Chapter 4
Unwelcome
Belle has met two of Rumple's more outrageous acquaintances. One of them has begun a pool as to when he will consummate a relationship with his pretty maid.
Someone has come to the door.
Rumple was clearly most unhappy with the arrival of this latest visitor.
Before opening the door, he glanced over at Belle. She was dressed in her typical attire, a very lacy underslip topped by a buttoned-up frock that looked as if it was composed of vintage handkerchiefs. She wore socks with lace on their cuffs and what he thought were some ugly brown and very plain clunky shoes. But she still looked as if all her girl parts worked and he didn't want to impose this particular 'guest' on her.
"Why don't you go and do . . . whatever it is you do in the back of the apartment," he suggested with a wave of his hand.
Belle nodded. What was up with that? She scurried back to his bedroom and began to straighten his closet, putting together jeans with jeans and long sleeved shirts with long sleeved shirts, giving it all some order. Initially it was quiet but shortly she began to hear raised voices. The visitor and Mr. Stiltskin were arguing. She stopped and listened. It was hard not to listen.
It sounded rather nasty and she was beginning to wonder if she needed to call someone – like the police.
She could hear snatches of their conversation. They were arguing about money, at least that was one of the bones of contention. Lifestyle choices was another concern. Women, ah yes, there were remarks regarding women, some of them quite vulgar. Then things got quiet.
Too quiet.
Belle was genuinely concern that they had come to blows and one of them had knocked out the other. She peeked around the corner and saw that both men were seated and drinking. The man who'd been at the door was facing her and caught a glimpse of her when she peeked out at them.
"Oh my, Rum, who is this little trinket you had hiding in the back room?"
Rumple glanced behind himself and spotted Belle. He wasn't pleased she'd revealed herself. "This is Miss French. She's my maid."
The other man stood and gave her a short bow, "Miss French. So, you're the one responsible for the much improved state of my son's apartment."
"Miss French," Rumple spoke to her without turning around. "This is Malcolm Stiltskin." There was a moment. "He's my father."
Belle gave the older man a small smile and hesitated, not knowing what to do next.
"Please, come out and join us. No doubt my son was trying to hide you from me." The older man smiled – he might have been charming once, but there was a ne'er-do-well vibe, the sense of a dissolute, even wasted life, coming from the man and Belle, reacting on an instinctive level, was repelled. She retained her manners, however.
"Thank you, sir, but I have some duties to attend to."
But it was too late and the older man had already walked over to her and taken her hand, pulling her out into the living area. He sat her down and poured her a drink of the same whiskey the two men were drinking.
"You must tell me how you met my son and how ever did he convince you to come to work for him," the man encouraged her.
Belle glanced at Rumple who sat impassively.
"My father owed him some rent and Mr. Stiltskin was kind enough to work out an alternate arrangement," she told the older man.
"Alternate arrangement? Indeed. Good going there, Rumple. Didn't think you had it in you still. Thought Cora had pretty well gelded you."
"I'm not shagging the maid, father. She just keeps the place clean. As you can see, she's doing a great job."
"Right," the older man appeared to agree but then he winked at Belle. "Tell me, dear," he was talking to her again. "Are you available for other . . . ?"
"She's not, father," Rumple answered for her.
"Give her a chance. Here, let me refresh your drink," and Stiltskin Senior poured more whiskey into her glass.
"Don't keep trying to get her drunk," Rumple warned him.
"Oh, lighten up. I'm sure she's worked hard all day and could use a break. Especially if you've been home here with her – then I'm sure she could use a break."
"I'm quite fine, sir," Belle assured the man. She turned to Rumple, "I'll just go and wipe down the kitchen cabinets and sweep the floor unless there was anything else you needed me to do."
He locked eyes with her. "That sounds like a good plan, my dear. Check the calendar and let me know what time I need to get up in the morning."
