duke, Arabella’s father.” He stepped around to Beau’s front and adjusted the jacket’s collar. A wistful smile curved his lips. “In his younger days, he cut quite a dashing figure.”

Beau wore tall black leather boots, britches of ivory, and a shirt of soft white linen under the coat, ruffled at the neck and cuffs.

Percival tugged on one of the shirt cuffs now, coaxing the ruffle to fall just so. “Good clothes are important. They make you want to stand up straighter. Hold your head higher. They make you want to be—”

“Better,”Beau finished softly. The word had come unbidden.

Percival stopped fussing with the cuff and looked at Beau, squinting slightly, as if he was seeing something he hadn’t seen before. “Yes,” he agreed. “Better.”

He circled Beau one last time, then said, “It’s time to go.”

Beau nodded and followed him, telling himself that he was only doing this to be polite, to stay on Arabella’s good side. Until they finished the bridge, he needed her help.

But the truth was something different. He wanted another key now—the key to the mystery that was Arabella. He wanted to turn it and see what it unlocked. He’d never wanted such a thing before; he’d never allowed himself to. He’d learned long ago that it was better not to want things. That way, it didn’t hurt so much when you didn’t get them.

The tall double doors to the great hall were closed. Percival grasped the handles and threw them open, and Beau found himself amazed, just as he had been the first time he’d set foot in the castle. Flames crackled in the fireplace, throwing warmth into the room. White roses and camellias, entwined with ivy, cascaded from vases. Elegant tapers flickered in silver candelabra. The music box played a slow, lilting tune. Everything looked even more beautiful than it had that first night.

Except for the head of the table. Which was a spectacular mess.

Arabella was seated there, amid scrolls, books, quills, and an inkwell. She’d cleared a space to work by pushing the tablecloth, candlesticks, vases, plates, glassware, and cutlery into a heap. Her head was bent. She was drawing. Again. With an almost manic intensity. It puzzled him.

Beau saw that she was wearing a silk gown of deepest emerald. Its collar rose high in the back. Its bodice, heavily embroidered with gold thread and pearls, ran in a straight edge from shoulder to shoulder, narrowing at her waist. Her gleaming hair had been swept up and anchored with a pearl comb. A deep blue shawl had settled in the crooks of her arms.

How beautiful you are, he thought.

And then he felt fear turn his bones to sand, and he wished with all his heart that he had not done this. He wished he could turn around and leave. But it was too late.

Percival cleared his throat. “Pardon me, Your Grace …” he began.

“Put it down anywhere, Percival,” Arabella said, not bothering to look up.

“I cannot, Your Grace. It is not a platter. It is Monsieur Beauregard.”

Arabella looked up. “Beau?” she said. Before she could stop herself, her mouth, her eyes, her whole face broke into a smile.

“That supper invitation still good?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” Arabella said.

Beau stood rooted to the spot. Until Percival cleared his throat. Then, remembering himself, he snatched a rose from a vase, swept Arabella a bow, and handed the bloom to her.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” she said with a tart smile, taking it.

“Yeah, well,” he said self-consciously. “I tried to get you a bouquet in town, but all the flower shops were closed.”

Arabella snorted and Beau’s shoulders relaxed a little. They were back in their familiar rhythm of taunts, goads, and semi-insults.

“Sit down … sit here.” She gestured at the chair on her right, then frowned at the mess she’d made.

Percival frowned, too. He looked downright tragic. “I shall help you, my lady,” he said.

“No need,” she said, pushing the tablecloth and vases and salt cellars and mustard pots down the table in a rumple of bunched linen and clanking silver. “There,” she said, satisfied. “Now there’s plenty of room.”

Percival sighed, then extricated two place settings and arranged them in front of Arabella and Beau.

“You were working on the bridge?” Beau asked her.

“Yes. And I think I’ve figured out how we can sink the second set of pilings,” she said, nodding at her drawing.

“You did? That’s great, Arabella,” Beau said excitedly, but his excitement faded and panic took its place as he sat down and eyed all the cutlery. He had been in many great halls before, but always as the servant, never the served.

