Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wretched Beginnings

Chapter 1 

Needs Must

“Come, Gold, stop slithering about in this stupid manner! You’ll never get over Cor– excuse me, Mrs. Mills as it stands now– if you do not mix with other people.  You’ll never find anyone, never have an heir, never…”

“Enough!” Gold said through gritted teeth and tightened his grip on the gold tipped cane. His friend was as jovial as they came, too jovial for someone who had gone through similar sorrows. Too jovial when his own personality stood in such stark opposition. 

Jeffrey’s forehead creased in concern, Gold could already feel the threads of guilt ignite in his soul–or at least it would if he still had one. 

“Sorry, old chap, I know I speak without thinking on the words first, but do not be offended. Nay, hear me out.”

Gold owed him too much to not do so, and it was never said that he would be the party that owed someone, anything. 

“You’ve been cooped up too long. I’ve allowed it, for the sake of a good friend who has been through more in two years than what most would ever see in a lifetime, but your whole reason for coming to this part of the country was to meet new people who were not aware of your, ahem, reputation and past, so as to find a decent sort of women to provide an heir.”

Jeffrey only repeated what had been said by them both, though perhaps not in the same words. No, the words were first spoken from a broken man, broken, not for the first time, from the evil heart of a faithless woman. 

“I’ll die without an heir!” He had said. “And everything I’ve built will be all for nothing. It was not to have been–not to have been this way! And now, Coraline is gone and my hopes have gone with her. No one who isn’t greedy for gain will have me for they say I’m the dishonorable scoundrel. All I wanted was someone who could stand me long enough to provide me an heir and be able to run a house tolerably. That Coraline was beautiful and did not seem to care, nay liked my reputation should have tipped me off. She couldn’t be both beautiful and decent.”

All of this had been said in such a way as that made Jeffrey never allude to the moment again, except for reminding him of his reasons for coming. For they (mostly Jeffrey) had come up with the sudden scheme of him taking a house in the opposite part of the country where it might take at least a week or so for word to reach that Gold was worth so much and on such a property and had such a history. And in this part of the country things might be smoothed over and gossip prompted in such a way as no one would know exactly whom or what to believe. 

Despite Gold’s hesitation, the plan had thus far succeeded in exactly such a way. Jefferson was a good eight years distant from his own tragic loss and while not exactly ready to fall in love, would welcome the change should it come. He had a sweet little ward being raised in a nice sort of house in a pretty part of the country that he would more than be happy to give all his worldly possessions (mostly currency and no land of his own to lay claim), should he never find another soul to bind himself. Gold, on the other hand, had entered with one purpose in mind, nay two. First was to find a bride, second was to forget the past six months–the past two years, and really being truly honest with himself (and scoundrel that he could be, he always liked to think of himself as truthful) his whole pathetic life thus far. To be six and thirty and to want to forget all that had transpired–all but one solitary thing, of course, though it caused him the most pain of all he would not forget, and was something even Jeffery could not laugh at. 

Jeffrey’s plan had worked to the very letter. Jeffrey had taken a house, charmed the neighborhood and caused all the whispers to go in exactly the direction he intended. Now, only a few weeks into their stay, Jeffrey having returned all the calls made, attended his first neighborhood dance (where Gold had only stood by the wall and listened and hurt and wished to go) and attended any such gatherings as his neighbors might wish to give. Finally, they had enough acquaintances that they felt comfortable in hosting a card party. Jeffery’s dear Aunt Beatrice had been the lady of the house–the only one of Jeffery’s family that was both alive and had no other family to hold prominence and that could also be persuaded to play hostess when they needed one. 

“The thing is, you’ll not find a girl if you don’t socialize. A card party is as good as any for it. Which is why I suggested it, of course.”

“Mrs. Hatfield cannot do much else in her time of life, you mean. If you had asked, I would have suggested it was too early for me to be playing cards, don’t you think?” Gold turned to his friend with a raised eyebrow. 

“Only if it is for high stakes and takes much skill. Play for little and only luck type games and I dare say fate cannot be so against you.” Jeffrey replied in much the same tone. 

Gold thought of this, but had rather not have people connect the gossip that was closest to correct–not yet, anyway.

“No, no. You go on. I’ve greeted and made pretense at civility for far too long tonight and too many of your male guests have partaken too much of your good wine for my taste. I think I would rather go to bed.”

“You cannot mean it! It would be seen as rude!” Jeffrey pleaded to an unyielding ear. 

“Give an excuse. A headache is truthful enough, goodnight.”

And whether rude or not, he left. Jeffrey returned to the card players and the noise and laughs and the overall displeasing sounds of overabundance–sounds that sounded grating in Mr. Gold’s ears. 

Mr. Gold did not go to bed. He decided that the evening was still young, and he needed to do a bit more forgetting before he tried to shut his eyes and block out his past. While Jeffery’s library was a sorry excuse for the term, it would be quiet, and so he hobbled down the hall towards what he was certain would be much better use of his time than a card party–all the while hating himself for his cowardice. Jeffery was right. He would never find a wife this way–an heir would never exist unless he made some effort. He had told himself that he would never trust a woman again, and certainly never love one and so risk his heart. How then, could he proceed and keep his heart and wits about him?  

…

She knew it was a horrid thing to do, and father would be livid–again–but needs must. A servant had been very kind, the son of old Mr. Barlow,  down the way. She was glad he had found such a position, as she remembered going with her mother when she was little and bringing their family a basket. He had told her how she might get to the library, and if he judged her for abandoning a party and going elsewhere in a house not her own, he did not say so. 

Now she was just getting comfortable. It was a library larger than her own, but smaller than the one of her distant memory, when times were happier and the home full of all that was needed to call it that. She had chosen a book that she remembered her mother holding–or imagined she had. She was sure it was one of the first books to go, as it had been a very beautiful copy and had been a favorite. She remembered it being a lovely shade of blue with golden details, and lettering of just such a shape. This had to be the very title, and she opened it slowly, breathing in the smell it brought, as if it might transport her to that time gone by. 

She was unaware of the liquid until she saw it wrinkle the pristine page. Gasping, she shut the book before she could ruin it further and pulled out her handkerchief and dabbed furiously at her eyes to curtail the flow. 

“What do you do here?” Were words thrown at her in such a shocked and angry manner that it took her wholly by surprise and the book fell from her lap as she gave a small squeal (very subtle, so that even her father surely could not have disapproved) and tried to stand up. 

Caring more for the book than offending a gentleman that approached a lady in such a tone, she pulled it up quickly and cradled it in her arms and stood before the man in question. 

He was not young, but not old either, too young to be leaving a card party so early to hold up in his library–or Mr. Hatfield’s library, she should say, for the man before her was none other than, 

“Mr. Gold!” She said in such shock, and much quicker than she gave thought, for she only knew him by name and from what she had seen, they had not been introduced. 

“Madam, I cannot say I have had the pleasure of receiving your name, though you know mine already.” It was evident that he struggled to pull out such a string of polite words that meant that he insisted that she give over her name, and he stood a little straighter, though it was made difficult due to the combination of his cane and his natural height. However, though his stature was little, he still was a good bit taller than her, and his face bore such lines as made her heart quicken. She did not like it. His words and his face and his overall manners were all such a contradiction as made her instantly resolve to not be cowed. 

“Sir, do we talk when we have not been introduced? Is there no one nearby to perform that duty?” She said once she bowed her shoulders and dipped her head in respect, the man before her only nodded his head a little-she decided to excuse his behavior due to the cane he rested so heavily upon. 

“We need no one, just tell me your name–if you please–and why you thought it would be alright to go into another person’s library without his permission?”

Belle felt a little shy at his question. She knew it was not the thing to do, but it was so expected at all her friends and acquaintances homes that she had done what had been a habit of late and not thought out the consequences. She wasn’t exactly sure how to express this to Mr. Gold, to make him properly understand, so she returned to her first point in a hopeful distraction. 

“Please sir, shall we not be introduced first?” 

Mr. Gold groaned and gave her a sharp glare that would have withered the strongest person and it was all she could do to remain standing, though her chin was not quite so high as it had been before. 

“Very well.” he finally said and turned about and left. 

She thought he might leave her to her own thoughts, but that was merely wishful thinking. It was no time at all before he came back with the tall, wild haired man she knew to be Mr. Hatfield. They greeted each other politely. 

“I find myself having the great honor–Miss Ashe, Mr. Gold, Mr. Gold, Miss Ashe.”

Now it was their turn to do their duty–a short bow and a curtsy, stiff on his part. 

“Thank you, and now, Miss Ashe, if I may ask, what you were doing in Mr. Hatfield’s library?”

“Steady on, Gold.” She caught the taller gentleman say through the large smile on his face. To her he said, “Of course you are welcome to the library, though I hope the party has not bored you as much as it has my good friend here.”

She smiled at the man’s open and easy manners, though she felt every bit her error and hoped her adventure would not get back to her father. “Oh no, sir, and I must apologize for my blunder. I-I will confess that I am used to making escapes to my friend’s libraries. I am no card player, though my father dearly loves them, as I’m sure you’ve observed. Your servant was so kind as to direct me and I was hoping to come and go without notice and without disturbing anyone. I apologize, sir.” She bathed her words with the genuine desire to show humility. She was Miss Ashe, daughter of an impoverished gentleman, found guilty of exploring a wealthy gentleman’s home. She knew exactly where she stood.  

Mr. Gold’s look was still all sharp lines and stormy eyes, but Mr. Hatfield looked all that was polite and kind. 

“I am sorry for disturbing anyone.” She stammered only a little and decided that looking at Mr. Gold’s eyes for a second and then no more was the best route to take. “And if you will excuse me, I’ll go back to the card room, I’ll leave you, sirs.” she glanced at Mr. Gold for only a second more, his glare could break the hardest surface! She escaped, back towards the card room to wait until her father had embarrassed himself to the point of it outweighing the known difficulty of persuading him to quit both the cards and the wine. She was glad it was a simple house party where stakes could not make them much poorer than they were already. 

She sat herself in the shadows, hoping her father would take no notice of her, most of the men present were already aware of her situation and what exactly she would be bringing to a marriage and would not be tempted by so little. 

She would not have a peaceful night, this night.

Mr. Hatfield had entered the room again, and her father loudly beckoned him over with compliments to his hospitality. Mr. Hatfield said all that was polite, said something that she could not discern. Then it began. A new hand was being played and Mr. Hatfield was requested to join. 

“Does my Belle–the Miss Ashe there, not look well tonight, sir? Her name does her credit, I think. Would be a lucky man who could hold such a flower on his arm as her, eh?” 

It was all too much, and she felt her cheeks heat and her eyes sting from the mortification, but now there was no library where she could escape. 

It was her fortune that her father had been sober when called upon by Mr. Hatfield, and she was able to be introduced to him with almost no embarrassment. Now that the wine had been handed freely, her father did not watch his tongue. She wished she were back home. No, that was not it, exactly. She wished things were different… If only….

But it was not to be thought. It could only bring grief, and she had enough of that already. Better that she wait and try not to notice the looks and chuckles in her direction and bear it as best she could.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

Exposed Emotion

Jeffrey’s Aunt Beatrice had yet to make it down for breakfast. It was evident that her days of hosting card parties that went a little longer than quite necessary, were coming to a close. Thus, when Gold went down he found only Jeffrey there and his nose deep in the paper. He caught Gold out of the corner of his eye, set down the paper, and brightened. 

“There you are, man! One would think you had been made to stay up until all the merry guests had been persuaded to take their leave, and not gone to bed early like an old man.” 

“I feel old, Jeffrey, I feel old.” And to prove his point, he sat down with a groan, his leg letting him know it was bound to rain at some point during the day. It had been the wettest October in remembrance, and November seemed to crave competition. 

“P’shaw, you are but five years my senior and I refuse to be anything but a young man for a good ten years at least!” Jeffrey laughed. 

Gold decided to refrain from saying that his friend would most likely be young in mind for the rest of his life, if his current trajectory was to be carried on, but he did not. He grunted instead and began to eat his breakfast. 

“You have not asked how the party went, after you left, nor about the pretty little trespasser that you nearly scared to death. Are you not curious at all?”

“No.” This was only half a lie, and ate at Gold a little, but it was enough of the truth for him not to amend his answer. He had no curiosity over  the party, and he would not be telling his friend that the blue eyes of the trespasser had caused him to find little interest in his book. 

“You are simply no fun at all.” Jeffrey huffed and pretended to regain interest in his newspaper, but Gold could interpret his mannerisms to mean he was nearly bursting to tell all he knew. 

“Out with it. I’ll have no peace until you do.” Gold said it as gruffly as he could, but his friend translated, rightly, his underlying curiosity. The newspaper was thrown aside and nearly took out the cream–by sheer luck it managed to stay inside its bowl. 

“The girl’s father, Mr. Ashe, is a gentleman, as far as these things go, though that is almost the only positive thing I can think of to say about him. Poor Miss Ashe, I can imagine why she would run away to other people’s libraries.” And at this Jeffrey gave a small shudder. Gold would not have admitted it, but this caused him some pause, and his curiosity to increase. Jeffrey went on. “It seems that his vice has always been the drink, cards and wagers, but his dear wife helped smooth things over with her own small share of funds, until her death. Apparently the house is crumbling around them. It did not look so very bad when I was there, everything was done properly–their refreshments were quite good–perhaps the gossips exaggerate a little on that account.”

Gold looked over at his friend. “She is poor. This is not a reason to be creeping down halls in other people’s houses and raiding their libraries!”

“Now that is rather an exaggeration, don’t you think? You are right in one respect, if she was merely poor, I would wonder at her leaving the party, but it is the actions of her father of which I speak.”

Gold gave him a glance that merely meant, “go on”. 

“He was one of the ones that drank in excess and poor Miss Ashe had to finally take him by the hand, and request a servant help her escort them to their carriage, for he could not walk a step and Miss Ashe is rather small. Before he got so incapacitated, that was the worst of it.”

Gold knew too well the embarrassment of having a father who drank more than he ought. These things were common enough, he thought. His own circumstances had the great luck to change by late Mr. Giles’s son having found him an acceptable playmate. When his father-by-birth drank himself to death, Mr. Giles adopted him, little knowing that his own son would die shortly thereafter. Being the kind and generous man he was, he left all his worldly goods to him, Rupert Gold, and quitted the world only a year or two after that. Gold shook off his dwellings on the past, for he did not like thinking of his birth father, and made himself focus on Jeffrey’s words. 

“He, Mr. Ashe, had me play Whist with him, and spent the entire time croaking on about how beautiful his daughter was, and basically trying to convince me that I was such a man who would be pleased to have her as a wife! The looks from our guests told me that this was not the first time her merits had been paraded out as a temptation for a young man. More than one young man laughed knowingly to another, and too many pointy nosed ladies turned a sneering glance Miss Ashe’s way. She is a small creature, already, but she had folded in on herself so, and stood in the shadows with more success than you can, that I almost implored her to run back to the library while she could–though you would have put up a fuss over that.”

“And it would not have been proper.” Gold added. 

“Oh, not at all–I would have sent someone to keep you both company. But no, I played the hand, nodded my head when possible, and was grateful that he was too unsteady in limb and brain to notice when I walked off. By this time, Miss Ashe had found someone to speak to–I can’t remember whom. I think they must pity her–poor girl.”

“You’ve said that often enough. Many a person has had stupid parents, I can safely vouch for that.” Gold was glad to be done with breakfast and hopefully done with the conversation. He would not feel sorry for a Miss Ashe, no matter how dislikable her father, nor how pitiful her circumstances. If anything, this would be what he could tell himself any time he began thinking about her blue eyes. She would be just such a person as Coraline, hungrily searching for any man who might raise her out of poverty. Her father would be right behind her, with his grubby hands, grabbing at any money Miss Ashe would then come in contact with. Not that he had thought about the possibilities of Miss Ashe–no indeed. 

“You have no heart, Gold.” Jeffrey laughed, giving Gold a pointed look. 

“I am well aware.”

Jeffrey shook his head and got up as well. They spent the morning riding, Gold could not do it for very long, nor very hard, as the slightest movement sent waves of pain to his leg. He would not give it up, however, so he took his hour ride in the mornings for he refused to lose that bit of independence he had. He might now have enough money to drive about in whatever he chose, but he still preferred the quickness of a saddled horse. Jeffrey never complained about the speed, nor about the company. Gold would forever be surprised by his friend’s determination to stand by him and it had bought him Gold’s own offering of loyalty to him, regardless of how the man might irk him at times. 

The rain that Gold’s leg had promised, did descend right as they made their way inside the house. A solid week of steady rain prevented much exercise and Gold found himself sighing at Jeffrey’s eagerness to get out of the house when it came time for another dinner party. 

“Don’t sigh like that. You had more cause than I to accept. Take our host and hostess, for example. They have one son to inherit their little bit of property and four lovely daughters who are not without charms and enough money so as to not make it too imprudent. I am sure any one of them would do. These country women are just the thing, you know.”

“No, I do not know.” Gold spat, though Jeffrey would know his tone was not one of anger towards his friend, but at a memory. “Coraline was from the country–small town,not a great amount of money to speak of. If anything, lack of funds would be a great prompt for a country girl to set her sights on my estate…But a girl of consequence would not be able to look past my past nor reputation.” Gold sighed as he pursued his thoughts aloud. Jeffrey would neither agree nor disagree. His silence was enough to confirm such things, it was, after all, the very reason they were there. 

He would go to this dinner party, and he would endeavor to set aside his cowardice for once, and try to interact. And that was that.

Determination is all well and good before an event, but when it is time for such things to take place, resolve can falter. So Gold found it to be that when the decently situated country home was visited and dinner was over and entertainment began, that the shadows beckoned him with such force, the temptation was too great to deny. 

Someone else had found the shadows. 

“Miss Ashe.”

The too distant candle, just brought out the faintest blue in her eyes. He wished it were a little brighter, but then again, that would have defeated the purpose of a darker corner. 

“Mr. Gold.” She tilted her chin to a nearby chair, and motioned towards it though her invitation was nothing but polite duty. He was curious. Curious to see just what she would do if he were to show some interest. Would she bat her eyelashes and lean forward in pretense of enjoying his words? Would she make some insincere complement in an attempt to ensnare him? She would not be the first–even with his wish to keep from the crowd, a brave lady or two had tried to bluster their way through an introduction and ensure a connection. He could see through them, and he would see right through this girl, too. 

So, he sat. 

“Is there no library for you to run to tonight?” He even tried smiling. The small smile he received in return held both some surprise (most likely at his smile) and something pleasant that seemed almost genuine. 

“None, sir, for Mr. Grayson keeps only a few shelves of religious books in his study. There are no great readers in this house–the Miss Graysons’ talents lie in the pianoforte, of which I am sure you’ll hear tonight. And I apologize, again. I truly did not mean to disturb you that night. I–I had no right to do it.”

Gold’s eyebrows rose. He could have foreseen the apology,despite the way she bathed it in what seemed like genuine humility, the attempt to try to reconcile so she could then build on that to weasel herself into his good graces. Yes, he could see right through her.

“You are correct, you did not.” There, he would see how she would fidget and flirt her way out of that!

Something like anger and guilt warred in the bit of light he could catch in her eyes. She said nothing. The pianoforte began, and while it was not the most expertly played piece he had ever heard, it was acceptable. Miss Ashe, at this point, leaned in, as if by doing so, she could catch the notes as they drifted in the air. 

“Do you play?” He found himself asking. He could have kicked himself for it. He wanted to see her performance towards him, her desperation for his attention, and here he was giving it without prompting!

“Not as well as I would like. Not as well as Miss Grayson or Miss Ruby.” It was Miss Ruby Grayson who was now taking her turn, Miss Ashe’s father sat with only a small group of people around him, though his words almost overpowered the performance when it began. He could see the change in Miss Ashe’s face as the mortification swept over her. He heard words like, “Oh, she’ll do her duty like a good girl. Always has done…like her mother that way. You’ll see, she’s the ticket, now why are we still sitting idle, did you not tell me a venture you knew of or not!”

Gold would not catch Miss Ashe’s eyes after this. The little light there seemed to have caught the beginnings of tears, though once he had turned his head he never heard the slightest whimper. The man was an embarrassment to his sex, that was certain. Perhaps no more so than his own father had been, but he had not been a young lady to be spoken of, as if she were only part of a business scheme. The whole thing made him feel rather sick inside, despite his determination against feelings of the kind. 

Miss Ruby had finished with her performance, and Miss Ashe clapped and smiled at its end, as if she had not just been nearly brought to tears. Her smile faded as the performer came over where she sat. 

“There you are Belle! Will you not perform? You know how we all dearly love to hear you play and sing. Come, let me persuade you.” She began to take Miss Ashe’s arm in a smiling, playful manner that meant to urge her friend forward. 

“Nay, Ruby, do not make me make a spectacle of myself.” And she added in a smaller voice, most likely meant for him not to hear, but his ears just caught the words. “Papa has done that enough for one evening, thank you.”

Miss Ruby shook her head and pulled all the harder, though still not strong enough to really be pulling in earnest. “You are being ridiculous, Belle. Come, I insist. You can’t help what your father does, but you mustn’t hide away in the shadows. Mrs. Ashe could not have meant this. “

Miss Ashe’s face went white, though this time with pain. Miss Ruby had a blunt way of speaking that held no malice, so these words quietly spoken, only heard by the three of them were unconsciously giving fresh pain to an already strained listener (he was feeling uncomfortable, but black soul that he had, he kept his seat, telling himself that it might cause more harm to move and draw attention to his presence–though he could tell the way Miss Ashe would glance his way and not look him in the eyes that she knew he heard, though he might feign being interested in the opposite part of the room). 

Despite Miss Ashe’s obvious distress, her chin rose, whispered something that must have been a hesitant agreement and followed her friend to the piano and Gold placed his hands on the tip of his cane and leaned forward ever so slightly, curious to see what playing not nearly as well as she would like would produce. 

He was unprepared for the melancholy sounds that issued forth. It was an older Irish tune, with words that bespoke of two people being separated and the emotions that came out of such a separation. Miss Ashe was singing it, her voice soft, not loud or commanding, but relishing in the minor notes and hitting them all with perfect grace. The tune was simple, her skill might be wanting, but her performance held every listener captive. Gold could feel his loss, fresh and new again–his heart ached as the song touched all the parts of him that he tried so desperately to suppress. 

This was a wretched state of affairs. He would be reminded of it as soon as she finished and her father said something foolish in his drunken state and he would just as quickly throw out any tender emotions that had risen to the surface, however, for the remainder of the song he was thoroughly enchanted.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

Propensity to Distrust

Belle gave the proper curtsy and smile when she had finished, though her mind was still reeling from the emotions that song had brought. It was her own fault, choosing the song that she always associated with her mother’s passing. It was the one that had been left on their pianoforte—her mother’s last piece to play—and Belle had determined to learn to play well enough to do it justice. Her mother had taught her much, but she was not yet thirteen when she passed, and her skills were lacking. She was only able to have a year under a governess before Papa had spent too much to keep her. Belle had practiced on her own and pestered Ruby into showing her what she had learned before the piano was also taken away–a frivolous piece of furniture, her father insisted, when it could keep a gentleman’s debt paid. She missed playing, and would only play when she was the sole guest at the Grayson’s home, or when Ruby pestered her enough to play in front of a small party at their house. It was rather embarrassing, she knew her skills were lacking, but her friend had been so kind to her, and meant well, so she found it hard to refuse her.

“You played that very well, Belle, as I’m sure you know.” 

Belle shook her head at her friend and insisted that her skills left much to be desired.

Instead of arguing further, Ruby pulled her to one part of the room and leaned over conspiratorially. 

“I saw you talking to Mr. Gold. What do you think of him?”

“I’m not yet sure what to think. He is different from his friend, I suppose.”

“I should think so! His friend is...” and at this Ruby sighed and looked over at the taller man who sat laughing with a group of young people. 

Belle laughed. “You do not have to converse with me for my benefit when you would rather be somewhere else.”

Ruby blinked. “Oh no, it is just that…well…he is handsome, isn’t he?”

Belle smirked. “Who? Mr. Hatfield or Mr. Gold?”

“Oh you know very well of whom I speak. Mr. Hatfield is so very tall, with such strong features and very good hair. I don’t think handsome is a word I would use to describe Mr. Gold, though he might be the richer of the two. He is so skinny and small and, and, well, he has a cane, Belle! He must be at forty at least!”

Belle scolded her friend. But did not argue with her too much. Inwardly she might have said that Mr. Gold had an intriguing cold elegance that Mr. Hatfield was too open and artless to present. She did not give it much more thought and tried to keep up with Ruby’s conversation, all the while trying to ignore her own father.

The party broke much earlier than the card party at Mr. Hatfield’s. Mr. Grayson knew what to do with her father and helped Belle with him before he could make too much of a spectacle. The carriage instantly filled with the smell of liquor, coming off of her father’s clothes and breath, and most likely the hidden flask he had hidden in his jacket. 

“Was a good evening–yes, very good ev’ning, all told.” He slurred. Belle wrapped herself tighter in her thin shawl, her mother’s shawl, trying to raid out the cold air and the embarrassing picture her father made. “Charlie’s got a new venture that’ll set us up well. I won’t even need a lucky night Thursday when we come out on top.”

She did not respond. To do so would make him angry, and she did not want a stinging cheek on top of everything else. A venture. A large wager–crippling wager, that was what it was, she was sure. It was the same sort of wager that had made them lose most of their staff and half their furniture. They could not afford to lose much else. 

She was thankful for Mary when she entered the cold house and ran quickly to her room. The fire had already been started and she changed quickly beside it and huddled down into her blankets. She tried not to worry over her father’s ‘venture’, or how badly things would go Thursday, or how mortifying the night had been, or how insufferable she thought Mr. Gold had been, yet how surprised she was to find him looking at her so intently when she finished her performance. His look had been so–so sad. As if he had felt the same emotions from her song as she did herself. That seemed unlikely, for in the next moment he had gone back to the stern gentleman who had barked at her in the library and snapped at her after her second apology. The man was a riddle, and it was trying to figure him out that she found sleep at last. 

The next morning it dawned clear, if not unusually cold. She was determined to leave the house for a bit, before her father woke and she would need to begin her chores for the day. So few staff meant that she worked in the kitchen alongside their dear old cook, who had stayed on despite the decrease in pay. 

“I’m too old to be hired anywhere else. I’ll cook, Miss Belle, just you see if I won’t.” and so she did. Belle and Mary helped as best they could, for they were both busy enough with their own responsibilities. Mary, looking after the few rooms they kept open and aired and that had enough furniture to constitute anything being done to them, and Belle with trying to manage anything that could not be done by Mary, or Hannah, the cook, or their one male servant. It was not enough for a house that had once been something, like theirs, but it was all they could afford. She was also responsible for overseeing the servant’s work, kept the books and did her best to see to the less fortunate around them. 

She was able to take the morning walk to town, she desired. The rain had left sharp, November winds and her shawl and worn boots were hardly a match for the weather. There was nothing for it, but to walk at a brisk pace and allow the exertion to warm her. Town was not too far, in any case. 

Soon storefront windows glowed warm and bright showing off their goods to the passerby. Belle was only interested in the circular library, which lay on the other end of the street and was also home to the haberdashery shop, where she frequently bought thread to try to hem up her already made over gowns. There were few to bother her on such a cold and early morning, and she was glad to finally be inside the warmth it offered. 

“Miss. Ashe, what a pleasure!”

“Hello Dobson, how are you today?”

“Quite well, ma’am, quite well.”

Belle laid one worn gloved hand over the other on the counter and asked her frequent question. 

“Have you anything new?”

Dobson smiled, knowing exactly what she meant. “Indeed I do, indeed I do. It’s a gothic romance–will that be exactly your thing, do you think, miss?”

“Not normally, but I will admit I’d just about read anything–I’m in that sort of mood.” 

“In that case.” and he turned round to the shelf where rows of books sat, most of which Belle had read the last time they had come through. 

…

He had little sleep. Miss Ashe’s haunting song struck him more than he would have liked to admit, and he had woken earlier than usual and decided to try for the circular library. Jeffrey’s library was a sorry affair so he was off to where he had been directed in search of new reading, even if half of it was more ladies romantic nonsense and the shop boasted more fabric than books. 

A bell announced his entrance and the very person he had been trying to get out of his head was leaning over the counter, thumbing through the pages of a book. The clerk looked up at him. 

“Just one moment, sir.” 

