Our story begins thirteen years previously, in a world obsessed with beauty and greed, a world in which Robert d'Beeste was quite at home. D'Beeste was a handsome young man, with a sharp tongue and superior intellect, but he was also selfish, mean and incredibly cruel. The son of a high-flying businessman and descended from aristocrats, Robert always assumed he would join his three older brothers and buy shares in his father's international business. All four sons shared their father's selfish trait and expected everyone to worship them, although Robert was particularly unkind, laughing at others' misfortune and not caring what the future held for him. If only he could have seen how his actions could have changed his whole life due to one moment of complete cruelty, he would have turned back time and done things differently if he could have. But Robert d'Beeste could not turn back time, and now he was forced to live the rest of his life shunned by the beauty-obsessed society in which we live in.
It was a perishingly cold winter's evening. The first snows of the season had begun to fall, and the temperatures had plunged to freezing. The people who lived in the village near the d'Beeste mansion had pulled their curtains, locked their doors and turned the heating up, trying to keep warm. The servants of the d'Beeste mansion had lit the fires, done their work and gone to bed in the servant's quarters. There were never any visitors, so it made no sense to have a servant stay up all night to keep watch. Michel, Frederick and Patrice were all working at their father's office in New York. Robert wished he were old enough to go and work for his father – after all, at seventeen he was only four years younger than Patrice. He thought it was stupid and unfair that his brothers got to travel so much whilst he was stuck here in this boring, provincial French town. His father was part English and had been raised in England, but his mother had been French and had grown up in this beautiful mansion. She had died when Robert was just a few days old, and although it had been seventeen years since her passing, Robert's father still insisted on keeping her wing of the house exactly as it had been when she was still alive. Robert knew that his father and brother's blamed him for her death, but he didn't care, as long as he had everything he asked for. He couldn't quite understand why his father allowed Robert to be so indulged; he could only assume it was because he reminded his father of the mother he had never known. Michel, Frederick and Patrice all resembled their father; tall, dark and ruthlessly ambitious. As a child they had frequently tormented Robert's angelic appearance of blonde curls, cornflower-blue eyes as wide as saucers and even temperament, just like his mother. Once Robert had turned ten, though, and his father had decided to move permanently to New York, entrusting the care of his youngest son to a tutor and nanny whilst sending the elder three to an English boarding school, Robert's behaviour had changed. Instead of reading adventure stories and collecting creatures for his collection of "pets", Robert shunned trips to the museum, his favourite place in the world, for video games and rugby. Deep down, he only wanted acceptance from his family, but years of bullying by his brothers and being ignored by his father had turned him into an uncaring and indifferent young man.
It was the night before his eighteenth birthday, and Robert, wrapped up in a thick warm dressing gown was standing on the balcony, watching the snow cover the countryside in a fluffy, glittering white blanket. Snowflakes fell down upon him, sticking to his dark eyelashes and golden curls. He sighed in exasperation, pulling his dressing gown tighter around him and gulping down some of his father's finest French wine, which he'd stolen from the wine cellar. Another year, and another birthday forgotten by his family. Well, not exactly forgotten; his father had sent him a card, but Robert could tell it had been bought and written by his father's personal assistant. Robert was no fool, he could remember exactly how his father's handwriting was big, looping and indecipherable. The card – which now lay on his bedroom floor in a dozen pieces – was written in a small, neat hand, which was definitely not his father's. Robert couldn't understand why it mattered to him so much – he was fine here, on his own, in the middle of the French countryside without any friends apart from the stable boy in which he bullied into "hanging out" with him. He sighed again, his breath turning into swirling mists before fading into the inky blue-black sky. For the thousandth time, Robert wished he was like one of the people who lived in the village – normal. This thought was then swiftly followed by Robert laughing at them and their pathetic little lives, poor as church mice and with no prospects. He felt smug as he realised he had nothing and nobody to lose in order to become the best high-flying businessman, with the looks, the intelligence, the house, the car, the lifestyle, the lovers... No, he wouldn't change it for the world. He had everything anyone could possibly wish for or aspire to. Yet he was still hungry for more.
Suddenly, three brisk, loud knocks interrupted his reverie. Taking another swig from his wine bottle, he staggered back into his room, tripping over his own feet. Laughing quietly to himself, but without any reason why, he slammed the bottle onto his bedside table and swaggered out onto the landing.
"Mr Cogsworth! Mr Cogsworth! Oh, my dearest, darling Coggy-worthsy-Cogsworth. Where are you?" Robert laughed, looking over the landing into the pitch-black entrance room below. "Cogsworth! Get here now!"
Mr Cogsworth had been a long-time friend and employee of the d'Beeste family, his ancestors all serving previous generations of d'Beestes. He was in charge of the house whilst Mr d'Beeste was away, and although he had had great affection of "Master Robert", as he called him, Cogsworth had witnessed Robert's transformation from a happy and carefree young boy to a bitter and unloved young man and had been forced to stand back and watch helplessly. Cogsworth knew that deep down, Robert still had some good in him, but that side of Robert was diminishing by the day, and there was nothing that Cogsworth, nor any of the other household staff, could do about it. He was a short, squat fellow, middle-aged and bespectacled, a true English gent. Tonight, though, he and the other household staff lay asleep as if a spell had been cast of the residents of the d'Beeste mansion, causing them to fall into a deep sleep that not even a drunk man could rise them from.
