Gaston awoke the next morning with a start. He was…not in France anymore, he remembered quickly. In the dim lighting of the morning, he noticed the four sets of double beds, his own sporting his cloak to one side. The opposite hook was taken up with the person sleeping above him, whats-his-name, or something. Gaston hadn't cared enough last night about his name.
Rubbing his face, he rose in his bed, chill air freezing his sock-covered feet. He quickly yanked on his boots and tossed aside the rest of his borrowed blankets. He reached for his cloak and, "Merde!" he hissed quietly, hand darting back to his head. Rubbing at the throbbing bump, he tried the rising from bed a second time. This time he cleared it easily. He suddenly missed his roomy four-poster.
Pulling his cloak about his shoulders, Gaston exited the cabin and headed back for the Tavern he remembered the night before. In his hand was his borrowed sword. He walked slowly, remembering the ember-eyed monsters the night before. He almost wished to face the Beast instead.
From other paths in the town trickled others. None appeared to be like those he had met last night-the adventurers- and so he presumed that they were the villagers they had mentioned were under their protection. Most of them appeared to be farmers. Polare resisted the urge to snort in derision. He followed a pair inside, nodding politely in thanks when the door was held for him. Once within, he claimed a seat near a pair of windows. On the table in front of him was a book.
His dark eyes studied the town's small tavern. It was slightly larger than the one in his France. It was enough to make him miss it-even LeFou. The oaf had driven him up the wall, almost like a lost puppy that once he had fed it, nothing could persuade it to leave, and yet, Gaston missed his presence. He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table, and his face on his hand. With a few deer decorating the place, it might feel downright homey. Well, maybe a bear as well in that back corner…and less of these small chandeliers. Just one large one, there, in the center… LeFou's song came back to him. A faint smile broke his face.
"Mrs. Miller, I don't want to."
"Oh, Julia, don't be silly. I'm sure our visitor is perfectly friendly. Now, go. Say. Hello." The two voices were female, one younger, and one sounded matronly. Gaston did not look up. The second voice sounded strained, as if the speaker were trying to lift something heavy while trying to speak. There was a sharp gasp and the scuffling of fabric and boots on leather, and the tinkle of china rattling. Gaston glanced up, and nearly immediately regretted it. A young girl was falling toward him, hot cup of tea in hand, fear and embarrassment glowing in her blue eyes. Belle… he thought the moment before she crashed into him, knocking them both to the stone floor.
He grunted; she let out a small feminine gasp of surprise. He'd wrapped his arms around her to protect her from the fall. She made to scramble off of him and he tightened his hold. She stilled, and he was certain her face was a bright red. Gaston slowly rolled them into a sitting position and loosened his hold. "Are you alright?" he asked. The girl nodded, face downcast, and cheeks glowing a pretty red.
She wore a threadbare cloak thrown over a well-worn silk shirt under a black corset. There were flour stains and dye stains on her clothing, but none on her skin. He guessed she was not a farmer, and at the very least was a miller's daughter. He rose, hand extending down to help her to her feet. She made no move to take it, still looking studiously at the floor. "Miss?" he prompted. She was pretty, and pretty girls he was willing to indulge. Besides, hadn't Polare warned him last night to be polite?
She jumped, startled. Wide blue eyes looked up at him from a flushed face. Gaston resisted the urge to look away-she looked very much like his Belle. Slowly, a delicate hand raised to grasp his. It was cool, and slightly calloused. She worked. He pulled her to her feet, steadying her and bringing her eyes to his chest. As he watched they widened. "Oh, no! I'm so sorry! I spilled that tea all over you!" Her hands flew over her face in distress. "I'll…I'll go get you a towel. I don't think I ruined your clothing, but…"
The girl turned to leave and he caught her hand. "It is alright, ma cherie. It is… no matter. I will simply replace it; it is after all, only a shirt." Her face had gone pale, and suddenly flooded bright red again. Gaston was charmed. "May I have the pleasure of your name, ma cherie?"
If possible, she flushed more so. "Julia Tanner, um…sir.."