Without having looked his way, Miss Ashe gave the man a thank you and turned to face him. 

“Mr. Gold!” Her cheeks were still pink from the cold outside, the light through the windows made her eyes an even sharper blue than he had seen yet. 

“Miss Ashe.” He bowed, slightly. 

Miss Ashe gave a pleasant smile, a smile that did something to the rhythm in his chest, and he did not like that it did so. 

“Have you come for gloves or books, sir?” She initiated. If this was her way of weaseling, he would not steep to her level

“Books.” he said shortly, gruffly, in a tone that barked, “Get away now!” 

Instead of startling and backing up, or running from the shop to get away, her face brightened, and her smile widened even more. 

“Our selection is not as fine as the cities’ boast, but there are several that I would recommend if you will allow.” Those eyes were too bright, her smile like a bit of warmth cutting through the cold iciness of the November day, and perhaps a piece of his stone cold heart–and that he could not allow. He could not be so exposed again. His glance at her own book helped him throw a cold blanket over the conversation. 

“Your own selection allows me to conclude that our tastes are not in unison, I thank you, good-day.” And he bowed and used his cane to turn to the side to let her pass, something he was hinting strongly that she do. The sharp blues caught his meaning, her chin rose ever so slightly, but the warmth that had been in her eyes before was now transformed into something that he instantly missed. She left but he could focus on nothing but her being there for the rest of the outing. 

It was ridiculous. He would conquer this. He must. 

…

“When is our next event?” Gold laid down his cards. He had, of course, won the hand. Jeffrey made no lamentation of this fact, for he had grown quite used to it. To play any game with any level of skill was to give the game up to Rupert Gold. Gold was unsure if the way he could observe, memorize and anticipate a play or card was a blessing or a curse, but it had made him a great deal of money, and helped provide him with many enemies, thankfully they did not include Jeffrey Hatfield. 

“What’s that? You are actually in anticipation of such an event?” Jeffrey’s face became one of mocked shock and eyes that held a good deal of mirth. 

Gold groaned. 

“You know how I feel about them, thus, I cannot remember what you tell me we have agreed to attend. But I…” He paused, knowing his next words would give him a look once he said them, and he could anticipate people’s reactions, especially those he knew well, about as well as he could anticipate the play of a card. “I do want to begin my goal in coming here, in earnest. You are correct…” At this there was the look that made an involuntary smile play on Gold’s face, despite bearing the brunt of the humiliation. “I will make no headway in my endeavor if I do not make myself known to others.”

“I can’t say I’m not glad, but what brought this about? You were content to sit in the shadow, yesterday, when you…It’s Miss Ashe, isn’t it?” Jeffrey’s eyes simply danced about in mirth once he caught on to his new idea. 

“I do not understand your meaning.” He was lying a bit too often for his taste. “That is to say…” He began to amend.

“You do not have to say more. She is a pretty thing. No money to speak of, but you’ve got it in spades. She’s not high enough in any sphere to be annoyed that you aren’t truly the son of old Mr…”

“Apparently I must say more, for you’ve got it all wrong. I want to meet other young ladies. As of yet, I’ve only held something that resembles a conversation with Miss Ashe, and I do not think she will be appropriate at all. She’s desperate, a desperate woman will use whatever means possible to raise herself. It would be just like last time.”

Jeffrey’s face screwed in a grimace. “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think? You’ve met the girl, what, twice?”

“Three times.” Gold instantly regretted his correction, as his friend’s eyebrows rose all the way to the tips of his wild heap of hair. 

“Three times.” Jeffrey smiled. “And while her father might be a bit of a…”

“Blaggard, beast, brute…” Gold supplied, which caused Jeffrey to send another look his way. He had thought a good deal too much about this. 

“Exactly. But that does not carry on to the daughter.”

“Does it not?” Gold felt his fist clenched without meaning to. Too late he found he had let old memories sully his present state of semi contentedness. 

“You of all people should know that the parent does not, the child’s character make.” Jeffrey looked as close to reprimanding as he would ever do. It was not in Jeffrey’s nature to dwell on disagreements for long. 

“I would say it was the exception, not the rule. But I take your point–I do not wish to argue further. But let me say this and take heed of my words, Miss Isabelle Ashe will take the first opportunity to improve her situation, no matter how low she must stoop. I will not be party to her schemes.”

“Who lives up to your standards then? I’ve heard you swear you will not marry for love and I can understand that. But how can you go about marrying someone without some level of trust?”

“Simple girl, simple family, with money enough not to need mine, and low enough socially that they will not expect preference from me. Trust will have nothing to do with it. Paperwork will have to do all of that for me.”

“I say this again, Gold, and not with teasing, for it hurts me to see you so broken over Coraline. You have no heart. No, you do have heart but you let so much of it get broken and bruised by that vile excuse for a woman. They aren’t all like that, you know. My Alice never was.”

Gold would not argue. Though the words "But you were never married, you do not know that for sure.” was on the tip of his tongue. He would not hurt his friend, though he might have much heart to speak of. Alice Lewis had been a sweet girl, engaged to Jeffrey for only a few months (though they had known each other a good many more) before she had caught a bad illness and died. It had broken him to the point that even Milah felt sorry for him and agreed to have him stay until his heart could heal. No, he would not argue with Jeffrey, though Gold’s experience taught him cynicism, he would not steal his friend’s optimism for the world. 

“Of course.” He said quietly, finally. And he spoke no more about it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

A Great Wager

Before the dreaded Thursday night came, Belle was a whirl of activity. There was the food to go over and then help prepare. They could not afford beef any longer, so a simple fare that included chicken would have to do. In fact, the whole event cost more than was ever gained through cards and wagers. She would be up all the next night trying to reconcile the difference, and hope they could afford tea the next month, and if not, do what she hated most, and use a bit of the money she had from her mother to make up the difference, so as not to provoke her father’s wrath. 

However, for the moment, she was able to stretch what they had, set up the only room in the house outside the dining room that was appropriate for guests, the room that her father insisted must be kept to the standard that the house used to boast. It was a facade, a pleasant deceit to the community. To come into this room would make a person think that the Ashe’s were a decently situated family, perhaps not so high in fashion, but well established and respectable. In every other room, there was only the echo of neglect and decay. 

It was as she suspected, the card party–a front for higher bets since the town had no gentleman’s club–only made their dire situation worse. The following day, while she was doing a bit of embroidery in her mother’s sitting room (a chair and table by the window being the only furniture–a solitary basket with her work the only decoration, everything else had been stripped bare) she was approached by Mary.

“Miss Belle?” The young maid’s face was made up of lines, noting distress. 

“What is it, Mary?” Belle’s heart sank. That look. She was all too familiar with it and the things that left the house soon afterwards. 

“It’s the carriage, David says a man’s here to take it.” David was her husband, their male servant who did the labor to be done out of doors. “I’ve tried Mr. Ashe’s study, but I cannot rouse him enough to open the door. I thought if you might…”

“Yes, Mary, I’ll do it.” Belle smiled, which only hid the great turmoil inside her.

“Papa?” She knocked on the study and heard a small clattering. He was in there and awake, by all accounts. “Papa, you must come out and see the man about the carriage. Is this what we owe him, Papa? Are we to lose the carriage too?” The last came out as half a sob. They were not very respectable, she knew this, but it was as if the carriage was the last bit of elegance they possessed, something that made her father at least look like a gentleman, and it was being taken away too. . 

“I will not lose it!” Was the answered shout behind the door, and she jumped when she heard glass shatter on the floor. The door flew open, showing her father with wide bloodshot eyes and dark splotches etched below them. His hair was unkempt and his clothes looked as if he hadn’t changed them from the night before. “He knew I would come into money in a few weeks–he knew to wait until my new opportunity came!” Spittle flew at Belle and she stepped back at the wildness that seemed to overtake him. He was low, and this was his way of masking how low he truly was. 

“Should I take care of it, Papa? I don’t think you are in a state to address him. Is he to take it, truly?” Her voice was calmer than she thought possible for the anguish built inside. 

“Take care of it? Do you have enough to smooth over this small debt? I didn’t think you had enough to, I would have…”

“No, Papa,” She attempted to soothe. It was her keenest hope that he would not be provoked to a burst of anger.  “I only meant that I would meet the man, in your place. I do not have the funds to address this debt. I hardly have enough to do anything of consequence, you know this.”

The wildness took on a narrowed look. “Do what you will then. Leave me to be shamed in front of my fellow man.”

She would like to argue, but to do so would certainly bring wrath, so she did not. But she did hold her chin a little higher, for her father would not put unnecessary guilt on her that she did not deserve. She did not have the money, what little she had from her mother went to the circular library, and to help them get past months where food was made difficult to stretch. The books might have seemed a silly expense, but she would rather escape a few hours than have warmer boots–or so she told herself. 

She turned away to go and deal with the situation herself. 

“Hello Miss Ashe, I’m sorry I am, to be here, to take it, but he offered it, fair and proper!”  The large shouldered man tugged this way and that at his cap. It was one of Papa’s ‘regulars’ that enjoyed the company and free flowing food and drink that the smaller card parties provided. He was a man of trade, but had seen his way into a good sum of money, always knew when to stop gambling, but enjoyed the thrill of the play regardless. It seems he would now have a gentleman’s carriage to go along with his newfound funds.

“Alright, Mr. Lloyd. I do not hold this against you, but I would like a document saying that our debt is satisfied.”

Mr. Lloyd nodded and Belle pulled out a roll of paper she had penned shortly before coming outside. The wind seemed to go straight through her dress and shawl and she tried to stand as straight as she could despite her teeth chattering in her head. 

The deed was done, the carriage was gone. 

…

Papa had ranted and raged at the world the entire night. He had been brought low, so low! He wailed. Lloyd was lauded by him as a cad and a blaggard for taking his carriage right from under him, and his own daughter could not find a way to smooth things over. What was to become of him!

All the optimism of the next venture they were waiting to hear about was no longer the source of hope it once was. On this night, everything was bleak and destitution crouched at the door. 

With her father stomping about the house in a drunken wail and fury, and her door being beaten upon a few times as he wondered loudly at what her mother would think about her inability to smooth things over, Belle did not sleep at all. At the very break of dawn, when she was sure the house was quiet at last, she slipped out, dressed in her warmest and pulled her shawl as close to her chest as she could. With her book stashed under her arm, she stumbled over the familiar walk, up to the little hill that she had claimed as her own when she was a child. There she could see the land stretched out in the brownish, bare way it did when winter was on the doorstep. The way the trees hunched over her dear fallen log that had been her little bench since she was a girl, shielded some of the wind, but she still huddled as close as she could in on herself and tried to lose herself in the book. 

…

Gold knew he had gone too far, but he had so much on his mind that he had gone several miles past his normal path before he had realized this fact. This was not good, especially when Jeffrey would be annoyed that he had gone earlier and would expect him to ride again–then again, perhaps Jeffrey would be grateful to go alone and at his own pace for once . His leg was throbbing when he finally found some sort of path that would hopefully lead him back towards Oakley Park, Hatfield’s place. He knew he was going in a general right direction, but he was yet unsure how far he had to go. 

As he broached a rather steep hill he noted a brownish shape nestled in a small group of trees and turned to it in curiosity. Coming closer he found that the brown shape was a woman–asleep, and upon further inspection was none other than Miss Ashe. Was he doomed to forever bump into this woman?! 

Politeness told him he ought to descend, his leg protested, and every fiber in his being desired to leave her, but when he got close enough to see her visibly shiver, the tiny piece of his heart that had yet to turn into solid stone, reckoned that his conscience might take a hit if she were to actually freeze to death when he could have done something to remedy it. 

Cursing his leg, cursing the girl, and cursing the blasted cold, he alighted his horse in the least graceful way possible, but at least he didn’t fall on his back, but found his footing, no matter how sore or stiff he was. The commotion ought to have woken her, but she lay still, the rise of her chest the only indication that she yet breathed. Her hands were splayed over the horrid gothic novel she had borrowed, and her leg dangled rather unlady-like and precariously–in fact, it was a wonder she had not fallen off. 

“Miss Ashe.” He spoke more gently than he had intended. It was either the soft curls escaping the confines of her bonnet, or the small sweep of her nose, or the way that even in slumber her cares were not carried away. It was one of these things added to a sudden madness that he must have adopted from Jeffrey, that kept his tone from barking out. 

She did not budge and Gold was beginning to fear that the cold had already dulled her ability to rouse. He cursed again (though only inwardly) and then dared gently shake her shoulder with his gloved hand. 

“Miss Ashe!” He spoke louder and finally got a reaction from the sleeping form, just not the one he had expected. 

”Please do not hurt me, Papa, I do not have the mon…” She jerked at his gentle nudge and he pulled back immediately as he watched in shock as she begged, who she believed to be her father, not to hurt her. This was contrary to the image that he had built of her–this was not the stuff that would callous his heart further. Her vulnerable look struck at all the well built walls his heart had taken shelter under. This would not do, not do at all!

…

Belle jolted from sleep as she felt a hand on her shoulder. Had her father found her? It seemed she would never escape him, even for a moment’s reprieve. She opened her eyes, expecting to find the angry, bloodshot eyes of her drunken father, but astonishingly she found not them, but Mr. Gold’s light brown eyes instead. They looked, almost, concerned? She must have imagined it, and she would not think of it, for she was instantly faced with the realization that Mr. Gold, elegant Mr. Gold, gruff Mr. Gold had found her asleep on a log, outside, with herself draped haphazardly on it and crying out pleas to who she thought was her father. What must he think of her? Despite the cold, she felt her cheeks grow warm from embarrassment. 

“Mr. Gold.” She finally acknowledged in mortification. 

“Miss Ashe.” And he bowed, as if this were a country dance and not him having caught her sleeping outside! “I believe I would advise against sleeping outdoors this close to December.”

Any bit of concern she thought she might have seen was now hidden by a sheen of stiff amusement at her predicament. 

“I am normally not so careless, I thank you for waking me.”

He merely bowed his head in acknowledgement. She tried to brush off her dress and to stand with as much grace as she could gather.

“Have you ridden all the way from Oakley Park?” She attempted, pointing in the direction of where Mr. Hatfield now resided. 

“I went further than I intended and I am still acclimating myself to the area. I am assuming this is part of Mr. Ashe’s property.” Mr. Gold said all this in his usual stiff way, which helped Belle to recover her past embarrassment. If he had looked at her with the usual bit of pity and annoyance many of the townsmen did, she would have been flustered. This was a Mr. Gold that she could address with some semblance of normalcy. He did not laugh at her, but he also did not pity her, and that was much to be preferred, she felt.

“Yes it is, though it's the very outskirts of it. I find the long walk helpful for clearing my mind. As you can see, we are near the road that leads both to town and in the direction of Oakley Park. “

He grunted another acknowledgment.

“I would invite you to the house to warm yourself with a warm fire and tea, but I’m afraid my father might be unavailable to help host…”

“I would not wish to trespass on your hospitality, good-day Miss Ashe.” 

And with as polite an exchange as they had had thus far, they bowed and curtsied towards each other, and she made sure that while she turned away when he would need to mount his horse, she did make sure she heard when he had done so, as she worried over the leg that must be stiff from his extended  ride, the cold, and his attempts at rescuing a half frozen sleeping maiden. Mr. Gold had helped her! She closed her eyes and tried not to give into the familiar waves of mortification. 

…

“Who knew the countryside could be so full of pretty girls, eh Gold?” Jeffrey’s eyes twinkled, Aunt Beatrice's eyes glanced at the both of them over her spectacles and gave a large huff. 

She went back to her sewing, Jeffrey had abandoned his pen and paper to laugh at the groans from his friend, and Gold, the groaning one, was doing so because Jeffrey had interrupted his reading for the fifth time in a single hour. 

“We have been to four family dinners and a large dinner party in a single fortnight and I have yet to find one that could boast of being more than tolerably well looking.” He tried to pick up his book again, but he knew this was in vain when Jeffrey let out a bursting laugh. 

“You are incorrigible. And so you will be pleased to hear we’ve been invited to a Christmas assembly where you’ll be able to see all those tolerably well looking ladies in one sitting! We’ve not gone to something this large since September, so perhaps this will be the blessed event that gains you your heart’s desire.” 

Gold wasn’t sure if it was he or Jeffrey’s aunt who groaned and rolled their eyes the strongest. 

“I do not think that a place where I will have so little to do, thanks to this…” He waved his cane sitting to his side. “Will be any better than a private dinner or dinner party. I’ll be forced to only speak to those who are lacking a partner.”

“Snob.” Aunt Beatrice snorted, causing Jeffrey to laugh again. 

“My thoughts exactly Aunt. I do not know what else to tell you, friend. Was not Miss Cray to your liking? What about Miss Grayson, or the younger Miss Ruby–now there’s a pretty face–or perhaps Miss Swan. Surely one of them has proven more than tolerable!” 

Gold closed his book in frustration. “You do not have to worry about your pretty faced Miss Ruby, for heartless soul though I may be I’ll not set my eyes on someone you’ve shown more than passing interest. She will not suit me, anyway, I think she dislikes me.”

Jeffery did not disagree, and looked rather relieved so Gold continued. 

“None of them have been noteworthy in looks or conversation–no matter how desperately they try.”

Gold shuttered. He had thus far been proven correct when he began trying to socialize more. The ladies had presented their best sides, trying to catch the mysterious and rich Mr. Gold. The most simpering ones he gave little attention to, which seemed to ignite the ire of their mothers. Whispers of “Why does he now come out of the shadows? Is it true that he is a widower? Have you heard of the gambling dens he frequented in his past? I was told that he inherited the property by sheer luck, not born to it at all. Would it be worth it for our girls?” might not have all been heard by Gold, but Aunt Beatrice's huffs and scoffs when they had come back from those dinners and parties settled the matter. Gold groaned over again at how even in the country, his past would forever follow him. 

Another whisper that had been circulated among the dinner party, one that Gold did overhear, was about why Mr. Ashe and his daughter were not in attendance.

“She gave a polite little note, always polite, poor Miss Ashe, if only her father…well, the note said that her father was indisposed.” the hostess had said to a small group standing near. 

“Not that his indisposition has ever kept him home before!” Another voice argued. 

“Now I won’t have such gossip be thrown around my house.” She told the man that was now identified as her husband. “But I will tell you that it is said that at his dinner party , Thursday last.” She exaggerated the word with much meaning. It was clear to the whole room what went on at such a party just as it was clear that gossip, as long as it was uttered by her, was acceptable in her house. “That he lost something quite valuable and that Mr. Lloyd was seen about town in a carriage that he did not own before, and that looked very much like the carriage that Mr. Ashe formerly owned. It is not confirmed, of course. I would not want a false word to be spread about them for all the world, however…” and with that, Gold ceased looking subconsciously in the shadows for a Miss Ashe that would not come. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

The Christmas Assembly

“You look well Miss.” 

“Thank you, Mary. It is all thanks to the miracle you performed on my hair that deserves the credit. I can never keep my hair under such good regulation. You’ve trained my curls to go exactly in a pleasing way, not in the helter skelter way they normally do.” 

Mary beamed and curtsied. She left Belle looking over herself a final time before coaxing her father to ready himself for the Grayson's carriage.

Once settled in the carriage, she tried to sit up straight and pull as much courage as she could in the made over gown of her mother’s, riding in a carriage that had been offered by friends who felt sorry for them, and pulling up to an assembly where her father would begin the evening already half drunk, if his manners and slurred coarse words towards her were any indication. 

She was not one to dwell in the depths of melancholy–if she was such a person, she would have feigned a headache and remained on her bed for every event since her mother died–however, she did  allow herself a brief, sad sigh on the approach to the assembly room, now filled with noise and laugher and music. When the night could only be filled with fresh mortification, it was hard not to let the sigh escape. Her father, normally not very observant, heard her utterance and it had the misfortune to bring his attention upon herself. . 

“No shadows tonight, Belle. You do yourself no favors by hiding away.” It was spoken like a threat and she nodded in agreement to his terms.

It was no surprise that her father took no time leaving her side to search out the card room, and she thankfully found Ruby soon afterwards. 

“You’ve been greatly missed. Our Christmas social events have been a bore without you!” Ruby exaggerated. 

“Why do I find this so hard to believe–especially when you’ve only a passing glance to spare your friend, but you’ve not stopped looking in Mr. Hatfield’s direction.” Belle gave a laugh. It was good to smile, even though the meat of her words remained true. Her friend was distracted, and while she would not disparage Ruby’s focus, she gave in to a selfish moment of sorrow at the thought of losing a friend to possible matrimony. 

Ruby waved her remark away, though straightened and smiled  immediately, when Mr. Hatfield approached them. 

“Miss Grayson, Miss Ashe, how very pleased I am to see you both!” Mr. Hatfield’s smile widened. 

They curtsied and gave a polite reply. 

“Miss Grayson, if you are not otherwise engaged, might I have the first two dances?”

Ruby colored very prettily and said all the most correct and politest of things. To be singled out for two dances had Ruby almost spinning in unladylike joy when he had walked off. 

“Two dances, Belle, Two dances!”

“I must congratulate you, Ruby.”

Ruby gave her a pointed, sly look. “I shall rub it in my sister’s nose when we are home, you know.”

Belle shook her head and smiled. “I would hate to say anything against you, tonight, not after your generosity in suggesting to your father your carriage, but I will not allow this. It is unkind!”

Ruby made her face twist up as if upset, though her eyes were bright with amusement. “If you had a sister, or a brother even, you would know the delight one enjoys, besting ones sibling in something–anything. Anna is much too conceited for her own good, and you know it.”

A pain flickered in Belle’s chest at the words so teasingly spoken. 

“Oh Belle, I didn’t think, I didn't mean…” 

“It’s quite alright, Ruby.” And it was. She knew her friend had not thought through her words, but the pain was inflicted, despite intentions.

…

Gold had no intention of joining the older men at cards, but also had no hope of enjoying watching people dance when he knew himself to be tethered to the same area as slighted women or ones past their dancing prime. He separated himself from Jeffrey, knowing that his presence would only put a damper on anything that his friend wanted to do, and decided to walk along the outer walls, in search of a good place to anchor himself. 

He spotted Miss Ashe directly before seeing Jeffrey charm his way into dancing two dances with Miss Ruby Grayson. He had come closer to the pair of friends, purely without thinking. Miss Ashe was shaking her head at something Miss Ruby had said, and the plump ringlets that framed her face bounced with the movement. He inwardly chastised himself at the way his eyes betrayed him and seemed determined to focus on Miss Ashe. Her piercing blue eyes that suddenly flicked with a burst of pain, the way she gave a small smile despite the pain, and the way the small cross that lay on her neck rose with every breath she took–each part of her vying for his attention. 

He found a chair nearby and decided that his leg suddenly pained him, that it just happened to be in exactly a spot to catch pieces of what they said was merely coincidence. He only hoped they would continue to not notice how near he was to them. 

“Speaking of conceited family.” Miss Ruby spoke. “My cousin, Mr. Gaston will be visiting us shortly after the Christmas season.”

The color in Miss Ashe’s face drained at her friend’s words and Gold found himself leaning forward slightly, desperately curious to find out what made Miss Ashe respond in such a way. 

“I see.” He just made out her words. 

“I know you do not like him, but he is still madly in love with you, you know, and swears that his return is to secure your hand.”

Miss Ashe shook her head again, but a sharp, cold look had taken over her features. “I am afraid he will not be successful.” She lifted her chin slightly and pulled herself up a little straighter. 

“Pardon my bluntness dear friend, but you know I do it only in a desire to see you settled. My cousin might not be the brightest man...”

Miss Ashe tilted her head and gave Miss Ruby a look that declared this to be obvious and perhaps an understatement. Miss Ruby continued. 

“...But he is financially stable. He will give you freedom from your father and means to buy all the things you’ve been denied since your dear mother died.”

“I know.” He saw Miss Ashe visibly swallow, even from where he sat. Her words were weighted, carefully uttered and he couldn’t help but hope to catch each one, so honestly did they seem to be spoken. “I know that my options are limited. I know that anyone else who might be suitable would scorn an alliance with the daughter of a man who gambles his living away and who has no dowry to tempt him. I know it must seem foolish for me to do anything other than accept a man who would offer me financial security.”

“I feel there is a nevertheless in there somewhere.”

“ Nevertheless I would not trade my present situation, hard though it might be, for a situation that at the very least promises that I will be just as unhappy as I am now.  I am certain it will be far worse. He cannot make me happy and I know that were I to accept his hand, the day I ceased pleasing him would come soon and greatly to my detriment. I just hope Mr. Gaston’s intentions do not get told to my father.” She shuddered, and the action did something to Gold’s chest, just as the shiver had done to him when she lay sleeping outside. “I know you mean nothing by your remarks, but please understand that were Mr. Gaston twice as prosperous, the answer would still be the same. His look frightens me.”

Jeffrey came at this moment to take her friend away and Miss Ashe was left looking on with worried contemplation. A young man or two had looked her way, perhaps one looked as if he might be considering her for a dance, but a whisper from a companion would have him color and then walk on, leaving Miss Ashe to bear the obvious slight.

Gold wished he could head back to Oakley Park to think on all he had heard that night. The things Miss Ashe had declared were in direct opposition to what he had thought of her. Perhaps he did not have an instant blossoming of trust, but that she would reject the possibility of marriage to someone she did not like despite the promise of financial gain baffled him and his prior experience. 

Miss Ashe glanced his way and met his eyes. If she realized that he had heard their private conversation, she hid it well. Instead she smiled and waited to see if he would acknowledge her. Her glance was uncertain and hesitant and she glanced around to see if anyone might be focused on her actions. When her glance came back to him (the work of a mere second) he gave his own smile and nodded his head towards a nearby chair in invitation. When she moved to come closer he made ready to stand but she waved her hand to curtail it. 

“Please sir, you must not stand for me.” she spoke hurriedly as she curtsied and then sat down at a chair nearby. 

“Are you well, Miss Ashe?” He instead went for another polite phrase, not really knowing how to proceed with all he had gleaned that night. His mind was working faster than it should at an assembly dance. Oh to be back in the privacy of his own room for such thoughts! 

“Very well, Mr. Gold, thank you.”

“No more sleeping outdoors, I hope.” He gave a sly smile at the remark, hoping it would put her at her ease and help that polite smile broaden. It seemed to work.

“No sir, I’ve taken great care not to do such a foolish thing again. I must thank you, again, for waking me.”

He noted that she did not flutter her eyelashes or give ridiculous giggles, or any other such annoying thing. She only ever looked cautiously pleased. He realized that he had never seen her without that second look, the look that reminded him that she was always anticipating mortification. What a life that would be! His pained heart could not allow for much else but a remembrance of grief and heartbreak, but he would be lying to himself if he said he did not wish something could be done to press away the care lines in Miss Ashe’s face. What he would do to brighten her eyes! 

This line of thinking was there for a moment before he reminded himself of his experience with the opposite sex. It would not do to allow himself to be carried away by her. He could lament her situation in a cold, calculated, businesslike manner. 

Jeffrey came and took Miss Ashe away for a dance, to the amazement of the room. He heard whispers, but since he had less interest in what they had to say, he did not get any closer to make it out, other than the general “Mr. Hatfield finds it no degradation to be seen with her.” sentiments. This caused at least three other young men to find their courage and dance with her, and while the worry seemed permanently etched on her face, he could see that the movement and the music seemed to give her face a glow that could only be described as delightful. 

When she had finished, to his great surprise, she walked towards him and with a tilt of her head and a question in her eyes, she hesitated once again. He offered the seat and she approached with a smile. 

“I am sorry to not be able to ask you for the dance after, Miss Ashe, you seem to be well suited for dancing.” He was saying something exactly the way Jeffrey would. Well, he was rewarded with a bright smile and a tinge of pink to her already exerted cheeks, so perhaps Jeffrey knew what he was about. 

“I thank you, Mr. Gold, but I am not adverse to some rest. I will admit that I am quite out of practice.” Her face crumpled a little, that worried look grew stronger, though pensive might have been the more apt description. “Your friend was very kind.” She said in a smaller voice, but the honesty with which she spoke and the small, sad smile made his chest ache again. 

“Would you like some punch, Miss Ashe?” He suddenly felt as if he were invading her private moment and needed to get away.

Her forehead furrowed.”It will be no burden?” 

He knew what she was asking. She was wondering if he was capable of carrying both glasses in his hand and managing his limp at the same time. He ought to be angry at her insinuation that he was incapable of the feat, instead he found himself smiling. 

