Chapter 8: The Things You Love Most

Fields of Gold by Celtic Woman

Isabelle awoke as the rising sun stretched its golden fingers through the curtains and spilled speckles of soft light across her face. She stretched and rolled toward the balcony, shivering in the cool air that had made its way into the room. Noting the slightly parted doors, she smiled, her heart warmed by the captains subtle and protective gesture. He had long since given up admonishing her to let the air flow through the rooms no matter the weather, fearing the gas may leak and she would inadvertently join him on the "aft side o' life and breath." Consequently, no matter if the morning greeted her small family with pouring rain or sunshine in abundance, every bedroom window was raised an inch or two above the sill, and her balcony doors were ajar. Isabelle found herself stifling giggles during breakfast on several mornings as Martha fumed about the "funny doings" of the house, as she was sure she had closed and locked her own windows each night.

For the first time in her life, Isabelle truly felt safe. Childhood anxiety over her mother's condition, and then fear of failing her father when she took over as lady of the house were followed by her years with the Mills, whose family intrigues kept her on edge every minute. Since moving into the captain's house, she had felt nothing but contentment and peace. At times, the blustery apparition fussed about some infractions committed by one or the other of her small family, and he'd threaten to "keelhaul" the lot of them for their blunders, disappearing in a huff when she'd take too lightly his empty threats.

Just yesterday, the captain had materialized before her on the back porch in the midst of the weekly laundry, a black scowl on his face, his eyes narrowed over his brown eyes and his jaw grinding.

"Madam, what do ye think ye're about?"

"Oh!" she startled. Her sleeves were rolled up over her elbows, her work dress covered by a long, white apron. She used the back of her hand to brush away a stray tendril of hair before taking up a green cotton dress of Lucy's to scrub on the washboard. She could see his ire was up, but she was in such a playful, happy mood that she refused to let him spoil it by drawing her into an argument. "Good afternoon, Captain. What offense have I committed this time?"

"What offense, indeed? Ye know right well what I'm referrin' to!" he stormed, hands on hips and feet set apart. Oh, but he was splendid! She imagined him standing on board a great ship, his keen eyes on every man, every rope, every instrument on board, barking out orders, his compact body deftly dancing over the decks as he orchestrated the rhythm of the ship. He radiated power, and her heart fluttered in her chest as the image of him standing firmly on the deck of a ship flitted through her mind's eye.

"Stop yer, gaping at me, Madam, an' explain yerself!"

Had she been staring? Blushing, Isabelle dropped her gaze and resumed scrubbing the little dress across her washboard. "I'm sorry, Captain, but I really don't know what's upset you so."

Crossing his arms over his chest he pulled himself up to his fullest height. "I'm referrin' to the blasted ladder standin' 'gainst yon shelf in th' bloody library," he explained with calculated patience.

"Oh, that," Isabelle laughed. She pulled the dress out of the warm, sudsy water and began wringing it out, the water flowing down her forearms and dripping off of her elbows. "I pulled it upstairs this morning so I could dust the upper shelves."

"Aye, I could see that for meself!" he affirmed. "The question is why?"

Isabelle added the small, wrung-out twist of fabric to similar bundles in a wicker basket on her worktable and looked up into Daniel's eyes, her own wide with feigned innocent. "Because they needed it; I haven't dusted up there since we moved in."

He watched her remove one of Martha's blouses from another basket and continued. "An' it could not wait 'til I was here to give ye a hand with it?"

"Why, Captain? Do you like dusting?"

"No, I donna like dustin'!" he groused, "but ye could have waited for me ta bring it in an' see it were placed for ye! Ye've no business carryin' the thing up the stairs like that!"

Stifling a grin, Isabell began wringing the blouse and countered, "Come now, sir, it wouldn't have been very convenient to have Lucy see the ladder floating up the stairs on its own, now would it?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "The lass goes out ta play, doesn't she?"

"Well yes, that's true," she conceded. Grabbing a small metal pail, she dipped it into the soapy water and began emptying the washtub, spilling the used water onto the ground off of the porch. "But Captain, I can't wait on your schedule to get things done; and besides, I'm not helpless."

"Ah, I know that, dearie! I've seen ye totin' an' fechin' buckets of water, hauling boxes full of books an' such all over the house an' shovin' furniture from starboard ta port an' port ta starboard e'er sin' ye moved in here!"