Belle stood and the older man stood. She knew he was looking her over and when she walked to the kitchen she couldn't help but feel as if he was checking out her rear end.
So this was Mr. Stiltskin's father! It was clear the two didn't get along. She also recognized that she had taken an instinctive visceral dislike to the older man.
He made her feel dirty.
Belle let her employer know that he had no appointments for the following day, although there was one for the day after. She then finished up in the kitchen. As quietly as she could, she made her way past the living room back to her own room. The two men were still drinking and talking. They didn't sound like they were still arguing. Belle shut her door and, for the first time that she had been staying in Mr. Stiltskin's apartment, she wished she had a lock on the door.
Morning
When she got up the next morning, she tiptoed out. She stopped and peeked in Mr. Stiltskin's room. He was lying face down, fully dressed, his usual position, fast asleep. She closed his door and went on her way to the kitchen.
And there, on the sofa, was the older man. He appeared to be asleep and Belle did her best not to wake him. She went on into the kitchen to make herself breakfast.
It was likely the coffee that did it. Belle was intent on reviewing Mr. Stiltskin's calendar and making out her chore list for the day and didn't hear anyone come in to the kitchen behind her. The first thing she knew was that someone had put hands on her waist and was turning her around. She found herself standing, front to front, with Mr. Stiltskin Senior.
"Sir," she greeted him, "Good morning. May I fix you some coffee? breakfast?" She tried to move away but he had a firm grip on her.
"Oh honey, a sweet thing like you is more than enough breakfast for me," and he leaned in to plant a kiss on her. Belle flailed her hands behind her and grabbed the first thing that came to hand. It was the lid for the iron skillet that she used to cook eggs. She brought it up against the side of the man's face using it like a cymbal. He staggered and stepped back.
"Let's try this again. May I fix you some coffee or breakfast?" she asked firmly.
"Well, you are quite the spitfire," the man managed to gasped out, holding the side of his head likely still ringing. "I'm sure my son has his hands full with you in his bed."
"Coffee? Breakfast?" Belle repeated.
The older man sighed, "Please, I guess. Coffee and . . . any sweet rolls?"
"I can make you some cinnamon toast and fry up some apples," she told him as she began to prep the coffee.
"That sounds good," he grumbled and sat down at the kitchen island.
Belle knew he was watching her but he didn't make any further moves. She was surprised when she dished out the apples to see her own Mr. Stiltskin standing in the kitchen door. He was disheveled and only half awake.
"Sir, you're up early," she said, surprised.
"I was concerned about the safety and well-being of my maid," Rumple said, glaring at his father. "Are you all right?" he asked Belle.
"I'm fine. Your father may have a bit of a bruise on his face."
"She hit me with the pot lid," the older Stiltskin muttered.
"Problem?" Rumple asked her.
"I managed it," Belle replied blandly.
Rumple smiled. "Good girl," he said to Belle.
"Listen, after you said there was nothing going on between you two, I thought it was worth a shot," his father said by way of an apology. "I mean I understood that there was nothing serious going on here and . . .
She heard Rumple's sharp intake of breath and he interrupted his father, "Miss French is my maid – and sometimes my cook. That is all she does here. That is all she is required to do here."
"Well, jeez," Stiltskin Senior complained. "Why bother having a fine piece like this in your house if you're not going to take advantage of what she can offer? Somebody ought to be seeing to her."
"Father," Rumple began slowly. "I agreed to lend you the money you asked for. And when I say 'lend,' I mean 'give,' because I never expect to see it again. I let you spend the night here because, as you told me, you had 'nowhere else to go.' And it seems as if my maid has generously offered you breakfast, but," and Rumple looked his father in the eye, "if you put another hand on her or insult her, I'll withdraw my offer of money and kick you out on the street."
His father smirked. "I get it now. Sure. I mean no offense. I will be getting out after I've had a couple of bites of food and you won't be seeing me again," he promised.
Rumple sighed, "If only I could count on that."