“It’s not too great a hurdle, I assure you.”

Her forehead only relaxed a little. “Then, I am a little thirsty, Mr. Gold, thank you.” 

Before he even rose to go get the punch, Mr. Grayson approached Miss Ashe. His face was grave and apologetic. 

“Miss Belle, I’m afraid you need to take your father home. I have called my carriage for you and it will be at the door, presently. Come, I’ve only made it to the entrance of this room with him.” The three of them glanced over where Miss Ashe’s father was slumped over on a chair, chanting something, though blessedly the din of the dance was much too loud to hear him. 

“Thank you, Mr. Grayson, I am sorry for the embarrassment it must have cost you to escort him this far.” 

There was no second look to accompany the worried one for Miss Ashe any longer. She was wading through the fresh mortification now, and doing her best to keep her head above water. Mr. Gold had always prided himself on his powers of observation but only a simpleton would not notice her struggle against tears. He desperately clung to anything that would help him rebuild his wall of stone against such looks, but found himself unable to do so. He could do nothing but observe. 

“It is not your fault, Miss Belle. He is brought low again, I’m afraid. Charlie, Mr. Eshton, has let him know of his failed endeavor and he was unprepared for such news at an assembly and blames Eshton for holding his debts against him.”

Miss Ashe paled. “It failed.” She whispered. “Thank you for the information, please let Ruby know my reasons for leaving. Good evening to you. And...” She turned to him, her face a shade of crimson, her eyes blinking back what he knew to be tears, but her voice was steady.

“I am sorry, but I’m afraid I will not be able to have that punch.” Her voice wobbled ever so slightly. “Good evening, Mr. Gold.”

He managed to stand quickly, despite his aching leg to properly bow his goodbye, which seemed to make her even more distressed as she nearly fled into the crowd to retrieve her father. He could see her struggling under the weight as her sorry excuse for a father did little to help her. He wished he could pull Jeffrey out of the dance to go to her aid, but by the time the dance ended she had managed it. 

After that the dance held no interest and he knew he scowled and glared at everyone for the rest of the evening. Jeffrey was too happy to notice his discontent, which suited him well. He was happy to finally be in Jeffrey’s library that evening, with a little to drink in an attempt to settle his mind, and to organize his thoughts accordingly. 

…

Belle curled around herself under her blanket, as she struggled to latch onto the warmer memories of the night. There was the surprise when Mr. Hatfield danced with her and caused a few of the other men to set aside their own wariness and dance with her. She had pretended for those dances that she was a respected lady and the men were eager to ask her for a second dance. It was a nice dream, and when the dances were over and it was time to find her way back to the spectating area of the dance, she did so with no ill will to her fellow townsmen. It was not their fault that her father embarrassed himself to the point where the only recourse was polite distancing. She was grateful for the friendship of Ruby and now the kindness of both Mr. Hatfield, and Mr. Gold! 

She had been surprised when he invited her to sit beside him the first time, and even more surprised when he seemed happy that she chose to come back after the dances. She was sure he would turn back to his cold elegance where he would respond by biting remarks, but he did not. She was unsure what had brought on such a change, but she was pleasantly surprised and found herself being more open with him than she ought, he had been uncomfortable, she had made him uncomfortable and he had wanted to get away. 

And then her father! That sent her back curling in on herself again. The memory of the shame of it all came back as if it had happened only seconds earlier. When Mr. Gold had stood up, despite how much she knew his leg must give him pain, and bowed to her as if she was still someone that deserved polite attention nearly broke her. 

She felt broken. She had no idea how much her father now owed Mr. Eshton for his part in the ‘venture’, and between it, the memory of her and her father’s public shame, as well as the aching wish for her mother, she cried herself to sleep.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6 

In the Cards

“I want to go to Mr. Eshton’s, is it too late to accept?” Gold burst onto the breakfast scene determination in his limping gait. Jeffrey eyed him in surprise, Aunt Beatrice narrowed her own eyes in suspicion but said nothing. 

“This is a sudden scheme, Gold. I thought you…”

Gold waved him off. “Never mind that, what do you think, shall I shock the neighborhood with my attendance?”

“You will, yet I daresay they will not be offended too much if you are to bring your pocketbook with you–for they do not know what I do, that you cannot lose.” Jeffrey chuckled. “But what brought this about? I thought you were trying to smooth over that part of your reputation? And while I think these private parties in the country are less worried about polite acceptances so far in advance, you will cause talk, for good or bad I know not.” 

“I find that I no longer care and it is furthering my purpose now to join.”

Jeffrey looked at him with one of his sharp looks that always carried the undercurrent of bubbling laughter. “Ah, you have a plan. Does this mean I am to wish you joy?”

Gold groaned at the smile budding behind Jeffrey’s cup. 

“As usual, you are premature in these areas. Now, if you will be so kind, accept the invitation on my behalf when you get a chance.”

“It shall be done. But I would dearly love to hear this plan of yours and how it will fulfill your purpose in coming here.”

“In good time, Jeffrey, in good time. As much as I have confidence in my next steps, I am not one to boast until I’ve obtained what I set out to claim.”

And so the conversation was turned to something else, much to the pleasure of all present, except perhaps Jeffrey. 

…

“Please, Papa, do not go tonight.” Belle begged. She was not used to talking back, not used to using her tears and pleas to beg her father for anything. It never did any good, regardless. But she could not see him go to spend money they did not have, to satisfy his appetite for drink and cards with people who would only scorn his attendance, without doing something. 

“I will not be told what to do and not do by a woman, my own daughter no less!”

“But it will only end in misery for all of us. What will we lose next, the chairs upon which we sit?” Her voice was high and miserable. 

As she feared, her words did nothing to help the situation, and might have, in fact, made it worse. 

“You will not talk to me in such a way, I know what I’m about.” He growled.

“But after the venture, we have nothing left I am sure–how can you even face Mr. Eshton with how much we owe?” Belle pleaded. 

She felt a sharp pain on her cheek, reminding her why she hardly ever pleaded. 

“That’s enough.” Her father’s voice was final and she hung her head as tears trailed down her stinging cheek. 

She said no more. It had been a foolish endeavor, yet she had tried. She had tried to ask her father  how much he had wagered in the venture so she could begin to prepare herself for what was to come, but his response had been very similar to the one he had just given. In fact, her face held a lingering bruise where his knuckles had swung. That he was not sober, and had not been since finding out he had lost everything, was the excuse she had given him as she nursed her aching face, trying to shut out the memory of him shaking her until her head ached and then hitting her when she had gone to his study to try to find some documented evidence of his part of the scheme. 

Her father would go–to spend what money, she did not know–and she would be left to share in his shame when he returned. 

…

The drawing room was small in comparison to Oakley Park’s, minuscule in comparison to his own home. Eshton was a man of some means who lived comfortably in town. It would have been rather frowned upon at one time, and Gold’s reputation was on so thin a piece of ice that were he in London and not in some small town in the country a man such as Eshton who had risen from the lower classes would not be entertained as an acquaintance. Then again, Gold had always held to the belief that there was no difficulty that a bit of money could not smooth over. Gossip would swirl around him, but he could always count on a good number of people willing to put their ideas of good breeding aside, if they thought that a connection to him would be worth the pursuit. So it was that Eshton’s background gave him only a moment's pause, his true agenda in coming was fresh on his mind, and this was the quickest way to find out what he needed to know before writing to his banker and whoever else needed. It was also time for the little town to find out just what sort of man had come to their area. 

“Mr Hatfield, Mr. Gold, I was pleased to receive your note, that you would come after all! We are a small group, as you see here, but the games normally prove titillating enough that I hope you will be entertained.”

Gold and Jeffrey gave the appropriate bow to Eshton and Jeffrey went on with the pleasantries that made him so generally liked, and Gold scowled enough to gain his usual respected distance. 

At that moment a youngish man came in laughing, “Mr. Ashe came behind me on his horse. I wager the man’s not got two pennies to rub together to spend and he’s nearly fallen off his horse twice, he’s so foxed.”  Eshton’s face darkened a considerable bit. 

“He’ll not wager any money tonight. Any money he brought is mine!” A few shouts of agreement rang out, especially by those who also declared they were owed by Mr Ashe. Gold made a mental note of those particular men. Mr. Ashe was announced and staggered in, unable to take two steps together without nearly toppling. Eshton approached him and spoke softly enough that the group of men did not hear. Mr Ashe had no such consideration for the volume of his voice.

“And so you’ll throw me out, will you? After all I’ve contributed to the gathering we do here. I’ve hosted more times than any man here, tell me I haven’t. No woman can tell me where I can and cannot go, neither can you, Eshton.”

The man’s fists were balled up as he staggered forward in an attempt to bully his way past. Eshton would not have it and asked his male servants to help Mr. Ashe to his horse. 

“Do not make a spectacle of yourself, Mr. Ashe. Go home, sleep it off.” Eshton’s voice was firm. The fight was knocked out of Mr. Ashe as two strong arms carried him away. A sliver of icy fear stung at Gold’s heart as he contemplated Mr. Ashe’s stormy face. 

“No, Papa, do not hurt me.” pulled forth from his memory. Would Mr. Ashe take his humiliation out on his daughter?  

Wall of stone, Gold, heart of stone. He told himself, as part of him wanted to hurt Mr. Ashe before he could hurt his daughter. These were not the feelings to entertain when he must focus on his plan. This could be part of his motivation, but to dwell on them too much would expose his heart to the pain he had come to know so well. 

For a good few minutes a sense of tension hung about the room, but when the cards were brought out and wagers began, ease made its way back again. 

He purposefully sat by Mr. Eshton, and had used the scene so fresh in everyone’s minds to start the conversation he had come to have. 

“Mr. Ashe owes you a great deal, then. Do you think he will pay it?” For all that Gold hated social encounters, he could school his face into one of neutral and polite interest. When Eshton looked up, he would find no second motive in his tone or demeanor. 

Eshton shook his head. “Would that he had been as wise as the other men who pitched in with me, instead of betting against my man in the venture. Instead, he bet the mortgage on his land and house—he’s lost everything, and he’ll have no choice but to give it up.”

“Ah! There you are, Gaston.” Mr. Grayson stood up from another table and met a tall, dark headed man who had just stepped into the room. 

“Mr. Eshton, I do not know if you remember my nephew, Mr Gaston.”

A short bow was made by both men. Other introductions or good evenings, whichever was needed, were made about the room. Gold’s turn came and he had to concentrate on keeping his neutral expression in place. 

The man was tall and well built, and he could see some of the family features that connected both Miss Ruby and her cousin. However, the man laughed too much and not in the intelligent way Jeffrey did. It was boisterous, and forced. He joined Mr. Grayson’s table, but Gold could hear every word that came out of the loud man’s mouth. He tried to go back to his original conversation, though not before allowing the game to progress and laying down his first winning hand. 

“Good hand, Mr. Gold!” the table around him erupted. Gold managed to give a polite nod. Jeffrey caught his eye and gave a crooked, knowing smile. 

“And so few have little hope of being paid by Mr. Ashe, I think. Does the land that sits upon have any interest for you?” Gold asked, when they had begun the next hand, a conversation of the success of the venture being his way back to his purpose. 

“Not that old place. Have you been inside?” Eshton laughed as he said it, shaking his head. 

“I’ve not had the pleasure.”

“Not much pleasure to be had there, I’m afraid. Ashe keeps the dining room and the front parlor in good condition, but if the amount of things coming from his house rumored to be sold is true, the rest of the house must be nearly empty! The land has not been kept up–I think Miss Ashe has a pretty little garden, but the land isn’t large enough for leasing, and it will take more work than it’s worth to possess.”

“I see.” Gold laid down his next winning hand, glad to hear the man’s sentiments on the subject. He had not seen the inside of the Ashe home, or seen very much of the land surrounding it (except for a log that fell across a particular hill), but he had heard enough to hope that the land would hold little value for a man who would prefer cash in hand. 

“You are very lucky tonight, Mr. Gold.” Mr. Brown, the man to his left remarked, and he shifted in his chair with a little suspicion. Good. It was time that they knew how much of his rumored luck with cards was true, that he was a man who simply could not–would not–lose. He smiled politely and nodded again. Each man wagered with some hesitancy, but continued to do it regardless of their suspicions. 

The game began again and conversations came and went, Gaston boisterously told the room exactly how profitable his night was going, and Gold was more than glad he was not at the same table. 

It was beginning to be a crucial time in the play, Gold knew based on the cards played, and the looks he had observed from each man, which one thought he had the winning hand, and which one actually had it. He would bide his time, wager what was necessary, until he made sure that his cards would carry the game. He won the hand, a new game was started, the bets were brought forth. A couple of men now stood on the outskirts of the table, having spent their limit–wiser for the action, Gold thought. He thought Eshton, for all that he now had Mr. Ashe’s largest debt in his hands, was only the victor through sheer luck. The venture had been foolish for both sides, a pastime born out of laziness from them both. He could see the wild tint to Eshton’s eyes as it conveyed all the highs and lows of the game. Gold could read him like a book, and as the bets piled higher, he enjoyed watching him squirm.

“I’m out!” The man to his left laid down his cards, and Gold was able to quickly analyze which ones would then be left and knew for certain that he would have the upper hand again in a couple of plays. “These stakes are getting too high for me, tonight, I’ll not be made a fool, for certain–I know my limit!” The man insisted and went off to get himself another drink and chat with a group from another table. 

The pile in the middle made his fellow players nervous, he could feel it.He could see the man on his right shifting slightly in his seat, letting him know that his hand was no longer as promising, and Mr. Eshton had beads of sweat on his face, noting his own lack of confidence in his hand. In minutes the game was his, and caused groans to be uttered by both men, his host had set down his hand rather forcefully. 

Jeffrey, by this point, had joined the other men that had bowed out gracefully and jovially talked to one about hunting. This caused Gaston to want to join in, and he began to speak on about his own exploits and the ins and outs of his favorite pointer.

Eshton leaned in a little closer, his face full of sweat and anxiousness. It was now just he and Eshton left at the table. 

“Are you out yet, sir?” 

Gold told him he was game if he was, and Gold did everything in his power to reign in the smile that kept wanting to come. This was exactly what he desired, and Eshton was right where he wanted him. 

Gold threw the game. Eshton’s excitement over his winnings was loud and announced to the whole room. Jeffrey gave him a smug glance. I know how this will end! It told him and Gold did not give him the satisfaction of a similar look from himself. He must play this out to his desired end. 

“Will you not play one more round, Mr. Gold? I feel my luck has turned.” Mr. Eshton smiled in a congenial way, but Gold could see the way he leaned forward, anxious to gain his losses back. Gold settled back into his chair, and fiddled with his cane, as if he might be a little anxious about losing. 

“In that case, I am worried about playing another hand with you, Mr. Eshton, perhaps I should quit while I still have some winnings to take with me.”

“Surely not, Mr. Gold! You are not a man to be shied away by one loss, I think.”

Gold placed his hand under his chin in feigned contemplation. 

“Alright, Mr. Eshton. How about this, I will bet all of tonight's winnings as well as an additional —-pounds.” 

Eshton’s eyebrows rose and he gasped at the number. Instantly he looked less certain than before as he wondered at what would be required on his own side. “However,” Gold continued, “I would like, if I win, to be able to pay five shillings to every pound of what Mr Ashe’s mortgage is worth.”

“You have interest in the place?” Eshton stumbled. It was clear he was baffled by the prospect. 

“I have the opportunity to purchase land at a fraction of the cost, this seems good business whether or not I have interest in the land.” Gold replied.

“B-but do not see how you come out the victor here—I shall either win a great amount of money, or else obtain more funds than I could have likely squeezed out of that place. You, on the other hand, might get his crumbling house, but…”

“Let me worry about that, Mr. Eshton. You must allow me, my eccentric ways. You will gain regardless, will you not?”

“I suppose so.” He stammered, but almost reluctantly began the game. He spied Gold with a tilted head and a suspicious glare at least a half a dozen times throughout the game. Gold gave nothing away and quietly won the game. The room gave a collective gasp as the onlookers had gathered around the room to speculate on the outcome. 

“If you will be so kind as to send the paperwork in the morning, Mr. Eshton, I’ll have my man make sure you are paid. I thank you for the evening.  Mr. Hatfield, are you ready to leave?”

The way back to Oakley Park was quiet for only five minutes before Jeffrey could bear it no longer. 

“So you played Mr. Eshton all evening, for what? To pay too much for something that you will never get your full return? You were the loser regardless in that hand, and I’ve never known you to be reckless before–so, I must assume you had a purpose?”

“I did.” Gold said simply, knowing that responding thus would have his friend irked. 

“And will you not tell me?”

“I want to buy all of Mr. Ashe’s debts. Mr. Eshton owned the greatest amount. If I would have approached him directly, he would have made me negotiate and I would have likely paid twice what I did. Now he believes he has had the upper hand with the whole thing, and I’ve gotten what I wanted at a bargain.”

Jeffrey’s forehead creased. “This is all well and good if there was something to gain from this, but I still don't follow your logic, I’m afraid.”

“Do you not?” Gold raised his eyebrow at his friend.

“ What can you possibly…Oh Gold, tell me you are not thinking what I think you are.”

Gold shrugged. Jeffrey shook his head. 

“Leave it to you, Gold, to try to win a lady’s hand through such mercenary means.” Jeffrey groaned. 

There was a feeling, a nervous flutter in the pit of Gold’s stomach that told him that no matter his efforts, there was a chance that Miss Ashe’s words about that lout, Gaston, would be applied to him too. 

Please understand that were you twice as prosperous, the answer would still be the same. Your gruff manners frighten me.

It mattered not. He had it in his head to save Miss Ashe and gain for himself a bride at the same time. It was nothing sentimental, he argued, and yet if she turned him down– he knew his heart would be pained yet again. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

Splintered Hopes

“Miss Belle! Miss Belle!” Mary barged into her mother’s sitting room. Belle had curled up next to the small fire and held the book as close as she could to read. Candles, wood, these would be expensive commodities soon, she would not waste them. 

A worried Mary burst through and did only the faintest curtsies, waiting for Belle to let her continue.

“What is it Mary?” Belle’s heart thundered in her chest. Now that she pulled her face out of the book and allowed the sounds of the house to approach her, she could hear a rumbling noise and it caused her to set her book down to better face whatever Mary was about to reveal. 

“It’s the master, Mr. Ashe, he’s back and I–I don’t think he’s well, ma’am.” The first part was said in a burst of energy, the latter half spoken as if she had realized this fact and caught herself. 

“Not very well?” Belle needed things clarified while she tried to shuffle through what had been said. Her father was back from cards already? She would be glad he had not much opportunity to gamble, but he would not have stopped on his own volition. Which meant he had been thrown out. She squeezed her eyes shut, shutting out the thought of the degradation while Mary continued. 

“He’s crying and wailing, and knocking things about–I’m afraid he might do himself some harm.”

That did clarify things and Belle went towards the hall, listening for her father. She tried not to think too hard on what she might be approaching. Her father had slapped her before he left, what might being thrown out of a social event do? Even so, no matter how he treated her, she did not wish for him to hurt himself, or even worse, someone else. Hannah, the gentle old cook, or Mary if she happened to get in his way–no, it would be better if she could steer him towards his room, to have it out on his own furniture, upon his own self if need be. 

A crash alerted her towards the specific direction, and the moan that followed caused no little amount of trepidation. 

“Papa?” She approached him warily, not daring to get too near or else be treated as the small table he had thrown down. Why had he gone to the parlor? The one room that had some furniture of value was now being stomped through by a rampaging drunk man. 

“Papa.” She spoke again, softer as there was an interval between the rage. He turned towards her and she made herself stand still. She wanted to flee. His shirt was untucked, his cravat completely undone, his jacket was on the floor–his one good jacket–and his vest was unbuttoned. His face was red, his eyes bloodshot with dark rings encircling them, and his eyebrows were almost up to his hairline, as he looked around with wide, crazed eyes that immediately crumpled upon seeing Belle. 

“Oh Colette! Colette, do not see me thus!” And he took the two large hands that had wrought so much damage and buried his face in them and wept. 

Belle did not know what to think. She was aware that her coloring, size, and general looks were very much like her mother. However, her father had never been so drunk before that he mistook her for his deceased wife, nor ever heard her mother be spoken about in such a pleading way. To see her father brought so low, broke a little of Belle’s heart. 

“Oh Papa, what have you done?” She said sadly, and mostly to herself, never expecting an answer. Her father threw himself down upon the one chair that remained upright and wept all the more. 

“It’s all gone, everything! We are destitute Colette! Why would you leave me here to suffer while you go on without me?! Eshton has it–our house and land–it seemed like such a good thing to stake at the time, would have solved all our problems! Tom the grocer will want his share of me, I owe a good amount even to Grayson–there’s nothing left! Destitute, we are destitute! Will you not intervene?! Shall I be sent to debtors' prison for trying to make things better?!”

He said all this in a sing-song, slurred way. He was entreating heaven and earth in a bazaar fashion that made Belle wonder if he didn’t know it was indeed her, and not her mother, there all along, but it put him in mind of her mother and so shamed him. Then she didn’t know if he accused or pleaded with her. Belle’s heart was all muddled with what to feel. She only knew that her own fate was mixed up in his, and yet…and yet. She smoothed his hair and kissed his forehead in the way she did so long ago when she was a little girl. Her mother hid all the worst aspects of her father. To her, he was a jolly soul who would place her on his knee and let her kiss him on his forehead before bedtime. Maturity had taken away the rosy hue to the memory, as she knew her mother had taken such great pains to give them to her. Yet in this moment, it was he who was small and vulnerable and broken. Tomorrow his head would hurt and he would be angry with the world for his problems. Tonight he was her dear Papa once again. 

“Come, Papa, let me help you to your room. Shall I send David to help you?” It was not David’s job, but he had been good enough to help Belle a few times when her father was too useless to help himself. 

Her father did not reply, only staggering to his feet to let her lead him. He stumbled over the chaos in the room, almost causing her to topple over. Mary, who had discreetly stayed nearby to see if Belle needed any help, came and took the other side to help him along. When her father fell into the bed with his skewed clothes still on, Belle sighed. 

“I think this may be all we can do for him, tonight, Mary. Thank you for helping me. And, and I know it goes without saying, but if you’ll have the goodness to not…” A lump formed in her throat and she had a hard time getting over the words. 

“Don’t worry, Miss Belle. Besides, I don’t think he knew half of what he said. I’m sure it can’t be nearly as bad as all that.”

Belle nodded, though remained skeptical of Mary’s words. It had to be bad for him to be barred from the card party. She had remembered his boasting that the venture would solve all their problems–it would have to have been something rather large that he had staked. No, she had no hopes that things were better than she supposed, if anything, knowing her father like she did, she expected things to be worse.

There was wound tension in the house the next day, ready to be set off by any small thing. Belle dreaded the wakening of her father, listened for foot falls to come towards the parlor to give it another good thrashing, and her along with it. 

She wondered that Mr. Eshton had yet to come and tell them his plans. Would they have months to remove themselves? weeks? Where would they go? 

Mary and Belle began, after breakfast, to right the room left in chaos. They had made only a small beginning when her father approached, newly dressed but his attire still a little askew from putting it on in his present state. 

“Leave it!” He whispered as loudly as he could. She imagined his head pained him too much to be any louder. She wasn’t sorry for it–if he was in such a state, perhaps he would be in too much pain to lash out at her. 

“You do not want the room set to rights?” She questioned, though as quietly and carefully as she could. She would not test her father’s forbearance. It seemed so strange that he did not want the room that had always been their facade to be left in shambles. This was it, the thing that made their situation tangible and real, in all its horror. Belle felt helpless, more so than she ever had before. There were no balance books to manage, no money to smooth things over so they might have sugar or tea for a few more months, no furniture to sell, nothing. 

Belle had wandered aimlessly around the house, her sense of purpose having been stripped away by the last few day’s events. It was a glance out the window that faced the road leading to their home, that she spied the black carriage that she knew belonged to the Grayson’s. She hoped it was only Ruby not wanting to walk in the cold, but she felt a strong sense of dread at the sight. The dread increased when she saw a dark figure on a horse riding behind. Even if it had been merely Ruby, she could only host her in an empty morning room, or a smashed parlor. She wasn’t sure which was worse, at the moment, but she knew she must choose the parlor and began to set to rights a chair or two, rung for Mary to prepare tea, and tried not to be pained by the look of horror and surprise from Mrs. Grayson’s face, when both she and Mr. Gaston walked in as well. 

“We seem to have come at a bad time.” Mrs. Grayson could not stop glancing around the room at the crooked mirror, the splintered frame, an end table still upturned in a lonely corner. 

Belle was unsure how to proceed. Mrs. Grayson did not seem to consider the time to be so very bad after all, and continued on her own. 

“You remember my husband’s nephew, Mr. Gaston.”

They did the proper bow and curtsy, Mr. Gaston’s eyes lingering on Belle’s person more than the room, and Belle curled her fingers into a fist to keep from shifting where she stood. 

“Good to see you, as always, Miss Ashe.” Gaston flashed a hungry smile. “And your father, is he in good health?” It was a polite question, a question that anyone would ask in his place, yet the tone was dripping with double meaning. His smile said that he knew very well that her father was most likely not in very good health and he seemed happy at the thought. Belle inwardly shuddered. 

“He is well enough, I thank you, will you not sit down? Tea will be here shortly.” and as they sat, Mary came in carrying a tray and sat it upon the remaining upright table. 

“Imagine my surprise, Miss Ashe, when Mr. Gaston came an entire week early and says that his intent and purpose was to see the lovely Miss Ashe. Is this not so, Mr. Gaston?” Mrs. Grayson’s cheeks plumped with her smile–she seemed pleased with herself, almost. Mrs. Grayson had always been a woman with more social energy than sense. Anna could not stop eyeing the chaos with disgust, Ruby at least glanced at Belle apologetically. 

“It is indeed, ma’am.” Gaston smiled his great big smile again. His teeth were perfectly aligned, his face chiseled to please whoever looked upon him, and his eyes, though not shining with intelligence, at least shown with amusement. “And if I might say, you are looking very well today, Miss Ashe.”

Belle flinched at his flattery. She wore a gown she had assumed would be used to clean up her father’s mess, four seasons too old. Her hair was simply put up, her slippers worn, and she had not slept properly for some days–not since the assembly, really. She knew she did not look ‘remarkably well’ no matter what he said. 

Mrs. Grayson attempted to carry on polite conversation with Belle. Gaston asked if her father had hunted recently–did she know how many birds he had bagged? Belle did not and it was the closest she saw of Mr. Gaston’s real feelings towards her. His nose wrinkled the least little bit before going back to staring at her in an uncomfortable way. 

“Miss Ashe, we must be going. I believe we shall see you on Christmas day, at church?”

Belle curtsied. “I do hope so, Mrs. Grayson. Thank you all for calling.”

Ruby walked over and gave Belle’s hand a squeeze, Anna only curtsied and left. Mr. Gaston remained. 

“I came separate from the party in hopes to speak to you, Miss Ashe.” He began. Belle’s stomach churned and she stepped back towards the wall–thankfully she had moved closer when the Grayson’s had left, and was close enough to ring for Mary again. The door was open, but she did not like the thought of him being so near. She remembered the occasional summer that he would come to visit Ruby. The last time, she was not quite sixteen and he had told her he was determined that he would marry her. She had shook her head and said something very polite, but not encouraging-had scared her in the process by catching her alone, but he had gone away thinking that she had given him all the positive encouragement he needed. It had now been a little over three years since that time, and she had a suspicion that he still felt confident in his goal, though she didn’t understand it. 

“Yes, Mr. Gaston?” She made herself stand straight, her chin raised. Mary came and she asked her to tidy the tea but not to leave quite yet. If Gaston thought anything of this action, he said nothing. 

“I do not think you are unaware of my feelings for you.” He had his right leg bent forward and his arms crossed, the very look of confidence. “I’ve come to make good on my intentions two years ago. What do you say?”

“Say? To What? I am assuming you are making some sort of declaration but your words are not very plain, in fact, they are a little presumptuous in their tone.” She was glad that her voice did not break. She was a mixture of annoyance and fear, yet she refused to be cowed by his confidence. 

“Ah, I see what you are about, Dearest Belle.” She shuddered at his use of her shortened name. “You want all the frills that other girls do. Very well. Your loveliness and charms have long had their hold on me.  I long to marry you, will you relieve my suffering and make me the happiest man alive?”

