Only Skin Deep

How Many More

As dark and cold as the night outside was, the inside of the tavern was equally as bright and welcoming. Though the wind battered the worn log walls the merriment indoors continued without pause, bursts of laughter and light spilling out whenever another villager swung open the door to enter. Through the windows fogged up with hot breath could be seen a young barmaid atop one of the scrubbed wooden tables, laughing and calling to the crowd whose eyes were fixed upon her. Her dress was simple and homemade, but nobody was looking at her dress. Her smile lit up her face and her laugh was like music, floating across the crowd of villagers whose cheeks flushed from a combination of the cold outdoors and the tankards of ale in their hands.

“Give us a song, Belle!” called one girl perched on a table close by, waving away the attentions of three men at once with one impatient sweep of her hand.

Belle grinned and winked at her friend, before standing on her tiptoes and motioning over the heads of the crowd to the young man on the piano. He nodded and threw his hands to the keys, causing the room to cheer and raise their tankards in appreciation.

The second the first word of song left Belle’s lips the shouts and laughs from the crowd died down, and the room fell into a state of rapture at the lilting sound of her voice. Nobody noticed the figure cloaked in black slip through the door and settle on a lonely table in the far corner of the room. It was almost impossible to see under the stranger’s hood but his head never turned away from the direction of Belle, elevated above the crowd and singing her heart out, until the bell rang for final orders and she stepped down off of the table.

*

“Tell us another story!” chimed the twins in unison, each of their heads poking eagerly out from under the hand-woven blankets on their bed.

“I’ve already told you three!” Belle laughed, ruffling first Angelique’s and then Maurice’s curls. “It’s way past your bedtime.”

“Pleeeeease?” Angelique pleaded, batting her thick dark eyelashes and gazing at her big sister with eyes as deep and blue as the ocean.

“No,” Belle said firmly, tucking the blankets in tighter against the cold. “You know we’re going to the market early tomorrow, you need your sleep.” She dipped her head to kiss her young siblings each on the head, before crossing the room to the door. “Have sweet dreams, angels,” she whispered softly as she stepped out of the tiny bedroom and back into the living area. The heavy scent of burning wood washed over her, and not for the first time she wished their tiny cottage had better ventilation.

“How many tonight?” asked Mrs Saint-Clair, sat by the fire with a pile of holey socks and a sewing needle.

“Just three, I’m getting them to cut down,” Belle yawned, dropping into the chair opposite her mother. “Now, what was it you wanted to tell me?”

Her mother beamed and dropped the sock she was stitching into the pile. “Oh Belle, it’s such wonderful, wonderful news!” Belle sat up a little straighter. “I have found you a husband!”

“Oh, Mama,” Belle sighed, slumping back in her chair. “Not this again…”

“This time is different!” Mrs Saint-Clair leaned forward and grasped Belle’s hands in her own. “You must accept this proposal Belle, you must. GastonBeauchamp has asked for your hand!”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “The Gaston Beauchamp? Lord Henry Beauchamp’s son?”

“Yes!”

“Ugh, no…” Belle turned her face away so she didn’t have to look at the pure joy upon her mother’s face. “He’s ghastly. Why on earth would he want me for his wife?”

“He’s heard you singing in the tavern,” Mrs Saint-Clair gushed, not put down by her daughter’s dismay. “He says that you are the most talented girl he’s ever laid eyes on. And he’s seen you in the town with Angelique and Maurice, he said it looks as though you will make a fine mother…”

“No!” Belle leapt up and crossed the small room. “I don’t want to be a mother, certainly not to that dreadful Gaston’s children!” She shuddered at the thought. “He drinks like a fish, and his head is as empty as a flowerpot. Don’t you think I’m better than that, Mama?”

Mrs Saint-Clair threw her hands up in despair. “Annabelle Rosalind Saint-Clair, I did not raise you to turn your nose up at every eligible suitor that comes your way! Better than Lord Beauchamp’s son? Can’t you see he would make a wonderful husband…?”

A shrill sharp scream from outside the cottage cut Mrs Saint-Clair off mid-sentence, and the two women jumped and looked at each other with fear in their eyes. The older woman heaved herself to her feet and the two of them hurried over to the door and peeked out.

“My baby, he’s taken my baby!” A woman stood in the centre of the road, screaming and tearing at her hair, wide eyes staring off at someone… or something… stood at the other end of the street.