Chapter 3 Living on Desperation and Tea
It had been a whirlwind of a weekend. Mr. Gold had confronted them on a Thursday, she had signed papers on a Friday, and now Saturday found her, her mother's tattered suitcase and all, on the front steps of the Gold mansion that to Belle's amusement was a very obvious shade of pink. Mr. Dove had brought her to her 'home away from home' for the next year, and led her through the house. He was a man of few words, though all of them were polite, so he simply pointed at rooms and said a simple 'den's through there', or 'kitchen's straight through here' without any more description. Just steps away from the kitchen was a tiny bedroom, or rather a couple of bedrooms joined by a jack and jill bath.
'Mr. Gold didn't specify, so I imagine you can pick either one.' His large hands gestured towards the room in front of them and down the hall where she assumed there was another one.
'Alright, thank you, Mr. Dove.' She pushed open the door nearest the kitchen and surveyed its contents. Mr. Gold had mentioned that once upon a time the rooms used to be the maid's quarters, and she believed it. There was hardly room for the metal twin bed lying in one corner, and a vintage nightstand, which was just one small drawer held tall by its four spindly legs. There was nothing ornate about anything in there-it was if the entire room was an afterthought. The last bit of furniture in the room was a skinny wardrobe with an oval mirror inlaid in the wooden door. She laid her suitcase on the bed and a small plume of dust jumped off the bed (another thing on her list of chores that must be done today).
'Miss French?' Mr. Dove still stood by the door. Belle turned to him, and she could see his eyes soft and apologetic for the room, thought she had no idea why-that would be Mr. Gold's fault. His fault for the whole situation.
'You can call me Belle, if you would like.' She smiled, assuring him that she held no ill will towards him.
'M-Miss Belle, if you'll survey the kitchen for me, and get me a grocery list, I'll go ahead and go to the store for you.'
Belle nodded. 'Oh, okay, here, just a moment.'
She unzipped her suitcase and pulled out the box of recipe cards of her moms that she took from home and took them to the kitchen.
The kitchen was empty. There were utensils that she imagined must have been used once upon a time, but there were hardly any groceries at all. There was a half used loaf of bread, and some tea, sugar, and cream in the cabinet and fridge respectively, and then an abysmal amount of frozen dinners in the freezer. All the sudden, she felt quite sorry for Mr. Gold. All the money in the world and he ate cheap food, and did it alone, if she was to reckon. How lonely he must be!
She found a pad and pen and began figuring out what she wanted to make that week and what they needed, not just because it was going to be her job, but because she wanted to do something good to take the place of all the bad that Mr. Gold had been subjected to. Sure, he probably brought most of it on himself-if you want friends then you need to show yourself friendly-but the thought of the high and mighty, untouchable Mr. Gold eating a lonely tv dinner made her want to cry (she didn't, thank goodness, wouldn't want Mr. Dove to think she was crazy).
'I'm afraid this first grocery run might be quite extensive and expensive, do you think that will be alright?'
Dove, who had sat at the kitchen bar, amused when Belle had offered him tea while he waited (surprised more than amused, perhaps?), had sipped said tea and watched her flitter about, checking cabinets and jotting down all the missing things that she kept insisting, with her hands on her hips, that were essential. 'I can't believe he doesn't even have flour!' 'There's not even jam for his bread! Just a bit of butter here, the smallest tub I've ever seen.' By the end her arms were crossed, not even on her hips anymore, and now she was looking at Mr. Dove as if daring him to say any of the things were less than what every kitchen ought to have.
'It will be just fine, Miss Belle.' He gave her a small smile that relieved any bit of exasperated wildness that came from wondering if the man lived on desperation and tea. She couldn't help but smile back as she gave him the long list of things to buy. He looked over it, nodding, never saying anything, pushed his tea cup back and left with a simple, 'thank you for the tea, Miss Belle.' and she was alone in the Gold Mansion.
…
Gold took a breath before grabbing his cane and opening the car door. He rarely closed his shop later than four on a Saturday-there just wasn't as much to do or enough customers coming in on that day, but today he had to force his nerves ( and curse his nerves-to think he was scared to come home because he hired new help!) to close things up at six.