There was no going around the offer now. Her words from the assembly felt hollow at her new situation, yet the vision of having Mr. Gaston for a husband still seemed akin to bitter death. 

“I thank you for your consideration and offer, Mr. Gaston, but I cannot accept. I-I’m sorry for any pain it might cause, and I…”

“What’s this? You reject me? Me? Who do you think you are? You are nothing, you have nothing!”

Belle balled her fists once again, stifling the anger bubbling up within her. 

“Then I wonder, sir, at you offering in the first place.”

He reached out a large, rough hand and used his thumb to try to trace her face. She recoiled before he could go very far, his face darkened. 

“You may be as poor as a church mouse, but you are as beautiful as an angel. A man like me…he likes a pleasant thing to look at, you know.” And his eyes roamed her for at least the fifth time that afternoon. “ But you are poor, you are destitute. Don’t think I'm ignorant of your situation. You have no other option.” He paused. “I’ll give you until the Christmas service. A look–a word is all it takes. But know this. Reject me, and I will encourage anyone who lends an ear, to call in your father’s debts in full. Accept me, and I’ll make sure you want for nothing. Think about it, Belle.” And he stomped off in a cloud of anger. 

Belle collapsed in a nearby chair, her body beginning to shake. 

“Are you alright, Miss Belle?” Mary said, concerned. 

“Quiet alright. You don’t think–you don’t think I’m a simpleton do you? To reject him?” Now her voice wobbled, the realization of all that took place, settling upon her. 

“It’s not my place to say, Miss Belle, but no ma’am, I don’t think you are at all.” Mary gave an encouraging smile.

Belle sighed with relief. “Thank you, Mary.” and she let her take the tray off as she reflected on Mr. Gaston’s words. 

His threat sounded sincere. His words were partially true. She was destitute. She was without options. She let her face fall into her hands, thankful at least that her father had not been there to try to accept for her. Christmas day stood dark and ominous before her and she trembled as she tried to hold on to her previous fortitude and determination when it came to Mr. Gaston. 

She could be miserable and poor, or miserable with him and be financially stable. However, she would be miserable regardless.

…

Gold gave himself one last glance in the long looking glass. He was not unaware of his shortcomings when it came to his looks–like his reputation, he always felt certain that money could smooth over his unfortunate nose, or even his weak leg, though experience taught him that perhaps it was the one thing money couldn’t completely smooth over. He knew that he was small, thin, and nothing that the fashion dictated he should be. He couldn’t help this fact, so he didn’t dwell on it too long. 

Could he do this again? Could he shackle himself to a woman who might try and simper and flutter her way into his good will just to crush him and throw herself into the arms of handsomer men just to spite him? He shook his head. No. It would not happen again, for he was approaching this with his eyes wide open. He needed a wife, he did not want one. He would not fall for her and allow her to blind him; he could not. 

He remembered how Milah had seemed happy to be his wife, to share his home and life, until she embraced the London scene’s frippery and wasted her money on unnecessary finery and had her dalliances with other men. He could remember her laughing when she was caught. 

“You really think I could be faithful to you?  Have you seen yourself? Your money was always your handsomest asset.”

She discovered she was with child a short time later. Whether the child was his or the other man’s he would never know. She did not like the child, for she declared children a waste of time, but his money made that little worry for her. She laughed when he played with the lad, and would often comment on the difference in the boy’s looks compared with himself. 

She swore that she had produced the heir so she was no longer needed to provide him company, and she never did again. A horrific carriage accident eventually took her. It had crushed his leg too, but that was not so bad as the final thing it took:  his most precious treasure. Gold had loved–yet still loved-- Belford more than anything else. He had been his anchor when his wife had all but abandoned him. 

A year and a half later, he had thought he found new love in the form of a brazen beauty who had a love for the gaming parties he attended. She was rather a flirt, and would have raised some eyebrows had he married her. He had not cared. The dark haired beauty had chosen him to give her attention, him to lavish her smiles. For a brief moment of time he could forget what had happened, forget the reality of the cruel world. 

“I’m sorry, Gold.” She had told him, an understanding having been declared an entire month ago and on the very day he had offered to marry her. “You were fun, I’ll not deny it, but turns out you aren’t the only one with money who will have me, and he’s twice as handsome.” She raised her eyebrows suggestively and kissed him on his cheek, he had been so in shock at the betrayal he could not move. He could do nothing but leave the city and find his friend–not yet being able to find solace in the property that had seen so much pain and sorrow. 

This time, he was older and wiser. He would not be made a fool again.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

A Deal of Desperation

“Mr. Gold!”

Gold smiled at Miss Ashe’s shocked features. He had predicted it would be just so, and yet sometimes he surprised himself at his own ability to anticipate people’s actions–for he remembered the two distinct times he had not been able to, and just how much it had cost him. 

“Miss Ashe, I hoped I would find you here.”

“You anticipated me being here, sir?” Her face furrowed with burgeoning fear, a fear that kept him several steps away from her, to hopefully give her some reassurance that he meant nothing untoward. 

“It is a warm day for all it being Christmas Eve, and when I found you upon this log the time before, the path behind it looked well worn from use–consistent use, I gathered. I had hoped that you would be here, but I would have called upon you at your home had you not.” So far, Gold had said it all in a very neutral way, and he did smile at the end to be at least a little polite. 

Miss Ashe seemed a little more at ease,  closed her book, folded her hands above it, and looked up at him, waiting on whatever he had to say. 

“Will you allow me to speak plainly, Miss Ashe?”

She nodded as she rubbed her hands together as if agitated. Perhaps she was still afraid, if so, her face did not betray it. She was calm, with that small furrow of worry that remained permanently etched on her face.

“I have come here today to ask you if you will marry me. I will not patronize you…” He hurriedly said after she gasped at his revelation. “And tell you that you have stirred tender feelings, or anything of the like. I am not looking for love .” He said the last word with some disdain, but not without catching the blue eyes that looked at him with great curiosity and a continued furrowed brow. She had not run away or screamed a vehement rejection. He thought these were good enough reasons to continue. “But I do need an heir for my estate. I bring with me hopeful inducements for you to consider my offer.” And with that he pulled out the documents that were in his coat and limped towards her. She did not startle or step away, but took them up with almost no shake to her hands at all. 

“These are…” Her eyes widened as she read the receipts to the debts he had bought. When she got to the document showing the transfer of house and land to himself she gasped. “Mr. Gold.” Her hands did tremble now, her eyes pleading for answers. Despite his earlier determination to not be softened by her, he could not help the ache that formed in his chest at her confused, vulnerable look, and when she faced him, he could now see a little yellowish discoloration on her cheek, evidence of  what he assumed was her father’s fist. This only made the feeling worse. 

“Why?” She whispered. 

“As I said, I thought this might help you to consider the proposal. I am a businessman, this seemed to be the best means of exchange, so that we both get what we want. I get a wife and you are free from the burden of destitution hovering over you.” He silently breathed in and out to keep himself calm. She still looked utterly confused and he was at a loss how to explain it any plainer. 

“I believe you misunderstand me. I suppose I meant, why me? You’ve gone through so much trouble, and I am sure much humiliation as well…”

Gold cleared his throat. Personal information was not easily given to Jeffrey, how much less to someone he knew so little as Miss Ashe. But she ought to know, he supposed. 

“I have somewhat of a…reputation–a stumbling block to most well-bred young ladies. I’ve done nothing criminal, mind.” He couldn’t help but be amused at her look of worry when he said that . “But I was not born into the gentry class, and I have made a few, shall we say, morally gray, decisions in my life.”

“But nothing criminal.” Miss Ashe repeated, and looked a little wary, still. However, she seemed to be giving the matter some thought and even forced a smile at his insistence that he had not been involved in anything criminal. 

“If I chose not to accept your offer, what would you do with the debt you hold over my father?”  Her tone was not accusatory or a rejection really, so he decided not to worry–yet. However, her question made him pause. What would he do? He realized the answer that was both needed for him to succeed, and was in fact the truth, was the same answer. 

“I would give over the house and land back to your father.” He said simply, she gasped once more.

“You would do that?” Her blue eyes, while still confused, looked at him as if he were some angel sent from Heaven. He needed to rectify that immediately. Did he not just say that he only wanted this marriage for his own benefit? Did she not yet understand?

“I would consider, however—that is, I’m sure you are well aware of your father’s propensity to squander his money–I do not mean to offend, only offer the truth.”

She nodded in understanding, and hurt flashed for a second on her face. 

“I, on the other hand, can offer you security and promise you that you will never again be put in such a financially vulnerable position.” And you will never have to bear abuse from your father’s hands. He almost added but checked himself. That sounded much too emotional and sentimental, and he was yet determined to avoid it at all costs. 

She nodded again and looked away from him in silent contemplation. Finally she looked back at him, her chin raised and her eyes determined. 

“I thank you for your offer and I accept.” 

He nodded and there was unmistakable relief that flooded his chest. “Good, good.” he tried to make his face and tone as neutral as possible. “I will need to talk to your father. Is he at home this afternoon?”

“He is. I do not recall if you have been introduced?” She seemed even more uncomfortable at this moment than she had contemplating marriage with him. 

“I have not had the pleasure.” The polite phrase rolled off his tongue. “If you are not opposed to the plan, I would suggest you walk ahead of me a ways before I follow you in a little while and ask for the introduction then. Will this be acceptable to you?” Being the well mannered gentleman, worried for a maiden’s reputation, was not his usual pursuit, but she had seemed so worried at his initial approach that he felt compelled to reassure her that he wasn’t a complete rake (then again, was that not part of him too? He had been a rake, gaining pleasure in order to forget). 

She gave a faint smile, agreed, and curtsied, before walking back towards the worn path. He went ahead and mounted–his leg did hurt from the length of time he had been made to stand on uneven ground–but took his time traveling towards Mr. Ashe’s property. 

Mr. Eshton had been right. The house looked worn out. Like the family, it had once been something respectable and well built, but time and neglect had taken its toll. A tired maid answered his knock and showed him into what could only be the parlor that Eshton had spoken of. Miss Ashe’s cheeks were flaming red, and it took only a moment to see why. He wondered if this was where Miss Ashe had suffered too.  

Miss Ashe turned toward him. 

“My father, he…” she began, seeming unsure of her next words. “I’m sorry.” She said in an almost whisper. 

Gold made a stiff bow in acceptance of what she said. While Mr. Ashe’s reaction was the part he had looked forward to the least, it had been factored in, so as to not be surprising. Miss Ashe’s shoulders drooped for only a moment before she straightened herself again. 

“This way then, Mr. Gold.”

Bare rooms and halls met him as he limped behind her. The papering was faded, the wood had been recently polished, but held nicks and he was sure, scratches, if he were to look long enough. She paused in front of heavy doors and knocked. 

“Papa?”

“Go away with you, Belle! I told you I will not have you cleaning that room! Eshton can very well do it himself!” 

Miss Ashe stiffened at her father’s tone and reddened at his words. She never looked at him, so he could not see what her eyes said, but her words faltered. 

“Papa, Mr. Gold is here to meet you.” Now she did give him one, quick, apologetic glance, her eyes pleading something. Probably an echo of what she had been trying to say before—an apology for what he was about to face. 

There was some noise on the other side and then a pause. The door swung open and Mr. Ashe stepped back and gave a polite smile. They entered. 

“Papa, this is Mr. Gold, Mr. Gold, this is my father, Mr. Ashe.” Wobbly bows were given. His was because his leg hurt, and no matter that it had been two years, he still felt himself unbalanced easily when his leg was particularly painful. Mr. Ashe was wobbly, most likely because of the glass container on the desk. 

“Papa, Mr. Gold would like to talk to you…”

“Of course, of course. Yes, um, won’t you sit down sir.” The man stumbled about. Miss Ashe gave one last apologetic look and left him alone with his soon to be father-in-law.

…

Belle nearly fled to her mother’s sitting room, desperate to be alone with her thoughts. She first sat down upon the chair, but could not stay still and began pacing the worn carpet. 

Mr. Gold had asked her to marry him!

When he had approached her and declared he had predicted that she would be there, a worry pooled in her stomach in a similar way that Mr. Gaston’s presence had caused. Mr. Gold was different, however. Even when he asked a very similar question that Mr. Gaston had, there were no uncomfortably long looks up and down her body and instead of spouting false declarations of her charms, he spoke everything in a precise way that suited the cold elegance she had always seen in him. 

She was worried again upon learning the sheer amount of money that he could lord over her. His threat could be even greater than Mr. Gaston’s! And again, he released her family from them regardless. Despite his hint at her father’s vices, it was this reply that had given her peace over her answer. She would have been a simpleton to rejet him, even if he had used the money as a threat. She was still in a state of bewilderment, when Mary appeared with Mr. Gold behind her. 

“Miss Ashe.” His eyes darted around the room as he limped inside. She could see him take in the faded floral wallpaper, the empty walls, the worn carpet, and the sparse furniture. He was now the owner of their dilapidated little house–he would know the true state of things soon enough. “Your father has given his blessing over our marriage.”

She nodded. She expected nothing less. She inwardly cowered at the thought of her father’s reaction to the news that the daughter he would have been happy to see married to almost anyone with enough money to live on, let alone a rich gentleman like Mr. Gold. She was unsure of the extent of Mr. Gold’s riches–she had heard several reports of different amounts–however, the fact that he had been able to purchase all their debt without much difficulty assured her he was a man of some means. 

Mr. Gold continued, “I thought we should discuss a few things before I left. Would you do me the honor of seeing me out?”

She took a breath to steady herself, “Yes, of course.”

They began to walk towards the front of the house. 

“Are you opposed to making our engagement public soon?” This had been utmost in her mind since accepting. 

Mr. Gold turned to her and gave her a cold glare. She did not startle or step back, though she did feel her cheeks warm again. Of course, he would not be excited about announcing that he would soon wed the most ridiculed woman in town. 

“Already anxious to shout your conquest to the town, are you now?” Sarcasm dripped from his speech. 

“You misunderstand me, sir. You may find this strange–and I’m sure you could be no more surprised than I–but you are not the first to offer marriage to me this very week.”

Gold’s eyebrow’s rose, his look no less cold or stern. “I see, and so now you find that you will have to go back on your word to this poor fellow since someone richer has come along.”

Belle had been conditioned to not produce bursts of anger or protest. She was, however, becoming irked at his insistence that she was either a shallow gossip, or would jilt someone at the drop of the hat. She did what always seemed to be her only recourse in such situations–she raised her chin. 

“On the contrary, I did refuse the young man, but he did not like my answer.”

They had just reached the verandah and Mr. Gold paused and turned to face her.  His look had thawed some, to Belle’s great relief. 

“What does it matter then? I repeat, do you plan to gloat about your new conquest?”

“I do not.” Belle stated. “I plan to show him the finality of my answer. He insisted I do so at the Christmas service. To put it plainly, he threatened me, and I now know those threats have no weight.” 

Mr. Gold’s softened look caused more unsteadiness within her than the cold one. “His threats–they were not to harm your person, were they? He did not threaten to…” She could see he was struggling to remain delicate in his language. She wished she had a moment to herself to reflect how it felt that someone, even if it was someone who had insisted that he had no feelings of attachment towards her (and she did not blame him for that–they were little more than strangers!), showed concern towards her. 

“Do not be alarmed, sir, it was not my person he threatened, but that he would petition my father’s creditors to insist on instant and full payment. I refused him, but I would be lying to say that I did not contemplate what his words could do to my father and me.” Belle stood a little straighter, her conscience pricked her to confess, “So I do thank you for your proposal, and apologize for the mortification you have suffered from both my father’s creditors and most likely from my father himself. 

I-I will do everything in my power to be a good wife to you sir.” She didn’t know why he had chosen her. She knew what he had said, though it still made her wonder if there was not any other girl in her town, a more acceptable, better situated, prettier girls, that would have overlooked some of those morally gray decisions.

Mr Gold gave none of his feelings away in his face. His tone sounded almost amused , as if he knew something she did not when he said, 

“We shall see, Miss Ashe, we shall see.”

For a reason, Belle did not understand, she did not feel offended. He did not believe her and she was still baffled by his offer. It would take time for them to understand each other–but she imagined that they had plenty of time to do so. 

“You may use my Christian name, if you would like. My name is Isabelle, though those closest to me call me Belle. I am not opposed to either.” She smiled, but was greeted with a stiff little bow from Mr. Gold. 

“I think I’d rather not, Miss Ashe. Now, as for your other request, I do not mind our engagement being made known, in fact, I have no cause to delay our wedding. I will have settlement papers drawn and brought to your father, the day after Christmas, and I will then purchase the special license and we will be married by Friday next. Do you have any objections?” He gave her a look that declared that she ought not to have any. She was aware she ought not. It was all rather overwhelming that she would be married in no less than eight days, so she shook her head and gave a small, “No, I do not.” He bowed once more, she curtsied, and he walked off.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9

Reasonings and Realizations

Gold had come and gone without Jeffrey’s knowledge. Jeffrey had gone to see the Miss Grayson’s and had come back to find Gold at the writing desk elbow deep in documents and thought, and had the good sense not to ask questions. It was Jeffrey’s greatest quality, in Gold’s opinion. For all his meddlesome ways, he knew when to back away and wait for a confidence he knew would come. It would come, eventually, because as much as Gold disliked socializing in general, he relied and trusted Jeffrey to keep such confidences–the only person in Gold’s world that could claim his trust. 

Gold had often wondered at Jeffrey’s friendship , his ability to stick by him in return, and wondered why he took the trouble. Jeffrey had insisted it was because he needed someone who would not sugar coat truths when he really needed it, and for all that Gold was too pessimistic with the world in general, he could be relied upon to have good sense about it, enough to cause Jeffrey to pause and think through things. For Jeffrey to claim him still as the holder of good sense after the fiasco with Coraline was a stretch, in Gold’s own opinion, but grief did things to a person, as Jeffrey well knew. 

Gold finished scratching out his last letter to his solicitor. He had been so engrossed that he did not realize that his friend had stationed himself on the couch with paper and pencil and was sketching away–a favorite pastime of his, for it surely was not reading. 

“And so the man returns to us, Aunt.” It was the aunt who was being sketched and had donned an extra flouncy cap. Jeffrey had lifted his eyes above his sketchbook to notice Gold’s movements. 

“And so he does. I never have known you to be a man easily distracted, Mr Gold, but I own I’ve never seen you so focused as you have been this last hour, since we arrived here.” said the older lady. 

“I’ve been busy, Aunt Beatrice.” was Gold’s cryptic answer and caused the lady, who had insisted on being called Aunt Beatrice, whether because she was so unused to being called anything else, or because she felt sorry for him–it was possibly a combination of both, to roll her eyes. 

“I see how it is. Shall I leave you two, then? I’ve been half a mind to talk to the housekeeper and cook, anyway. I don’t care that it is Christmas Eve, that supper was much too rich for someone my age, and I never want that recipe on the menu again. I wish you two goodnight, and Jeffrey…” She eyed her nephew with an amused, shrewd look. He dutifully gave her his own mischievous one back. “Try not to make me look too ridiculous this time.” 

As soon as she left the room, Gold limped over to the chair opposite Jeffrey and poured himself a glass of port. 

“I am engaged to Miss Ashe.” Gold stated simply. Jeffrey did not startle, or even look surprised, but gave one of his knowing smiles that meant that Jeffrey liked the prospect better than he did himself. 

“Congratulations! I hope you both will be very happy. And she accepted! Not that I had any doubt that you would be successful–the poor girl is well, rather poor, but I am still baffled by your change of heart. Was Miss Ashe not the conniving lady you thought before?” Jeffrey’s eyes were dancing with merriment, prodding for vindication of his earlier remarks. 

“I will not say that I was wrong and you were right, for time is the only marker of such traits. However…”

Jeffrey smiled wider. Gold groaned but not angrily. 

“I will be more than pleased to find that you are right in this case, though I have no expectations of you being so.” He became serious, as always happened when memories were pulled to the front of his mind. “As much as I feel more in control of the situation than the last two times, I do not think I could be prevailed upon to try this again.”

“The thing I would very much like to know is how Mr. Ashe took things.” By Jeffrey’s amused smile, he knew exactly how he took things. Gold winced. 

“Exactly how you think he would. Somehow he could grovel his thanks at rescuing him out of debtors prison and think that I was somehow getting the better end of the deal. He went on and on about how he knew that his daughter hadn’t been born ‘so beautiful for nothing’ and how well he had trained her to do her duty–how I wouldn’t be sorry and so on. It was disgusting.”

Jeffrey laughed at his discomfort. “I wonder–will this make him more or less insufferable at dinner parties? He will have no daughter to parade and  petition to all the young men, but then again, he’ll have such a son-in-law to boast about!” 

Gold had the sudden urge to wish Aunt Beatrice back to perhaps wash the jovial look off Jeffrey’s face. Then again, perhaps it was good that one of them was in a good mood about it. Gold had yet decided how to think on the subject. 

His sentiments during his talk with Miss Ashe had been such a mix of feelings. He felt he had conducted himself in a business-like manner, only faltering when the view of that fading bruise obstructed his better judgment. He had been honest with her, and then found himself pleased that she seemed to think through his proposal in a no less practical, if not softer way. Then he had gone and met her father. His fumbling words of both overabundant thanks and insistence that Miss Ashe had been raised to obtain a man like him had given him such a distaste in his mouth that he had been rather snappish at her afterwards–it was not the business-like way he had hoped to continue and he cursed her father for at least the hundredth time in the space of a half hour. 

She had a proposal already? Was she already exhibiting the qualities that hurt him so badly the last time? Latching onto the richest idiot that would pull her out of poverty? She had not lashed back at him, but instead calmly explained her predicament, and he found sentiment getting in the way again! Thinking about that brute threatening to hurt her made him falter from his cold, calculated way–she had seen it too, he could see it in her confused, blue eyes. He had taken such steps afterwards to regain control over his feelings that he knew he had seemed rather snappish with her again. No matter. The deal was done, a wedding would be imminent–he had won–and he somehow felt just as lost as he had before. 

…

“Surprised your Papa, did you? Didn’t breathe a word to me about Mr. Gold taking an interest!” 

Her father had found her immediately upon entering the house again after seeing Mr. Gold off. 

“I confess, Papa, I did not know myself. It has been a shock to us both.” She attempted to smile. 

Her father tilted his head in confusion, his wild look still firmly in place, although it looked less despondent and angry now. In fact, he seemed downright giddy, if that could be applied to a gentleman. 

“You mean to tell me you did nothing to encourage his attentions? You can tell a father, I am no novice in female enticements–I would love to hear what would convince a man of Mr. Gold’s means and property to pursue you.”

Despite her father’s smiles and giddy fits of laughter over the idea of her ‘conquering’ Mr. Gold (how she had despised Mr. Gold for insisting that she wanted to parade a conquest, yet she could not deny that her father might very well do it enough for the both of them. It was a humbling thought.), she felt the darker edges of his tone. He was insinuating that she had been hiding Mr. Gold’s interest while he had been depressed and despondent. She was unsure how to convince him. 

“I do not know, Papa, as I stated before, I had no prior knowledge of his interest.” This fact was the chief reason she longed to run up to her bedroom for the rest of the day and think through exactly what she had done. It had all been so sudden, so unexpected that she could hardly believe she had really agreed to marry him. 

Her father waved her words away, continuing to look skeptical, yet perhaps too happy to be truly upset—she hoped.

“However you managed it, I give you this warning, these rich men can be eccentric. You must do everything in your power to keep him happy. I am–I mean, we are in his hands, my Belle.” 

She could only nod and let him go on chatting about what his daughter would be able to afford, and how his daughter was marrying one of the richest men in England. Whether this was entirely true or not, Belle did not know. Ruby had been much more interested in Mr. Hatfield and his reputed income and only remarked that she had heard that Mr. Gold’s income was much more than Mr. Hatfield’s and owned a vast property in –shire. She had heard little else about him. Ruby knew how little she cared for gossip, having borne the brunt of tales that had been the product of her father’s boisterous rantings. She would just have to get to know him for herself. 

I have made some morally gray decisions in my life–nothing criminal.

She thought over this statement once she had asked Mary to send a tray of dinner to her father and that she had too little appetite to eat. She pulled her mother’s shawl close to her and stared at the fire while she allowed her thoughts to roam free. 

What would marriage be like with Mr. Gold? She knew a marriage with Mr. Gaston would be a nightmare, but she knew so little of Mr. Gold. 

She mused over the few times she had been in his company. 

Up until the Christmas Assembly she had not known him to be anything less than a little surly (she owned that it not just a little–she remembered Mr. Hatfield’s library and then the circular library). It was at the Christmas Assembly that his tone had changed, he had invited her to sit with him, despite her low standing within the small town. Was this where he had decided that she ought to be his wife? What had caused him to settle on her. Had it truly been his reputation, and those morally gray decisions? The fact that she was an easy conquest (could she not use his words?), brought so low by the decisions of her father that she would do anything to get out. She was at least glad that was not entirely the case for her. She had rejected Gaston over the promise of financial comfort. No, she remembered again that it was the moment that he told her that he would give the land to her father if she refused. There was truth in his looks when he had said it. He was giving her the choice to decide her future, and she had never been given that before. He was right about her father, but he did not threaten her with the knowledge, he had simply left it up to her and she found that she could say yes. It was still overwhelming to think about marriage and all it entailed (she did not want to dwell at that moment, on what he needed out of the marriage–that would be something she would have to think through later), but her thoughts finally quieted enough for her to snatch a few hours of sleep, knowing she had made the best decision with the information she had. 

…

Christmas began much colder than the previous day. A carriage was brought to them from her fiance’s friend. Her father was not surprised and he spent the entire time telling her how he would gloat in the faces of all the men who had scorned him before and then went on to go over again how she would do her duty, yes she would do her duty and he would finally not have to want for anything anymore. His glee only made Belle flinch with each declaration. She wanted to remind him that those same men, if they had been owed anything, would know that it was Mr. Gold who had paid his debts, and to also remind him that it was Mr. Gold who would control both of their spending. She said nothing and tried to hold her head as high as she could as she entered the small church. Mr. Gold and Mr. Hatfield stood waiting for their arrival. Belle’s heart was thundering so loudly she was sure it could be heard by any gathered nearby. 

“Miss Ashe! So good to see you this Christmas morning, Mr. Ashe.” Mr. Hatfield smiled amiably at them both and was a stark contrast to his solemn friend. “My aunt cannot be here this morning, as she declares her joints ache.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Belle managed. 

Mr. Hatfield smiled all the more. “Thank you, but I have the strong suspicion that it is simply that it is cold and my aunt would rather enjoy her Christmas by the fire.”

His openness gave her some ease, and she found herself smiling back. It was easier to do so if she avoided Mr. Gold’s glance or her father’s laughter at something an acquaintance said. It was not to last, for Mr. Gold spoke next. 

“Miss Ashe, would you and your father sit with us today?” His tone was neither cold nor warm. It was said simply, as if it was one of those polite phrases society told them they must use. The purpose was clear. To walk with him and sit in his boxed pew, would be pointed enough even without the way she knew her father was whispering his good news to any who would listen. 

She nodded and said a quiet thanks and then repeated Mr. Gold’s invitation to her father, who, of course, thought it was just as it should be. She was only glad he did not say as much, but only sauntered in as if the week previous they had not sat on one of the back pews, the cheapest one available that could be bought. 

Belle could feel the eyes that were plastered on her. It was not an unusual sensation, but she knew these were looks of shock and bafflement. That a man who had been thrown out of a party one day could sit on the same pew as the rich newcomers was news that must be dwelt upon and talked over. Belle only cared for one particular pew and glanced over where Ruby sat–her eyes were as wide as saucers and she longed to pull her friend aside and tell her all that had happened. Mr. Gaston sat with them and while he also looked surprised, it was quickly replaced with stormy indignation. 

Very little of the service was noted by Belle. Everything was too much. The eyes of the congregation, the lack of looks from Mr. Gold, and Mr. Hatfield’s occasional smile. She both longed and dreaded for the service to be over. It was over, eventually, as these things normally happen, and before she knew it she was blinking in the crisp sunshine and making her way to her friend Ruby. She did this as soon as she had finished asking if Mr. Gold would like to come on the morrow for dinner–she did not say to discuss wedding preparations for that went without saying. Mr. Jeffrey smirked towards them, which sent a glare from Mr. Gold and an uncomfortable smile from Belle. 

“This is a development, I must hear, Belle. How come you to be sitting in Mr. Hatfield’s box, this morning?” Ruby leaned towards her conspiratorially. 

