Chapter 4 Trying to Forget

'It's just a cup.'

Those words shocked Belle, as she sighed a quick breath of relief, while also watching to make sure she didn't cut herself as she set the cup back on the tray, and picked up the chip piece as well. She couldn't look at Mr. Gold's expression for long, as it had looked almost concerned-perhaps even vulnerable and that was just not the Mr. Gold that had barked at her only hours before. He was confusing, moody, and strange. Was he the thick scaled dragon, hoarding his loot and breathing fire towards anyone who got too close to him or his treasures? Or, was he simply a grouchy, yet lonely middle aged man? She pondered these things as she left him with a newly poured cup of tea, for of course, he hadn't asked her to stay to drink tea with him and she wasn't about to push her luck.

That night Belle found she could not move an inch or else risk sending the old metal bed frame into whining fits. While she believed Mr. Gold when he told her father that he would be at one end of the house and she at the other, and different stories to boot, she was terrified of waking the sleeping dragon and sending him blowing fire and brimstone at her when she was simply trying to turn over to get more comfortable. It wasn't that the bed was necessarily uncomfortable, it just wasn't her bed and like everything in the room-it was tiny. She was a tiny person, and yet she felt like a giant on the vintage frame. There was something to be said for the accuracy in which Mr. Gold had decked his home, but couldn't he have found a vintage looking full sized even a normal, twin sized bed?! Add to that the lone and tiny window above her nightstand that could have used better insulation. She could almost feel the Maine snow drifts outside seeping into her room and chilling her to the bone. She tried to curl up into the freshly washed blanket, but not only did that send squeaks from her bed, but she also found that it was very hard to get warm.

Between silent sniffles from missing her home, and the chattering of her teeth, she finally succumbed to sleep, only to be jolted awake by the alarm set on her phone.

6 a.m.

It was not Monday yet, thus, Mr. Gold would not be going to his shop. He had not, however, told her when he would wake up, or when to have his breakfast, or what her chores would be on a day when he was home. For all that it seemed he had planned for her to succumb to the deal he made, he didn't seem to have any idea what to do with her, or any idea as to what she ought to do. So, she was determined to at least keep to the hours he set, whether he meant for them to be kept strictly on the weekend or not.

She pulled on a grungy hoodie and a ratty pair of jeans, as she didn't see an apron anywhere, and she didn't want to get her already sparse amount of clothes messed up. If he wanted her to dress up to cook and clean, he should have said something, she thought as she put her head upside down to whip her wild morning curls into a messy bun. She also put on her thickest pair of fuzzy socks, the floors being about as drafty as her 'dungeon' (she had bestowed the nickname last night while trying to go to sleep, and her mind being full of dragons and lairs, and fairy tale treasure. Her room was drafty, tiny, uncomfortable so she felt the name well deserved).

Lovingly gliding her fingers over the beloved recipe tin, she pulled out her mother's recipes for her favorite fruit filled pastries and began to work on the confections. He had asked her to cook and clean within the hours of seven thirty in the morning and eight at night, and he didn't specify how those hours should be divided between each task, he just wanted her to do them at some point. This way, she was keeping her end of the bargain, while also not doing something disruptive that would pull the grouchy dragon out of his den (though part of her really wanted to vacuum outside of his room, just out of spite-but of course, the other part, the part that remembered how lonely she had realized that he must be, kept her from lashing out-just as it had done the night before when he had so rudely barked at her). She liked doing this sort of work, anyway. Feeling the dough between her fingers, shaping it, watching it rise for an hour while she cut up fruit and started letting it simmer and thicken, so she could add it to the pastry before it baked. By the end she found herself humming, arranging the pastries on a platter.

'Did you pillage the bakery this morning?' She had been so engrossed in arranging things that she started when he spoke. At least there were no cups to break this morning.

'Nope.' She smiled, once her heart went back to a normal rhythm. 'Though you might argue I baked like I was starting one.'

His eyes were large and ever observant, and she even thought she detected a degree of surprise in them. Happy to cause even an ounce of emotion to get through his scaly exterior, she continued to happily gather a couple of plates, along with all the other necessities for breakfast.

He continued to watch her with veiled amusement.

'Did you think we were feeding the whole town? It's just you and me here.' he gestured largely around the empty house.

'I know-I think I might have gotten a little carried away with the dough. Do you think…well, would, um-could we ask…'

'And here I am hoping you'll spit the words out before the food spoils.'

Belle had a strong urge to roll her eyes at him. She remembered her father, and exactly what she was there to do, and bit her lip to quell her tongue.

'Sorry-I um, well, perhaps Mr. Dove would like some? I could pack him some, when I pack your lunch for tomorrow?' She hated how all the words came out so unsure.

'Pack my lunch?'

She had been worried about what he would think of her giving out sweets to his employees, since he didn't exactly seem like the charitable type-she didn't think he would get hung up over the idea of a packed lunch.