“Perce,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth. “The silverware.”

“You must not steal that, either,” Percival said, giving him a stern look.

“I’m not going to. I forget which fork is for what!”

Percival’s expression softened; he patted Beau’s back. “Work from the outside in.”

The advice did little to calm Beau, but luckily, Percival had a stronger remedy at hand—a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket. He produced two crystal flutes, then looked for a suitable place to set them.

“Oh, Percival, don’t fuss,” Arabella scolded. “Plunk them anywhere.”

Percival nudged Arabella’s drawings aside, and a stack of books as well. Then he put the two glasses down and poured. When he finished, he wiped the lip of the bottle, set it back in its ice bath, and left for the kitchen.

Arabella picked up her glass. “Here’s to not being eaten by moat monsters.”

Beau touched his glass to hers. “Cheers,” he said, and then he downed half of it. He was, to his deep annoyance, strangely shy around her. He was never shy around a woman. Never. He chugged the rest of his champagne.

“All warm and dry now?” he asked.

All warm and dry now? a voice inside him mimicked. You sound like someone’s grandmother.

“I am, thank you,” Arabella said. “What about you?”

“A hot bath set me right.” He gestured at his ensemble. “Percival found these for me.”

“I remember that jacket,” Arabella said, with a wistful smile. “It was my father’s favorite.”

Beau wasn’t sure what to say. “He’s not here anymore?”

Arabella didn’t reply, but her eyes filled with sorrow and Beau guessed he must’ve died.

“But he’s always here. In your heart, I mean, right?” he quickly said, grimacing at his own insensitivity. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought up a hard topic. Seems I’m good at doing that.”

At that moment Percival returned, a white linen cloth folded over one arm, and Beau was happy to see him—and to change the subject. Percival was followed by Florian and Henri. The boys were both carrying domed plates. Florian set his down before Arabella; Henri placed his in front of Beau. At a nod from Percival, they lifted the domes.

“Vichyssoise with a garnish of crème fra?che and caviar,” Percival said. Then he leaned in close to Beau and whispered in his ear. “That’s cold potato soup to you.”

He poured a crisp white wine, perfectly chilled, then he and the kitchen boys left. The awkwardness Beau had introduced by bringing up Arabella’s father had been dispelled, but as he stared at his bowl, a new unhappiness took its place. Nothing about the dish—not cold nor potato nor soup—sounded appealing. Potato soup was what he, Raphael, and the others ate when they didn’t have a penny. He edged his soup spoon into his bowl, lifted it to his lips, and got a wondrous surprise. The soup was like poured satin on his tongue. It tasted of a rich, long-simmered stock, earthy potatoes, fresh cream, and black pepper. The caviar was a salty exclamation point.

“This is amazing,” he said. He quickly swallowed another mouthful. “Arabella, you have to taste it.”

“Mmm, yes,” she said absently, stretching one arm toward the drawings Percival had shifted. She made no move to pick up her spoon.

“No, really. It’s so good,” he said excitedly, carried away by the pleasure Phillipe’s food gave him. “You haveto try it. Here …”

He dipped the spoon back into his bowl, filled it, and held it out to her. But in his excitement, he tilted the spoon and spilled its contents down the front of her beautiful green bodice. It looked as if a seagull had flown over her.

Beau sucked in a breath, appalled at himself. How could he be so clumsy? What was wrongwith him tonight?

“Oh no. I’m so sorry,” he said in a rush. “Here … I’ll fix it.”

He dipped a corner of his napkin into a pitcher of water, then rubbed briskly at the spot, determined to remove it before it left a stain. He was so absorbed in his task, he didn’t notice Arabella stiffen or see the look of mortification in her eyes.

“Beau?” she said, her voice rising a little.

“Don’t worry. Seriously, Arabella, I’ve got it. Stain’s almost out, and—”

Arabella cleared her throat. “Beau, that’s my cleavage,” she said. “Could you not?”