“I–” She nearly choked on the words. It was one thing to contemplate what had happened in the confines and silence of her own room. To say the words would make it all the more real. “I am to marry, Mr. Gold.” She tried to smile, she thought she might have been successful, but her friend’s skeptical look back told her she hadn’t been. 

“I suppose I should wish you joy–I do wish you joy, but Belle, you know so little of Mr. Gold!” Ruby looked around a moment, as if she were worried that Mr. Gold might pounce upon her for uttering his name. 

“I do not. It’s not a marriage of the usual sort–Then again, that is to say, perhaps it’s the most common kind of marriage after all. He is in need of an heir, and thought I would be acceptable–for some reason. You can only be just as surprised as I am at the development.” She said as she took in Ruby’s widening eyes. “He did my father a great service, he bought all his debts.”

“I can’t say I blame you for accepting him. I would have encouraged you to accept a man half his consequence–in fact, I did! Oh, poor Cousin Harry, Mr. Gaston that is, you know. He was so sure you would marry him!”

Belle could not bear to hear her cousin called ‘poor’, she could not feel sorry for him at all. “I must tell you, your cousin…”

At that moment, the very person they were speaking about came stomping to Ruby’s side. He bowed in the politest sneer that could be deemed acceptable. Ruby looked at him and then her and then shifted uncomfortably, as if she could feel the tension between them. 

“You seem most fortunate today, Miss Ashe, as to have gained the attention of Mr. Hatfield. Ruby, it was him, was it not, the one that dined with us the other day? Pleasant enough fellow, I suppose.” Mr. Gaston knew exactly who had dined with them, and exactly who his younger cousin had set her cap towards. Thankfully, Ruby had already heard her news and would not be riled by his words. 

“It was Mr. Gold, in fact, who did me the great honor in requesting I sit with them this morning, and also him to whom I am engaged to be married.” Belle put her hands together before her to keep them from shaking. They had fellow parishioners continuing to mill about. He could not do anything to her, she reminded herself. 

“Mr. Gold is a fortunate man. They do say wealth hides a multitude of sins!” And he laughed. It startled Belle at first. His demeanor changed, dark, frightening. “I thank you for your answer, madam. I hope you do not come to regret it.” And walked off from a surprised Ruby at his outburst and a shaking Belle his threat. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

Wedding Day Contemplation

Gold found himself contemplating life in front of the mirror, yet again. He never was satisfied with what he saw reflected there. He could dress himself up in finery and look exactly how a gentleman of means ought to look, and yet there was no hiding the fact that no amount of clothing could hide that he had been unlucky when it came to his looks, and he tried his best not to even think of his leg. Money had smoothed his way this time, he needed no looks to rely on, tried to find contentment in that and so was now readying himself to be married for the second time. 

His mind drifted to the past week, the quiet mannerisms of his bride-to-be, that tried to shield everyone from her inner thoughts. She had one weakness–her eyes. If they ever glanced his way, he found that there was so much they could say. For instance, there was the moment when her eyes found the amount of her pin money, when he brought over the settlement.

“This is so much, Mr. Gold. I have so very little from my mother, nothing so much as a dowry…How could I ever spend half as much!” Miss Ashe had exclaimed, her eyes had been wide, shocked, almost screaming her words while her tone was subdued and restrained. 

“Hush, girl, you would argue that it is too much? What a notion! She’s just not used to such numbers, Mr. Gold, she will learn how to conduct herself well as Mrs. Gold, soon, I’m sure.” 

Mr. Gold growled under his breath. He was ready to be done with this. He had asked Miss Ashe to look over the settlement when he and her father had finished, he could not stand another second alone with the man, and this seemed like the most logical excuse. Somehow, the man was even more infuriating with his daughter present, belittling her, as if Gold would change his mind on marrying her because she was surprised at her large share of pin money! 

“Miss Ashe, I do not wonder at your surprise.” He went on as if the man had not just spoken, relishing in the news he was about to convey to her father. “It is rather large and I have a purpose for the amount that I wanted both you and your father present to convey. Miss Ashe, I would like to know how tied you are to the house and land. Would you be so very heartbroken for it to be sold?”

His eyes were on hers, while he was aware that her father was gaping. 

“Sell! Sell the house?! What will I do? What do you mean by this, sir?” 

He glared only for a moment at Mr. Ashe before turning back to his future wife. She looked like any provocation could make her flee–she glanced between her father and him, settling on him as if trying to read him to see what his plans were. She would not find them in his face. He settled his feet and placed his cane between them, taking his most business-like tone. “I repeat, Miss Ashe, how tied are you to this house?”

She still looked confused, but her eyes were more settled. “Not as much as I once was.” She sighed, he imagined it was a sad sigh, but he could no longer read her eyes as they had gone down to the worn carpet in her father’s study. “Not since…my mother.” 

Mr. Ashe was seen to shuffle his feet in Gold’s peripheral, his look a bit sheepish. Perhaps he did understand some of his blame in the affair. If he did, he did not dwell on it long. The look turned indignant, wild, and angry. 

“Very well.” Gold said simply. 

“What do you plan to do?” Mr. Ashe growled. 

“I plan to sell the house and land and set you up in town. I doubt the house will bring very much–I imagine a smaller house for you to live in, however, in town, will need less for the day-to-day, and anything left over will be yours to live on. 

“Miss Ashe, you may give to your father as little or as much out of your pin money as you desire.” He turned his eyes on Mr. Ashe,  “Your funds will be entirely up to her, your way of life in her hands. She may pay the servants directly, take care of the keeping of the house directly and leave you whatever little is left over, it will be nothing to me.” He waved his one hand to show his disregard. 

“Sir!” Mr. Ashe’s face was as white as his surname suggested. He could see how the match was no longer as pleasant to him as he had hoped. Gold never laughed anymore, but he found amusement bubbling up as he saw Mr. Ashe’s horrified face. Miss Ashe looked on with surprised wonder, and that bit of worry that was always there seemed to increase around her eyes and her forehead. He thought she ought to be pleased with the plan. Perhaps she was unhappy because she had already begun to plan out how many hundreds of dresses, hats, and all the frivolity she could afford with how much he had set aside for her.

“So might I suggest, having a little more restraint with your drink and cards.” Gold continued. The man fumed. The change from white to red in his face had an impact on Miss Ashe, as her wonder was overcome by a flicker of fear. 

“I also suggest…” Gold pulled his neutral expression like a comforting blanket around him. He would not allow the bit of guilt and worry that now lit in his chest, to consume him. It would not be obvious to the ones who now looked at him. “That you take care how you respond to my words. I would hate for the value of the house to be lower, and therefore what you can afford, less, because you allowed your anger to get the best of you. I do not take kindly to things belonging to me, or about to belong to me, being damaged in any way.” He gave a knowing look between him and Miss Ashe, settling his harshest glare onto Mr. Ashe. He told himself that his words were true–that he didn’t like his things damaged, but he knew, he knew in his heart of hearts (what was left of it, anyway), that he could only hear her words: Please do not hurt me, Papa, and could only picture the fading bruise as he said so. He knew that if he found that she had been hurt due to something he had orchestrated, that it would cause those pangs of guilt to spring to life once more, and he did not want the nightmares to begin again. 

When Miss Ashe saw him out once more, he noticed her fidgeting with her hands, the insecurity of her step. 

“Miss Ashe, I believe there is something you want to say to me?” He prodded. She looked at him, he could clearly read her blue eyes, they wondered at his perceptiveness, he thought. Perhaps she did not realize her own nervous habits. They weren’t what were considered, the most ladylike, then again, he wasn’t much of a gentleman so her habits made no difference to him.

“Do you really think the house will bring enough to allow him a house in town?” While her mannerisms were still stilted and jerky, her voice was firm and clear. “I fear that the rest of the house is not as–furnished–as the few you’ve seen might lead you to believe.”

“The land, while not properly tended, is serviceable, and the house, while in definite need of refreshing, is still a fairly solid structure. I have contacts who might like a house to lease and turn a profit here in the country, and I am certain I can get enough to suit his needs–which will be small. Very few rooms, only a handful of servants. You only need move two or three of your staff over, the rest will have to go elsewhere.”

Miss Ashe looked down at the ground and sighed. “Three is all we have now, Mr. Gold.” 

“What?” That surprised him.  “A house like this, with this many rooms. While they may be empty, I wonder…How have you managed it?” He looked incredulously at her. He wished she would raise her head so he could read her eyes. It was for no sentimental reason–he simply did not like to be at a disadvantage when it came to reading people. 

“I’ve not managed it as well as I would like.” She sighed again, and then hesitated. Words seem close to the surface, and he wondered if he might need to coax her to speak again. She finally looked up at him. Her eyes told him she was apprehensive. This was nothing new, but it wasn’t towards anyone else but himself that she was apprehensive, and that somehow made him uncomfortable. 

“I help. I help the cook, I even help Mary when it’s needed. I can’t help it. I’m sorry, I know it’s not very elegant of a gentlewoman to do such things, but I–there was no other way.” 

She paused, waiting for him to respond, her eyes held questions in them. 

“You need not worry that it will change my offer or outlook on our marriage, Miss Ashe.” He reassured her. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need. “I was a steward’s son. I told you I am no gentleman, so I suppose I do not see such things as most do. Your blood is that of the genteel class and that was my only qualification when choosing a wife.” The last phrase had left a sour note in his mouth, his conscience pricked. It seemed such a cold thing to say, but he would not take it back. He did want to remain on business-like terms, after all. 

He had seen her only once more that week before the day of their wedding dawned. Jeffrey suggested and Aunt Beatrice insisted that a dinner inviting Miss Ashe and her father would be in order. 

“You being you, can’t do anything traditional. A solemn walk to the church, no flowers to give color, no formal breakfast to go to afterwards. We can, at the very least, give her a nice little dinner before she is whisked off to Dark Castle.” Jeffrey concluded, Gold sighed, he knew when he was outnumbered, seeing Aunt Beatrice nod in solemn agreement. 

“You sound as if I am doing something nefarious with her– whisking her off. ”

Aunt Beatrice gave him a glare that told him that she nearly believed he was. Jeffrey smiled and shook his head, and there was an end to it. The dinner was had, and he was unfortunately stuck with Miss Ashe’s father for the majority of the evening, hearing him wonder at this house or that in town that might be suitable for a gentleman such as himself. Jeffrey, with all his smiles and good nature, gained Miss Ashe’s ear and said what, he did not know, for Mr. Ashe was loud enough to drown any other sound.

He shook the distasteful memory of that evening and waved his valet away, took one last scrutinizing look at himself and limped away to be married. 

…

“Will you not look at yourself before you go, Miss Belle?” Mary startled her out of her reverie. She had been thinking about the dinner at Mr. Hatfield’s home and the conversation he had struck with her. He had begun with all the niceties that must be gotten through before a person could get at what was really needed to be said. He asked about her friend Ruby’s health, did she play the pianoforte often, and would she not play for them that evening before she left? Aunt Beatrice’s fingers were so frail, that she could no longer put two notes together, and he, himself could only make out one melancholy tune and did it very ill, indeed. Gold, he told her, could not play a single note. 

At the mention of his friend, he turned towards him, noted that he was deep in conversation with her father–or, Belle could see, that it was her father who was very deep in conversation with Mr. Gold. Mr Gold, for his part, looked as if he would rather be anywhere else. However, it was clear that their conversation would be unheard by anyone else in the room and Mr. Hatfield took the opportunity to lean only slightly closer and say in a quieter voice, 

“Miss Ashe, might I say how glad I am you are marrying Gold. I think you will be good for him.” He used dancing eyes to point over to Mr. Gold. 

Belle was about to utter a polite “Thanks”, but he continued. 

“Give him some grace and time–I beg you, Miss Ashe. He’s, he’s been through a lot.” Mr. Hatfield’s normally jovial attitude became serious and Belle could see how worried he was for his friend. “He’s all prickly on the outside, but I can assure you that he has a heart that beats warm and true for those he cares about.” 

Here she did give a small, “Thank you”, and a, “I’ll do my very best”. She meant it. She did not want to be miserable for the rest of her life, but she had been wrestling with what life would hold, now that she had pledged herself to a man who she did not know well, and who scowled and barked at the world at large. 

She tried to take Mr. Hatfield’s words to heart, to believe them. Perhaps Mr. Gold did hide a heart that beat warm in his chest, instead of the cold, icy veneer that she had mostly seen. She could admit to seeing small flickers of something, but they had always been quickly pushed away and the cold elegance would return once again. Even if she did believe that his heart beat true for those he cared about, it would only be comforting if she actually believed that he cared for her–which he didn’t. He had made that very clear. 

It was these thoughts that had provided her with very little sleep that week. As the days grew closer to her wedding day, she could hardly think of anything else, except to wonder at what her life would bring. 

Ruby, who had gone with her to the dressmakers, had squealed with glee and had assured her that her future husband might not be so bad as he looked, if he gave her an advance on her pin money so that she might purchase a few quickly made dresses. Belle did not have the heart to tell her that Mr. Gold had sent her a stiff letter with the amount she could charge the dressmaker, telling her that he imagined that she would most likely want a few things to look presentable on her wedding day and to present herself as the new Mrs. Gold. She had felt her cheeks prickle and her eyes water at the insinuation that she had not looked so, thus far. She understood and could not blame him–her dresses were worn–and she tried to be grateful, but she felt all the extra emotions all the same. 

This line of thinking made her worry that while he had insisted that he did not think less of her for helping with the household duties, that she would, and quickly, disappoint him with her inadequacy. She could only hope to give him a child quickly to smooth over her imperfections–to do the one thing he had married her for. 

And it was that line of thinking that had her not sleeping a wink, the night before her wedding. She had tried to read to make herself sleepy, had tried walking the cold, dark halls–putting to memory every nook and cranny, trying to remember how her mother had looked doing so. Nothing helped. The day of her wedding dawned and she had not even laid upon her bed. Mary had worried about her pale face and drooping features, but told her she would perform a miracle, if it was the last thing she did. 

“I’m sorry, Mary, what did you say? I was lost in thought.” She answered. 

“Nearly asleep on your feet, more like. I asked if you would like to see yourself before you go?” 

Belle complied and hardly recognized the girl staring back. She was wearing her new, creme gown with a gauzy fabric that formed a V around the neckline. She had already put on her pelisse, also the same creme color, that fastened directly under her bust and draped about her. 

Her front curls pulled focus away from her tired eyes, she was thankful to observe, and the delicate veil that had been pulled over her face–and what she was now observing herself through–hid it further. She looked like some unearthly creature, a phantom dressed in finery too grand for Belle to understand. 

“You’re beautiful, Miss Belle. I hope–I wish, that you’ll be very happy.” There was a falter in her voice that made Belle give her an unladylike hug. 

“I’ll miss you too, Mary.” She whispered. “Thank you.” and she made her way downstairs, where her father was waiting on her to enter the carriage. 

The church was quiet. Bits of sunlight struggled through colored paned glass. Ruby and the rest of the Graysons sat near the front on one pew, Mr. Hatfield and his aunt on the other side. There were no other guests. 

She looked at the back of Mr. Gold, as he had settled himself in front of the minister, and she wondered, and not for the first time at the man she was marrying. He stood there, leaning on his cane, which told her that he was most likely in a constant state of weakness and pain, and yet, his stance exuded power and strength. She glanced at her father, and noticed he had a worried look on his face. She wished he was worried for her, but she knew better. He had thundered about the house imagining himself ill-used by them both. Mr. Gold’s threat had thankfully been heeded–both she and the house had not been harmed. He was worried that he would no longer be able to live the way he had always done–something Belle did not understand, as they had always lived on the brink of disaster. She did not attempt to explain this to him, nor did she tell him that if he would live within a budget, he might actually come out better than he had in the last decade. She did not tell him this, as she did not want to tempt him to go against Mr. Gold’s wishes when it came to her safety. 

She was given away. Mr. Gold did finally turn to face her, and she saw the briefest flicker of something, but she did not understand it. Perhaps he was as frightened as she. 

The minister dutifully rang out all the right words, both she and Mr. Gold repeated them when necessary, and they were married. 

The noises around her seemed distant and separated from her. She knew Ruby had told her congratulations at some point, her father had pretended to boast of his good fortune to Mr. Grayson, and she could only vaguely feel the warmth through Mr. Gold’s gloves as he helped her into the carriage. She was glad that he sat beside her and not across, as she didn’t know if she could look at him without her composure dissolving, and she was glad he was quiet, as she was unsure if she could trust her words to not wobble. 

The carriage began the long journey to Mr. Gold’s estate. The jostle and sway of it made the lack of sleep from both the night before and the little sleep she had the entire week, to finally catch up with her. Her worried thoughts of both the near and distant future became the basis of a dream that she was startled out of, hours later. To her mortification she found her head had, at some point, leaned over onto Mr. Gold’s shoulder, and when she opened her eyes to the humiliating realization, she was met with the closeness of Mr. Gold’s face, his warm, brown eyes staring down and contemplating her.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11

Carriage Confessions

In the silence of the carriage Gold inwardly struggled against memories and emotions that refused to be buried on such a day. Miss Ashe-No, Mrs. Gold. Mrs. Gold. It was the memory of the first Mrs. Gold that made his chest feel as if it were about to implode. Any bump in the road nearly sent him into an anxiety induced frenzy. At least Miss Ashe Mrs. Gold, refrained from speaking. He was unsure if he could answer her with his usual composure. 

The new Mrs. Gold sat erect beside him, the jolt of the carriage over any country bump did nothing to disturb her, and she uttered no sound. He was already accosted with comparison. He remembered the last journey he had taken with the former Mrs. Gold–it had been from London to Dark Castle–a normally easy journey of three days felt long and arduous because of her incessant complaints. It was at times too hot, too dark, she wanted the curtains opened, no, now she wanted them closed. She wished their little Belford would stop his infernal chatter. Would that she were back in London again–Dark Castle was nothing but fields and farming for miles. Why did they have to go back? He hated every mile of that trip, but would easily take it again, if it meant he could go back and listen to his son’s small voice and the way he enjoyed pointing out things they passed by. 

“What shape do you suppose that cloud is, Papa?”

“Looks like a swan, I think.” Gold had smiled, something that came to him much easier back then with Belford. 

“It does! It does! And–doesn’t it look like, on top of his head there–ah, it looks a little smudgy now, before it was clearer– but it looks to me like a crown.”

“So it does, son, so it does.” 

Milah had huffed and asked the curtains to be closed again, as she had a blinding headache. Something she frequently suffered from anytime it was time to go back to their country home. Belford could sense his mother’s mood and leaned back and laid his head on Gold’s shoulder in an attempt to sleep. Gold hated that he was beginning to realize just how little his mother cared for him, and yet thankful that Belford didn’t seem to resent him, nay, clung to him all the more because of it. 

The conversation would be his last with his son. Thirty miles from their destination, the carriage broke a wheel, startled the horses, he was unsure just how many unfortunate things happened one on top of the other–he did know later, that it was all compounded by hitting a tree. The carriage rolled, he had known nothing for some time. Woke up hoping to feel the weight and warmth of his son’s head, instead he woke to learn he would never feel it on him again. 

Gold stiffened. He had replayed that memory many times over the past two years, some of the replayed sequences were more vivid than others. He had never come out of them to feel anything, and yet he did feel. His closed eyes had imagined the weight of his son’s head on his arm and he opened them to feel it still. 

He turned his head carefully, dreading to see a ghost, and then realized that in his musings he had forgotten the very person that was partially to blame (though, he admitted, unknowingly) for them being resurrected. 

Mrs. Gold had fallen asleep, and in her dreaming state her head had lolled towards him. He looked at her, took in the way her small nose breathed deep breaths, the way her hands were still clasped in her lap. She had attempted distance, this was not any ploy on her part, he could plainly see. In her face there were lines there, not softened completely by sleep. She was worried. That had not gone away with marriage, not that he expected it, but he was struck by how much worse the look of worry seemed  and so much deeper on this day. She breathed another deep breath, this one accompanied by a soft sound–not quite a snore, but one of those many plethora of sounds a person can make while sleeping. 

He had been determined to not be moved by her, and the resolution was still somewhere, however, there was a softening, a bit of himself felt pulled towards her. He could be truthful with himself and say that it had been coming on since he first met her. She was beautiful, there was little doubt about that. He had never been ignorant of it, especially when it came to her expressive eyes, yet in church, when the vaguest outline of her soft features turned towards him, he had been struck anew. Gone were the faded fabrics and clothing that looked as if it might have been made for someone else, in their place was a lady of elegance, much too beautiful for someone who looked like him. Veil now pulled away from her flower donned bonnet he could see just how clearly the discrepancy between their looks were. 

It was that thought that had him remembering his earlier determination. She was now a lady of means as well as beauty. What would that do to a woman then thrown into society? Well, that had been the reason for his choice to go to Dark Castle instead of London, added to the fact that he now hated London with a passion. Despite the ghosts that would meet him there in his own home, he thought Dark Castle preferable and a necessity. He needed to learn how to function in this role again, and this time he would do it correctly. 

He had been lost in thought again. Coming back from his musings he was met with wide, blue eyes and flaming red cheeks. A gasp. 

…

Belle pulled away as quickly as she could, her body heavy and cumbersome as she fought away the last feelings of sleep. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gold.” Rupert, his name was Rupert as she had discovered on this day. She studied his face, both to make sure he was not angry with her for invading his privacy, and also to see how the name settled on him. She decided that it fit him very well, but also well aware she would not use it unless he gave it to her. 

He was not angry. He seemed rather uncomfortable, perhaps even confused. His eyes were soft, and she had so rarely seen them so (and even then they had been merely flickers that had made her wonder if she had even seen them at all), that she found herself memorizing the look. Surely a man with soft eyes could not be so bad–would not be so bad…

She shivered involuntarily.

“You are cold?” Mr. Gold pulled her out of her thoughts.

“Not terribly.” She murmured, not willing to tell him the real reason for her actions. 

“There are more blankets in that corner there.” He spoke. The tone was not cold, so she did her best to relax, or relax as much as she was able, at such a moment.

The carriage stopped short. She must have been asleep long enough for the first change in horses. Mr. Gold ordered some refreshments, since they had not had the usual wedding breakfast (he had been so keen on leaving as soon as possible, and they were wedded and off before eleven), refreshed themselves only a little, and back in the carriage in no time at all. 

For the first half hour, the carriage was quiet again. Belle had found the book she had carried with her. It was one of the few she had saved from being sold, and she had read it many times during her life. It was a comfort read, a warm blanket on a cold day, a bit of her mother that she could carry with her to the future so unknown. She could not concentrate on the words, however. It was a beautiful book of romantic poetry, and reading such things reminded her of how different her own life was and would be, and made her think again about the man beside her–who had opened his own book, but if the lack of turned pages was any indication, was having just as much trouble concentrating as she was. 

“I think I must tell you something,” Mr. Gold broke the silence at last, his tone stilted. “For you will learn it soon enough when we come to Dark Castle, and I think I’d rather go ahead and have it out of the way.”

Dark Castle. The word sent waves of trepidation through her. Mr. Gold had spoken little about where his home was or what it was called. Her only information had come from Ruby, and from Mr. Gold, insisting they not go to town but rather leave for his home in Storybrooke. 

“Yes, sir?”

“I’ve…I’ve been married before.” His face showed a flicker of pain before it became his usual neutral expression. He barely glanced at her when he said it.

“Oh.” She only said. What else could she say? “I’m sorry.” She added. Perhaps that’s why he approached this marriage so cold, calculated and businesslike. He must still mourn her. “How long has it been since…”

“Two years.” There was no mistaking the pain there now. Belle’s heart went out to him. Two years was hardly any time at all. Her mother passed away seven years ago and she had yet to heal from the wound. 

“I’m sorry.” She said again, this time with a bit more warmth than the first time, now understanding how another woman taking his wife’s name must hurt him. 

Silence permeated the carriage again. Mr. Gold looked ahead in thought, she could no longer find interest in her book. Her head was filled with too many emotions. Mr. Gold had been married before, knew what it was like to be married, knew how a Mrs. Gold should behave and perform. She conjured an image of this former Mrs. Gold–gave her light hair and eyes and skin never touched by the sun. She ruled her castle with grace and kindness, knowing just how to make everything in the household work effortlessly. Such a woman, who had no burdens but how to form her menu, would have been the light to Mr. Gold’s life, and it would only be natural for surliness and ill temper to be the result when she left it. 

Belle could never be such a woman. 

Suddenly she had the shoes of this other woman to try to fill. He had waved off her remarks when she had told him that she helped the servants with their work, but surely he would scorn the many mistakes she would make, it would remind him of a woman who did everything so much better. 

“Mr. Gold?” She willed her voice not to quake, her hands not to shake. She would go about this in a straightforward and honest way.

He turned towards her, wincing for a moment–his leg must have shifted, she wondered at what a day spent in a carriage would do. He tilted his head a little, indicating that she continue. 

“The Dark Castle–I assume the estate is…rather large?”

His face was set in its usual, neutral way, yet the lines in his forehead spoke of some curiosity, despite his efforts to conceal them. 

“You could say that, yes.”

She rubbed her hands together, as she was prone to do when uncomfortable–his eyes darted to the action, observing her closely. She straightened her shoulders and tilted her chin up a little.

“You are aware of my prior situation, and I am afraid it means that I have little experience with managing a larger household.” little experience. She had so little experience with anything. With marriage–and all that it entailed (while both Hannah and Mary had pulled her to the side at different times during the week, she had more questions than answers by the end, and was now a bundle of nerves at the prospect), with a household of a rather large estate, and with being the recipient of so much pin money that she hardly knew what to do with. She was already overwhelmed at the prospect of dealing with her father’s finances, though she had always tried to deal with the budget–this was on a different scale, altogether. She was at least glad that her husband (her husband! How strange that sounded) had taken charge of selling the place and orchestrating and financing the process of moving. Once her father was moved, however, she would be the one sending letters and distributing the money necessary to fund him living in town. She was overwhelmed with it all, and she had to breathe through the fears that tempted to overcome her. She would not be overcome by them, she had determined she wouldn’t, and therefore, took the necessary breaths to control the quaking beneath her chest as he answered her. 

“I have a steward that oversees most things. A housekeeper that has been keeping the house running for the past eight years. I doubt there is much you could do to help or hinder.” He fluttered his hands–a habit she was coming to associate with him when he brushed something off. These were just facts to him, he did not see the management of a large house, the impenetrable mountain that Belle did. 

“Will you tell me, if I do something wrong?” She was trying to prove to him that she wanted to do the right thing…with the house, with the marriage. She knew now why it could only be a business-like venture–his heart could not take anything else–yet, this heartbreaking realization only made her realize that she wanted the marriage to be successful. Perhaps it could not be for love , as Mr. Gold had put it, but she could show him that she would be his friend, his partner in running the estate, eventually, in raising children. The thought of children sent her cheeks flaming again. Mr. Gold probably thought she was shy about her question, as his golden brown eyes softened a little. The furrow in his brow told her that she still confused him.

“You want me to point out your mistakes?”

She didn’t see what was so confusing about that. “Of course, how else shall I learn? I would hate to embarrass you.”

His only answer was a grunt and a “hmmmm” but it was one of thought, and she thought he was thinking her request through. 

At the next change in horses, she could tell that Mr. Gold’s leg was indeed bothering him. 

“Would you rather I sit across from you? You might set your leg up a bit and be more comfortable?” 

“I’m fine.” He snapped at her, wincing in the next second, showing that he was not fine, but she imagined that he most likely did not like others pointing out his weakness. She said no more about it, but took her place across from him anyway. He gave her one confused glare, then acted as if it were nothing at all, and did stretch his leg slightly to the side though never did place his leg on the cushion. 

By the time they made it to the inn, she could see how he struggled. Six hours, even in the most comfortable carriage she’d ever ridden, was enough to make her a little stiff, she could not imagine the pain he must be in. It was something to focus on, really, better than what her mind wanted her to focus on, wanted her to dwell on. Her body quaked despite herself and she willed herself to think about how to lessen Mr. Gold’s pain, so they could finish their journey tomorrow without much discomfort. 

She had a sudden vision of Ruby’s grandfather. He had visited for some time during her childhood and had complained a great deal about all his aches and pains. She remembered Mrs. Grayson saying that she ordered a nightly wrapping of warm rags, and imagined it helped him immensely, but the grandfather just had great delight in retelling all his great pains and gaining as much sympathy as possible. 

