Belle rose early, as always. She tied her thick chestnut hair back into a simple ponytail, dressed in a mint green frock, and wrapped her apron around her thin waist to start the day of chores. As she bustled around the house, cleaning, collecting clothes for the laundry, preparing dough for the daily bread, she wondered about her father. She hoped the old man had found his way safely to the fair, after all, his mind often wandered and he was apt to get lost. She should have reminded him that Phillipe was an old horse, and needed rested often. Come to think of it, her father needed rest often too. Hopefully her father wasn't pushing himself too hard in his zeal to get to the fair.
Belle began dusting the paintings that hung on the wall, relics of better times when they could occasionally afford such expensive luxuries. She paused at the painting of her with her mother. Her mother's blue eyes stared back at her from the painting, her full lips arrange into a gentle smile. She had been a beauty and Belle possessed many of her charms, though Belle inherited traits far more valuable than beauty from the kind woman. No, Belle had learned everything of importance, how to read, how to work hard, how to be kind and accepting, from her mother. Belle continued to study her mother's face and recognized a spiritedness in her countenance. Belle smiled to herself and admitted that perhaps she had inherited some of the woman's stubbornness as well.
As Belle went about her chores another person crept into her thoughts. The prince. She tied a kerchief around her hair and went outside to tend to the livestock. He had said he would return, but he had not been clear about when exactly he would do so. She supposed that it would not be appropriate to greet his highness in an apron and kerchief covered in various debris from housecleaning, cooking, and tending to livestock. However, she could hardly be expected to sit for days on end in her finest clothing like a porcelain doll with no purpose but to wait for his royal presence. After all she had a household to run and there was no one but herself to do the dirty work.
It was a fine day, sunny, with a slight breeze. She swung the gate open to the animals' enclosure and quickly discovered that one of the goats had again escaped from its pen. Belle rolled her eyes and groaned. The stubborn little beast could not be contained, no matter what contraption her father invented to try to prevent its escape. She supposed she would find it where it normally fled, over the hills at the river. Belle sighed and let herself out of the animal's enclosure, walking toward the river, smoothing rebellious strands of hair away from her brow as she went.
As she crested the hill and the land splayed out before her, the breeze lapping at her dress, she was momentarily overcome with wistfulness. There was such a world around her, sprawling and lovely and exciting, and she had seen so little of it. Oh to be free, for a moment, to explore it. She felt guilty for wanting her freedom so sorely, knowing she owed much to her kind father, who after all offered more freedoms then most men to their daughters. He allowed her to read and speak her mind, did not pressure her to marry, and was appreciative of all she did around the house.
As she searched the lands for signs of her little goat, she admitted another feeling to herself. Loneliness. How grand it would be if she had someone to talk to who actually understood her, or at least wanted to. She was not one to idealize marriage, quite the opposite really. It wasn't domesticity she wanted but something wilder and much harder to attain. She dared not think the word without feeling cynical about childish romantic notions, but neither could she deny her longing.
Suddenly she spotted the goat helping itself to a long drink from the river. She ran down the hill to collect her and bring her back to the cottage. As Belle approached, the goat startled and backed away.
"Come Nettie," Belle said to the animal gently, "You've had your fun."
The animal responded by staring stubbornly at Belle, and did not approach her. Belle considered the goat, then bent down to uproot some grass and held it out to Nettie as an offering. Nettie continued to stare at Belle, eyeing her with suspicion, but obliging edged a few steps forward as she sniffed the air.
"Thatta girl," Belle cooed, "Come here."
The goat slowly approached, and eventually came close enough for Belle to quickly grasp the loose end of the rope that was tied around its neck. The goat immediately began to pull against its constraint, bleeting angrily at Belle.
"I know, Nettie girl," Belle told it gently, "I'm sorry."
Belle tugged at the rope, the goat fighting her with all its little strength. She did feel bad that she needed to confine the animal who so loved its freedom, but she and her father could ill afford the loss of livestock. As she struggled with Nettie, the breeze brought the sound of voices. Belle paused to listen, and if she was not mistaken these voices were calling for her. She strained to hear them properly and as she did so the goat head-butted her hard in the side, knocking her off balance. As Belle struggled to regain her center of gravity, her foot slipped on the slick mud lining the banks of the river and she fell, with no amount of grace, into the water. She was still clutching Nettie's rope so the hapless animal tumbled in the river after her, bleeting all the way. When Belle surfaced she heard the voices getting louder.
"Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle? His royal highness calls," a voice with the contours of a British accent rang out.
"I command you to open the door!" a much louder voice bellowed.
Belle looked at the goat in shock, who in return looked back at her bewildered. The prince. Wonderful. Belle sighed and began the struggle of pulling herself and the goat out of the water. She succeeded in slipping a few times into mud before she at last managed to get herself and the beast clear of the river. As she staggered back to her cabin, Nettie reluctant the whole way, she looked down at her dress, sopping wet and filthy and began to laugh. Very well, she thought to herself, let her receive his highness. All the better for him to understand the struggle of the common people.