'Yes-you know, I'm to clean and to cook-I guess I thought that was part of it. Do you normally eat out for lunch?'

'No, I don't normally eat much, if anything for lunch.'

He quieted for a moment after he said it, as if he was revealing something about himself, and thought better of it once the words were out.

'Do you mind if I fix it for you now that I'm here?' For some reason, the feelings she had when she found out he only ate tv dinners, came back all the sudden.

He shrugged his shoulders, and she imagined that was as much answer as she was going to get.

'And Mr. Dove?'

He sighed 'Dove would probably appreciate it-his five little girls might, as well. Although I personally would appreciate you not making a habit of making enough food to feed the whole of Maine when you cook.'

She ignored the last part of his speech for the sudden image of the gentle giant surrounded by five little girls caused a giggle to emerge, which in turn caused a funny look from her employer that sent the same giggle packing. She took the plates and with Mr. Gold following her with his juice and they sat and ate the pastries in relative quiet. She wanted to ask him what he thought of them, but she imagined that the fact that he ate three of them was answer enough.

…

Sunday afternoons were normally spent in dismal reflection, unsuccessful attempts to forget the past and somehow make everything not his fault. But no matter what he did, he could not forget, and he could not lay the blame on anyone other than himself and her. No matter how much money he threw at the situation, it would not solve his problem-the problem. All he had was a fading picture, returned letters, and memories of dropped calls to fill the lonely hours.

A small crash had him jumping up (not very quick, really, blasted limp) to investigate the noise. At the foot of the stairs sat his little maid, now trying to scramble back up, rubbing her backside from the supposed discomfort of what looked to be falling down the last few steps, and righting the laundry that had been thrown in every direction.

'What are you doing?' His lips were doing something they were unaccustomed to doing-slipping upwards. He bent them back to his will as Miss French tried to appear a little less disheveled than she had the moment before.

'Laundry-your sheets more specifically-or I think they were yours?' She raised her arms and hands questioningly in the air. ' The bedroom looked the most lived in, but I didn't snoop' She answered his raised eyebrows, the thought of her being in his bedroom made him suddenly uncomfortable, though his old housekeeper would have had to do the same. 'Mine was covered in dust when I got here and I thought if you haven't had a housekeeper in a month, you might like clean sheets, yourself. It looked like nothing has been done since she left.' She was rambling as she tried to explain herself. 'And I was trying to find something quiet to do that wouldn't disturb you.' She looked at him guiltily and he couldn't hide the smirk, no matter how hard he tried.

'Mission, unsuccessful.'

'I can see that-I'm sorry. I'll try to fall a bit quieter next time.' She smirked back, and tried to grab at the curls that were scattered around her head. She was an absolute mess, but somehow endearingly so-which was frustrating.

'Why try not falling, instead. Are you always so clumsy?' he said, thinking back to the way she jumped about at any noise, upsetting herself each time, and now with the shortcut she had taken down the stairs-he was starting to find another one of her weaknesses, gravity.

'I'm afraid so. If you were looking for a graceful housekeeper, you got the wrong girl.'

'Mmm, I'm noticing.'

The basket was stored back on her hip and he shrugged as he left her. He didn't want to go back to his study, however. There was too much going on now for all that. Instead, he found himself leaving the door open to the den. He attempted to read the newspaper, and then attempted to read a book or at least look like he was reading a book, while he heard the noises of a house being lived in. There was humming, there were cabinets clanging, and finally, there were cutting sounds-lunch was being made. Apparently Miss French quite liked working in the kitchen, as the humming sounds were louder and had a more pleasant tone as she cooked. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that the girl that had so willingly smiled at him for all those months, had chosen to come to his dark house willingly and was doing everything she was doing because she wanted to, and not because he had forced her hand. That wasn't the case, so he shooed any pleasant notions away when he heard her coming towards the den to let him know that lunch was ready. The fact that she was doing forced servitude made any compliment he would have given her if it was really a sort of domestic situation, die on his lips. He wasn't the domestic type-the documents in his desk reminded him of that. The fact that he had gone several hours on a Sunday forgetting actually forgetting, was a wonder, and imagined it wouldn't last. Miss French was a distraction, which wasn't the worst thing she could be, he felt, but that was all.

Author's Note: It was kinda fun to go back to some of my victorian research (A Monster at Dark Manor, for anyone interested ;) ) for the description of the bed. Bed sizes were a bit smaller in the Victorian Era, and I imagined Mr. Gold fitting up the place in authentic fashion. I also could see the lower, unused bedrooms not getting the same attention as the other rooms in the house. Drafts and not great insulation can be a problem for some houses of that era. I was trying to go for that 'dungeon' feel yet make it believable at the same time :)

Hope you enjoy this chapter! Let me know what you think!