Mr. Gold could not hide how badly he was doing. Each step up to their rooms was agonizingly slow, and a wince or flash of pain escaped him at least five or six times. She tried to go to his side to take an arm while the other managed the banister, but he brushed her off, trying to flutter his hands like he had done, but needing it on his cane to maintain balance too badly to make it dramatic. 

They were shown their rooms, a sitting room and two small rooms prepared for them well in advance. The richness of the carpets and the way that the staff seemed to treat them as if they were royalty, would have to be set aside to be thought of at a later time–Belle could hardly think of any of it. 

She found herself almost alone with a servant asking if there was anything that could be done. 

“Yes, would you be so kind as to bring up an extra pitcher of hot water and a basin, and some long rags. Bring it up in an hour, if you please.”

If her request seemed odd (for of course it did), the girl did not give any indication. Belle was wealthy now, and the wealthy could do whatever eccentric thing they wanted and it would not be questioned–not to their faces, anyway. 

“Yes ma’am.” and she curtsied and walked away. 

Belle paced the floor several times before gaining the courage to dress. If Mr. Gold hated his injury being pointed out, he would dislike her newest suggestion. But, she was his wife now, and if she was going to try to make something of it–if she was to have hope that it would not be some miserable existence, then she would make an effort to be a wife to him. It was a challenge set before her, as was the rest of what the marriage needed to entail. 

She shakily pulled out her nightdress and robe. Ruby had told her she needed a new one, so she had ordered it. It was too fine for her–the fabric was so smooth beneath her fingertips. Putting it on would be almost like putting on air, and she didn’t quite like the thought of that…and Mr. Gold’s knock that must come. 

She balled her fists, and told herself that this was the challenge too, and in quick movements replaced her clothes with her night dress and pulled the robe around her like a shield. Her bonnet was already off, and she began pulling out her hair pins, letting her curls dance around her shoulders and back. 

There was a knock at her door, her fingers trembled at the knob, but only found the servant on the other side with the things she requested, as well as to tell her there was also a tray of food that Mr. Gold had ordered.  Another maid helped deliver inside. 

She paced the room a little more before a second knock rang out. It was a softer knock, and while she knew her entire body was shaking, she was comforted in realizing that the knock indicated that Mr. Gold might be a little nervous as well. 

She opened the door to a Mr. Gold that was hardly less put together than he had been at the very beginning of the day. He had no coat on, but everything else was perfectly aligned and tucked and pleated. Not a traveling wrinkle, not a fabric out of place. She felt small and imperfect next to his elegance. His face, however, was a storm of emotions. 

So far, she had seen the public, neutral face he gave everyone. Sometimes this was replaced with a scowl, hardly ever a polite smile, though she had seen it a couple of times. In the carriage she had seen emotions build upon his forehead, and she had seen what pain looked like when it was overwhelming him. This was entirely different. She hardly knew how to read his face. Was he nervous, angry, in pain, horrified with what the night was supposed to accomplish when he still mourned his dead wife? His brown eyes looked as if he was searching hers. 

“You may come in.” Her voice only had the slightest wobble, she was thankful to note. 

He limped in, only managing a few feet before asking to sit upon the chair. He still held that searching look as he watched her go and retrieve the tray that the maid had delivered, and when she went to fetch the pitcher that she had placed close enough to the fire to keep warm (though not so close that it hurt the glass), his forehead creased in seemingly a thousand lines. 

“What are you doing?” There was no bite to the words, only confusion. 

“Please do not be angry. I remembered something Mrs. Grayson did with a guest who had stiffness in his joints, and if you’ll allow me, I would like to help relieve some of the pain in your leg.”

The rest of the emotions drained, there was only stormy confusion left. 

“There is no need.” he nearly snapped.

“Perhaps not, but would it not be well worth me to try?” She spoke calmly, not wanting to raise his anger. 

“It’s not required of you, in fact I came to eat with you, and that is all. I am afraid the traveling has rendered me unable to do much else, as you’ve pointed out to me.” He narrowed his eyes at her, but there was so little fight in them. 

“I had no desire to offend, only help, Mr. Gold.”

He was close enough to take hold of her arm, which is what he did, though gently. “You’re trembling. I knew it. I could see in your eyes the entire way here that you are afraid…afraid of me.”

Her eyes went to the floor, momentarily ashamed, but decided it would be better to try and be brave, outwardly if not inwardly. “I am afraid. I am afraid of the future, and I was afraid of what I have never done before. But no amount of fear takes away the fact that I am now your wife and I need to be…comfortable…with you.” Each word was a struggle. His eyes were looking at her so intently that she hardly knew what to do. She decided to move closer, he had not lashed out in anger yet, she dared keep contact with his eyes, though it felt like they pierced the inner workings of her soul. “Let me start with this–Please let me help you?” She pleaded.

He closed his eyes, pain blanketed his every movement, surrender caused his shoulders to sag. 

“Very well. You will know the extent of the damage soon enough, I suppose. I warn you, it’s a horrible, ugly thing. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when your delicate sensibilities scream in horror.”

The very thought of her running off screaming sounded ridiculous and she had a strange desire to laugh. She didn’t, but quietly and calmly began pulling off his boot and rolling up his pants leg. Her cheeks were hot, both with the action and the scrutiny of Mr. Gold’s gaze, but she was determined to do it. She wrapped the warm cloths around his leg. It was bad to look at, painfully so. Belle’s heart ached as she looked at it. What had done such a thing to his leg? She heard him sigh. 

“Does it help?” 

He only nodded, the intensity and confusion only sharpening as his eyes searched her face. She felt she had accomplished something that night, and she even managed to give him a small smile–making his confused look even deeper.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12

Dark Castle

What was he doing? He could only stare in confusion as he waited for her to do something. Any second he expected her to wrinkle her nose at the gnarly limb, or to gasp, to shudder–something. She never did. Her lips did not twitch, and her eyes did not widen, she only sat dutifully at her task, dark brown curly hair spilled over her shoulders and bounced with even the smallest movements. The action seemed so selfless and so different from everything his past experience taught him. 

She continued to make him feel such conflicting emotions, even the way she had calmly gone about setting up his dinner tray and stepping lightly in her bare feet, as if they had been married for years (though he could remember the first Mrs. Gold who never wanted to raise her hands to do such a menial task, and would have called a servant for the slightest chore). And then she gave her first request–to expose his leg to her scrutiny, after he had taken great pains (great, literal pain) to dress in such a way as to try to keep her view off of it. He knew well enough he was barely walking; he had come to her room to tell her so, to give her relief and perhaps see some of that fear leave her eyes. Now she was kneeling at his feet, with him inwardly cursing for being in so much pain as not to think straight. 

She was a brave little thing, and those pleading blue eyes had him shrugging in surrender. She would see it soon enough…might as well get the disgusted, pale faced looks over with. 

Yet they never came. 

He sighed, soaking in her gentle touches, yet staring at her as if she were some other worldly thing. Perhaps she was. 

“Does it help?”

He nodded. He did not trust himself with words. 

She completed her task and pulled a stool by the fire for him to lay his foot upon. She rinsed her hands and then came to eat her own dinner–his also was still untouched. 

“You can let me know when the cloth get too cold. And-and if there is anything else I can do to help, I-I don’t mind.”

He felt he needed to say something. Her small fingers grasped the soup spoon, eating as any gentlewoman would. She was such a mix of odd parts. Kneeling down on the ground one second and the next holding her spoon as gracefully as if she were at some elegant party. He needed to say something! He needed to not be so enamored with his wife.

“There is nothing.” His voice croaked. This was not good at all! He searched frantically for that ability to throw on his neutral expression at any given moment. Never had it been so much of a struggle. “Thank you.” He glanced over at her when he said that and hoped it conveyed enough warmth in the thanks–she deserved it, deserved more for her service, and he hated being in anyone’s debt. She smiled shyly back and finished her soup. 

…

The following day’s carriage ride began differently than the day before. Something had shifted between them, and he was unsure what it was, only that he assumed it had something to do with him seeing her so small and vulnerable, trembling in her night dress, and she seeing him at his most vulnerable state, leg exposed. 

“I believe you mentioned that Dark Castle is in Storybrooke.” She began. At his nod, she continued, “Is it a very large town? Do you entertain at Dark Castle very much?”

Memories of the former Mrs. Gold threatened to crawl back up to the forefront of his mind. 

“Fourteen families have replied to my invitation! Is that all we are to ever boast, Rupert? If we remained in town, as I suggested, I could have hosted three times as many–more, even! This is insufferable–I can’t stand it here–take me back, Rupert, take me back!” 

Her wails and complaints echoed down the halls. Servants knew of her discontent, knew of the strain that kept him from ever meeting her in her own rooms. She would never be happy unless in town and making some conquest, he was only happy during small pockets of time where he spent time with his son, but most unhappy while in town. They were both decidedly miserable. 

“The town itself is not much larger than where you are from, Miss-Mrs. Gold. There is an inn, plenty of small shops, and perhaps twenty or so families that would be in our circles, not including the vicar who lives on the estate.” If she was disappointed with these numbers, she did not say anything. In fact, her eyes remained calm, only drinking in the information, not preparing to argue or complain. 

“As for entertainment, I believe you have been in my company long enough to know I dislike entertaining, in general.” He expected her now to show some kind of indignation.

“I think we both might prefer reading to cards?” She was smiling. Her eyes looked…relieved. What a strange girl!

“For the most part.” and he couldn’t help smiling a little in return. “Though you are also well aware that I can be prevailed upon to find great enjoyment in playing cards.” The memory did not make her smile falter, though he could see that she was remembering how she came to be in a carriage with him. “With people…that is another thing entirely.”

“I am not sure what my social aptitude is or will be, I have not had the opportunity to be tried.” At this her smile faltered only for a moment, but was quickly recovered. 

After the third change in horses and the knowledge that they were on the last part of their journey, Gold began to feel unsure of himself, despite all attempts to appear otherwise. He wondered, for the first time since making the decision, if he shouldn’t have had a proper honeymoon where they could have gotten to know each other before entering the house of ghosts and memories. He had been so sure that Mrs. Gold would only be interested in her financial freedom and would relish in it, in town–or even one of the larger seaside villages. He had been so sure that having her under his familiar roof, with the span of three miles before reaching the outskirts of his property, and only a handful of shops to peruse would give her some pause before spending the entirety of her pin money. It felt it  would also make him more sure that if there was a child created, he had a better chance of knowing that it was indeed his. 

Now these accusations towards the smiling woman in front of him, who had never complained over the journey, nor wondered at why they went to his home instead of traveling, seemed almost cruel. He refused to completely trust her–he could not do so on so short of an acquaintance, but he began to think that perhaps she was different from the women who had plagued his life before. 

“This is Storybrooke.” He pointed out the window when familiar buildings began to pass by. Almost two years. The anxious flutters in his chest began to pain him in earnest. 

“It’s very quaint.” Mrs. Gold smiled, taking in the sight out her window. 

“A polite phrase for very tiny.” He couldn’t help but point out, waiting for her to insist on her honesty or wrinkle her nose at the very sight of so small a town center. 

“I suppose so.” She laughed softly instead. He had not really heard her laugh, perhaps seen her do it with Ruby as he watched her from across a room, but hear it? He liked the soft sound, comparison striking again with her predecessors. Milah’s haunting one, Coraline’s cackle. At least this laugh would not irritate him. She continued, “I have not traveled enough to compare.”

“And what towns do you have to compare it to?” He had a sneaking suspicion he knew the answer.

“Oh, only my own–I have a vague memory of visiting some distant cousins when I was only five or six, but they are too fuzzy to use. I must compare it to my village and I again reiterate that Storybrooke is quaint, and I quite like it.” Her smile indicated that she might really mean it. Her eyes still held a little underlying fear, her face yet to erase those lines of worry. He wondered if it might be in expectation of the night to come. That was easily remedied. Much easier than the guilt that pricked him that he had hauled his bride to a secluded spot when she had so little opportunity to travel in her life. Now to bring up her worry without making the rest of the carriage ride as stilted as it had begun the day before.

“You do not have to worry, Mrs. Gold, over any concerns about your privacy being encroached upon, this evening. I imagine you will be fatigued from your journey, and I would like to recover from it as well.” 

Her cheeks went a rosy pink, she looked uncomfortable, but did not look affronted at his hints. 

“Thank you. Is your leg bothering you as bad as yesterday?” Her eyes held true concern and it took all his methods of appearing in control to keep eye contact with her. 

“No, not so very bad, I think.” It did hurt. In fact, he would be just as worried about exiting the carriage with his dignity intact on this day as he had the day before, but he did not feel like calling attention to it, not when Mrs. Gold’s eyes looked like that! He was unused to such worry towards himself. She did not know  him, she ought not to be concerned. 

“I’m glad.” and she gave him another smile. 

The carriage was quiet for just a little longer before the property of Dark Castle came into view. It would take some time before the house itself was visible, but his new wife looked utterly enchanted over the parks, lake, and the way the trees were situated. 

“It’s beautiful!” She exclaimed, and he once again found himself smiling in response. He had stopped looking outside (nearly two years couldn’t have changed the land that much. He trusted his steward to keep things well in hand during his absence) and was better amused with looking at the gaping face of Mrs. Gold (and it was much better than thinking in that grove of trees, I used to play with Belford. At that exact spot I took Belford fishing, it was in that field that he got that horrid scrape that I had worried would somehow get infected, no matter the assurances from anyone who knew those kinds of things, and Milah who laughed at my worry). So, his heart nearly jumped from his chest when her face changed from wonder to surprised horror. 

“What is it, what’s wrong?” He said with more feeling than he had intended. She turned towards him, the previous look gone from her face and only settled in her eyes. He could clearly see that she was trying to appear more calm than she felt.

…

She could not be the mistress of such a grand estate. 

When she had first heard the name “Dark Castle”, she had only thought, large estate and she had been pleasantly soaking in the rolling hills, well maintained grounds, and the winter sun casting a late afternoon sparkle on an outstretched lake. She forgot that attached to such massive grounds, deserved a house no less massive to go with it. She was unsure what she had expected, but it had not been this. Thick gray walls, looming towers, and intimidating defense structures that had most likely been a great asset to the owners centuries back. This house was not for the likes of her. She was small, ignorant, and ill equipped for the challenge such a place would be. A person could fit her whole town inside, she was sure of it! What had she done?!

“What is it, what’s wrong?”

Belle found Mr. Gold’s eyes on her, and obvious concern written on his face. She felt silly for causing him alarm over her upsetting realization. She had chosen this. He had chosen her, and she must do her best. 

“I had no idea it would be so large.” She whispered, awe at the structure looming in front of them still impacting her voice. 

He seemed relieved at her words, she was only thankful he did not get upset at her startled feelings. He sat in thought for a moment. 

“It’s not a place for someone, such as I, either.”

It was as if he had read exactly what she was thinking. Had felt her inadequacies. She fidgeted with her hands with nervous energy at his ability. 

“This place belongs to a duke, a lord, someone with royal blood flowing through their veins. Unfortunately, the ones here before had no luck raising children who could reach adulthood. Finally, A steward’s son you liked (even if the steward himself nearly ran the place to the ground).” He spat the last words out with obvious disdain. She realized that he was talking about his father. “...is better than the house going to ruin and disrepair. Not everyone accepts me. The son of a steward is all I’ll ever be to some people, and that nonacceptance might carry over to those I align myself with.” He looked at her with great meaning. She understood. Marrying him meant that there were those who would shun her because of who her husband was. She met his eyes. 

“Good thing I am used to such looks.” She tried to smile.

“Just so.” His look was strange, as if he had forgotten for a moment just how much she was rejected in her town. Perhaps he felt that she was naive, since it would probably be on a larger scale, and by more people if they ever went to town. “However, I find there is no reputation or background that cannot be smoothed over with a bit of money and power. If someone wants something from me, and I from them, I very rarely find my birth an issue–my money is what they want and all they really care for, when all is said and done.” 

That’s horrible. She wanted to say, and then thought, What a horrible existence to only think you are wanted for your money. 

She did not say anything. He might have meant it as a comfort, but it only made her feel guilty for how mercenary their own alliance was. 

He cleared his throat. Tension from the talk of money and breeding stifling the air of the carriage. 

“Anyway, here is Dark Castle, Mrs. Gold.” and he had the slyest half smile that Belle couldn’t help but smile back, despite the prior conversation. 

The carriage halted in front of the well kept, massive structure. Belle’s heart pounded in her chest as she descended onto the paved entrance. At the doorway stood a large man, someone who could make even such a tall man as Mr. Gaston seem tiny and insignificant. To Belle he was almost a giant! Beside him was another man, also tall, though not as tall as the giant man, and lanky where the giant man was large in every manageable description. An older lady with a great mound of graying hair piled high upon her head and tiny spectacles on the tip of her nose, was standing next to the lanky man. 

“Mr. Dove, this is my wife, Mrs. Gold. Mrs. Gold, this is Mr. Dove, my steward.” Mr. Gold spoke with serious calm, though Belle vaguely recognized that he leaned a great deal on his cane–he did hurt. 

“Welcome to Dark Castle, Mrs. Gold. Mr. Gold, good to see you back, sir.”

“I trust things have run smoothly in my absence, though I imagine I will have a lot to catch up on. We can meet after Mrs. Gold and I eat dinner and set out to look over the property, first thing tomorrow.”

“Yes sir.” For such a big man he had a very mellow voice. It was deep, but soft . 

The next two introductions were made. There was Mr. Williams, the butler, and Mrs. Lucas the housekeeper. Mrs. Lucas’ manners were polite but stiff. There were no laugh lines about her face or eyes, indicating that it was a rare pastime. Whether it was because there was no opportunity or that she disliked the action, Belle could only wait to find out. 

“Thank you all. I am eager to learn about Dark Castle, Mrs. Lucas, I know we will have much to discuss.” Belle smiled. She hoped what she said was alright. She looked at her husband for guidance, but his face remained neutral. 

It was indicated that they separate, to change their clothes, before going back to eat dinner. Afterwards, because Belle could not remember how to get back to her room, a servant led her back along the red carpeted halls, down towards the family suites. It was a lonely walk, with a person she did not know, a ladies maid whose face was nowhere as warm as Mary’s, to be dressed and readied for bed and the door to be closed upon her. She unpacked some of her clothes before finding that the trip had fatigued her and she found herself wishing that her husband would knock on the door, just so she might have a familiar face to talk to.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13

An Open Room

Dearest Ruby,

I have arrived this very evening to Dark Castle, and despite how sinister the name sounds, it is a great estate with furniture inside that all that our modern sensibilities could want and situated on such beautiful grounds that I am itching to explore. If it is this beautiful on this wintry day in January, how lovely it will be when spring comes! As soon as it does, I shall obnoxiously explain to you and describe every blade of grass, every perfectly situated bush or tree, and tell you exactly what flowers are growing best here, so that you will tire of me as your correspondent in no time at all.

I know what it is that you are really hoping for out of this letter. How is Mr. Gold? Does his serious demeanor continue on into married life? I will tell you, Ruby, that he is not at all like I had first judged him, and I am so very glad to find it so. It is not to say he had become suddenly jovial, but I am beginning to understand him better, thus improving my opinion of him. There is much still I do not know, and though I worry about my insufficiency as mistress in such a place as this, I still think my chances at contentment are much higher, than had I made a different decision. 

I mean no offense to you, of course. You are not held accountable for Mr. Gaston’s actions, nor do I blame you for encouraging me to accept his hand–for I do understand that my plight was dire. However, I do thank the Lord that I was given a third option, and that so far, I am optimistic about my future life. 

Have you or Mr. Grayson seen my father? Do not hold back–how is he? I worry so, and I know I must send him my own correspondence, but I dread it. If my letter is too optimistic it will have him begging for any assistance I might offer–to sound lonely or depressed would have him telling me how to better please my husband so he might better benefit. I see your raised eyebrows, but I tell you Ruby, it is exactly how it will be. I will write in a neutral way, and hope he does not read into things any further than what is presented. 

Write and tell me everything. Tell me how you all are and what social engagements you have attended. Has the wonderful Mr. Hatfield visited recently?

Your dear friend,

Belle

…

Belle woke for the second time in her life, wondering where she was. After spending nineteen years in one house, it was a jarring awakening, indeed. She took in a few of the things she had noticed from the day before. The room was noticeably plain and empty. There was a great wooden Armoire, with thick wooden panels, covered in delicately carved patterns. It looked to be winding roses, the stems interlocking, thorns jutting out every few inches, with a large blooming rose on the top of each heavy door. 

There was also her bed, which was grand, no doubt, and the linens more fine than she had ever slept on. Besides that, the only remaining piece of furniture was a little chair at the end of her bed, and the only decoration was her trunk which sat beside it. It was a curious thing to note, that though the furniture itself was well made and denoted that its owner was wealthy, there was nothing feminine, or that showed someone’s personality. 

The personality of Mrs. Gold. 

There was nothing to tell Belle what sort of woman she was, no mark of her personality or even existence. 

Her door opened, and the face of the ladies maid met her. 

“Millet, I believe you said your name was?”

“Oui, Madame.”

The face of the woman was pert and striking. She had dark eyes and dark raven hair stuck under a white lacy cap. She was a good deal older than Belle-perhaps in her late twenties, but her clothes were pulled close to her body, showing her figure well, and only some sheer gauzy fabric kept her modesty. Her accent was French, her tone polite but icy cold. 

Belle washed herself before letting Millet dress her in a green dress with pleats along the bust whose neck scooped low for a day dress, but had enough lace that reached up her neck to make it quite acceptable. 

Millet did not smile, except a thin, tight one, at times, as if the whole business of helping Belle was the last thing in the world she would rather do. Belle disliked the frosty silence, and wished for her own dear Mary, instead. 

“Have you worked for Mr. Gold long?” Belle smiled and tried to warm the air. 

“These past eight years, madame. I came to be the lady's maid for the late Mrs. Gold.” At the mention of that name, her lips grew tighter, her dark eyes darker, her features all sharp as steel. 

“Oh.” Belle remarked, she wanted to fidget with her hands, but Millet had such a hold on Belle’s hair that she feared to move herself too much or else risk it being pulled. “You knew Mrs. Gold quite well, then. I know this must be a change for you, and I hope that you aren’t too uncomfortable.”

“Not at all.” the thin line of her mouth went up to one side, a smug demeanor was reflected in the mirror and Belle almost questioned the attitude, but stopped short. Did she really want to begin a campaign against her ladies maid on her very first day? She was inexperienced, but she could manage a single maid–hopefully. She wanted to get on her maid’s good side, to let her know she wasn’t a threat to the former mistress’ memory. She was also curious, which prompted her to say,

“Is there a likeness of the late Mrs. Gold? I would dearly love to see what she looked like. I imagine she must have been beautiful.” Belle tried to give a smile of reassurance, but it was difficult when Millet’s face flashed a moment’s intense anger. Her lips grew even thinner, somehow, and it was as if she were biting back half of what she actually wanted to say. 

“There are none in the gallery, none for public view, Madame. Mr. Gold could not bear anything of hers to be left out, this dressing room, and the mistress’ suite were made empty of her beautiful things.” There was almost an ache to her complaints and Belle could not help but be sorry for her. Belle remembered when her mother had passed away and how her father disliked being reminded of her. Belle always thought it was out of shame and a dislike for dwelling on anything that made him unhappy. She could also see how this could be applied to true grief. She held onto anything that reminded her of her mother, for to abandon the item felt like abandoning her mother, herself. The memories clung to the items kept, and it was almost like visiting them to be among their things again. 

She could not deny that there were other methods of dealing with grief. Of hiding away, of having a grief so heavy that you could not look upon the loved ones dearest treasures. She did not understand it, but she also did not judge another person’s way of handling something so difficult. She was unsure what to say to Millet, but it seemed she didn’t need to worry for after finishing her hair (something a bit tight and exact for Belle’s liking, but decided to start making her opinion known on the morrow, instead of making the girl, who really did seem distraught, do it over again), Millet went on to say,

“You asked if she was beautiful–She was beautiful, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, or ever will see again.” She gave a pointed look at Belle. “I do have a little likeness I keep about me to remember her by, that I will let you see.”

Belle did not question her, when she pulled out a small locket with a small painting of the former mistress of Dark Castle, though it seemed a bit bizarre for a maid, no matter how close to the mistress she might be, to carry around a likeness, as if they were long lost sisters or bosom friends. Millet opened the locket long enough for Belle to see that the late Mrs. Gold had darker hair than Belle had pictured, but light eyes and elegant features. 

“Thank you.” Belle murmured, and the locket was whisked away and placed back in Millet’s pocket. 

“You shall tour the house, today, I think.” Millet remarked. 

“Yes.” Belle assumed Millet was simply trying to learn what her mistress would be doing for the day, to better know how to serve her. 

“This bedroom is bare, but the other rooms in the family wing are worth seeing, I can assure you.” And she gave her first real smile, though even that unsettled Belle. 

Millet’s steps were decisive and quick as she showed her to the dining room and Belle had to ask her twice to slow down or else she would have to jog to keep up–a very unladylike picture if she ever saw one! She was taking as quick a step as her unfortunately short legs would carry her, and was nearly out of breath by the time she arrived at the breakfast table. 

Mr. Gold sat at the head of the table, all traces of travel and fatigue gone at first glance, his face bore the look of quiet determination, the very picture of a gentleman in Belle’s estimation, for all his talk of lack of genteel blood. He looked up at her when she entered and nodded, even gave her a slight smile which she returned. 

“Did you sleep well?” he politely asked as she sat down and began to make her plate. 

“Very well, thank you.”

He looked like he was struggling with what else to say, hesitant at the very least. 

“Do you know what you will do today?” He finally settled on, but it was so formal and stilted, that she wondered if that was what he was actually thinking. There was a weariness to him, now that she was closer to him, that she thought that the question of sleeping well, ought to have been asked of him, instead. 

“I thought I might…” She hesitated. Though knowing her plan all that was proper, she still worried that any slight thing might become a colossal mistake. “Have Mrs. Lucas show me the house, and then the accounts and the running. I know she runs it well.” She added, reminded of what he had said before. “But I would like to see if there is something I could do to slowly become more involved. And I would like to become familiar with the house, of course.” She smiled. Mr. Gold did not smile back this time, but did not look angry, only distracted. He nodded, and that was all. 

“I shall be with Mr. Dove most of the day. I haven’t…well, I haven’t been here in a while and it might take some time to be reacquainted with the running of the place again. I know this routine is a bit unusual for a honeymoon period, but we aren’t…this isn’t…” Seeing Mr. Gold being a bit unsure of himself helped Belle to feel more comfortable. 

“Do not be uneasy, Mr. Gold, I am well aware that our marriage is a bit…different. You do not offend me.” She was unsure if he was worried about that, but her words seemed to relieve him some. 

Finding Mrs. Lucas took some direction from one of the servants. The house was akin to a maze and she was uncertain if she would ever be able to find her way to anywhere within,  without aid. Dark wood, lush red carpet, and dark green papered walls. Each element was rich and elegant. Overstated without being gaudy. 

Mrs. Lucas had a stern brow, but when Belle asked to see the house, and Mrs. Lucas began her tour, the light in her eyes brightened and her voice lost almost all its sharpness. She began to show Belle rooms and relate their history and improvements with gusto.

“Down this hall is the music room. The late Mrs. Giles was the one who took great pains to redo this room. She was such a young thing back then–” Mrs. Lucas gave a small thoughtful smile and shook her head. “Then again, so was I!”

“Were you here when Mr. Giles was living? ” Belle tested the name on her tongue, as up to this point, she had known that Mr. Gold was the son of a steward and had been put in the will of the predecessor, but the predecessor’s name, she had not known.  

“I was indeed. A young thing then, I was, had only worked a couple of years for an older man with a much smaller manor than this, I can assure you. Mr. Giles knew Mr. Jenkins, my employer at the time, and Mr. Jenkins recommended me. Here I am thirty years later!” She said all this with that same thoughtful smile, nothing so grand as jovial people’s smiles, but Belle liked it–it was an honest one. 

“It was a shock, I dare say, for Mr. Gold to take possession?” Belle hoped Mrs. Lucas would continue in her smiling, honest way, and not think that she was prying too much. Belle just wanted to know– to know what sort of man her husband was. 