He's worked himself up into a regular monsoon, Isabelle mused. "Of course I have! Things need to be done!"

Having emptied the majority of the water from the tub, she grabbed it by the handles and began lifting it. Daniel wrenched it out of her hands, carried it to the edge of the porch and poured out the remainder of the sudsy water. Setting it back on the stand with a weighty thud, he stepped back and resumed his rigid posture.

"That blasted ladder is older than dirt an' has two loose rungs. Ye could ha' fallen an' broken yer pretty little neck," he said accusingly.

"Oh, not so, Captain," she smiled brightly. "I noticed the rungs yesterday when I climbed up to wash the windows on the second floor. I fixed them." Isabelle hid a smirk as she saw his eyes widen in shock over her pure audacity. Lifting her skirt so as not to trip on them, she walked around him, passing through the back door and into the kitchen. He followed on her heels and ran past her to the stove where she was heating a great pot of water.

"NO!" he admonished her, pointing his finger in her wide-eyed face. He turned and lifted the heavy pot of very hot water, carrying it to the back porch. Trailing him back outside, she watched him empty it into the washtub.

Curtsying playfully, she said, "thank you, kind sir." As the tub was under the water pump, she began working the handle up and down, adding cold well water into the steaming tub until it reached a comfortable temperature. Meanwhile, Daniel continued to admonish her to stop taking unnecessary risks, finally appealing to her maternal sense, because "ye wouldn't want to leave the wee lassie an orphan child."

"You're right, of course, Captain. I promise I'll consult you on my next dangerous chore, or hire a man to come in and take care of it." She smiled up at him mischievously, her hands automatically reaching for the sudsy, wrung-out bundles in the laundry basket and plunking them into the warm rinse water. Sighing with feigned longsuffering, she continued, "I suppose I'll have to disappoint Lucy and tell her she can't climb on the roof and sweep the chimney after all."

Daniel's jaw dropped, completely taken aback. "Confound it, woman! I should keelhaul the lot of you!"

Isabelle giggled at him then, and he threw up his hands and vanished from her sight.

She smiled to herself as she recalled the incident. He had visited her in the evening, as had become their custom, still put out with her, but was soon cajoled into a better mood by her lightheartedness. Roar and bluster he might, but she knew he really cared for them; cared for them in a way Gerald never had. Perhaps it was because he wasn't so lonely now that they had come; or, perhaps it was just his nature to look out for others. Whatever his reasons, the grateful widow more than appreciated his kindness and the quiet vigils he kept over them.

Rising, Isabelle slipped on her dressing gown and pushed her feet into her still cold slippers. Padding softly across the floor she passed through the French doors and onto the balcony, a cool breeze teasing her hair as it hung in long, loose tendrils down her back. Gazing out at the sun newly risen over the restless tide, Isabelle thought about her captain. My captain. What was he? A ghost? A wish? Had she conjured him from her imagination as a companion, a protector? She had never believed in ghosts before. Had he not told her on the night they met that he was but an illusion? But, he seemed so real, so very . . . alive. Was she capable of dreaming a man, a personality, a voice into the image of the portrait in her bedroom and then breathe life into him to make her own life less lonely, her way more sure?

She had been here for nearly five months now, and had come to treasure her friendship with him. His craggy face had become as dear to her as Lucy's, his voice as welcome as her own breath. She had never met anyone like him, never been so free to share her thoughts and aspirations. Morning tea time was the most cherished hour of her day, and she had taken to going down to the kitchen for tea each night after the house had settled, knowing he would join her for another hour of conversation before wishing her a fond goodnight. He shared with her his vast knowledge of the world, its ports and nations and peoples: the customs of exotic natives on every shore; of politics both here and abroad; of the raw energy it took to survive the elements, of being a man pitted against nature itself. He had done more than feed her hunger for adventure, though: he had gleaned of her the insights she had gained from her beloved literature and had listened, actually listened to her as she discussed her dream: to transform her love of the written word into a means of making her way in the world, of letting others see through her eyes, entertain her thoughts and notions. She wanted to see the world and describe it to others in such a way that they would see it, too.