"Call me Gaston, Miss Julia." He bent over her hand and brushed a light kiss over it. He did not get to hear anymore replies from her as a older woman with flaming red hair and a motherly expression on her face came over.
"Oh, Julia dear, are you alright? I saw the whole thing." Julia turned, and Gaston released her hand.
"I'm fine, Mrs. Miller. I just tripped on the hem of my cloak. Mr. Gaston was kind enough to catch me, though I spilled all that tea all over him." Gaston stood straighter as the older woman turned an appraising eye on him, a mother hen protecting her chick. He flashed his most charming smile, and prepared to charm the older woman. He had the feeling that Mrs. Miller would be the proverbial dragon at the gates if he did not, and he would rather not have to fight a dragon to simply speak with Julia. His curiosity demanded he see if she was like Belle. From there, he wasn't sure what he'd do.
"It was no worry at all. It was my pleasure to help such a devastatingly beautiful lady. But please, call me Gaston." He extended his hand and when Mrs. Miller grasped his, he turned it and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. The woman tittered, smiling. The mother hen look was replaced and Gaston knew he'd won her over.
"Well, well… I don't usually put much stock in you outsiders, but most of them haven't got half the manners you do, Gaston. Maybe things might go better if they did." She reclaimed her hand and smoothed her short red hair.
Julia sighed. "Mrs. Miller…" she said simply, but the two words were weighted with exasperation. "They aren't so bad…" Gaston wisely stayed silent, though it seemed like an old argument, and somewhat contrary to what Polare had painted last night.
The older woman simply shook her head. "I know, Julia. I know. It started with that Poxy, teaching our Sam those horrible things." Julia's face darkened, and she looked away, obviously battling tears. Gaston reined several reactions-jealousy, rage, and the desire to comfort. Jealousy at a man that he never knew that might have been Julia's lover, or fiancé-which confused him some, but he could understand. Rage that someone had made her sad-which confused him more. The last confused him most-he did not even know this girl. Why should he care about her tears?
The older woman seemed to have realized that she'd struck a nerve and was immediately contrite. "Oh, Julia, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring it up again."
"It's fine, Mrs. Miller. I need to walk down to the shop anyway. We needed salt and a bolt of cloth and two pounds of apples, right?" The girl's voice was strained from not crying.
"Oh, let Mr. Miller…" Mrs. Miller trailed off, seeing something Gaston had obviously missed. "Alright, Julia. Why don't you take Mr. Gaston with you? I'm sure he'd like to get some things-I hear he just came in last night, with nothing but the clothes on his back." Julia simply nodded and turned away, heading toward the doors. She paused at them, glancing back at him as if to say "Are you coming?"
Gaston nodded, and she slipped out of the building onto the porch. He turned to Mrs. Miller. "It was a pleasure to meet you, ma'am." He gave a short bow and followed Julia outdoors. She glanced back at him and nodded. For a moment, she looked exactly like Belle. Beautiful, strong, and yet he could see the fragility and innocence Belle had never had. Julia had strength, but she was alone. Lost. Something changed and she turned, stepped off the porch and began walking down the hill. Gaston shook his head and followed, long legs easily catching up to her.
"Who was Sam?" he asked quietly, gently. She slowed a second, then pressed on.
"Sam was my best friend as a child. His father runs the store, and until recently, his father and I were…seeing each other. Sam died for practicing necromancy, and it's my fault. If I'd stayed away, Sam wouldn't have…" Julia's voice was as lost and whispery as a scared child's. Gaston started to reach out and stopped.
"Were…? You are no longer?" he asked, again softly. She simply nodded in reply, arms wrapped tightly around her waist.
"He went back to make things up with his wife. I love him, but it makes no difference. He's made his choice, and I get left behind." They were at the store's entrance. She made to grab the handle, Gaston stopped her.
"Why are you doing this then?" he asked. 'This' being the entering his store, when someone else could.
"Because I can't live here and avoid him forever. It hurts, but less everyday. It's either this, or give myself to the Corrupt." With that she opened the door and entered the store, back straight and shoulders square, chin up. Gaston re-evaluated his opinion. She wasn't fragile and lost; she was hurt and fighting back. Swallowing, he followed her inside.