11. The Portrait

It took a little time for their relationship to return to normal after his proposal. He tried and she tried to act the same, but still it hung between them. Finally they both discovered that rather than pretending it had never happened, the better thing was to acknowledge that it had. The Beast would not retract his profession of love, but she found that she could accept it and go on, even as he accepted her refusal. After all, what else could they do? They had no one else but each other, and they had grown too dear of friends to be happy apart for long.

So another month or two passed, and fall began to set in. Marianna was sorry to see the summer flowers go from the garden, but autumn had its own beauties. The old house grew cold quickly, but they kept fires burning in many rooms, and her seemingly bottomless wardrobe yielded fur coats and woolen undergarments that kept her warm even on cool nights.

One day when the wind was blowing hard outside, she went back again to pace the long gallery and stare at the pictures. Her curiosity was still unsatisfied where they were concerned; she had tried to pry a little information out of the Beast at times, but he always laughed and put her off. Still she walked, and studied each face in its turn, wondering at the stories behind them.

Near the end of the gallery she stopped before the portrait of a middle-aged woman, still regal and beautiful. Her eyes roamed over it, taking in every detail. There in the background was the mantle from the small sitting room in the east wing—it was no surprise that it had been painted here. Surely she must have lived here once. Her clothing was rich and beautiful, not unlike Marianna's own gowns she wore now, and there… Marianna stopped and looked more closely. Yes, she was certain. There reposing on her breast was a necklace of emeralds that she herself had worn.

With sudden awareness now, she started back, looking at every woman's jewels, searching for more of hers in them. She found two other familiar items—a ruby broach, and a pair of pearl earrings.

Well! Marianna sat down on an accommodating bench to think. She remembered her Friend's words to her when he brought her the jewelry: "They once belonged to a very great lady." Several very great ladies, from what she saw here. They were family jewels, ancestral jewels, just like this was an ancestral home. And they were both in the possession of her Beast. "I came by them honestly," he told her. She believed him, but—but—how? What was he doing here? How had he come here? What was his relationship to the family depicted on these walls, and how had their possessions fallen into his hands, and then been cursed? Did the curse come before or after? Maybe the house had been cursed, and then he came here and was cursed because of it, like her father had been. How long had he been here, anyway? How old was he? Shivers went up and down her spine as she contemplated these things. The word enchantment lay heavy on her.

Yet, there was something here, something she was missing, she felt sure of that—some key to the puzzle that would make it all clear. What was it that she couldn't see? It was probably really obvious, she thought, but still it eluded her.

Finally abandoning attempts to sort it out as hopeless, she transferred her attention back to the place of the missing portrait. She knew one had been here because the brackets in the walls to hang it were still there. No one would put those up until they actually had something to hang, right? So where was it? She couldn't say why it interested her so, but it did. There was, after all, little else to occupy one around here sometimes.

Suddenly she thought of the storerooms downstairs, cluttered with this and that. It seemed a long shot, but if she was to go looking for the picture, surely that was as good a place to start as any.

She had not seen the Beast since breakfast. In fact, the last few days he had seemed to be drawing away from her a little, retreating back into his shadowy shell. Perhaps it was the weather change that triggered it, she thought, or maybe he's getting bored with my company after all. Either way, she wasn't going to push him. They had plenty of time to come when they could be together. In the mean time, she had some freedom.

She set to work without delay. The downstairs cellars were dark and dusty, but she changed her clothes and lit lamps, and started sorting. It was mostly junk, she found, although a fascinating relic or two showed up—some ancient bit of machinery, or the missing serving bowl to the china set in the breakfast room. Her interest in the project remained high through the first storeroom, and the second, but by the time she came to her fourth, she gazed around a little drearily, and looked down at her dirty dress and hands. I must look a fright, she thought. However will I ask for some extra hot water for a bath when I don't really even want to tell him what I've been doing? Instinctively she felt he might not approve of her quest.

With little enthusiasm she poked around the room, glancing at this or that, but not expecting much. With a sigh, she turned away. She no longer could remember why she had felt so strongly about this anyway.

As she passed the wine cellar, she thought of her father, and his love for fine wine. He had not seen it while he was here, she felt sure. How excited he would be if he could! Perhaps he could even find a few of those rare bottles he was always talking about.

On the impulse of the moment she turned into the room, climbing down a few steps, and began to peruse the dusty bottles. But she soon had to acknowledge to herself that she had no real idea where to look, or even what she looking for. But the dark , low-ceilinged room was rather maze-like, and it took her a few minutes to find her way out again. She ran straight smack into one wall, realized where her error was, and was about to turn back, when the light of her lamp glanced off of something, and she turned her head.

It was definitely not a wine bottle, or a rack. In fact, it was propped up against the wall half-way behind a rack that looked like it had been moved. It was flat and rectangular, and it was... the shape of a painting.

Excitement surged through her. It was the right shape all right, and just the right size for the large portraits that hung in the gallery. Although it faced the wall and was covered, she could see the curve of the frame.

The cellar was too dark, so she dragged it out, huffing, to the kitchen, where at least she could get some light through the windows. It was heavy, but she managed to get it up onto the table. It had been carefully wrapped in a heavy cloth—a tablecloth, perhaps. Awkwardly, and with great excitement, she managed to take off the wrappings, and held her lamp up eagerly to gaze on the painted countenance.

It was the man in her dreams.

Marianna gasped and fell back, dropping her lamp. After a moment she recovered herself, picked it up again, and bent forward. Surely she had been mistaken.

No, there he was—the face she had seen so often: the same jaw, the same nose, the same sensitive mouth, and those warm, compelling eyes—what was it about those eyes? Even the way his hair fell over his forehead, the way he was dressed, and carried himself—it all matched.

It can't be, she thought in unbelief. My brain is playing tricks on me.

It was. Even as she tried to argue with herself, tried to convince herself that dreams are so vague, and she didn't really remember what the man in them had looked like, she knew it was untrue.

Maybe I saw another painting of him somewhere else, she thought, and I've forgotten about it. But as she thought about it she knew that excuse would never do either. If there was such a painting in this house, she would have noticed it long ago.

If chills had run over her before, now they fairly possessed her. For several minutes she sat on the rickety old stool in the kitchen and shivered, staring at the painting before her in mingled fascination and horror. Was it a ghost that was haunting her dreams, then? Again the word enchantment sprang to mind, increasing her sense of horror.

Finally she was able to gather her thoughts well enough to move. She must speak to the Beast about this. He might be upset, she knew, but she had to ask. Perhaps finally he would tell her something.

But there were things to do first. Somehow she managed the lug the heavy painting up the stairs. She left it in a small antechamber, turned against the wall again. Then she went up to her room to clean up and try to make herself presentable. She would need all of her beauty and charm that night to persuade him.