They shared many like sentiments, it was true, but their discussions were also stimulating for the differences between them: she was young and sheltered, he well traveled and seasoned; she was refined and he was earthy; he was cynical, whereas she was an idealist; she viewed the world through the aspect of Spring and the promise of renewal, and he through the coldness of Winter and the sureness of all things coming to an end.

She was Beauty and he was her Beast.

If they had met in life, she would have lost her heart to him, felt she already had lost her heart to him. But, how was this possible? She felt sure she could love him, truly love him, but what could they be to one another? What if he was an illusion: would he simply cease to exist one day? And then what?

Her heart clenched at the thought of loosing him, and that thought reminded her of her current plight. The ghost seemed tied to this house, and she needed to come up with a plan or she would lose the house, and by concession, her captain as well. Neither did she relish the idea of returning to the Mills and loosing all she had built for herself and for Lucy. She had spoken with Mrs. Lucas a few days ago when she was in town, the good lady answering her questions about her house and her boarders. As much as Isabelle disliked the idea of changing the life she was had grown so fond of, she was growing desperate to come up with a plan to save her home and preserve her little family. She had birthed an idea and needed only to iron out a few details to see it through.

Retreating back into her room, she quickly threw open her wardrobe and selected a dress for the day. She had a few errands to run after walking Lucy to school and she wanted to look her best. After all, to save what she loved most in the world, she may have to put herself on the line.

XXXXX

Daniel paced the balcony impatiently as he waited for Isabelle to return from town. She had risen and dressed before daybreak, and had accompanied Lucy on her walk to school. This much he had surmised for himself, as the blasted wench hadn't thought of leaving him a note to tell him where she had gone.

He had occupied himself after discovering her departure by venturing out along the beach. It amused him to see his feet sink into the sand without leaving footprints, as well as to stroll along the ebbing serf and have the water penetrate his "body" without scurrying around his limbs as it had when he was flesh and bone. It was a bit of a comfort to know he could make this venture of some distance from the house without fear of vanishing. It was also good to discover that he could walk the sandy shoreline and come home, dragging no wet sand to muddy Martha's shining floors. His Aunt Agatha would have appreciated that very much.

Morning teatime had come and gone, and still Isabelle had not returned. It wasn't like she didn't make trip or two into Storybrooke each week, but he had seized upon a plan for her provision and was anxious to share it with her. He also hoped that his pique at her yesterday would be forgotten in the wake of his new idea. He smiled at the memory. As a commander of men and master of a ship, he was used to his word being law, his scowls enough to make men twice his size tremble with fear. Crossing him was like reaping a whirlwind and disobeying his commands was never, ever an option. And yet, this fragile belle met his scowls with a level gaze, his grimace with an amused smile his barking commands with mirth and quips. He had been a friendless beast for many a year, and now, beyond the capability of interactions with his fellow men, she had come to coax humanity from him. Bluster and bellow as he might at this slender reed, this beauty, merely opened her arms and danced in the winds he blew.

His thoughts were interrupted by the chugging sounds of a motorcar ambling up the cobblestone street in front of the manor. Looking up, he glimpsed the atrocity steadily approach, all fumes and smoke and bone-jarring noise. Pulling up in front of the house, it sputtered for a few moments and then stopped with a loud bang. The rotund driver stepped out, his features hidden beneath a cap and goggles, a long scarf fairly fluttering behind him in his haste to round the front of the contraption to the passenger side. Opening the door, the captain caught a glimpse of a dainty boot settling onto the ground. The passenger, a lady, accepted the driver's proffered hand and descended from the car. The driver seemed reluctant to release the lady's hand, but she pulled it from him and smoothed her skirts and the hair peeking from under a crisp bonnet. That hair . . . it was his Isabelle!

Daniel felt his hackles rise as jealousy seized him. Wishing himself away from the beach, he materialized on the front porch of the house, arms crossed and feet planted firmly at the top of the stairs. The driver took a moment to divest himself of hat, goggles and scarf, throwing them haphazardly through the window on the drivers' side of his shiny, black motorcar. Daniel's eyes widened as he recognized the banker, Horace Cogsworth, who had now offered Isabelle his arm to escort her into the manor, his face ridiculously besotted in the presence of the pretty widow.