Beau froze. “Oh my God.” His eyes widened in horror as he realized what he’d done.

Arabella slowly pushed his hand away and picked up her own soup spoon.

Beau balled up the wet napkin. Then smoothed it out again. Then folded it over. “I—I don’t even know what to say.” He didn’t recognize himself. He was always as smooth as silk around women. He made them flustered. But tonight he was as fumbly and awkward as some squeaky-voiced, knock-kneed fourteen-year-old.

Percival saved him again. He appeared with the decanter of white wine, refreshed their glasses, then directed Florian and Henri to remove their plates.

“What’s next, Percival? Do you know?” Arabella asked as Beau took a large gulp of his wine.

“I’m afraid I don’t, Your Grace. Phillipe only tells me when the dish is ready to be served.”

“That’s a shame,” Arabella said. “Our guest likes to be kept abreast of things.”

Beau snorted but managed not to spew his wine across the table. Percival glanced between Beau, who was blowing his nose in his napkin now, and Arabella, who was affecting an expression of wide-eyed innocence, and then he set off for the kitchen, a look of confusion on his face.

“You are evil,” Beau said, when he could speak again.

“So I’ve been told,” Arabella said.

Percival had left the decanter of wine on the table in his haste to fetch Beau a new napkin. Arabella picked it up and filled Beau’s glass. Any lingering strangeness between them was now gone.

“We didn’t get as much done today as I’d hoped,” she said, a regretful note in her voice.

“I guess not, but the pilings we did manage to set into the moat are there to stay,” Beau said. “How do we get the next pair in, though? That’s the challenge.”

Arabella, having given up digging through her drawings, gathered up her silverware and Beau’s. She laid a butter knife horizontally on the table. “As I mentioned, I think I’ve figured it out. Say this is the gatehouse’s threshold …” She placed two forks, crossed, a few inches above it. “And these are the first pair of pilings …”

Beau leaned in, elbows on the table, chin on his hand, watching her as she explained the logistics of setting the second pair of pilings. He liked how unguarded she became when she spoke about building things. How she wrinkled her nose, squinted her eyes. How she leaned back in her chair, drumming her fingers on the arm, then shot forward, excited by a breakthrough.

“So the biggest problem we’ll have tomorrow is stability—our own,” she said. “We’ll need to fashion some sort of platform in the notch of the first pair of pilings, to support us while we set the second pair.” She frowned at the diagram she’d made, then sketched out a couple of ideas. “What do you think?” she asked when she finished.

But Beau hadn’t really heard her. He was too taken by the fire in her eyes and the passion in her gestures.

“Beau … Beau?” She was slapping the table in front of him with her palm.

“Hmm?”

“Have you listened to a word I said?”

Percival saved him. “Chateaubriand with truffle risotto and steamed asparagus,” he announced, reappearing with Florian and Henri.

When they’d set the plates down, he poured an old red, so dark it looked black in the candlelight, then the three returned to the kitchen.

It was all Beau could do not to tear into his meal. The fillet, beautifully seared on the outside; the yellow béarnaise sauce lapped over it, redolent with the scents of butter and tarragon; the heady perfume of the truffled rice—it made his stomach squeeze with hunger. But he knew he must not start before his hostess, so he waited until Arabella began, then cut into his beef and lifted a piece to his lips.

“Oh. Wow. I mean, damn,” he said.

Phillipe’s food was casting its spell over Beau and Arabella. When they’d finished their entrées, Percival brought out dessert—a towering chocolate torte, filled with layers of coffee buttercream, chocolate ganache, and chestnut meringue. After that, there were cheeses—crumbly ones, gooey ones, moldy ones, smelly ones. Sugar-frosted cherries. Figs soaked in brandy. Tiny meringues. Cognac.

After nearly two hours at the table, Beau leaned back in his chair and groaned. “If I eat one more bite, the buttons will pop off this coat.” And if I have one more drink, he thought, my head will pop off my neck.

Arabella laughed. “That coat looks good on you. In fact, you could pass for a young nobleman in it.” She sat back in her chair, took a sip of wine, and said, “Why don’t you?”