He could already see a light on in the house, evidence that there was human activity, evidence that he would not be the only one residing in the drafty house any longer. He limped with trepidation towards the building that had never seemed like much of a home. His shop was much more his home than this old thing. It was simply something he had amused himself by fixing it up. He had all the money in the world, so he had fitted the place up exactly to his standards. Everything was a mix of rare, vintage, true to era furniture with top of the line modern conveniences. Once the project was over, it held no more warmth than that dresser he couldn't seem to sell at the shop. It was valuable, perhaps even beautiful, but it held no emotional value for him.
Unlocking the door and coming inside the first thing that met him were the smells. It smelled like something cooking-italian by the herbs wafting through the foyer. Just the thought of eating something other than take out or a frozen dinner had him using every bit of his practiced skills to keep from shedding his Mr. Gold, landlord and dealer of desperate pleas, persona. He went towards the smell, looking for his new little maid, but found her nowhere. The thing he was smelling was bubbling on the stove, the oven starting to beep like mad, and still the blue eyed beauty didn't show (nope, nope, he couldn't think of her like that-the help-the help that was probably going to cause something to burn if she didn't come this instance, where was she?!).
All the sudden a blur of gray and white ran past him as he realized that was the said little maid rushing around with a pile of linens.
'Can you get that bread out of the oven, Mr. Gold? I'm afraid it will burn!' He heard from the direction of the bedroom he allotted her. He hoped the room hadn't molded or collapsed in any way. He hadn't been in the room since he set it up years ago, and he hadn't really thought about it until he offered it to her.
He looked in the oven at the bread, not burnt, thankfully, but he gruffly got it out of the oven. She hadn't worked for him for more than a few hours and already he was having to do her work. He slapped the pan on top of the stove, and flicked the oven mitt on the counter and turned to glare at Miss French as she came out of the bedroom.
'Already shirking your duties, hmmm?'
She had smiled at him as she entered the kitchen but that was now gone in an instant. The cold fire was lit behind her eyes-she was gloriously beautiful in her rage (he had to stop this or it would be the longest year in human existence).
She didn't lash out, she didn't give him burning sarcasm, the fire was lit, the rage was simmering, and then suddenly it was not.
'I'll try to do better, didn't realize how close the bread was to being done when the dryer went off on my sheets' She said meekly.
He didn't like that. This was the girl who braved smiling and speaking to the most hated man in town, this was the girl that traded freedom for a whole year so that her father would not be destitute. The silent resignation that came over her sent stinging guilt that he hadn't felt since he first received those letters in his study. He wasn't going to apologize. That was not in the contract. He shrugged instead and then wondered, suddenly and worriedly, where he was going to eat his meal. He normally went to the den, reading a book, or watching something on tv (they were tv dinners, after all), but with actually home cooked food it seemed lame and not something he should do.
'The table is set in the dining room.' She said, as if she could read his mind. He nodded, and limped towards a room he hadn't used since he set it up. Mrs. Smith had at least kept the surface clean when she was there, but that had been a month ago, so he imagined Miss French would have had to clean the place before she could set the table. His eyebrows went up as he saw the set up.
There were two places set.
He didn't know if he was nervous or angry, but his emotions were all over the place (Still kept safely hidden behind his thin set mouth, and all other schooled facial expressions). What did he do now? Have dinner with the girl? He had just wanted to know someone else was in the house, he didn't expect to eat and have dinner conversation with them!
Miss French walked in, a small yet seemingly genuine smile (quite a feat, he thought, after barking at her earlier) played on her face as she carried in a pan full of spaghetti and meatballs. She didn't even pause before turning around and getting the garlic bread she had heated up. On that second trip back she did pause, and looked at him as if trying to read him, but he knew she would find nothing. He had played the game of not giving away his thoughts through his expressions for longer than she had probably been alive, and he wasn't about to give away how confused he was at this whole thing.
She started chewing on her lower lip (now that was a bad habit he wished she would quit in the next few seconds!), and ringing her hands a little.