“A little, I suppose , but the real shock was the quick succession of death in this house.” The smile faded and Belle was upset for having done so to the older lady. “Mr. Gold was a good companion to young Mr. Giles–certainly less wild than the late master was. Young master Giles was fifteen when he left us—devastating his father.” Mrs Lucas sighed. “Mr. Gold, you know–I think he was born serious and Mr. Giles thought that Mr. Gold balanced young Mr. Giles and hoped he would be a good influence.”

Mrs. Lucas sighed again, “Ah, here we are, the music room.” 

While the carpet still carried a rich red color, the walls were a light green and gold covered the edges of the fireplace, as well as the tips of some renaissance paintings. There was a gold chandelier dangling from upon high and in the middle of the room stood a very large piano, larger than Belle had seen in her life. Outwardly, Belle remained calm as she walked over to the keys and pressed a pleasing melody with the appropriate accompanying chords. The sound came out clear and smooth and the room held just enough echo for the music to be felt as well as heard. 

“It’s lovely.” Belle remarked, for inwardly she felt as if she could burst for joy. A whole room dedicated to a piano. What a lovely thought! Perhaps she could finally practice enough to become proficient–and in a room such as this, she would be in no one’s way.

“I see you play, Mrs. Gold?” Mrs. Lucas seemed pleased with Belle’s small demonstration. 

“I do, but not well. I love it though, I love it dearly. Might I ask. That is to say…” Belle felt her pulse quicken. “Did Mrs. Gold, the late Mrs. Gold play? Was she very fond of music?” She didn’t know why she needed to know this–but for some reason she felt in her soul that she must understand this woman. A woman who could cause such pain and grief to Mr. Gold and so much loyalty in a maid must be some great person. Mrs. Lucas’ face fell completely and her lips went into a thin line. 

“The late Mrs. Gold could play, yes, but…” Mrs. Lucas’s words came out slowly and thoughtfully. “She was not as inclined to practice. She enjoyed…other things more.”

Belle nodded, though she did not understand Mrs. Lucas’ change in tone. 

After this, Mrs. Lucas was not as interested in the tour. She remained polite, and paid Belle every courtesy Belle thought necessary for a new mistress, and Belle was even more impressed at the pride that remained in Mrs. Lucas’ tone over anything now belonging to Mr. Gold or anything he had done to improve the house, since she had known and worked for Mr. Giles for so long. Yet, she now waved vague descriptions of rooms, grew thoughtful and pensive, in a sad way, and hardly gave  personal memories to anything. 

“Down there you will find the library.”

“The library?” Belle did her very best not to do anything that would give away her squealing excitement, but she couldn’t help but smile. 

“Yes, but near here, you see, is the kitchen. We will go there and I will show you our menu for the week and make sure you approve–then I can show you the books and accounts.”

She could hear the hint at wanting to end the tour, though she could not help but be disappointed that they had ended it before seeing the room Belle most wanted to see. She tried to orient herself, so that she might find it later. 

The menu was approved, and made Belle’s head swim with the amount of expensive food written upon it. Belle’s days of only simple fish and chicken were apparently over. She dreaded the moment when she would need to entertain, and try to come up with dishes that were elegant and worth serving to those they needed to make happy. She hoped Mrs. Lucas wouldn’t mind her list of questions. 

She was glad when it was time for tea in one of the richly furnished sitting rooms. Which one it was, Belle was unsure, as she still needed a servant to direct her. Mr. Gold looked tired, and said little. 

“Do you approve of the house?” was one of his polite phrases that came at one point. 

“Of course, It is lovely.” She smiled and was pleased to see that he smiled a little back. 

“Then you have not seen the torture rooms then yet?” This was spoken so suddenly, with such a menacing tone that it caused Belle to loosen her grip on her cup and watched in horror as it slipped from her hand. 

“You must know I was not being serious?” She looked towards her husband to see what sort of angry expression he might wear but found that he was giving her a sly smile–smiling! She, instead, wanted to cry at her blunder, and began trying to clean up her mess. 

“It’s just a cup.” He said. He was no longer smiling, and spoke in earnest. 

“You are not angry?” Belle still felt her pulse thumping loudly in her chest. 

“No, no.” He paused. “Mrs. Gold, I think you fail to realize how little such things matter. A chipped cup is easily replaced.” And he did his little flick with his hands to show just how little he cared about it. 

She thought he was trying to make her feel better, but Belle could only think about how much she had to learn. Of course he would not care about an insignificant trinket. Such a thing might have been a disaster in the past, but here, to replace it would be a small line in the books, in the midst of many more, and most likely more expensive. The thought baffled her. 

That afternoon, she decided to try and find her bedroom on her own. She disliked bothering the servants, and wanted to be able to find her way without having to always seek one out (though she could admit that there always seemed to be someone about, and they were hardly ever the same person!). No one looked at her strangely when she went down a wrong hall and found herself in a different wing of the castle entirely. She remembered that this was the hall of guest rooms. Later she found the music room again. She sat upon the bench and tried to remember some of the few songs in her repertoire, and wondered if Mr. Gold might think it alright in the next day or so, for her to get some music with her pin money. The light in the window shifted, telling her she had spent over an hour in one place and had yet to achieve her goal of finding her room. 

She went to the window and gave an appreciative sigh over the view down to the lake. It truly was a beautiful estate. 

She finally left the music room and once again ventured towards what she hoped was in the correct direction. It was. She remembered the certain paneling, and the way the rooms were laid out. So many rooms, even in the family wing. There were more rooms in the family wing, than there were in Belle’s former house all together! 

There was Mr. Gold’s room–next to hers, then hers, then two others on her side of the hall. Now having found what she had been looking for, she decided to see what the insides of the other bedrooms looked like. What did a bedroom look like that was not stripped of all personality? She wondered who might have formerly occupied them, which one might have belonged to the young Mr. Giles, who had been a friend to Mr. Gold. 

She tried the knob and it was not locked. Sunlight spilled onto the scene before her, a gasp came involuntarily from her lips. 

The room was a moment frozen in time. A small bed, a dusty rocking horse, clothes for a little boy–night clothes–laid out as though it had been prepared only moments ago. There was a small table with sheets of paper on it and pencils. A few books were stacked neatly beside the bed, and a screen for the fire was embroidered with light colors, perfect for a child. 

A child. 

Mr. Giles, the young Mr. Giles, would have been nearly grown before passing away. She took a step forward, looking at one of the pieces of paper that had already been drawn on. In large, wobbly writing was the name– Belford Gold. 

Mr. Gold had a son. And the realization broke Belle’s heart completely. Tears began falling—to lose both a wife and a son-and a son so young. 

The realization made her begin to wonder at something. 

Mrs. Gold’s room had been stripped of everything, this room–this room that looked untouched by time–was a monument to a little boy that must have shared the same fate as his mother. Could grief, this deep, manifest in two different ways like this? 

The paper was a drawing of two figures, nothing very precise, since the hands that drew them must have been very small, but it was unmistakably Mr. Gold and his son, as the larger figure, had an arrow with the word “PAPA” scribbled on it. It was clear the son loved his father dearly. 

“What are you doing here?” A growl caused her to gasp and jump as she turned around sharply. Mr. Gold stood there, his whole face one of unadulterated anger.

“I, that is, I was finding my room and I…”

“Thought you would stick your nose where it was not your concern? Did you touch anything?” He barked. 

The face was angrier than she had ever seen it. Angrier than it had been when he discovered her in Mr. Hatfield’s library. He did not like people in places they did not belong, and she had entered his sanctuary where no mortal on this side of heaven ought to tread. This was a blunder that no chipped cup could compare, and she tried to will her legs to not shake.

“No.” She whispered, trying to gauge his anger to see when best to turn her head to where she would be hurt the least. 

“You had no right! No right to be in here!” He screamed. He was so close that she felt the spit from his words. His face was red with his rage and she could see all the pain and grief had mixed into this thunderous roar. She saw him lift his cane. She reflexively lifted her hands over her face to prepare for the blow.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14

The Mystery of the Locked Door

It had all gone wrong when he had decided to go in search for his wife. After getting very little sleep the night before due to the memories that haunted him, followed by a cold ride over his property with Mr. Dove, the subsequent tea with Mrs. Gold had been…nice. After his teasing quip, they had settled into an easy conversation. She was easy to talk to, and didn’t seem annoyed to be talking to him. She spoke softly, smiled often, and seemed to be able to sense when he was too tired or weary to speak much. 

After writing some business correspondence, he was tired and wanted to be diverted from the memories lurking in every corner. He had left Dark Castle to forget, but he found that he never had, and the memories were just as strong as they were before he left. 

He decided that he would show his wife the library, and they could sit in companionable silence, read, or have more of those conversations that had been so pleasing during tea.

“You are looking for Mrs. Gold, are you not? She is not in her room, but looking about in the family wing.” It was Millet, Milah’s former ladies’ maid who had seemed to suddenly appear out of thin air. He was unsure why she was still employed. He never liked the woman–she and his late wife were always deep in secrets and conspiring against him. How did she even know he was looking for Mrs. Gold? He supposed it would be a natural assumption, still he didn’t like Millet being there. He would have to speak to Dove about that later. For now, he thought he would try and surprise her–would she give him that surprised gasp like she had done when she dropped the cup? She had looked so innocently worried then that he found himself doing his best to comfort her and reassure her. He couldn’t believe he had reminded her of her new found wealth and how easily things could be replaced!

He made sure his cane was as quiet as possible as he made his way down the hall. 

Something was not right. 

The door, Belford's door, was open. Feeling panicked, he reached inside his coat and felt the key that was a permanent fixture in his pocket. It was still there, and only Mrs. Lucas had the other key. She knew not to disturb the room. Again, something here was not right at all. 

His steps quickened and he cursed his leg for slowing him down. As he rounded the doorway he found his wife, leaning over a stack of Belford’s drawings. He could barely see anything else through the rage that clouded his vision–and his thinking.

“What are you doing here?” He demanded. He had startled his wife, but there was no joy to be found in it. 

She rounded him in surprise, no doubt for being caught sneaking about in rooms she ought not be in. What had she done? Had she demanded a key from Mrs. Lucas? Using her new status to demand locked doors be opened for her?

“I, that is, I was finding my room and I…” Guilt laced her tone, he could see nothing but guilt for being caught in every feature. 

“Thought you would stick your nose where it was not your concern? Did you touch anything?” He could not see well enough to notice if she had, for he had memorized where everything had been and had played it over in his mind more times than he could count since the day it would forever remain untouched. 

“No.” She answered. And he could only hope she was telling the truth. 

“You had no right! No right to be here!” He knew he was shouting, but his anger waxed so strong that he could neither see nor think of anything else. He lifted his cane to stomp it hard on the ground to reinforce his words, an involuntary action–something he gave no thought to, but would realize that he had done it later when he contemplated what had happened. As he did so, Mrs. Gold threw her hands up over her face and squeezed her eyes closed. 

In an instant he could see again, he could think again. She thought he was going to…

He took in her tear stained cheeks, the worry lines, the expectation of blows–blows she had known from her father, blows she now expected from him. 

“Get out…please.” He spoke, how calmly, he couldn’t say. There was a part of him that needed to reassure her, to apologize but he knew that if he started speaking now, he would either break down, or allow the anger still funneling through him to bark at her. Perhaps she had commanded a key (she was mistress here now, he ought to remember), but he couldn’t…he wouldn’t, ever…

She opened her eyes, shocked curiosity met his, but she did not question him, and merely ran out of the room, though careful not to step on anything that had been Belfords, and gave plenty of room between them when she passed him. He heard her door shut, and tried to breathe. 

It was impossible to be calm in this room. He felt the tears, before he realized that he was crying. The ache that Belford’s loss had created, throbbed in this room. His son was so close, yet so far away. Memories clung to each item, he could almost hear his boy’s little voice. He knelt by the bed, letting the pain in his leg cry out, and he wept on the bed until the tears no longer came. 

Weary–minutes, hours later, he did not know– he stumbled down to his study and felt calm enough to ring for Mrs. Lucas. 

“Yes sir?” The lady always looked like she had run the length and breadth of the castle before coming to him. Busy–the lady could only be described so, and seemed to relish in it. 

“Might I ask if Mrs. Gold happened to ask for any keys–to any particular rooms?” 

Mrs. Lucas studied him for a moment, a curious look crossing her face. “No sir? She only seemed a little disappointed that we stopped short of the library in our tour–but I knew you had said you wanted to show her that, yourself, and anyways, it wasn’t locked, if she had tried to go and search for it. Is anything the matter, sir?”

“I don’t know.” Gold crossed his arms in thought. “Mrs. Gold found Belford’s room–and it was…” As much as he thought he had cried every tear bottled within his body, he still struggled to say the words without faltering. “open.”

“Did you not request it be so, sir?” Now Mrs. Lucas looked truly confused, and a little worried. So was he. 

“What?”

“A request. I was told you had asked for the room to be unlocked for your viewing.”

“I have a key, I have no need for that–Who told you this?” He struggled to keep his tone under control. Slivers of that same rage began to well up inside him again. Something was not right here.

“Let me think…Peter, it was Peter sir.”

“The footman?” Why had this Peter wanted his room opened?

“The very one.” Mrs. Lucas scowled, which only meant she was deep in thought. She was well aware of the significance of the room and how it had been banned from every other person, be they guest or servant. Her eyebrows knit together for a second. “Mrs. Gold, she wanted to go into master Belford’s room?”

“She didn’t know, Mrs. Lucas, She didn’t know…thought it was another family room, she wouldn’t have had any reason to know it was normally locked.” He didn’t know why he was so sure that Peter was not a pawn of Mrs. Gold (perhaps because he doubted she even knew who Peter was), but since he had dismissed her, when he replayed her face when she looked back at him, he could only remember sorrow and fear–was there guilt there? He could no longer remember. 

Mrs. Lucas nodded. “I suspect you’ll want to be talking to Peter then or shall I get Mr. Dove to question him?”

“No, no, I want to speak to him directly. I think I might have a better chance of getting something out of him anyway.”

A few minutes later, a youngish man of five and twenty arrived at his study, looking red in the face and decidedly…guilty. 

“Do you know why I have called you?”

The guilty party fidgeted where he stood. “Not exactly, sir.”

“A command. A command I did not give was sent to Mrs. Lucas and I want to know why.”

The young man’s eyes got wider for a second, then his face became white. It was a face that showed he was not used to the feeling of guilt and Gold could see that guilt warring within as if the battle was being waged on the outside for all to see. 

“Millet didn’t think Mrs. Lucas would listen to her.” Peter stammered. “Told me that you had requested it as she was leaving Mrs. Gold’s room and found you unable to open–master Belford’s room. She painted what I thought was a true tale sir and I knew how Mrs. Lucas didn’t like Millet much. I apologize sir. I allowed her sweet words to cloud my judgment and I understand if you must let me go for such a thing. But if you please, sir, I will tell you I have a mother and sister to support, if you’ll but have mercy on me.” The poor chap was sweating, so anxious was he, that Mr. Gold waved him away with a: never do something like that again. They were watching him. Or something of that nature. He was too curious now about Millet and both why she was still in his employ and why she thought it was alright to be using others to do her bidding, under the pretense that it was him giving the command. 

Mr. Dove was talked to next. 

“I don’t know what to tell you sir. After Mrs. Gold died, the woman did grieve so. Curled up in corners at first, when the whole house was grieving and then later kept her head low. Took whatever job we gave her, no matter how menial, and just said she wanted to stay employed in the house where her mistress had lived. She’s been quiet and contrite the entire time. While Mrs. Lucas did not exactly like her, Millet never did anything to warrant being let go.” Dove’s voice was calm, and Gold only wished it had the ability to make himself so. Gold pointed out that he had told him that he couldn’t stand to see traces of Mrs. Gold about the place, and why that wouldn’t include Millet, he didn’t know. Mr. Dove looked a little sheepish, but in the end, Gold waved him off too. 

He needed to deal with Millet sooner rather than later, but he knew it would only rile him to do so. A clearer picture of what had happened was now in front of him, and the guilt he felt was almost crippling. He knew he needed to rectify things with his wife before doing anything more. She had not deserved his wrath, and he felt he could finally approach her without barking, now that he had taken time to think things through. Whether or not she would ever forgive him for having accused, barked and ranted at her, would be another thing entirely. Had he doomed his marriage to only cold derision from here on out? It had been his own doing–no surprise there, really. 

Walking back to her room was slow and agonizing. Not just for the leg that he had abused when kneeling by Belford’s bed, but the guilt and the anxiety of talking to her, conveying to her his apologies, and assuring her that he would never hurt her like her father had (not physically, anyway). He knew he could not extend the promise to her emotions, his temper was yet not under good regulation, and he realized he hated himself for the inability to do so.

He decided to go through his room to knock on her door. She could better make an excuse if she did not desire him to enter, and there would be no servants to possibly walk by while he attempted to gain entrance (and was unsuccessful). He studied the door for a good minute before getting closer to knock. It was then that he noticed the muffled noises on the other side.

Millet’s voice! What was she doing in Mrs. Gold’s room? The voice sounded sinister and grating. He remembered how her voice could twist his words into something ugly for Milah. Milah would never abide by her removal, doted on her, begged him to let her stay: If I have to live in this God forsaken country, then at least allow me something that makes living here bearable.

A sudden spike of fear rose in Gold that overtook the nervousness about entering her bedroom. He decided to try the door to see if it was unlocked, wishing to hear what Millet had to say. Hoping that they were too engrossed in speech, he gently turned the knob, only allowing the tiniest sliver, just enough to hear what they said. 

“Please leave, Millet.” A strained voice said. He could tell, even from just the voice that she had been crying. She was trying to keep her voice calm, but he could hear her struggles. 

“I’ve seen this happen before, you know. He tired quickly of my mistress, no surprise that he tired of you quicker–how could he not? You’re nothing like her, and he’s a…”

“Do not speak further.” The strained voice interrupted. “I’ll not have you speaking ill of Mr. Gold. You said enough. You forget yourself. Leave Millet.”

“Do you think you can take the place of my mistress just like that? I will not let you!” Millet screeched and Gold could no longer stand for it to continue. 

“Enough, Millet, how dare you speak to Mrs. Gold like that! You may pack your bags and leave as soon as possible. I know what you have done this day!  Do not expect a recommendation, there will be none, now go!” 

Millet glared. Mrs. Gold had been laying on her bed, a pillow on her lap, as she had most likely been curled around it–crying, he had no doubt from her red, splotchy eyes. He felt horrible, but needed to take care of the glaring maid first. 

“I said go!” His tone made his wife jump, and his conscience pricked him tenfold. 

Millet glared once more and left them. They were alone and he must now face his wife. 

“I’m so sorry.” She whispered, being the first one to speak. Her eyes looked into his, pleading. There was sorrow and yes, guilt–there shouldn’t be, but there was because he had put it there. “Your son, I had no idea, I’m so so sorry.”

She was in tears again, and he had this strange feeling that she wasn’t crying over him catching her in the room, but over his loss and perhaps even chastising herself for being there. She was not lashing out at him for frightening her, not calling him a monster for shouting. This is what she would have done had she been the kind of woman he first thought she could be. The way she cried over his loss had him nearly sobbing again. He turned away, momentarily unable to face her, took her chair and brought it close to her bed and sat upon it. 

She did not move away or run, but he did see a flicker of that same fear that had now been haunting him for the past hour as he contemplated what had happened in the room. 

He knew what he must do. He knew he must offer himself up in such a vulnerable way that could only be compared to when she had rolled up the leg of his pants and saw what horror lay underneath. He could only hope that her reaction would be the same. 

He held out his hand, a small chasm lay between his hand and hers, and he would let her decide whether she ought to ever cross it. She looked at him, surprised, curious. He allowed the hand to sit there and cleared his throat. 

“Mrs. Gold–Belle…” She let a small gasp when he spoke her shortened name. “You have no need to apologize. Your only fault today was to allow yourself to walk into a trap set by another. A trap you could not have foreseen, thus alleviating you of any guilt you might feel. That door was normally locked, but had been opened just so what happened earlier might happen–though I suppose Millet hoped I would have done further damage. So you see, it is not you who have any guilt to feel…” 

Mrs. Gold’s–Belle’s eyes widened, the blues in them so sharp and clear. She waited for him to continue, her breath quickened with the waiting. 

“I, on the other hand, have wracked up a mountain of guilt and have behaved, beyond badly towards you. I  have come to make amends to you, if you will allow me.”

Her forehead went into a thousand lines. “You are apologizing to me?” Despite his dangling hand still cradled by her bed and left untouched, she held her pillow tighter to herself and looked away from him, at the blanket before her, shaking her head. “I do not understand. Not after what I did, after invading something so sacred…”

“How could you have known? Tell me, when your father…” At this her eyes went back to his in curiosity. “When he blamed you and became angry, what did you do?”

She tilted her head, as if wondering why he had seemed to go off into a different direction. 

“I suppose I always tried to remain calm.”

“And I imagine you either remained quiet in the wake of his accusations or agreed to keep the peace. Am I right?” 

Her eyes went back to her pillow or blanket, it was enough of an answer. 

“It was the easier thing to do.” She whispered.

“Precisely. And why was it easier–what was the alternative?”

Her body remained calm, but her eyes were back on him, a mix of pain and curiosity. He was worried he might have gone too far, but he had felt this the best course to help her understand that he understood. 

“I think you know.” She whispered again. 

“He hit you–hurt you.” it wasn’t a question and they both knew it. She nodded slightly. 

“When I lashed out at you in Belford’s room.” Why did even saying his name threaten to break him entirely? “I went to hit my cane upon the floor in anger–I wanted to stomp a bit like a child, I’ll admit, but I was too upset to think clearly. But I know you thought…” He cleared his throat again. Belle’s face was yet calm, her hands fidgeted together at the pillow, but her eyes had clear signs of pain. Probably thinking back to when she thought he was about to abuse her with his cane. He went on. He must.

“It was my fault. I had no right, no right.” he reiterated when she seemed to think it necessary to argue. “To lash out at you so, but I swear to you now, that I will never strike or hit you. I would never–could never do that. I know you have no reason to believe me, but I promise you that you never need to stay quiet or worry about upsetting me to the point that I would hurt you. I have made a bad start of showing you my sincerity, but I promise you this, and hope that in time you can forgive how I treated you. You could not have known the significance of that room, and I should not have behaved as I did, no matter if you had.”

The pain had been replaced by curiosity in her eyes, wonder even. She looked at him for a good few minutes, studying him, as if she didn’t quite know how to respond. He felt fully exposed, but did not put on his mask of neutrality. She at least deserved to see his true emotions. 

In a slow and quiet movement, she grasped his hand, taking it in both of hers, yet continuing to study his face. 

“I forgive you, Mr. Gold, and I’ll try–I’ll do my very best to believe you.” 

“Rupert–you may call me Rupert.”

“I forgive you Rupert.”

In a burst of emotion he took one of her hands and kissed it. “Thank you, that’s more than I deserve.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 15

Small Comforts

Forgiving Mr. Gold–Rupert, would be easy. She was never very good at hanging on to grudges, and had experience forgiving when the other party never realized they were ever in need of forgiveness, in the first place.  Thus, when he had looked at her with his soft brown eyes and pretty words to tell her how wrong he was, and begged her forgiveness, it was a simple thing to do, really. 

She could not say she magically obtained confidence that he would never hit her (she believed him, or at least believed that he felt he meant what he said). However, she told him that she would try to believe him, and so she would do just that–try. 

“I am sorry about Millet. She said she has been here for eight years.” She began.

He still had hold of her hand—it was warm, comforting—but he flicked his other in his habitual way. “Do not worry on that front. I am not sure why she was still here. I thought she had been let go a long time ago and was surprised to see her here in your room. What was she doing in here? She didn’t threaten you, did she?”

His forehead crinkled with genuine worry. She shook her head. 

“Oh no. She did nothing so sinister. She behaved…strangely I thought. Very attached to the memory of Mrs. Gold.”

Mr. Gold’s (Rupert, she reminded herself) lips went into a thin line, very similar to Mrs. Lucas at the mention of the same name. “She would be. She and Milah were as thick as thieves.” He said through his teeth. 

“And as for why she was in here–she told me she was my ladies maid.”

Mr. Gold let go of her hand and leaned back, shock written on his face. “What?!” His tone had a bit of that old anger, and she told herself that he didn’t seem necessarily upset at her , and he had just promised not to hit her. She swallowed, fidgeted with her hand that now felt cold from the absence of his hand. 

“Forgive me, I did not mean to frighten you. I just. Mrs. Gold, Belle–I say again that up until this moment I thought she was no longer employed. To find her put in a position so close to you is a little…disconcerting.” His fingers tapped his cane in an impatient manner, it was clear his mind was deep in thought. 

“Disconcerting?” It was beginning to worry her. What else could she have done? Did she hurt Mrs. Gold in the past? Why would she seem so loyal to her mistress and put such fear in the heart of Mr. Gold (Rupert, she kept forgetting)? 

To her mortification, her stomach growled. He seemed to recollect himself, giving her one of those polite smiles that was obviously forced. His eyes, though, were back to that warm hue Belle liked most. 

“I am just recollecting the hour. Shall we go down for dinner? I imagine that a mystery can be solved just as well tomorrow and no meals would need to be skipped.”

This was for her. He was itching to go off and figure the entire thing out, but had decided not to abandon her to eat dinner alone. She appreciated the gesture, but did not like the feelings of guilt that assaulted her, thinking that she was now to be a burden he must entertain, as well as someone who had encroached upon his sanctuary. 

“Please do not pause your investigation for me…” She began. He fluttered his hand and waved her off. 

“I have no desire to skip a meal, and as long as my company is not too distasteful.” He paused, as if recollecting that it might be that. She shook her head to assure him, so he continued. “Then I would rather eat with you than alone or while pestering Mr. Dove and Mrs. Lucas in my study.”

And so dinner was eaten. He had offered her his free arm and they walked together towards the dining room. It was a great big room with wooden panels on the ceiling, a chandelier dangling in the middle, and golden candles lining a white clothed table. She had been shown the room on the tour, but she took in all the grandeur as she sat where Rupert had pulled out a chair for her. 

Dinner was comfortable but mostly quiet. Rupert did get distracted from time to time, lost in thought for a good few minutes before recollecting himself again, and attempting to engage in conversation with her. He didn’t seem reluctant to do so, so Belle tried to take it for what it was and enjoy their conversation. 

“There is a room that I requested Mrs. Lucas not to show you, as I had hoped to show you, myself. Would you be opposed to retiring there until we are ready to sleep?”

Belle said she was not opposed to such a scheme, in fact, her curiosity was peaked–she had half a notion which room it was, since it had been very obviously left out of the tour (to her great disappointment), and she could hardly contain her excitement as she reached for his arm again and they were lead towards what she could only anticipate was the library.

It was.

Belle had escaped to several libraries in her life. Her own library before the age of twelve had been extensive in her childish memory, but nothing could prepare her for this! 

Windows lined the one side of the room, and chairs had been placed near them, so the sunlight could better be utilized to read. A fire was also going in the hearth and there was a lounge chair as well as some elegant side tables fit with lamps and candles so they would be able to read just as well now that the sun had gone down. The opposite side of the room was fitted with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, as well as the walls on each side of it. The ceiling was high and a movable ladder sat in a corner, ready to be used at any given moment. Now that she turned again, she noticed that in between the windows, there were skinny bookshelves squeezed in. Every bit of space that could be used for the purpose of housing books, was. There were very few empty places–she was sure if she looked closer (which she very much planned to do), she would find room to place more books, but at the moment, her eyes swam with the sheer amount of books that seemed to be spilling out (though they were, indeed, organized very neatly) from every nook and cranny, and she felt like spinning around and clapping her hands with joy. She did not do that, but did spin around to where Rupert was looking very intently at her, with a very genuine smile on his face, and his brown eyes were not only warm, but had a bit of light shining through them and looking at him in this moment, she could almost believe that he would never ever hurt her. 

She reached for his hand, he offered it up in surprise and she clasped it to her chest. 

“Thank you for showing me this room, Mr. Gold–Rupert. It’s beautiful!”

He smiled, and seemed to be trying to school his shocked expression at her touch into something she was more used to seeing. He fluttered his free hand.

“You may buy any of those gothic romances you desire and fill up the rest of the bookshelves. I’m afraid there are very few here, if any.”

She inwardly wanted to roll her eyes at him, but was not yet comfortable enough to do that without worrying how he would respond. She released his hand. “Mr. Gold, I probably care about them as much as you do.”

He raised his eyebrows at her. 