"I'm here!" she called out as she began to climb the hill toward her home.
"Where?" demanded an arrogant voice, which she could only assume belonged to the prince. As Belle reached the top of the hill she spotted an elegant carriage parked just outside her home. Her eyes then travelled to see the prince, dressed in breeches, tall boots, and a burgandy jacket, looking around angrily. He was flanked by a number of well dressed men who Belle assumed were a mix of attendants and guards. Belle stood at the top of the hill and stretch her arms out from her sides, the sun falling down on her in all her filthy glory.
"Here," she called. The prince looked up and saw her, water and mud dripping from her dress, her hair half free from it's ponytail, her face smudged with dirt. The goat bleeted as though it too wanted to announce its arrival. An expression of shock and disgust twisted the prince's handsome features, and he was momentarily speechless.
Belle continued her walk toward her cottage, pulling the goat as she went.
"Forgive me your highness," Belle said as she approached, out of breath, curtseying, "I did not know when to expect you."
The prince continued to stare at her, appearing completely stunned at the current state of affairs.
"What is the meaning of this?" the prince snapped, composing himself enough to speak at last.
"Of what?" Belle asked innocently, suppressing the strong urge she had to smile.
"Of this!" the prince yelled, gesturing heatedly at Belle's filthy dress, his anger causing the goat to back away nervously.
"Nettie," Belle replied, glancing toward the goat.
"Talk sense girl," the prince snapped.
"Goats are very stubborn animals," Belle explained, "They often escape and are loathe to return to their pens. Retrieving them is quite difficult. As you can no doubt see for yourself, your majesty."
"I told you I would return, did I not?" the prince pressed, his voice low and rough with barely suppressed rage.
"You did," Belle responded evenly.
"And yet you make me wait for you and when you finally appear you stand before me like a filthy street urchin," the prince retorted.
"As I said, I did not-"
"Silence!" the prince thundered, "This is entirely unacceptable. How do you expect to show your town and discuss a public project with a prince in your current state? You look more fit for shoveling pig shit than consorting with royalty."
"I beg your pardon," Belle responded, fighting to keep her rising anger out of her voice, "I will of course clean myself and change my clothing so I am more presentable."
"And keep me waiting yet again?!" the prince yelled incredulously, "You expect me to wait on your doorstep until you deign to receive me, like a mutt begging for a scrap of food?"
"M-master?" the servant with the British accent stammered, "Perhaps we could wait at the tavern until the mademoiselle is more presentable?"
"I don't recall giving you permission to speak," the prince snapped, glowering at the servant. The prince turned back to Belle and looked her up and down angrily. There was no way around it, he could not have her as his escort in town in her present state and expect to be taken seriously by anyone. And a prince must always be taken seriously.
"First," the prince said, his voice as sharp and dangerous as a dagger, stepping closer to Belle so that she felt quite intimidated by his height and power, "I find you traveling with blatantly treasonous material right through the middle of town. Then you keep me waiting outside of your hovel, mock me with your current disgusting state, and now I must wait for you again while make yourself presentable."
"If waiting is something you hate so then why were you not more specific about when you would return?" Belle asked, losing her patience at last.
"I should strike you for your insolence," the prince bellowed, raising his fist. Rather than cower, Belle took a step closer to him and looked him straight in the eye. The prince's rage faltered, and his arm dropped back down to his side.
"Clean yourself," the prince growled, "Find me at the tavern when you are ready. By then I will have determined what I will do with you."
The prince turned on his heel and stomped toward his carriage, motioning for his servants to follow. They scurried after him, rushing to open the carriage door for him.
The British servant bowed to Belle and said, "Mademoiselle," before hurrying off to join the prince in the carriage. Belle watched the carriage pull away with an odd mixture of feelings, most of them unpleasant. So. She was to be at this prince's beck and call until he tired of her. It was the next worse thing to having a husband. She thought briefly of Gaston as she led Nettie back into her pen, and considered opening her trunk of fine clothing, remnants from her father's days as a successful merchant. She was not oblivious. She knew men enjoyed looking at her. Very well, she resolved, she would wear her beauty like armour when she went to meet with the prince. It was one of the tools she had at her disposal, and she was smart enough to recognize she would be a fool not to use it to her advantage, at least a little.
The prince strode into the tavern with the bluster that always punctuated his steps. He looked around the darkened room, his expression disdainful. It was little more than a hole in the wall, shabby customers and rickety looking furniture peppered the dimly lit establishment. The prince looked further to see that the walls were garishly decorated with numerous antlers from animals killed in a hunt. In the center was a painting of a muscular man who appeared enormously pleased with himself. Prince Adam suppressed his urge to laugh at the tasteless décor when a strong voice boomed from behind him.
"Your highness," said the voice, "How may we serve you?"
Adam turned to see a tall man with black hair and quickly recognized him as the man in the painting, and as the man in town who had presumptuously offered himself as an expert guide to the town.
