A/N: Thank you SOOOO much to all of my readers! I'm shocked and blessed that you are enjoying the story so much and I'm so glad that people are following it, commenting on it, and really making me happy about writing! I appreciate every comment and follow, so please, don't be afraid to message or anything - I'm truly grateful. Now, this chapter refers to a lot of early modern laundry... I am so thankful for a washing machine. Also, I don't own OUaT, in case you weren't aware ;)
Winter wore on, and the shawl accompanied her most every day, save for the tasks that would sully it – like cleaning the fire places or touching a previously untouched nook of some forgotten room in an abandoned corridor. She always made sure though, if she were in the main hall, sitting in an opulent chair with a book, or just dusting the cabinet, it was with her – cared for as one of her most prized possessions, one of her only possessions here.
It was especially important to leave it in her 'room' while she was laundering the clothes -at least that's what she thought. It seemed like such a cumbersome task, particularly the care for the vast assortment of leathers that Rumpelstiltskin had accumulated over however long he had been wreaking havoc all over the kingdoms. She had no experience in such matters, and thus, waited until there was a pressing need for the task to actually attempt it.
So, her day's tasks strayed from the typical dusting and care of the estate, and most of her morning was spent carting baskets up and down the stairs with huffs. Even still, she was not used to such laborious tasks. But, after a few trips up and down, Belle was not only able to gather all of his washing, but her own, and dumped it all over the floor in the washroom, near the kitchen.
It seemed she spent endless hours in the basement, she thought with a sad sort of acceptance. She loved the sun and brightness, but the realm of the housekeeper was not all lightness and frivolity, she came to unfortunately understand. So, rubbed her hands together and started to work.
All of the cloth fabrics went into the warm water – which she hoped was right, and started to stir them around before using the long, wooden pole to remove each piece and dunk it into the cold water, cooling it enough to be run over the washing board. She huffed with exertion, the sweat on her back from the exertion, but the goosebumps on her arms from the chilled water. If her father heard her cursing the way she was, he might have mistaken her for some fishmonger's wife, but she could not help it. When she wasn't freezing, she was burning her hands – and they were rubbing raw.
Despite this, Belle did not abandon the herculean task. She reminded herself it was almost over, and it was part of her terms. Being of royal blood, she was imbibed with distinct value sets, and part of that was always meeting your terms on an agreement. A family was only as strong as its last treaty.
So, she boiled and scrubbed, then hanged to dry all over the wall and standing racks, sighing. They would not dry for days in this basement. But, she had no where else to wash, and doing it outside would be even worse – the wind was whipping a storm in, based on the sounds of the rattling windows. With the last of the cloth articles washed, she dropped into a chair, exhausted. Her dress was soaked; she was chilled to the bone, and could not believe how long that had taken. She felt a distinct pang of sympathy for the servants at home.
Her chin scraped her chest, her eyelids fluttering shut with a sigh. The muscles in her arms ached, her hands stung from the soap and the water, the endless scrubbing on the washboard and her knuckles were raw. She would never wait this long to do the laundering, she reasoned, and rubbed her tired eyes with her wrist. When she lifted her head, she realized with horror – the leathers!
It was sitting in front of the chair, waiting to be attended to as well. The corners of her eyes stung, but she refused to succumb to do the desire to cry. It was laundry, she reasoned with herself, not a dragon or a curse – just an inconvenience. She had gotten over so many of them before this, and would get over this one too… She leaned over and grabbed the first pair of pants from the top of the pile, sighing. She knew leather did not belong in a bath of water, but she paused to think of what to do next.
Looking around, she licked her lips and grabbed a cloth and what she assumed was the appropriate salve for washing leather – it smelled like leather, at least, and dipped the cloth in, to get a little on and started to rub at a foreign stain… It looked suspiciously red-brown, but Belle did not wish to consider the possibilities. She merely scrubbed, fighting the pain and praying to the Gods that this task would go by quickly, even as the cleaner got into her already rubbed raw hands, causing her to hiss in pain.
