Adam strode towards the dining room in a tailored burgundy suit, a swagger in his step as his boots echoed off the vaulted ceilings of his sprawling castle.
"Master," Lumiere said approaching with a bow, "Will our guests be joining us for breakfast? Shall I place some extra settings at the table?"
"No need." Adam stated abruptly, continuing to walk and not bothering to so much as glance at his servant. There was nothing that irritated him more than having breakfast with his latest conquests, feigning interest in their inane chatter and watching them glance at him coyly over teacups.
"Master?" Lumiere pressed, "The duchess is a visiting dignitary. It seems we should at least provide her with breakfast."
Adam rolled his eyes. Weren't servants supposed to serve rather than endlessly pester him? What good was a castle filled with people paid to do his bidding if they questioned every word out of his mouth?
"You can bring them breakfast in the West Wing," Adam responded, waving his arm disinterestedly towards that part of the castle, "Then escort them to a carriage that will take them back to Versailles."
"Do you not wish to show the duchess more of the province?" Lumiere asked.
"As you said, she is a visiting dignitary," the prince responded, wondering why he allowed Lumiere such free reign to question him, "As such it seems she should practice her … diplomacy in the capital. Bring her breakfast, prepare the carriages, and see her and her lady-in-waiting out. Go."
Lumiere bowed again to the prince and hurried away towards the kitchen. As the prince approached the dining hall, servants hurried up to bow and open the doors to the room. The prince passed through the doors with choruses of "your highness," echoing in his footsteps without slowing his pace. He did stop short, however, when he saw his father already seated at the breakfast table. The prince's father eyed him with an unamused expression.
"Father," the prince said, dipping his head slightly and trying to keep the disappointment from showing on his handsome face. His father had a habit of showing up unannounced at the castle and overstaying his welcome. Which, since the prince never welcomed a visit from his father, happened very quickly.
"My son," his father said, "His royal highness, grandson of the king, prince of France, God help us all."
"France and God has you and my brothers. And grandfather, of course, who still rules," Adam responded, seating himself at the table and unfolding his napkin over his lap, "I'm merely here to pose for portraits and extend the proud Bourbon line."
"And gamble, drink, and debauch away all of your considerable allowance it would seem," his father responded.
"So it would seem," Adam retorted, bringing his teacup to his lips with a smug smile, "How long are we to have the pleasure of your presence here at the castle?"
"Don't worry," his father replied, "I'm merely passing through the region on a hunting tour."
"Ah, pity," Adam said sarcastically, "You know how dearly I miss you when you are away."
"Why have you not made official visits to the neighboring towns as I've asked?" his father asked.
"I've been busy," Adam responded. Suddenly, he spat out his tea in disgust and turned towards the servants angrily, bellowing, "Cogsworth!"
"Yes master?" the portly servant demurred, running up to the prince's side.
"Take this away and bring me some wine," he snapped.
"But sire," Cogsworth protested, "It's not yet noon."
"How astute of you to keep me abreast of the time, Cogsworth," the prince snapped, "Now do as I say and bring me some wine. NOW."
"The tea will do just fine," the prince's father interrupted, "Will you excuse us?"
"Yes your highness," Cogsworth said, bowing, before glancing at the prince with a worried expression and leaving the room.
"Do you mean to undermine my authority in front of the servants?" the prince snapped, glowering at his father.
"I mean to catch you in a rare sober state so I can talk some sense into you," the prince's father responded. Adam shifted in his seat and leaned on his elbow, sighing and bracing himself for a long boring speech.
"You are not a child anymore, Adam," his father reproached him, "You are approaching your 21st birthday. You must think far more of your duties to your family and to France."
"I am not a dauphin," Adam said.
"That does not absolve you of responsibility," his father replied. Adam rolled his eyes but his father pressed, "The king cannot be in all places at once. As a member of the royal family you must occasionally attempt to forge alliances for the crown in some place other than your bed. The people grow restless. The whole country is buzzing over the ideas of Monsieurs Voltaire and Rousseau. A handsome young prince showing some noblesse oblige to local commoners could go a long way towards earning some goodwill from the people. And, I daresay, it would do you well to think of someone besides yourself for a moment. After all, you'll be a father soon after your wedding."