“Why don’t I what?” Beau asked, puzzled.

“Pretend to be a count, or an earl. Get yourself invited to balls and shooting weekends at the grand chateaux. Maybe even Versailles. Why not? You could rob much more efficiently that way.”

Beau smiled, surprised to learn that Arabella had a mischievous side, and intrigued by it. He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Never pegged you for a criminal mastermind, Bells.”

Arabella leaned forward, too. “Think about it. Where are the biggest diamonds likely to be? Around the neck of some country squire’s wife? Or dangling down the décolletage of a grand duchess?”

“You have a point.”

“I’d have to train you first.”

“You train me?” Beau said with a snort. “In what?”

Arabella, smiling impishly, said, “Court etiquette. Titles. Pecking order. For example, at a state pageant, who immediately precedes the king … a duke or a viscount? At a bird hunt, when may a count hand a prince his gun?”

“Hmm.”

“You can pass yourself off as a nobleman from a distant country—that way you can be forgiven for a bit of awkwardness—but at the very least you’d have to know how to shoot pheasants, pass tea cakes, talk about nothing, and dance.”

“I know how to dance, Arabella.”

“Do you? The minuet? A contra dance?”

“Maybe not those,” Beau conceded.

“I’ll teach you,” Arabella said. She shrugged off her shawl and hurried to the music box. “This thing plays different types of music,” she said.

She opened the side of the music box, replaced a small brass cylinder with another one, then walked to an open area. Beau met her there as dull, stately music began to play, suddenly feeling a little off-kilter, a little self-conscious in his borrowed clothing. He’d made too much of the food. Overindulged in the wine. Just like the know-nothing street kid he was. Expensive clothing, fine wines, court dances—they belonged to the world Arabella lived in, a world he could only ever visit. Arabella curtsied to him; he bowed to her. She moved to his side, then lifted her arm. He stared at her, not knowing what to do, his awkwardness growing. But then she took his arm and lifted it, too, then placed her hand over his, smiling. Her smile was real. Her skin was silken; her touch was soft and warm, and it calmed him immediately.

“Step and slide, step and slide … yes, that’s it,” she instructed. “Head up, chin high. Arms out … no! Not like a stork, like this.”

Beau sighed. The music was slow; the steps were complicated.

“Hands graceful. Right, now turn,” Arabella prompted. “No, no … toward me … and away again. That’s it. Now I rest my hand on yours and we promenade. Our steps are light … light, Beau!Andturn once more … very good. Now repeat.”

Beau’s shoulders slumped. “Repeat? You mean we have to do that again? I am going to die.”

“Will you stop?”

“I am. I’m dying.”

Arabella released Beau’s hand. She took a step back from him, her own hands on her hips. “Of what?”

“Boredom.”

“It’s a pavane, Beau. It’s a refined and elegant court dance.”

“It’s a funeral march,” Beau said sulkily.

“What happens if you’re invited to a ball given by the Dowager Countess von Bismarck and she asks you to be her partner?”

Beau shrugged. “I won’t go.”

Arabella lifted an eyebrow. “That would be a shame. The countess owns the biggest pair of ruby earrings I’ve ever seen.”

Beau decided to turn the tables. “What if you find yourself at the Slaughtered Lamb, dancing with Raphael, Lord of the Thieves,” he challenged her. “He’s stolen the key to the innkeeper’s strongbox. You could take it from him—you’re Paris’s best pickpocket—but first you have to get close to him. And the thief lord loves to dance. But not a pavane.”

“I guess I’d miss my chance,” Arabella said ruefully. “All I know are court dances.”

“Then you’re lucky I’m here,” said Beau, brightening.

He shrugged out of his borrowed coat and draped it over a chair. Then he loosened the silk cravat around his neck.

“I’ll teach you a real dance,” he said. “A gavotte. A rigadoon. A true bumpkin throw-down. We just need the right music.”