He was speaking as he walked beside her, "I'm so glad you found the house suitable after all! And to think, some superstitious people believed a ghost was haunting it!" Cogsworth opened the gate and allowed Isabelle to pass through before him. "How could such things exist in the twentieth century?"

"Indeed. How could they?"

Isabelle, her left arm upon the bankers and her right hand raising her skirt above her ankle looked up at the captain as he stood on the porch, her eyes growing wide and soft as a blush spread across her features. Daniel held his breath a moment as he returned her gaze, felt the connection between them as she approached. The idiot escorting her was babbling on about something, but she heard not one word, her smile widening as she drew closer to the one who awaited her on the porch.

Lifting his hands, Daniel flicked them in an inward gesture. At that moment, the motorcar parked out on the street roared to life and began backing down the hill back toward town. Cogsworth let out an undignified yelp and, abandoning Isabelle's arm, bolted after the vehicle as it fled him. From his perch above the steps, the captain threw his head back and laughed!

Isabelle shook her head as she watched the banker race after the wayward vehicle. She turned back toward the captain, and offered him a frown for his efforts. "Really, Captain!" she scolded. "Did you have to do that after all the trouble it took for me to get him here?"

Looking down from his perch, he said accusingly, "Ye should pick a less skittish man fer yer future husband!"

Her shocked expression gave him some comfort. "Husband: that walrus?" How ludicrous! Really, where does he come up with such ideas? Raising her hands above her head, she unpinned her hat and shook off the dust. "Your silly pranks are bound to keep him away now, and just when I needed him to put in a good word for us."

His face still smug with mirth, he offered her a hand up the steps, smiling broadly when she placed her delicate hand in his. "We have no need of his opinion, me dear, good or otherwise." At the top of the steps, he moved her hand to the bend of his elbow and escorted her to the white, wooden rocker on the front porch. Seating her, he crossed his arms and stood with his feet apart, planting himself firmly before her.

"But we do need his opinion," Isabelle countered determinately. "However are we going to take in boarders with all of the rumors circulating about the house?"

"Boarders?" Daniel looked down at the small woman as if she had struck him. "What need we wi' boarders?"

Isabelle sighed patiently. "We need boarders to make a living so we can stay here." Looking at him with his jaw hanging open and his eyes wide in astonishment, she plunged ahead before he could work himself into a fit and keep her from explaining. "I've worked it all out. We'll need four boarders to cover the expenses of food, utilities and supplies, and have enough left over to pay for our own expenses. Of course, I'll have to pay Martha a bit more to cook for so many, but I'll help with the extra chores. Lucy will share a room with me, and I'll have to pack up the library to make room for the . . . "

"Are ye out of yer mind?" Daniel bellowed. "What do ye mean Lucy will share our room?"

"My room!"

"And what's this about takin' all the books out, and havin' yer woman to cook for mor'en you an' her an' the lass?" Daniel was now pacing, rubbing his forehead with his right hand as if her proposal had given him a headache. "I won't permit a bunch of landlubbers gaddin' about me house . . . '

"My house!"

". . . with their demands an' noise!"

"Captain Gold, be reasonable!" Isabelle demanded, pounding her small fist against the arm of the rocker. Daniel grinned wolfishly, appreciating the way her agitation flushed her lovely face and caused her to breaths to deepen. "This is the best plan I could come up with on short notice and I need your cooperation!"

Smiling slyly, he locked his brown eyes on her own stormy irises and closed the distance between them; then slowly, slowly knelt before her until his face was mere inches from hers. His voice low and deliberate, he threatened, "Bring yer landlubbers on board, dearie, an' see what happens!"

Narrowing her eyes in an attempt to match his demeanor, she said tightly, "What will happen?"

"I will shake the thunder from the skies an' rattle them from the cellar to the rafters!"

Isabelle maintained her scowl for a few more moments and then let out a very undignified snort and giggled. "You would, wouldn't you?"

"Aye, an' more, besides!"

"Of course, you would!" she conceded. Looking into his smug face, she snorted. "Very well, Captain, no boarders. What do you suppose we do for money?"

"Yer goin' to write a book."

Isabelle was stunned. "A book? But, I . . . about what?"

"Me." Daniel stood and, turning away, swaggered toward the front doors.