'I added the plate, but I didn't know how you would feel over eating with 'the help'' She pulled her ringing hands into air quotes for a moment. 'But I also thought it might be strange for us to eat in two separate rooms? I didn't know what to do, so you'll have to tell me honestly, since it's up to you, of course, don't feel obligated for me to sit with you.' She gave a side smile, but her face was much too readable. She was nervous. It played so obviously on her face as if the words were actually written there.
She was giving him a choice-well, it would have been his choice regardless, wouldn't have been? He could have thrown her out of the room and made her sit in the kitchen alone. But he found that he appreciated the way she had worded things. It gave him the power, sure, but it also showed that she didn't mind sitting with him, either. Even if he had planned for her to eat with him the entire time he wasn't a person who found it easy to ask for that sort of thing. It looked too much like he was desperate for companionship, and that would not do at all.
'Might as well sit, since you've already got the place set. Food will be cold by the time you take your things away.'
She nodded, and even seemed relieved, despite the way he knew he had said the words.
He had worried that she would be an annoying chatterbox. All his previous experience led him to believe that it would be the case, but he was wrong. For all that it seemed that Miss French didn't mind talking, she didn't just speak to hear her own voice. She seemed to sense his need for the quiet and they ate in comfortable, if not a time or two awkward, silence. As they finished, and she rose to clear away the dishes she surprised him with a,
'You like tea, then?'
He looked at her, a little confused at this sudden bit of questioning.
'Yes, I suppose so…'
'I saw the tea set, the tea, the sugar, cream, pretty much the only things in the kitchen.' She giggled a little before sobering when she looked at him again. 'So I imagined you must be a pretty avid tea drinker. When do you normally take it?'
He shrugged. 'Normally at some point before bed.'
She nodded her head while obviously thinking. 'Alright. Let me clear this away, and clean the dishes, Mr. Gold and I'll bring some to you. Where do you normally take it? The den? Do you maybe have a study?
'You aren't to go in the study, do you understand?' The words came out angrily, almost condescendingly, he knew that, but he didn't pause long enough to care. She couldn't go into his study. That was his space, it would be the place that would be set aside as his sanctuary in a place that was now having to be shared with someone else.
Her face showed hurt before she pulled it back into something neutral, though not before sending those stinging guilt sensations he had felt earlier. He amended the statement, still refusing to do anything resembling apologizing.
'The rest of the house should be open for you to clean, but the study is not to be broached.'
She nodded, threads of fear still lining her eyes, a look worse than the resignation he had seen in them earlier.
'I'll take it in the den, if you please.'
The please, even phrased the way he did seemed wrong coming out of his mouth, but he wouldn't retract that either. He stood and gathered his cane, not moving until she had started to clear away the table, not wanting to seem like he was running away.
An hour or so later, Gold was comfortably sitting in his great chair in the den. He was already feeling much less nervous, contentedly listening to the sounds of Miss French cleaning up, thinking that with his full belly and the sounds of human activity in his old house, his deal was finally beginning to feel at least somewhat successful. Miss French came in with a tray-a clean tray that he had forgotten he even owned, and she placed it on the side table and began pouring and readying a cup to his spoken specifications. He could see her taking in the decor, the furniture, the fireplace. He puffed out a little. He was proud, as cold and dark as the house might be, even to him, he was proud of the way the project had turned out. He knew it was objectively beautiful, and it was quite nice to have someone other than the silent Dove to see it and appreciate it.
'The tea will be cold by the time you serve it if you don't stop gawking.'
The quip caused his little maid to gasp and jump, sending the cup she held to the floor. She gasped again, this time in terror.
'Oh no! I'm so sorry, Mr. Gold. Oh no…' She wrung her hands before kneeling to survey the damage. Her face was washed with fear, worry lines littered her face and her trembling 'it's chipped, it's damaged, Mr. Gold, I'm so sorry!' as her hands now cradled the chipped cup.
Before he could help himself he shrugged, part of him having an unnatural urge to comfort her.
'It's just a cup.' He assured her, and surprised and relieved eyes looked back at him. For some reason that relieved him too.
Author's Note:I really hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! Sometimes I struggle with how I want a chapter to go, but not this time, so you are getting the chapter pretty soon. I hope the next one comes just as easily, but I never know.