"Hey, I promise. This will be the last time I need your help. This deal is sure-fire," Stiltskin Senior insisted.
"Like your last fourteen last-time sure-fire deals you've had me help you out with," Rumple muttered. He shook his head and left the kitchen.
The older man and Belle watched him go and then Stiltskin returned his attentions to Belle.
"I really am sorry. My son . . . well, I haven't been the best father – you probably figured that out. But he turned out well, don't you think?"
Belle paused. She opted to just give a nodding response. What? If you think turning out well means you struggle to have a mature, loving relationship with another person and you have to drown your pain in alcohol – well then, yes, your son turned out well.
Things were much quieter after Malcolm Stiltskin left. Rumple came out from the bedroom after two and sat in the kitchen watching Belle as she cleaned around the baseboards of the room. He was nibbling on toast and drinking coffee.
"I'm sorry about my father," he finally said.
"You aren't responsible for his actions," she told him.
"But I let him in the apartment."
Belle looked up. "He's your father."
"He abandoned me with some of his great aunts when I was eight. He promised me he would come back and get me when he got back on his feet but, as you can see, he never quite got back on his feet."
"He just comes around then, when he needs money?" she asked him.
"Pretty much. And I usually give him some."
Belle stood. "I guess, you aren't quite willing to completely cut him out of your life?"
"I guess. Can't tell you why, unless it's just as simple as he's family."
Belle agreed. "Perhaps, it is just that simple." She'd wanted to ask him about his relationship with his mother but it didn't seem quite the right time.
The Day After
They did seem to have fallen into a routine aside from the occasional uninvited guest. It was late in the afternoon and Belle found herself looking around. The apartment was at least surface clean. She'd gotten every floor, every surface, every corner cleaned, papers picked up, garbage thrown out, and she was now beginning to work on drawers and closets, going through each area systematically. Mr. Stiltskin would typically sleep in until at least two, often four, in the afternoon. He would stumble out and eat whatever she had prepared for him, grab a shower and slowly begin his day, almost always going out somewhere for the evening, sometimes alone, sometimes with others. Most days he was hung over and welcomed her cure and treatment. Every so often, he was not. They barely exchanged more than a few words – except on those rare days when he decided to be chatty.
He'd gone out this particular day, having mumbled something about an appointment to see Regina, whom, she had learned, was his business manager, about some stupid, hair-brained project she wanted to get going. Belle was cleaning out from under the man's bathroom sink. It was a gruesome, unpleasant job and she knew she was likely looking frazzled.
She heard the doorbell and struggled out to the front of the apartment. She opened it and was face to face with a gorgeous brunette. Another uninvited guest.
"Who the hell are you?" the woman asked.
"I'm Belle French."
"Where's Rumple?"
"He's out on an appointment. May I help you?" Belle asked the rude woman.
The woman pushed by her to come on into the apartment. "I need to see him." The woman made herself at home and poured herself a drink. She sat down and pulled out her phone.
Belle closed the front door, unsure of what she needed to do.
"I don't know when he will be back. I could take your number and have him call you when he gets in," she proposed.
The other woman laughed, "Yeah, like he'd return a phone call to me. He'd probably call his mother before that happened. No, darling, I need to wait for him. I came prepared."
"Can I call him and let him know you're here?" Belle tried again.
"No way. If he knows I'm waiting for him, he'll never show." The woman turned on her. "Who are you, anyway? You're not his type."
"I'm Belle French," Belle repeated her name.
"Are you his current trollop?"
"No ma'am," Belle answered. "I'm his maid."
"Oh, well, that does explain why the place looks so tidy. Rumple always was such a pig," the woman told her. The woman settled in with the television remote. She didn't give Belle another glance except to grouse, "Does the man not get Acorn? I'm binge watching Cracker."
"Yes ma'am, do you want me to set it up for you?" Belle asked and took the remote the other woman wordlessly handed to her. After setting up the woman with her show, Belle quickly retreated to the bathroom.