Adam sulked. He hardly enjoyed being reminded that on his 21st birthday he was to wed a Norwegian princess whom he'd never met. Yet another family obligation it was his duty to fulfill. They had sent a small painting of her to him in a locket. She was pretty in the painting, but then, artists always took the liberty of making reality far more attractive than it was. Still, she was fair, blonde, and in her letters she loved music and dancing, which would make her quite pleasing at court. He only hoped she didn't talk too much, or for that matter ask too many questions. He was a French prince, and as such had absolutely no intention on ceasing any of his current amusements for the sake of his new wife.
"Noblesse oblige?" the prince asked, laughing, "I have a noble obligation to…what? Toss some coins into the town square of some backwater village and watch the peasants scramble to collect them?"
"You have a noble obligation to show patronage and charity," his father told him, "Neither of which are among your strengths. You will take a tour of the town and figure out what their needs are. A new road, repairs for the town hall, renovations for the asylum…I don't care what it is. You'll go, you'll talk to them, and you'll fund whatever public project has popped into their peasant heads."
"How incredibly dull," Adam said, taking a bite of his croissant.
"And yet you will carry out my orders nonetheless," his father responded flippantly, taking a sip of tea.
"And if I refuse?" Adam asked sulkily. His father gave him a grim smile.
"Such a shame you didn't pay more attention to your tutors, Adam," his father said, pinning him with a look as steely as his grey eyes, "Had you been more mindful, you would understand that an order is something you have no right to refuse."
Belle helped her father pack for his trip to the fair. He'd done it, he'd really done it. He created an invention that actually worked! A modern miracle—a woodchopper that succeeded in neatly chopping wood without blowing up the house. It was a labor saving device that might have some practical use in people's lives, meaning that perhaps it could be sold. At any rate, if it won first prize at the fair at least the prize money would be enough to pay some of the back taxes they owed.
Her father rummaged around the house for inventions that he felt would help him on his journey. These items included elaborate compasses that always pointed South rather than North (except when they didn't work), strange maps with symbols only her father could divine, a canteen that doubled as a telescope among others.
Belle smiled to herself as her father blundered around the house, muttering about dog-ragged clenchers. Though his suitcase was always overflowing whenever he left for a trip, her papa had a habit of neglecting to pack the most crucial items for a long journey. It was like this even when times were easier and her mother was still alive. She remembered her mother quietly removing the more nonsensical items in her papa's luggage and replacing them with clean shirts, handkerchiefs, and a pocket watch as her father blustered about his next big adventure. Belle smoothed a strand a chestnut hair that had come loose from her ponytail and placed rolls, a jar of jam, and some hard boiled eggs lovingly into her father's satchel. She looked up and caught his gaze. There was a sadness in his kind eyes that made her think he was missing her mother.
She held his bag out to him and he took it, heaving it over his shoulder and looking at her proudly.
"Thank you, Belle," he said, "I think I have everything I need."
"Did you pack long underwear? The weather's changing, the nights have been getting cold," Belle told him.
"Yes," her father responded, laughing, "And if I did forget I'm sure you packed a pair for me."
Belle smiled. He held his hands out to her and she took them.
"I readied Philipe," she told him. He squeezed her hands and then reached for his hat.
"Then I supposed I'm off to the fair," Maurice said, "Take care while I'm gone."
"Goodbye papa," Belle replied, walking him out of the door. He climbed up onto Philipe and waved to her as the old mare trotted off into the distance.
Her father needed this success. He needed to be reconnected with the world, valued for something, respected again. This invention could be the start of a new life for them, in many ways. She knew he felt guilty for how their lives had gone since her mother died, for not being able to give her the life he felt she deserved. Truly it wasn't the money she missed. She didn't mind hard work, simple clothing, or making do with not that much. What she craved was freedom, excitement, a life that contained choices beyond what type of soup she'd make for supper. As she went back inside to prepare some dough for the day's bread, she smoothed her apron and sighed. She didn't mind her little cottage or even the provincial town so much as how small her life had become. It was that feeling she struggled against day after day, like a lightening bug beating its wings in vain against the confines of a jar.