She pushed through though, and was glad that generally, most of the leather was not stained… By the end though, she was freezing and her hands were chapped. She felt awful. And she still had to prepare dinner. Glancing out the window, she sighed – the sun was just starting to retreat.
It took all of her strength to push herself out of the chair, and her arms felt like stone blocks hanging from her shoulders as she trudged toward the kitchen. It was a chore to assemble dinner, a labor unlike one she had ever felt before, but she did, even if it was not as fantastical as she had done before, but her hands were throbbing, holding things was pure torture.
Gripping the silver tray, Belle was gritting her teeth the entire way to the hall. Her dress was merely damp now, not nearly as soaked as it had been, and she shivered in the halls. She never thought she would be happier to see a doorway in her life. Balancing the suddenly exceptionally heavy tray on one arm, she pushed the door open – Rumpelstiltskin's chair was facing the door again. She bit her lip – he did that when she was late.
Of course, he opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to stop himself. Belle felt suddenly self-conscious. Even a master trickster (she could not bring herself to call him a liar, because as far as she had seen, he did not lie) like himself could not hide the expression on his face. "I'm afraid this is nothing like my croissants," she gave a weak smile.
She crossed the room as quickly as her body would carry her, not all that fast tonight, and the tray unceremoniously clattered onto the table. She flexed her hands, trying not to hiss, though she could not help it. Rumpelstiltskin pursed his lips, "Are you alright, Dearie?" he asked, his voice sounded somewhere between curiosity and concern.
Belle did not want to betray the pain she was feeling and shook her head. It was not time to be soft. "I'm fine," she fibbed – she would not call it a lie; she just didn't want to cause any trouble. She went to pick up the teapot to pour, being very ginger about the whole process.
Rumpelstiltskin did not even push himself up from the chair; it seemed he was up on his feet within seconds. He put his grey-gold hand on her wrist, pushing the teapot down. She flushed at the touch – having always imagined his skin to be cold – but finding it quite the contrary. The way he moved, she would have assumed he would be rough with her, but when she let go of the teapot, he gently turned her hand over, raising dark eyebrows as he looked at the raw patches and blisters all over her once soft hands. "This does not look fine to me."
Belle felt anxious twist in her stomach. "I did the washing," she finally admitted, slowly retracting her hand after he let it go. For some reason, her wrist was still warm from his touch.
"You're cold," he added, almost sounding soft. Belle gulped and bit the inside of her cheek – not sure if he meant that her skin was cold or she appeared cold. Either was entirely possible. She looked down, avoiding his gaze. He huffed slightly, letting his shoulders drop, "Go," he motioned, "near the fire. And take this," he swiftly lifted the teapot and poured into her cup, depositing two sugar cubes – she didn't even know he knew how she liked her tea, and handed it to her. He held up the cup to her and shooed her toward the fire.
She was a little stunned, to be honest, and took the teacup at his order, slowly making her way to the red, velveteen chair she liked above all others. Sinking into it made her realize just how much her body ached, crumpling against the weight of her arms and the soft embrace of the armchair. "Thank you," she murmured quietly, shivering as the warmth started to permeate her still damp dress.
He did not acknowledge her thanks, instead took his tea and ignored the food on the tray. It appeared he was not hungry. "You will not do the laundering again," he ordered, sounded angry, though he did not look at her. The way he looked down at his hands, the tightness in his jaw – his resolve was not targeting toward her. She gulped, just a bit and took a sip of tea, feeling the odd combination of chill with sweat on her neck. She coughed, his hawk eyes turned toward her – searching.
Belle was curled up in the chair, her hands shaking just slightly, even the teacup and saucer causing her discomfort. In a flash, Rumpelstiltskin was gone. He disappeared in a cloud of grey smoke, and Belle gulped. She hated the disappearing. Even more than that, she realized as she squeaked and spilled tea on her bodice, was the reappearing, right next to her. "Clumsy girl," he said – was that… softness in his voice? No, Belle told herself, he just regretted his housekeeper was going to be useless until her hands mended themselves. Though, when she looked at him, there was not disappointment in his face… she couldn't tell what was there… but it wasn't disappointment.