"Ah, please yourself then," Robert muttered, slumping one arm and his torso sideways over the handrail while he descended the staircase, his feet criss-crossing and occasionally losing their grip of the stairs. Once he finally reached the bottom of the stairs, he coughed, straightened up and staggered over to the light switch. He waited a moment before his eyes adjusted to the new light that now flooded the entrance hall, before fumbling for the bunch of keys that hung from a peg next to the front door. Once he had found the correct key, he opened the door to find an figure hunched under a dark grey coat, the hood hiding its face. Robert took a step back in disgust. This...creature had no right to be trespassing on his land. And it smelled old, too.
"What business do you have here?" Robert asked coldly, although his voice had a slight slur to it. He looked at the hunched figure in disdain. In his intoxicated state, Robert assumed that under the cloak was an old woman, no doubt a traveller or layabout, wanting something for nothing. Well, he would not give this stranger food or shelter. It was her fault for being poor, after all.
"Please, sir, I'm lost and I'm so cold," the figure, from the quiet, quivering tone of her voice an elderly woman, said pleadingly. "I only ask you for a spare bed for one night, and perhaps some bread and water? I dare say you have enough room in this beautiful, big mansion for one lonely, frail, lost old woman..."
"Then you are wrong," Robert answered, pure venom in his voice. Even as he said it, he didn't know why he was being so cruel to this vulnerable old lady. To make himself feel a little better, no doubt. "I'm not a charity. If you go to the village, there's probably someone there who can help you. Goodnight."
"Wait, Robert d'Beeste," the woman's voice grew stronger as he turned to shut the door, his weakness seeming to give her strength. "You don't even know who I am."
"Why would I know who you are? You're just some poor old woman, preying on the richs' good natures so you can pillage and loot and then scurry off at dawn before they've even noticed you're missing. Well, you and your kind are no match for me. I know what people are like, and I will not be fooled. Now go, before I call the police," Robert's voice was getting louder now. It was cold, and he was angry and tired. Before he could say anything else, however, the woman pulled back her hood, and Robert gasped in horror, his eyes growing wider and wider in shock and fear. He tried to close the door, but she held her arm out to stop him. She was surprisingly strong.
When the woman had thrown her hood back, Robert had gasped in horror, but not because she was hideously disfigured, as he'd expected. The truth was much more shocking. The woman was in fact young and beautiful, with long flowing golden hair and expensive-looking clothes. The snow swirled around her like she was the snow queen, and anger and loathing raged in her cornflower-blue eyes.
"Mother?" Robert gasped, the wine making his brain fuzzy and confused, their identical pairs of eyes locking together before Robert had to drag his away in shame.
"Not quite," the beautiful stranger replied, her tone as cold and strong as the ice in the lake. "I am her sister, your auntie. I came to the d'Beeste mansion, the place where I grew up, to ask for shelter as my car has broken down. But I see you are as cold-hearted and callous as your father and grandfathers before you. You have grown up unloved, and will live the rest of your life unloved. I do wonder, that if you had seen my true form in the beginning, then you would have accepted me with open arms based on my looks alone. I pity you."
"Auntie, please...I had no idea...it's just been a hard time for me...I didn't even know you existed..." Robert's eyes filled with tears, as he tried to grab the woman's hand. She snatched it away in disgust.
"You have shown your true colours tonight, Robert d'Beeste, and will not go unpunished. You base your judgements on looks alone. Now you will know what it's like to be judged. I came to warn you that if you did not change your ways then you would be cursed for the rest of your life, but I see it is too late for that. Love is not based on appearance, Robert, it is about what lies beneath. Now you will know the true meaning of love, for you will need to find someone who loves you for yourself, and not your looks," the woman gazed unsympathetically at Robert, who had now started crying for the first time in eight years. He knelt down in front of her, begging her to forgive him. But it was too late and the damage was already done. The woman turned around and went back down the driveway, without looking back.
Robert realised that he had been too cruel, too rash, and knew that there would be repercussions. What sort of repercussions, he could not have even contemplated, but suddenly he felt completely sober, and shrouded in despair. He raced up the stairs to his father's office, which was usually locked, but tonight the heavy oak door was curiously open. He crept over to his father's solid pine desk and sat down in the green chair with gold engraving around the edges. Robert had only been in this room a handful of times as a boy, and usually sitting down in the comfortable, grand chair filled him with complete happiness, but now he just felt a dull ache underlying complete dread. First he just sat quietly, combing his hands through his gold curls, but then the tears began again. With fumbling fingers he opened the top drawer of his father's desk and pulled out a packet of cigarettes, probably left from his father's last visit two months ago. Despite not having smoked before, he took a long drag before putting it back, coughing and spluttering, in his father's crystal ashtray. Tipping his head back, Robert allowed sleep to overcome him, although it was not peaceful.