"With ale," the prince responded shortly. He looked uncertainly at the nearest table, wondering if it had ever been thoroughly cleaned. Realizing he did not wish to stand while he waited for the mademoiselle, he reluctantly resigned himself to seating himself in the dubious establishment. The man snapped his fingers in the general direction of three blonde women, and they hurried to the bar to fulfill his unspoken order.
"Is there anything else you require your highness?" the man asked, respectful but obviously very bad at treating anyone with deference, the arrogance leaking out of his voice like the ale the tavern wenches were now pouring into glasses.
"Solitude." The prince answered flatly as the women brought his ale. Gaston demonstrated his general social ineptitude by continuing to hover near the prince. The prince took a deep draught from his stein and nearly choked.
"What is this, piss?" the prince sputtered, pushing the glass away in disgust. Gaston shifted his weight, offended but unable to hit anything which left him very confused as to what he should do. Were any other man to speak to him in such a way, in his own establishment no less, he would have beat him bloody. However, this was a prince, and even Gaston was smart enough to know that he had better play the part of a gracious subject or face dire consequences.
"I have something stronger," Gaston offered finally.
"Get it," the prince ordered. Gaston obligingly stomped away, and with his back turned to the prince his face twisted into anger and annoyance.
"Your majesty," protested Cogsworth, who had been standing behind the prince, "It is barely past midday."
"Why are you constantly reminding me of the time?" the prince barked, glaring at his fussy servant. Cogsworth was the type of man who held fast to tradition and routine. In Cogsworth's mind, a world that ran smoothly, predictably, and efficiently was an ideal one and something to be aspired to, which was probably why he had risen to the head of the prince's household. Waking before dawn, polishing silverware, starching collars, practicing good posture, and reserving heavy drinking for after dinner entertainment with cigars weren't simple manifestations of Cogsworth's fastidiousness. For him they were holy sacraments that upheld the order of civilizations and kept the unruly forces of chaos and anarchy at bay.
Prince Adam ignored the servant's silent disapproval and Gaston returned with a glass bottle that contained a brownish liquid and two shot glasses. The prince watched impassively as Gaston poured the liquid into the glasses and set the bottle down firmly on the table.
"To the king," Gaston declared, raising his glass, "Long may he reign."
Prince Adam raised an eyebrow and clinked his glass against Gaston's saying nothing. He quickly drained the contents of his glass. The liquor was not of particularly good quality, he was accustomed to much better, but it was indeed strong. And it was whiskey, which was the prince's preferred beverage.
"If I may?" Gaston requested, gesturing toward a chair at the table. The prince eyed him with an expression that was just short of open hatred.
"If you must," the prince snarled. Gaston, never very aware of when his presence was not appreciated, seated himself across from the prince.
"Another?" Gaston asked, and the prince pushed his glass toward him in reply.
"You own this establishment?" the prince asked after he had emptied his second shot.
"I do," Gaston replied, his chest swelling with pride. The prince thought about what a sad life that must be, to be the proprietor of some dingy shanty slinging drinks like a common tavern wench. The prince could almost pity him, were he interested enough in the man's life and capable of such an emotion.
"These are beasts you felled?" the prince said, mostly out of boredom, nodding toward the wall with antlers.
"I did," Gaston replied, seeming more intoxicated by his pride than the whiskey, "And many more than that."
The prince took another drink. He was going to need far more whiskey if he was going to suffer this man's company and be kept waiting for a peasant woman. A peasant woman who was not nearly as attractive as he remembered her in town. He hoped that it was the mud obscuring her beauty and that he had not been over generous in his initial appraisal of her.
"I suppose there is little else to occupy a man's time in such a place," the prince muttered.
"Well," Gaston said, "I wouldn't say that."
Gaston looked pointedly at the tavern wenches, who were eyeing him with adoration, ample bosoms heaving against the tight confines of their stays. The prince followed his gaze, but was unimpressed. Women who spent all their time lusting after a man's appreciation were no prize.
"And what of the girl I met in town," the prince asked, doing his best to seem as casual and disinterested as possible, "Does she occupy your time?"
"The inventor's daughter?" Gaston scoffed, taking another drink and all but slamming his glass on the table, "She's not worth my time."
"She's pleasant to look at, is she not?" the prince asked, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket.
"The most beautiful girl in town," Gaston admitted reluctantly, "I used to think that made her the best."
The prince decided that he would seem far too interested in the matter if he pressed the subject, but noted, based on Gaston's tone and facial expression that there was most definitely a history between this man and the mademoiselle.
"Have you a deck of cards?" the prince asked suddenly, deciding he could use a distraction.
Gaston leaned back in his chair and motioned toward his wenches.
"A deck of cards for his highness," Gaston told one of them, who at hurried to obey him.
"Shall I provide your stake?" the prince asked, dismissively dropping a bag of gold onto the table.
"No need, your highness," Gaston responded, retrieving his own bag of gold from his belt, refusing to be bettered even if it were by a prince. He motioned for the other men in the tavern to join the game, as the prince poured himself another drink.