"Papa," Belle called as she entered into their cottage. Upon hearing no response, Belle placed her basket down on the counter and decided that he was most likely in his workshop. Soon enough, she heard the sounds of her father in his workshop. Smiling to herself, she busied herself with fixing him a simple breakfast of bread and jam, she would take it to his workshop and like most mornings they would spend their breakfast together.
Carrying the tray, she didn't bother knocking on the door. Instead, she entered with a smile as she heard him humming some song, she couldn't quite make out. He was engrossed in a miniature music box. She realized it was her mother's when she noticed the top of the box, which had a rose made of pure gold sculpted on top of it. "Good morning, papa," Belle said as she set the tray down on the table, just out of his way as he looked up to greet her.
Her father was still a handsome man. Though his once blond hair had faded to gray, his blue eyes still laughed. But he had never even as much as looked at another woman since her mother passed, but if he had, Belle thought it would be quite easy for him to find another woman willing to share his life. Perhaps his own small fortune might make him even more appealing if the villagers knew about it. But was doubtful that anyone was really aware. Her father believed in judging a person's worth by their character and not their wealth. And he would never flaunt his good fortune.
Even still, he worked on some inventions but mostly painted to earn a modest income that was more than adequate for their simple life in the country. Every year, he traveled to a fair where he would sell some of the works and trinkets he created, which were not commissioned by his patrons in Paris. Her father had plans to leave today for the fair, which was no more than a half-days ride away and he would return tomorrow evening as per custom. Even though Belle was no longer a child, he still did not like to leave her alone for more than a night, if he could help it.
He smiled and rose to embrace her. "Good morning, my dear." She kissed his cheek as he beckoned her to sit down next to him. "I was just trying to fix your mother's box. The sound still isn't quite right." He said as he poured the tea for the two of them.
"It's still lovely and it reminds me of her." Her face took on a wistful look, "I can still remember her playing it for me when I was a little girl. I wasn't allowed to hold it unless I was sitting down."
"You were a spirited child," he laughed. "You must get it from me. But you were always so good with my workshop." He mused. "But your mother loved you dearly, my girl." Fiddling with the box, he said, "Your mother loved this music box. It was the first thing I ever bought her—for our first wedding anniversary."
"I never knew that she just told me it was very precious to her." Maurice busied himself by spreading jam on his bread. Belle took a sip of her tea as she looked at her father. He looked a little pale this morning. She wondered if a trip to the fair would be advisable, there would be other times.
"I think of her often. She would have been so proud, Belle, to see the woman that you have become." He replied. "You don't find me odd then, papa?" Belle couldn't help herself from asking.
"My daughter odd?" He turned to look at her and noticed her playing with her hands. And he reached over and gently took her hands in his to still their movements. "Where would you get an idea like that?"
Belle shrugged, "I don't know people talk." Her father reached over to lift her chin, with one hand. "This is a small village. Small minded, but safe, and even back in Paris, there were few people—let alone women—like you and your mother." He looked seriously at his daughter, his brow furrowed as he examined her face. Belle looked a little guarded but he did not detect anything that would give him real concern.
"Surely, my daughter, you can see that these people might just be a little envious of you?" Belle looked surprised and her father once again marveled at her modesty. "You've never noticed how some of the girls in the village have tried to copy your dress?"
"No," Belle replied startled. "My dear, others might not understand you but that does not make you odd. It makes you different—unique. Not unlike your mama and I guarantee that one day people will realize that." When she finally smiled again, he continued on, "Besides, I think you might already have an admirer who does not seem to be put off much by your 'oddness.'" Maurice was not immune to the looks he had seen the Captain shooting at his daughter. Though Gaston had not formally approached him yet about a courtship or for her hand, he expected he would soon.
Her face furrowed before she let out a small sigh and frowned. "Oh papa, I don't think he's for me." "Well he's certainly handsome," her father replied. Shaking her head, Belle countered, "Yes, he is—and he's a little a too aware of that. We could never…we could never make each other happy. He's so arrogant and I think there's a certain cruelty in him." Belle shuddered, imagining life as Madame Gaston.
"Well, be that as it may, I do not think I am ready to part with you, even to the most worthy gentlemen of all France—or the world." He declared and he was happy to hear that Belle did not seem interested in the Captain. He was not yet ready to part with his darling daughter. "He could be the King himself and I would not give him your hand—unless you wished it. But just as so, I believe that falling in love in a garden is the best place to begin a courtship." He winked at his daughter as she laughed.
"I agree, papa." She hesitated for just a second before asking, "Before you leave would you please tell me again about how you and mama met?" She blushed as her father raised a brow. "I know the story by heart by now, but still I love the way you tell it—like out of a fairytale."