He walked to the music box and rifled through the cylinders. The names of the songs they played were printed on them, but he didn’t see what he wanted. He frowned, stymied, then snapped his fingers. “Come on!” he said, taking her by the hand and pulling her to him.

“Where are we going?”

“Dancing.”

Almost every servant was in the kitchen when Beau and Arabella burst through the door. They didn’t have time to curtsy or bow before Beau shouted, “Lady Arabella wishes to dance. Hey, Perce! Can you play anything?”

“Well, yes. Yes, I can,” Percival said, after he got over his surprise. “The violin.”

“Go get it!”

Perce?Arabella mouthed at her underbutler.

Percival rolled his eyes.

“Florian, you play anything?” Beau asked.

“The accordion,” Florian proudly replied.

“Why am I not surprised,” Beau said. He shooed Florian off to get the accordion, then turned to the others. “How about a guitar? Anyone play the guitar?”

Valmont cleared his throat. “I’ve been known to strum a few chords on occasion.”

“I have a tambourine,” Henri offered.

As they, too, hurried to fetch their instruments, the rest of the servants finished what they were doing—washing dishes, damping the fires, wiping down the oven. By the time everyone was assembled and tuned up, the whole company had taken their aprons off, and cakes and brandy had been set out at Arabella’s request.

Percival and Valmont played together on occasion, but the four had never attempted it, and their first few tries were abysmal.

Beau covered his ears with his hands. Then he spun around on his heel and marched over to the musicians. “Stop, stop, stop!” he said. “Not fancy music. Real music. Anyone know ‘The Fisherman and His Nice Long Pole’? No? How about ‘The Highwayman’s Sweet Little Pistol’?”

Percival looked at Valmont; Valmont looked at Percival. They shook their heads.

Beau huffed an impatient sigh. “Give me that, Monty,” he said, reaching for his guitar. He held it against his body, fingered the frets, and began to strum. “This one’s called ‘The Hangman’s LimpRope’ …”

“I’ve never heard of it,” said Percival.

“That’s because I made it up. Now pay attention … it goes like this,” Beau said as he started to sing the funny, bawdy tavern song and accompany himself on Valmont’s guitar.

His beautiful voice and quick fingers worked magic. At first, the servants traded glances, surprised by Beau’s talent. Then, within seconds, they were laughing and clapping and singing the chorus. Henri faux-curtsied to Florian, who bowed in return, and the two started to dance, Henri taking mincing steps, Florian twirling him around. By the time Beau finished the song, to a burst of cheers and applause, even Arabella was clapping.

Valmont, Percival, Florian, and Henri all pulled up chairs and sat down. Then they began to play Beau’s song. Bit by bit, it gathered steam.

“Pick it up, boys! It’s a party, not a wake,” Beau shouted. “One, two, three! One, two, three!” He clapped his hands in time.

Martin, the farmer, jumped up on a chair and called out steps. Gustave and Lucile started a promenade. The old gardener grasped his wife’s hands, twirled her around, and escorted her down the line. Josette, red-cheeked and laughing, her skirts flying, joined in with Claudette. Camille curtsied to little Rémy. Phillipe bowed to Josephine.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Beau shouted. He locked arms with Arabella, and they joined the line of dancers. “Follow me!”

Arabella made a few mistakes but was soon able to keep up. As they reached the end of the line, broke apart, and started back to the top, Henri put down his tambourine and broke into a vigorous hornpipe, to the cheers of all the other dancers.

Arabella clapped with delight. “Top that, Beauregard Armando Fernandez de Navarre!” Her gray eyes were sparkling.

“Bells, you’re not daring me, are you? Because that would be such a bad move.”

Arabella nodded. “I’m sorry—”

“You should be.”

Arabella grinned. “—that you’re such a scaredy-cat.”

Beau pretended to be insulted. The musicians picked up their tempo, goading him. Beau took their dare and launched into his own hornpipe, his feet moving even faster than Henri’s had. For his grand finale, he pirouetted, stubbed his toe, stumbled, fell backward, and landed in Valmont’s lap with a loud whump.