Isabelle held her seat until she saw him disappear through the front door. Jumping up, she ran to catch up. He paused halfway up the stairs and grinned back at her. "Tea time, my dear," he said, motioning upstairs with his head before he continued upwards.

"Martha, tea upstairs, please!" she called out before running up behind him. Breathless by the time she reached the open bedroom door, she found the captain seated on the settee, his arms outstretched across the back of the seat and his feet crossed and propped up on the tea table. Crossing the threshold, she addressed the amused spirit, "Write about you, Captain? What do you mean?"

"I mean, me dear, that I will tell ye me story an' ye will write it up."

Taking a seat in the chair across from him, Isabelle tried to make sense of his proposal. "Captain, Gold, I've never written anything more ambitious than a few children's stories! What makes you think I could possibly do something like this? Who would read it?"

Daniel put his legs down and pulled forward, closer to the young woman. "Who would read it? Why, everyone." He smiled roguishly and continued. "I've lived a man's life, a good life: full of adventure, overcoming adversity, . . . "

"Captain Gold!"

". . . an' we'll call it . . . The Dark One's Dagger!"

"That is not a very nice title!"

"It's not meant to be. It's meant to be sensational, like the subject!"

Isabelle stilled for a moment, reflecting on the captain's proposal. "It takes months to write a book. What are we to live on in the meantime?"

Daniel stood and walked toward the balcony. Yes, how to make it until he and Isabelle could complete their work. Turning back toward her he asked, "you have jewelry?"

"A little," she conceded.

"Pawn it."

"What?" Isabelle exclaimed. "I couldn't"

"Blast it, madam," Daniel countered. "Ye must understand what's at stake here. This is no time for ye to be crawling off a lee shore. We can't afford for ye to be squeamish!"

"I do understand, and don't swear at me."

"Well, then, ye can start with that ugly broach."

Isabelle traced the lines of the gold and pearl bird pinned on her blouse. "But, Gerald's mother gave it to me."

Daniel shrugged. "All the more reason to pawn it. Ye don't like Gerald's mother and you hate her broach."

"Really, Captain Gold," Isabelle said reproachfully. "I'll have you know I'm very fond of my mother-in-law," she lied.

Snickering, Daniel said, "Very well. If yer so fond of her, you can go back an' live with her."

Unpinning the broach, Isabelle set it on the table before her. "I'm sure I can get something for it; and I have my wedding ring and some other pieces as well." She looked up at Daniel, her growing excitement reflected in her eyes. "I'll go to the bank and speak with Mr. Cogsworth tomorrow."

Cogsworth, again. "Ye think ye can convince the banker to lend ye top dollar?"

"Of course," she said snidely, "I'll tell him Captain Gold sent me to him personally. I'm sure your former interactions will put him in a generous spirit."

"Daniel."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Me name is Daniel," he offered. "Since we're going to be collaborators, ye may call me Daniel." He offered his hand, which she took. "An' I shall call you Belle."

"My name is Isabelle."

"Isabelle?" he asked as if scrutinizing its suitability. "No, that's the name of a sheltered flower. Isabelle's are always being imposed upon, but Belle, now there's a name for a modern woman: an adventurer, an author."

She smiled at him, her heart fluttering a bit. He had given her a new name to go along with a new view of herself. "Belle: Belle French, author."

"What's that miss?" Martha interrupted from the doorway, her hands laden with a full tea tray.

Isabelle pulled her hand from Daniel's and addressed the maid. "My pen name, Martha: Belle French. I'm going to write a book."

"A book about what, miss?" She pushed into the room and then stooping over the tea table, arranged the tray with it's two cups.

"About our friend, the captain. I'll write a book about him, and his adventures at sea."

Martha stood up and took Isabelle's hand, patting it. "That's a fine idea. When are you going to do this."

Isabelle looked over Martha's shoulder at the captain, who shook his head indicating his desire they start immediately. "Right now, Martha."

"That's good, miss," she said, dropping Isabelle's hand and heading back toward the door. "I always figured you had the makings of a fine writer with the way you love books and all. I have to go to town this afternoon, so I'll fetch Lucy from school for you." She paused at the doorway and looked back at her. "Now mind you don't get caught up too much with the captain. You know how sailors can be." That being her final word, she closed the door behind her and was gone.