Making sure the other woman was involved, Belle dialed Rumple.
"What?!" he answered his phone sharply.
"I'm sorry, sir," Belle spoke quietly. "There's a woman here at the apartment who wants to see you. She won't give me her name."
"What does she look like?" he asked.
"She's very pretty, dark brown hair, dark eyes."
"A perpetual look of disapproval and disappointment on her face?"
Belle considered. "Yes sir."
"Sounds like my ex-wife." Belle could tell that Rumple was hesitating. "I hate to leave you to deal with her . . ." he was still hesitating. "I know her. She won't leave until she gets to me. I'll be there as soon as I can. I have to finish up with Regina here."
"Thank you," Belle told him but he had already hung up.
She sat on the floor in front of the undersink cabinet. She sighed and began taking things out. Some of the items went into the garbage, some needed to go to another location and some few things went back under the sink. She'd been there only about twenty minutes when she heard the door to the apartment open.
"Milah!" she heard Rumple and decided to peek out to see what was going on.
"Rumple," the woman replied unenthusiastically. "I need more money," she said without preamble.
"Gee, you might could have at least offered me a blow job before demanding money," he complained.
"Aren't you getting all that and more from your little maid?" Milah asked him.
Belle realized that Milah had assumed that she was . . . she and Mr. Stiltskin . . . that they were . . .
"We have a comfortable arrangement," she heard Rumple answer his ex-wife.
There was some huffing and Belle had to lean further out to see what was going on. Milah was sitting with her back to Belle but Rumple was facing her. He glanced up and Belle knew she had been seen.
"Kinda young for you, isn't she?" Milah asked acerbically.
"She keeps me in line," Rumple told her.
Belle shook her head. Rumple was just allowing the woman to assume that she was sleeping with him. He'd said nothing that wasn't true but it was the way that things were being communicated.
She heard her name, "Miss French," Rumple was calling her.
"Yes sir," she answered and came around the corner, although she didn't go on into the room.
"Could you please get me one of your sodas. One of the peach ones. Milah? Would you like a homemade soda? Miss French makes several delicious flavors of drinks. Right now the peach is my favorite, but the dark cherry is good and, oh yes, her cherry lime is fantastic."
"Fuck that," Milah told him. "Just refresh my drink. I was having some of your whiskey." And she held out her glass.
Belle had scurried by to get to the kitchen. She knew Rumple would take care of pouring the woman a second drink.
She could hear them talking in the kitchen.
"Are you in some kind of trouble?" Rumple asked his ex-wife softly.
"It's Killian," she told him.
"Of course, it is. It's always Killian," Rumple agreed. "Listen Milah," he began, "you get a generous allowance every month . . . "
"Killian wants to do a new play."
There was a pause. "Great."
"It will be. This is based on one of the first books to be placed on trial for obscenity, Jurgen, a Comedy of Justice. A brilliant book."
"I've read it," Rumple remarked blandly.
"Well, then you can see how it would lend itself to a big production with dance sequences and songs and . . . and . . . and, well it would be great."
There was quiet for a moment before Milah continued. "You probably know that Killian's last couple of ventures did not do so well and . . . uh . . ."
"He couldn't get arrested if he peed on stage."
"He's ahead of his time. His work isn't appreciated," Milah defended him.
"How much do you want?"
Belle didn't hear what she said and peeked around the corner. Milah had evidently written down a sum and passed it over to Rumple.
"Shit," was all that he said after reading the note. He looked up at his ex-wife. "If you want this much, Milah, there will have to be some strings attached."
"But you'll consider it."
"I want to see the script, review the songs."
"Of course. I'm sure, that Killian would even be happy to accept any suggestions, or . . or . original work you might want to contribute."
"Uh huh, I'm sure he would," Rumple told her. "There's more."
"What?"
"If this works out, I'll want a percent of the profit. This will be an investment, not a loan, not a gift."