"Here," he held out a vial. In it looked like a creamy sort of substance, and Belle cautiously took it. In his other hand was a roll of what looked like bandages. He plucked the teacup out of her hand, unceremoniously, and gracefully knelt in front of her, down in one swift motion, placing the teacup on the floor. "Rub that between your palms," he inclined his head toward the vial.
Belle turned the vial toward the palm of her left hand. She fumbled slightly, when she realized how quickly the salve was coming out, and dropped the vial into her lap, smattering a splotch on her. She flushed, keeping her eyes down and toward her hands as she rubbed her hands together – the soothing sensation immediately cooling the hot, raw cuts and blisters.
He held out his hand to her, and Belle just placed her hand, palm up, into his. He didn't speak as he started to put the soft strips of fabric over the wounds. He was so precise, she thought as she watched his deft fingers move seamlessly over her hands, switching the roll from one to the other without a pause. He ripped the fabric and tied it off, waiting for her to present the other hand – and she did. The process repeated in silence, Belle's head still inclined, watching so carefully, and trying not to smile as she saw the very tip of his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth – so concentrated.
When he was done, Belle looked at the mitts on her hands and smiled, "I suppose now that I'm useless you'll turn me out?" she tried to joke, but her laugh was tired, and she could feel how heavy the corners of her mouth were. Her eyelids and chin dipping before she lifted up quickly, startled.
Rumpelstiltskin smirked, "Ah, if only your escape were so easy!" he chided, "By morning you will be fit as a fiddle, dearie, and you will be able to return to your favorite of household chores." He looked over her – eyes raking just a little too slowly – she thought, for a moment and he let out an unexpectedly deep sigh, "But – this still will not do."
She shifted in the chair, confused by his comment. "What won't do?"
"Follow me," he said simply, and started to walk toward the door that led to the rest of the halls, leaving Belle to push herself up – much effort concentrated in this part of the day. It seemed like her whole day was spent exerting great effort for little reward. Belle hurried her pace to keep up with him as he waved his hand, sending the door flying open.
They were not walking down the stairs, toward the basements, however. He was leading her up – and he was going rather quickly – determination in every step. Belle was not able to match his stride as she got up to the top of the stairs, huffing a little – a cough escaping her, despite her best attempts to hold it in. His sharp eyes glanced over his shoulder toward her, and she cleared her throat – trying to cover it up.
They reached a door Belle recognized – a room she was used to cleaning, and with a wave of his hand, it was open, and he stepped out of the way, gesturing her in. Belle frowned, looking at him quizzically, "Did I forget to scrub the floors?" she asked, peering into the room, half expecting to find it riddled with dust and grime.
Instead, the richly decorated room – full of deep blues and comforting splashes of yellow was immaculate. Her cloak was draped over the chair by the blazing fire. Her nightgown and stockings were laid out on the bed. And she smiled – her shawl was neatly folded on the pillow. "What is the catch?" she asked, looking at Rumpelstiltskin. "I believe you were the one who told me nothing comes without a price."
He giggled, that strange sound that shook her to the core – he was wild, that giggle reminded her. "If only you were as graceful as you are clever, dearie," he poked fun at her – she tried not to blush. "But, the price… well, you'll see." His eyes twinkled, and for a moment, she almost considered saying she would go to the dungeon… but she was so tired, her body was aching so badly, and that fire… Suddenly, she felt as though she could sleep for a thousand years.
"A deal it is, then," she murmured, crossing the threshold. The door shut behind her, his laugh reverberating off of the walls and faded as he got further and further from the room. It wasn't the first time in her stay that she was truly surprised by the master. And as she climbed into the feather soft, stuffed bed, Belle realized, for the first time here, she was truly content, and her sleep was dreamless.