Valmont’s guitar exploded. The chair collapsed. And then the two men found themselves flailing around on the floor like a pair of upside-down turtles.

“Blast and damnation! Get off me!” Valmont bellowed.

“Ow, Monty! Stop pulling my hair!”

“Let go of my foot!”

Josephine and Lucile giggled so hard at the sight, they started to wheeze. The maids shrieked with laughter. Percival bent over double, and Phillipe laughed until he had tears in his eyes. Arabella pressed a hand over her mouth, but even she couldn’t smother her mirth; it burst out of her.

And Beau, who was still on the floor on his hands and knees after crawling off Valmont, watched her, awestruck. He’d heard her laugh before. Mirthlessly. Mockingly. Acidly. This was real laughter—spontaneous, unfettered, joyous. Full and sparkling, like a rushing silver stream in springtime. And beautiful. So beautiful.

As she was.

Her color was high. Her eyes were shining. Tendrils of silken hair had slipped from their knot and now framed her face.

And suddenly, Beau wanted her. With a longing like he’d never felt in all his life. He wanted to hold her, to kiss her, to tell her how lovely she was. He quickly looked down, before anyone saw his feelings. Before shedid. He knew all too well that such a bright and beautiful creature was not meant for him, but it would kill him to hear her say so.

He got to his feet, then helped Valmont up. Arabella promised Valmont that she would replace his guitar with one from the castle’s music room. Then she asked Percival to fetch more brandy from the cellars. As she did, a visible shiver ran through her. She was flushed from dancing, but the ovens had been turned off, the fires had burned down, and the cavernous kitchen had grown chilly.

“I’ll get your shawl, mistress,” Josette said.

Arabella waved her offer away. “Thank you, but I can do it.”

“I’ll go with you,” Beau said. “I left your father’s coat there. Percival will kill me if anything happens to it.”

Percival overheard him. “I certainly will,” he said.

When they reached the great hall, Beau could barely see to look for the coat. Most of the candles had melted; the rest were guttering stubs. They gave only a soft half-light.

“Poor Valmont,” Arabella said, picking up her shawl. “Not only did you break his guitar, I trod on his foot during the gavotte. Everyone moved so fast! I couldn’t follow the steps that happen right before the jump.” She put the shawl down again, raised her skirts slightly, and looked at her feet. “Step out and close. Step out and close. Cross, touch … cross, raise, then skip?” She looked up at Beau.

“Almost,” Beau said, walking toward her. “It goes like this … ”

He showed her the steps. After two tries, she executed them perfectly.

“Good, but go a little faster,” he said, picking up the tempo.

“I need music,” she protested.

“No problem,” Beau said, taking her hands. He began to sing “The Hangman’s Limp Rope” again as he led her through the steps, but made up new lyrics.

Hey there, Arabella, who’s that handsome fella?

The one with such a pretty face, he makes the ladies sigh.

He’s smart as a professor, and such a snappy dresser …

Arabella, twirling under his arm, cut in before he could sing the next line.

Hey there,Beauregard, you make these dance steps very hard,

You’ve trod on my feet so many times, they look just like a duck’s.

Hate to be a fuddy-duddy, but my toes are very bloody,

If you don’t learn to step lightly, they surely will be f—

“Arabella!”Beau admonished, cutting her off.

“What?” Arabella said innocently, as they promenaded side by side.

Beau gave her a look. “You were about to say a very bad and unimaginative four-letter word. One that begins with F.”

“I was about to say flat,” Arabella retorted.“I can’t imagine what you were thinking.”

Beau’s mouth twitched with mirth. He spun her in a circle, and they continued dancing and singing made-up lyrics, making each other laugh, until they ran out of lyrics and stopped, heaving for breath, standing only inches from each other, still holding each other’s hands. Not laughing anymore.

Let go, a voice inside him said. Right now. She doesn’t want this.

Beau released her. Before he embarrassed her. Before he embarrassed himself.

But Arabella didn’t move away.

Instead, she looked up at him, her eyes asking him.

Wordlessly, he answered.

And then she kissed him.