In his dream, Robert was being chased by the beautiful stranger, through the mansion. She was holding a candle as she ran, her long white dress swirling around her feet. Then the scene changed. He was yelling at his household staff to run, to run and don't come back, although he couldn't understand why...until the floor gave way and he fell into a blazing pit of fire.
"Master, master, wake up! Please Master Robert, you have to come now!" Cogsworth was shaking Robert's thrashing body, trying to rouse him.
"'Ere, try zis," Mr Light the chauffeur, or Lumière as Robert mockingly called him, splashed a bucket of cold water over Robert's head to try and wake him up. Robert was in a deep sleep and Lumière knew it could be dangerous to rouse him, but right now it would be even more dangerous to leave him unconscious. The cigarette which Robert had put in the ashtray had not been stubbed out properly, and instead had balanced precariously over the edge of the ashtray. Robert, despite being asleep, was in a deep dark place far away from reality, his whole being seemingly possessed. His body thrashed and contorted as he dreamt he was being burned alive. But his flailing arm had knocked the ashtray off the table and the cigarette hit the floor, engulfing the thick green rug in flames. Soon the flames had travelled up the curtains and enveloped the whole room in a smoky haze.
Luckily, Mrs Potts' son Chip had woken up and managed to raise the alarm. He had called the fire brigade while Cogsworth and Lumière tried to wake the master. However, the time it took Chip to wake up and raise the alarm had meant that most of the house had caught fire, and that all the blind stumbling around had caused varying degrees of injuries and burns.
"What's going on?" Robert slurred, his eyes fluttering awake. Once he saw the flames, he jerked back into consciousness. "What happened?"
"Now now, there's no time for that, we really must get out," Cogsworth insisted, pulling Robert's arm around his neck and trying to lift him up. Lumière took his other arm, and together they managed to drag him out of the study, dodging the flames. Neither of them commented on the scars snaking up his arms, or the burns on his neck and jaw. They couldn't quite believe he was capable of such disaster, but of course, they knew nothing of the visit of the beautiful stranger.
Together they managed to drag him out of the house and onto the grass. Meanwhile the fire-fighters had arrived and had set to work straight away, extinguishing the flames before they had a chance to do some real damage. Luckily the fire hadn't had chance to spread to the West Wing, and so all of his mother's possessions lay intact. Robert, on the other hand, sat on the grass with his head in his hands, seemingly unaware of the state of his hands. He had not been wearing slippers either – not that slippers would have been much protection – and so there were angry red burns on his feet and ankles, too.
"How long was he in there for?" Cogsworth muttered angrily. "And, more to the point, how did it take us so long to realise the place was burning down?"
"I 'ave no idea," Lumière replied, eyes wide as he watched the once beautiful mansion now a shadow of its former self. Most of the staff had not escaped unscathed, with sore red-raw burns covering their hands, but Master Robert had been affected worse than anyone. "But, per'aps, it would be a good idea to keep away zee mirrors. For now, at least."
"Yes, you're quite right," Cogsworth replied, shocked that they were agreeing on something for once. Even though they were good friends, they were also occasionally rivals, and the more confident, relaxed Lumière took great joy in winding up the more rigid, uptight Cogsworth.
"Poor laddy, it'll break 'is lil 'eart when 'ee sees hiself wiv those scars," Mrs Potts shuffled over, Chip close behind. Mrs Potts was also originally from London, and, like Cogsworth, had joined out of loyalty to Robert's father, who had helped her family in times of crisis.
Babette, the French maid who had less severe burns to her fingers, then sauntered over, her long dark hair swishing about her shoulders. "'im? How you think I feel? I 'ave a concert tomorrow, and you think I can go sing with these?" She waved her fingers in Mrs Potts' face. "I think not."
Mrs Potts tutted at the glamorous Babette. "You? What about poor Master Robby? 'ee's more afflicted than you, luvvy."
Robert, who seemed to have calmed down a little and was coming out of his state of shock, glanced down at his hands, and recoiled in repulsion. "My hands! Look at my hands!"
Cogsworth and Lumière tried to calm him down, but Robert's attention had already been diverted by something that no one had noticed yet. On the west side of the mansion, far away from where the fire-fighters were putting out the flames, lay a single red rose. Robert wandered over to it, his mind fuzzy as he tried to make sense of it all. Bending down to pick it up, the beautiful stranger's voice came back to him; " Now you will know what it's like to be judged. I came to warn you that if you did not change your ways then you would be cursed for the rest of your life. Love is not based on appearance, Robert, it is about what lies beneath. Now you will know the true meaning of love, for you will need to find someone who loves you for yourself, and not your looks." At that moment he caught sight of his reflection in the window, and he let out a wild, inhuman scream when he realised what the woman had meant. He would be this hideous monster for the rest of his life, and more sickeningly, he had done it to himself.