Her father's eyes brightened—were those tears, Belle wasn't quite sure, it could have been a trick of the light. "Of course, my dear." He looked at the music box, "It was spring and we were in the Jardin des Tuileries. The weather was just beginning to warm; I had come to think about something so trivial I can hardly recall now. But I noticed the most beautiful girl sitting on the bench. She had brown hair and brown eyes and she was reading a book. The book was Romeo and Juliet, a well-read copy, and I remember thinking interesting it was to see this girl sitting in the garden alone, just reading. So I gathered my courage and approached her." Laughing he said ruefully, "And your mother, being the smart, independent, willful woman that she was, engaged me in a debate of literature. I knew that it was then that I was falling in love with her." He sighed, "I offered to escort her home—I had no idea my own boldness back then—and she refused. But she gave me her copy of the book and her address and informed me that I could return it to her tomorrow at her parents' home."
Belle sighed, "It's all so wonderfully romantic. You and mama were so happy." She gathered the dishes and the teapot. "I hope that one day I might be as lucky as you and mama." She kissed her father's cheek as she stood. "But there are so many places I wish to go and so many things I would love to do before, I marry." She added as she exited the room.
Belle set the tray down in the kitchen and her father followed, a trunk of trinkets and paintings in his arms. Did he always look this tired, Belle asked herself as she offered to help him with the chest. But he simply waved her off with a smile as he headed out the door to hitch up the wagon to Philippe, their horse. Belle followed him with his satchel; she had made sure her father had packed adequately for his trip. She placed half the loaf of bread she had bought into his satchel along with some hard cheese.
For some strange reason, she felt apprehensive as he placed his chest into the wagon and reached for his satchel. He pulled her close after he placed it in the wagon and kissed her forehead tenderly. "Well, my dear, I must be off. What can I bring you from the fair?"
Belle replied, "A rose." He exclaimed, "Another one? Every year you ask for a rose." "And every year you bring one, papa," Belle smiled at him. Her father shook his head as he climbed into the seat of the wagon.
"If you're sure, then I shall see you tomorrow evening with the rose." As he started off, he heard his daughter call, "Be careful, papa. And I'll miss you." He waved his hat as he led the wagon out of the village and into the woods that would take him to fair.
Belle watched him until she could see him no more until he had simply disappeared into the woods. Trying to shake the feeling of apprehension, she walked back into the cottage, where she cleaned up their breakfast. She tidied the living room and headed towards her favorite room in the cottage—the library—carrying the gift from the bookseller.
Though their cottage was small, it was spacious. The cottage was big enough for a library, something that most families in town had neither use nor space for such frivolities. It was her favorite room. Beautifully decorated with her mother's old treasures. Her mother had a beautiful desk, finely wrought out of carved and painted wood. It looked like something that a fairy godmother would have created, painted with a scene that looked directly out of Shakespeare's A Midsummer's Night Dream. When she was younger, she told her mother she was sure it came from the fairy Queen, Tatiana. Her mother had a deep love of Shakespeare, something that they shared and she had spent many an evening in her daughter's room reading the comedies to her daughter.
She carefully opened the curtains, though faded one could still see the faint floral pattern in the light blue background, allowing the sun to stream in unencumbered. Blue had been her mother's favorite color and Belle wore it in memory of her. Her mother had loved the color so much that she wore blue on her wedding day; her father had painted a portrait of her that hung in his room. After she lost her mother when she was still a child, she would sit on her parents' bed and talk to her mother's portrait.
The library also had the advantage of having large enough windows that allowed her to be able to see if anyone would approach the cottage and she was lucky it faced east so there was little need for candles when she was reading if the day was sunny. And though Belle considered it a library, it was far smaller than any real library. It mostly contained her mother's collection of Shakespeare and a few poetry books, sparse compared to the bookseller's shop. She placed her newest book on one of the bookshelves—another thing her mother had brought with her to the village when they moved there.
Belle went to the desk and pulled out a leaf of paper, preparing to write a letter to her mother. As silly as it sounded, Belle tried to write to her mother at least once a week. She would tell her mother about her life and ask her for advice, but she would always seal the letters and keep them in her jewelry box. Similar to when she was a child talking to her mother's portrait; she believed that by writing to her mother that it was like her mother was still with her.
She was so engrossed in her project that she was startled when she heard a knock on her door. It drew her out of her daze. She hurriedly placed her letter back into the desk and straightened her dress. Wiping her hands clean of ink with a rag, she then smoothed her hair, recapturing a few strands that had escaped. Belle was unaccustomed to visitors, especially ones in the middle of the day, so she wondered who was at the door. And when she opened the door, she was both dismayed and intrigued to find Gaston waiting there, dressed in all his finery.