"I think we can work something out," Milah was agreeable.
Rumple hesitated, "And I want you two to get married."
There was no response.
"No more alimony then?" Milah asked.
"No more alimony. But, hell, if this is successful, you won't need my money anymore."
There was a long pause, then, "All right."
"This won't be a handshake kind of thing. I'll look over the play and I'll get Regina to review his business plan and if she approves, we'll draw up a contract and I'll give you a check."
Milah considered. "I guess we could do that." Milah finished her drink and stood. "I'll get back with you, all right?"
"Absolutely."
Milah stopped on the way out, "Oh yeah, it's pretty obvious that you aren't doing her. And by the way, I'm in the pool."
Belle heard a muttered, "Fuck," as Milah stepped out of the apartment.
Thursday
It was four in the afternoon. Belle had been dutifully working in his pantry, clearing out everything, sorting things and putting stuff back in the pantry, in some other location or throwing stuff out. Earlier in the day, she had checked on her employer several times, but he seemed to be sleeping soundly. She'd fixed herself a little lunch, a cheese, avocado, sprouts and tomato sandwich and gone back to work.
At four, she had tapped on his door. "Mr. Stiltskin, sir. It's four."
"Okay," he heard him call out. She could hear him stumbling around and then heard the shower. It wasn't long before he came out, looking refreshed. He'd dressed in jeans and black t-shirt. "I'm without hangover this afternoon and I'm hungry. Anything to eat? I think I'd like breakfast," he told Belle. She had a full fridge at her disposal this afternoon and was able to nod when he made his request.
"Give me just a moment, sir." While she was prepping him some food, he went out to his studio and looked at his half-finished paintings. Most were portraits he was actively working on. A few were works from his own heart. But nothing was inspired. He recognized that he was in a slump.
Pretty soon other people, other people besides Regina, would start to notice.
He went back into the kitchen and sat down. He idly sketched Belle while she worked, filling a page in his notebook with a pencil drawing.
Belle set a cup a hot coffee before him. The bottle of Kahlua was set down next to him.
"Bailey's this afternoon, please," he told her.
She nodded and made the exchange, then returned with a plate of food.
He looked down at the pretty plate before him. As an artist, he could thoroughly appreciate a well put together plate of food. It appeared to be some kind of scrambled eggs with onions and peppers and mushrooms and other things. A little salsa on the side. He tasted it. It was delicious.
"This is really very good," he told her looking up from his plate. "These eggs taste different though. Perhaps it's because I'm not nursing a hangover." He went back to forking them into his mouth.
"Well," Belle began slowly, "there are many reasons why eggs can taste differently. To a refined palate, it can reflect what the hen has been fed. Of course, eggs from other birds, like quail and duck, also taste differently from each other. . . and it could be because you are without a hangover this morning – that would certainly affect the taste of food." She paused before finishing up, "However, these eggs taste differently because they are tofu."
He spewed. "What?! You're feeding me tofu?" He pushed back from the table, spitting food from his mouth.
"A moment ago, it was really very good," she quoted him.
He looked at her. He looked at his plate. Then he looked at his coffee, "Is this real coffee?" he asked suspiciously.
She looked at him. Then she smiled. "You tell me."
He leaned over and sniffed the coffee. Hesitantly he took a sip. Satisfied he glared at her and set the coffee back down. He pushed his 'eggs' around on the plate.
"Maybe we should have a new rule," he suggested tentatively. "No more tofu surprises."
She just looked at him. "We'll see," she replied and then went off to attend to her other duties.
He waited until he was sure she had gone from the kitchen and then he hurriedly finished up his meal.
So many thanks to Tinuviel Undomiel, arynwy, Wondermorena, Grace5231973, Erik'sTrueAngel, and jewel415 who took the time to send me a review. I would write without feedback but reviews make it so much nicer.
Next: Rumple does on a date and Belle meets with friends. Later, Rumple does a drawing.