“You found me with that particular book in the circular library because…” Belle paused for a moment to figure out her words. “My library was very limited and so I read a great deal from the circular library. That gothic romance was the only thing I hadn’t read.” 

She felt a lump forming in her throat as she recalled her days of hoping for a new book so that she might have some escape from her troubles for a few hours. Rupert seemed to sense the change in her demeanor. He reached out a hesitant hand and caught a tear that she didn’t know she had shed. 

“I’m sorry, Belle.” He whispered.

“It’s silly really, crying over books and reading. I-I just…” 

Rupert nodded and gently squeezed her arm as his hand left her wet cheeks. He understood ,his face told her. 

She did not want to dwell on such things when she was in an enormous room full of beautiful books. So she forced herself to smile. 

“I shall have to really schedule my time well, or else you will only ever find me in the library or music room!”

He smiled at that.

“At least I shall have no trouble finding you.”

“No, not at all.” 

And that was what was needed to allow them to settle back into a comfortableness between each other for the rest of the evening. 

Belle spent the rest of the evening exploring, and had a stack of at least five books by the end of it that she was anxious to read, and could hardly decide which one should be opened first. 

…

The following week was one of establishing routines and making discoveries, both with the maid issue (who had now been replaced by another servant, and one that did not pull Belle’s hair, she was glad to note), and with her new husband. 

Rupert now seemed like some distant cousin to the man that had proposed to her, declaring that the arrangement was a simple business transaction. Not that the marriage was becoming one of love, exactly. She knew that the chasm of grief and pain was too large for him, he could not yet get across– she didn’t know if he ever would–it was too early to tell. However, Rupert had become something a little softer, at least with her, and she found she wasn’t unhappy–in fact, she felt as close to contended as she had felt in years. 

The day after the room fiasco and the discovery of the library, Rupert began his day early. She knew this, because he came to the breakfast table looking stormy and stiff. As soon as he saw that Belle was already sitting, he immediately softened a little and had told her he had already been several hours trying to figure out their conundrum and with no very optimistic results. 

“Millet had connections–must still have connections inside this house, I think. “

“This seems like a lot to do for the very little she was able to accomplish. And why go to all the trouble?” Belle mused. The maid was strange, but she didn’t seem unintelligent. 

“She thinks I killed Milah. Maybe I did.” Rupert mumbled and his fork clattered on the plate and he balled his hands beside it. 

“What? How could she ever…” 

Rupert shook his head. “I know I didn’t actually cause the carriage to roll. But I…I was so determined to get back to this house. This house.” He gave a disgusted huff. “Now I can get no rest here for the ghosts that haunt me.” His voice was filled with anguish, true, honest anguish, and then a servant entered and it was as if some magic wand had been waved over him and he went back to being Mr. Gold again. She could see the lasting traces of pain and grief, but he would appear no less in charge of his emotions to anyone only giving him a momentary glance. After that he did not bring up either the investigation, his presumed guilt, or anything else to do with what he had just shared. Belle was left to ponder these things in silence, and only obtained an occasional glance. These glances had a sort of ache to them, of almost longing, and she wondered if he wanted her to ask him questions, or if he was afraid she would. Perhaps it was both. She did not ask, either to his ire or relief, she did not know. 

“I may be too busy for lunch, I do apologize. But I…I would be glad of your company for dinner and then–tea? Afterwards?”

She was not opposed to the scheme, and with only a few nerves, worried that the serious talk they had just engaged in would prove her words too hasty, yet decided to say in answer,

“Only if we are allowed to retire to the library afterwards.” She smiled nervously, but the twitch of his own lips relieved her. 

“I suppose that could be arranged.” And so it was. 

Belle spent the week getting to know servants and their roles, the layout of the house, and made her way through two of the books she had chosen. On the third day at Dark Castle, she was determined to get a basket of sewing together that she might do something for the less fortunate, as well as get with the cook and Mrs. Lucas on what other things they might do for them, and who might need their help. Belle wanted to get as personally involved as possible. 

“You’ll do no better than to ask our vicar, Mr. Hopper. He’ll know all the widows and those less fortunate or sickly.” Mrs. Lucas had commented, and so she had brought her request to her husband–that she give her card to Mr. Hopper in the next day or two. 

“We’ve been married exactly one week, and already you are anxious for visits and calls?” He raised his eyebrows at her, but she didn’t think he was angry. Anyway, she told him she would try to believe him, so this was a good way to test the waters. 

He went on, “Whatever happened to preferring books to cards ?”

“Card parties are not quite the same as serving a simple tea to a vicar and his wife, I hope.” She fidgeted with her napkin in her lap (for they were at dinner). 

“True.” He relented with a small smile. “Let me know when you would like the carriage called and I’ll be at your service.”

“Then it’s alright?” Belle smiled with mixed excitement and anxiety.

“Your request is the first and a small one, my dear, and the vicar is one of the less insufferable people both here and in Storybrooke. Shall we make a day of it? I have a few things I need to do in Storybrooke and I’m sure there are shops you’ll want to visit.” His smile was warm and indulgent and Belle felt a tendril of happiness in the glow of such a smile.

“If you insist.” She almost laughed, and was almost successful. It felt good to be this comfortable with her husband. 

And they were becoming more comfortable with each other. So much so that when she woke up the fourth day of their marriage to brown eyes studying her face as if she would disappear the very next second, his mouth serious and his forehead knitted in studious thought, she did not feel like marriage was very business like, at all, and wouldn’t mind waking up similarly for the rest of her life.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16

There’s nothing that can’t be found, if sought

Rupert still felt he was in a constant state of waiting. It was no longer about what he expected her to do, but what he knew he deserved. He deserved for smiles to sour and eyes to dim. Lying beneath the covers, with her head only showing, turned towards him and brown curls splayed out every which way, her face seemed most likely to disappear from his reach. Belle had become this beautiful, good thing in his life, and he had never been able to hold the good things–they all slipped away from him. His first wife (though it could be argued how very good a person she was) had quickly discarded him for others. At the time, though they had both married for more material reasons (she for the estate, though she had a fairly good dowry, herself– and he for the connections her father had with the higher classes he was trying to make his place among), he thought they could be happy, and for several months he thought he was. He had not been able to hold onto her. 

Belford–not just good, but the best part of him. Belford had been taken from him so cruelly, so severely. That carriage–if only he would have let them stay in London a little longer like Milah had begged him to do. Or perhaps if he hadn’t been so angry when they had begun the journey home and insisted that the trip be as short as possible. There were so many perhaps , so many trails of thought that only led to more guilt.  

He never had Coraline to call it losing her. She had only played a game, and he had ended the loser. 

Even his house–Dark Castle– he had left it for two years and had come back to find that there were those that would see it crumble beneath his feet. They had found two staff members that had been in talks with Millet–they had been fired–yet the mystery as to how Mrs. Lucas could assign one person as ladies maid, and Millet suddenly to come in her place without Mrs. Lucas, immediately knowing, was still unsolved. He knew he had been rather hard on Mrs. Lucas for her ignorance and mistakes–hard when the blame was equally shared with himself for not having been the proper master of Dark Castle for two years, for writing the shortest of notes and having them scramble to get things ready for their entrance back into the place. Mistakes happen when things are hastily put together, and he ought not to have put so much blame on her older shoulders. The day before he had been reminded of this by his wife, as she had approached him carefully as they took tea the day before. 

He had seen the slight fidget in her hands. It had been a whole day since she had performed her nervous habit–it had been when she asked if they might leave a card for the Vicar and his wife. As if he might shout at her and tell her she could not go. Perhaps she really felt that had been a possible outcome–he could not blame her for it, but felt sorry for it all the same. It had made him feel guilty enough that he had immediately come up with a plan to go to Storybrooke with her, for there were a few things he would get and do…

Now he went back to her fidgeting hands and when their eyes met, he could see the worry in her eyes. Her face was as calm as it ever was, but her eyes were at war with the particulars of when and what to say. 

“You said that I might speak–be open with you without fear of physical consequences.” She haltingly spoke. 

Why did her words hurt him so? To find that she was still frightened of him! 

“I did and I meant it, Belle. I cannot speak to my temper–it is not as well managed as I should wish, but I have never struck a woman or child and do not plan to begin this day.” He spoke with feeling and hoped she could understand the sincerity of his words. 

She nodded while still fidgeting. After a second or two of mulling over his words, she sat a little straighter and pulled her chin up, ever so slightly. He knew that look, he had seen it a few times–a show of confidence–a flash of bravery. 

“Mrs. Lucas has been so very kind and helpful this past week, she has been here so long, and has been, from what I understand, a very faithful housekeeper these thirty years.”

“She has…even when the steward was not as good and honest as Mr. Dove.” He scowled at the memory of his father. “But I do not see how speaking well of the housekeeper warrants such nerves, m’dear.” 

Her head tilted and she looked at him in curiosity. “Would you wish her to go?”

He folded his hands in his lap and leaned back, having finished his tea. “None whatsoever. After all, good help is hard to find.”

She began to look distressed, and he wondered how he had caused it. 

“Mrs. Lucas is under the impression she is no longer wanted and will soon be discharged. She has been heartbroken over what she believes to be fact.”

Well this was a turn of events. He sighed. “And after a week of knowing you, the stoic Mrs. Lucas shared with you her darkest fears and pleaded her case?” it wouldn’t surprise him, of course. Those wide blue eyes could extricate the worst secrets from the hardest sinner (which would give dear old Mrs. Lucas little hope!). He felt the pull of them all the time. 

Her hands went still from their fidgeting and while her body remained leaned forward and she still looked curious, her eyes were very nearly glaring at him. She went into the defensive. 

“I found her dabbing her eyes. I-I had a strong suspicion that Mrs. Lucas wasn’t given to strong bouts of public emotions. She has no laugh lines, so I doubted crying was the alternative pastime. And she never spoke against you–never tried to get me on her side, if you are worried, Mr. Gold.”

Ah, he had taken a misstep. No wonder she had reverted to calling him Mr. Gold!

“You misunderstand me, Belle. I am merely in awe of your ability to endear yourself so quickly.” He tried a smile and it seemed to make her relax a little. 

“I tried not to pry.” Belle lifted a hand in explanation for her actions. “But I couldn’t help but be worried for her. She said she had mismanaged things so badly that she was sure you would be letting her go promptly. Too old to do her job properly, she told me. I do not ask you–Rupert–what it is about, I have a guess–but I had come to you to counter and to pledge myself in helping her in any way I could to manage the estate. I would hate to lose someone who knows so much, so soon after I’ve arrived. But you say I am mistaken? You had no intention of letting her go?”

“No intention whatsoever.” He sighed again. “But I was harsh on her–I’ll admit.” It was on the tip of his tongue to confess that he had been upset with Mrs. Lucas for a blunder that was of his own making. That had he not left the estate with the only instructions to ‘get rid of everything belonging to Milah’, and had at least made a visit a couple of times in the following two years, things might have been different. If he had courted Belle properly and had married her in a few months and not a week, they might have realized that Millet had done something to the intended lady in waiting to make her run off. Perhaps it might not have happened at all, for Mrs. Lucas wouldn’t have been frantically trying to get the house ready at a moment’s notice for a new lady of the estate. He did not say this, even though her eyes begged the truth from him (unbeknownst to her, he imagined, just as he was sure, she was truthful in telling him she had not pried from Mrs. Lucas). 

She leaned over and caught his hand in hers and squeezed them. She smiled. It was a relieved kind of a smile, but her eyes told the same story as her face. “I’m just so glad she’s staying. You’ll tell her, won’t you?” Now her eyes were pleading while her smile held the same happy expression. 

And, of course, he would. He made some droll comment about if she really did insist–he supposed it wouldn’t do to have the old lady die from a fright over fear over her position. Belle let out a soft laugh at his quip–catching his sarcastic tone and he caught himself being awed over her. 

A woman like that–someone who braved a husband’s temper, while she still worried over it, to champion a housekeeper, and who got his rather–interesting–humor (he was not unaware of its strangeness…Jeffrey normally snorted at his quips and then would remind him that normal people did not say such things–which would only cause him to roll his eyes and go back to whatever it was he had been doing). A woman like that seemed an impossible dream, yet was she not mere inches away from him, as beautiful as she was kind? He wouldn’t be able to keep her, he was sure. She was too good, too kind, too beautiful…And now that beautiful face was  staring up at him, smiling—

“Good morning, Rupert.” She said sleepily. He bit back his grimace at being caught out again. This was the third time she had caught him staring and he had promised himself it wouldn’t happen again. 

“Good morning.” He snatched his banyan and began, as gracefully as he could, to rise from the bed and limp away…away from the watching blue eyes that smiled so at him. “I’ll get ready then. I’ll see you at breakfast, Mrs. Gold .” He managed to throw her a quick smile–he liked to use her married name when they were in their most domestic of scenes, or, when he was afraid that saying her shortened name would have him croaking instead of speaking like a normal human being. She smiled back and her eyes seemed happy, so he decided that at least for the day, he could be relatively so too. 

The smile was not there when breakfast was served. Her eyes said she was nervous, and those worry lines, which were all but gone this morning, were back with a painful vengeance. He had the sudden urge to fight whatever fiend had made those lines appear, and he almost demanded that she name the servant responsible so he might sack them forthwith. He thankfully did no such thing, and decided a more roundabout approach was more the thing to do, and began to do what he was decidedly good at–obtaining information. Going through the things she did in the mornings, he began to formulate his nonchalant questions. 

“Is Ella working out alright, m’dear?” He was proud of just how casual he made that sound while his heart pumped furiously and he was already formulating plans in case she might have secretly been under Millet’s thumb the whole time. 

Belle smiled. Her eyes weren’t quite in it, but they were distracted from their pain for a moment, telling him the culprit was not her new abigail. 

“Oh yes, thank you, she is quite proficient in her tasks. She can almost tame my unruly curls as well as Mary ever did.” There was sadness in her smile, and he was able to nod and give a semi-smile back (though he secretly hoped that Ella never would tame them completely–he rather liked the stray curls that did their own bidding, edging for visibility under her lace cap). 

He allowed the conversation to pause before continuing his investigation. 

“It was rather cold for your morning walk, I imagine?” He questioned, and didn’t know why a morning walk would have caused her worry, but it was one of the things she enjoyed doing. She had not gone very far in her adventures, due to just how cold it had been, but she did try to venture into the nippy cold air each morning. He had passed her on his way back from riding a couple of times, though he hadn’t that morning. 

“I was unable to walk this morning. I had some correspondence to attend to.” Her smile was now tight and the pain in her eyes was back. He had found the culprit–now to discover the sender!

“Is your friend, Miss Grayson, so troublesome, Mrs. Gold? I received a letter this very morning from Jeffrey that assures me he’s keeping her rather–busy–of late.”

She had a curious look on her face, not at all helpful in his deductions. 

“That must be why she has yet to answer my letter.” She smiled a little, this time she looked almost relieved. “I am glad. Do you think–do you have any idea of his intentions with Ruby?” Her worry lines increased, but only temporarily. These were merely additions to the ones already there. Concern. Always worry and concern for others. 

Gold could reassure her there. “I believe my friend has hopes of the matrimonial kind. Do you think your friend would be opposed to such a scheme?”

Belle’s smile became wider and the temporary lines melted away. Some of that thundering in his chest also eased at the sight. “I do not believe so. Oh I am glad!” 

“So it was not your friend with whom you corresponded? 

She began fidgeting again, more so than usual and her eyes looked as if they were near tears. 

“Only my father.”

“I see.” He said, and it was all he could think of to say. It had been too optimistic to think that he might be spared of thinking of that man for a fortnight. He wanted to ask what had been said, if he had already ran out of money, or if he had simply spoken to her like he had in front of him. By the time he realized he ought to say something , she had gone back to picking at her pastry (she had yet to take a bite) and looked as if she assumed that vein of conversation was over. He hoped that the distraction of the trip to the small town would be of help, and settled on it as his way to remedy things. 

The vicar’s house was a cottage. There was no elaborate landscaping, as their four children were wild, unruly creatures who, if there had been ornamental bushes and well manicured trees, would think it God’s personal challenge to them to knock it down. Despite his offspring having more in common with demons than angels, Mr. Hopper, himself, was a calm presence and his wife was a jovial woman who took the children’s behavior in stride. Mrs. Gold left her card, and they could now focus on town. 

Ella had come with Belle to help her with ordering some new things. Gold knew she had chosen only a few things before they married, so he had suggested the visit to the dress shop, the hat shop, and any other place they might need. It was nothing like what could be found in a larger town, and if it had been Milah, there would have been complaints on the lack of options when it came to fabrics and trim. Belle was not such another person, and told him afterwards that she hardly knew which was best to choose as they were all so lovely and was thankful that Ella had come too, or else she might have left overwhelmed. 

“Ruby went with me last time.” She had said. “I am too inexperienced to choose. I hope–I hope you will like what was chosen.” He smiled over her having any desire to please him. In his experience, he was the last person to be thought of in such a venture. 

He had performed his errand in the meantime, and after walking about the town and pointing out a few areas of interest, his leg protested to going further. He had a feeling that Belle had sensed it and had mentioned that she was beginning to tire. If it was a lie, it was a kind one, and he did not hold it against her. 

Back at Dark Castle, he suggested the music room as their way of entertaining themselves. 

He had been wanting to hear her play and sing again, but hardly realized it until Mrs. Lucas (after he had apologized to the good lady and watched relief and light come back into her eyes) mentioned that Mrs. Gold seemed to enjoy the piano, and wasn’t it a shame they had thrown out all the old music (it having been among the former Mrs. Gold’s things)? 

Belle had a thousand questions in her eyes and he smiled and asked her if she would mind playing for him. 

“You want to hear me play? You must remember that I do not play very well.” Her forehead creased as she spoke. 

“That is not how I remember it at all.” 

She seemed pleased with that answer, though her words were still hesitant as she continued. “I do not mind, indeed, I love to play, but I–you must excuse me, my repertoire is very limited.”

“Mmmmm” he hummed and motioned to a footman who had held the brown paper covered package he had bought. The footman brought it, and he, in turn, handed it to Belle. “Perhaps this will help your endeavor?” 

Belle tilted her head and took the package in a halting manner. Untying the twine, she exposed the many pages of sheet music beneath. Her breath caught. 

“This is, This is the very song!” Her voice choked over the words

She held up the one piece placed on top–purposely, of course. The very song she had played and sung at the Grayson’s party. He had just remembered the name of it and had requested it specifically. Her eyes began to well up, and he worried over his choice. Perhaps the music reminded her of the days in her father’s house. Gold had also not been very kind to her at the time either. It had been a mistake, he shouldn’t have…

All thoughts ceased as he felt arms being thrown around his neck. He almost lost his balance, but caught himself just in time and tried his best to reciprocate, but being very much out of practice with such displays, he did a horrible job of it. 

“Thank you, oh thank you. It was my mother’s song.” The last phrase was said as she raised herself up to speak to him. Tears were freely flowing now but she continued to speak through them, gratitude lighting up her eyes. “It was the last song she sang, the last bit of music I had of her. I’ve mostly memorized it, but there are bits of it I struggle over and need the music to help me. I don’t know how to thank you, Rupert”

Gold floundered in such gratitude. He had expected thanks, maybe a shy smile and that pretty shine to her eyes. This was something on a scale he had never experienced before. 

“No matter. I’m glad you like it. It–it was the song you sang before. It was quite nice.” He sounded like a man who had never spoken to a woman before and to make matters worse, she got closer to him and placed a sweet kiss on his cheek. She reddened as she glanced over to the most likely, also red faced footman, and whispered an “I’m sorry I did that–but, I couldn’t help it–you’ve made me so happy.” And he knew he was most likely, also a little red in the cheeks (and inwardly stunned), and found himself being happily led to the piano room.

Chapter Text

Chapter 17

Making Acquaintances 

Many times, Belle had stretched little means to make a card party such that her father would not be too angry with her. It should follow that hosting the vicar and his wife in a house with ample resources would be simple and easy. She went over the refreshments to be served, what sandwiches and little sweets would be most desirable, which serveware would be best, which room was the best parlour to host callers, etc. Everything was planned out to the greatest detail (she was sure Mrs. Lucas must be exasperated with her over-caution to get things right, though the good lady answered every question, and behaved as if it truly were the most important tea that had been served at the Great Castle), yet when the afternoon began, Belle was a ball of nerves. She wanted to fidget with her hands, but that would cause her to prick them with her needle. She had taken up some sewing while waiting on her callers in the said parlour, and had made three, very sloppy stitches that she had to immediately take out. When her fingers begin to shake, she had to put the sewing in her lap and wait by counting how many gold covered items was in the room, and then tried to think over which book she would start next (she could not focus, however, even on that), or which room Mr. Gold had secluded himself to, as he told Belle he was busy, but would help if Belle thought he needed to be there. She told him she had everything in hand, and she was sure she did, but her confidence wavered as each minute ticked by on the persistent clock on the mantle. 

The door opened and a footman announced the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Hopper. 

She pulled up her chin and rested her hands deftly in her lap and stood to curtsy and greet them. 

Mr. Hopper had a great mass of flaming red hair, graying at the temple, and his gentle blue eyes and calm voice immediately set Belle at ease and she thought to herself that his voice was made for preaching sermons. Mrs. Hopper was plump and jovial, dark hair mixed with gray, curled out of her lace cap. They both smiled and said how lovely it was to make her acquaintance, how lovely the grounds were (as if Belle had something to do with them, but she smiled and thanked them anyway), and a couple more polite nothings that helped conversation get started. Eventually it came time for Belle to bring up in conversation the reason she had asked them to come (although she did not put it in that way). Mr. Hopper looked only momentarily surprised at Belle’s request for names of those in need, and her desire to personally take baskets to the poor.

“I commend you, Mrs. Gold, for your charitable inclinations.” He remarked in awe. Mrs. Hopper had smiled and nodded her agreement. 

“It is naught but my Christian duty.” Belle had answered, smiling her polite smile, reserved for those she did not know well. She rather liked the Mr. and Mrs. Hopper. There was something open and honest about their looks and smiles. They weren’t very fashionable, or at least she felt they weren’t, for she didn’t know much about the subject–she just knew whatever fashion was, it was most decidedly not that– but liked them all the more for their unabashed country presentation. 

Both had used those polite phrases, appropriate for the moment, though spoken honestly and genuinely by both. 

By the end, Mrs. Hopper began her third personal story about a particularly rambunctious son, and Belle was completely at ease. 

“And so you approve of our vicar and his wife?” Rupert remarked as they sat at dinner later that evening. 

“Yes, very much. They are easy to like.” She smiled. 

“And, I’m sure, they were equally pleased and most definitely surprised that a Mrs. Gold wanted to get her hands dirty, as it were, in the Lord’s work.”

Belle was taken back. “Mr. Hopper did seem surprised that I was so interested–how did you know?” 

Rupert’s mouth went into a thin line–the same line it got whenever he spoke about…”Mrs. Gold, the late Mrs. Gold wasn't exactly the charitable sort.” He seemed to say it through his teeth. 

“Oh.” Belle replied, mostly because she felt she ought to say something but was in uncharted waters. Up until this moment, she always thought the pain she saw in Mr. Gold’s eyes when speaking of his former wife, the empty room (Even with the vastly different room for his son, she thought it might just be different ways of showing the same emotion), all of it, was an indication of the painful grief he bore over the late Mrs. Gold’s death. She began to wonder if all the grief belonged to Belford and the pain in regards to Mrs. Gold was something entirely different. He did not try to defend Mrs. Gold, nor did it seem that he held any sort of regard at all as he bit out every word. 

“I suppose you’ll tell me it’s impolite to speak ill of the dead.” He said in a very dispassionate fashion. 

“I am merely surprised–I know nothing of her to be a judge of her or of you. As long as you think it is acceptable that the current Mrs. Gold can give poor baskets and get her proverbial hands dirty.” She gave him a smile at the echo of his own words. “Then I will say nothing more.”

The thin line of his mouth was gone and in its place was a crooked smile and a mischievous gleam in his eye. 

“Ah, and you would have said something more if I had condemned your generous nature or banned you from your work with the poor? That is very bad for me, I might have enjoyed seeing that.” The teasing was pleasant, and she couldn’t help but hide a laugh behind her napkin, which caused his smile to grow. 

It was only a day later that they sat in church for a Sunday service and afterwards, Mr. Hopper had a list ready for Belle and a schedule written of his own days that he visited the poor. Belle excitedly went at the task with a vengeance and soon had figured a schedule for how she would like to do things, and looked forward to the week ahead so that she might begin the things on her list. 

For another week she was blissfully busy. Rupert occasionally walked outside with her. The cold and his leg prevented them from going much further than the garden, but she didn’t mind. She came back in with cold cheeks and a mind ready for activity. She and Mrs. Lucas spent time together as she continued to learn about the estate, and in the afternoon she sewed or practiced the piano. After asking Rupert to make sure it wasn’t too soon after their marriage, she left cards at a few more family’s houses and received several callers. A couple of these were genuinely curious and seemed happy to make her acquaintance, one caller looked jealously over at the expensive furniture, and yet two more seemed to know some of Belle’s background and despite her being socially their superior, looked down their noses at her and recalled “such and such when Mrs. Gold was here–oh, I’m sorry, the late Mrs. Gold, of course.” Belle tried not to let their insults sting and tried to win them over with a smile, tea, and a promise of some social event when the weather turned pleasing. 

She much preferred her scheduled trips to the poor. When she had a great many visits to make she took Leroy, the footman, so that she might have help to carry her baskets and goods. 

“Thank you for helping me, Leroy, I know I made those baskets particularly heavy.” She looked back with a little concern as the middle aged man shifted the baskets in his arm. He was short and stocky, nothing like most footmen she had seen in the more wealthy homes (not that she had been to very many, but the ones she had…well, he was unlike them!). Most were young, tall, and handsome, ready to run any errand at the drop of a hat. He looked like there would be no running for him, but she liked him, and Rupert really, all the more for it. It meant that Rupert had hired him, not for his looks–it wasn’t for his sunny disposition, either apparently. He never smiled, but always seemed to grunt out his respectful phrases, if he was ever called upon to speak. She imagined that most footmen weren’t really called upon to do so–she probably had committed some sort of faux pas in speaking, but could hardly see him struggling after burdening him so (she now felt guilty for only holding one basket while he held two) without at least thanking him (even if he could hardly do less). 

The always serious Leroy knit his forehead and almost seemed to mouth his name, as if he never heard it before. Belle worried.

“Have I got your name wrong? I’m so sorry, I haven’t been able to memorize all the staff’s names like I ought to. What is your name, then?”

“My Christian name is Leroy, Mrs. Gold, but I’m normally addressed as James. Most of the footmen are.” He added, and Belle both worried over her mistake and felt a tinge of sadness that a person must go by a name that wasn’t their own. She decided, as long as she was not called out for her blunder by Rupert, that she would endeavor to use his Christian name. And with such determination, she went forward to deliver her baskets. 

About two months of such goings on continued. Belle remained content with her lot, Rupert continued to be attentive and warm, and she had almost forgotten the letter that she had received a few weeks back. That all changed on a rainy Monday morning. 

“Belle,

I reported the chimney in the kitchen not working properly to the landlord last Saturday yet I’ve been told that I must wait another two weeks as it is not an emergency situation and he insists he is very backed up with work. I don’t suppose you’d be able to use your influence to remedy the situation, would you? There’s been soot on the floor several times already and I am frightened I’ll be burned in my bed. You were always a good girl, and very obliging to your father, I’m sure you’ll be able to do something–especially as Mrs. Gold. 

How is your life there? Grand, is it? How I would love to see Dark Castle in all its grandeur. 

I miss you, my girl. Things just aren’t the same without you. 

Played cards last night, lost –pounds. I will need a bit of an extension to pay the good man back, if you’d be so kind, and I’ve sent a list of things that need to be paid for–if you please. Always a good girl, my Belle. I’m sure Mr. Gold is seeing that you are such a girl and you’ve given him no cause to withhold anything. Remember that if he did , a catastrophe such as that would hurt not only yourself, but your poor father too.

With love,

Papa”

As soon as Belle had seen the messy script when she was handed the letter, she had sequestered herself in her dressing room and had locked the door. She wanted privacy to feel the hurts she knew he would hurl–and oh how they stung! His first letter had been to say how grieved he was over such a small allowance and how he thought better of her than to selfishly hoard her pin money to spend on frivolity. You forget that I know the number–I know how much you have and how generous you can be, and yet to give so little to a father that has provided for you his whole life…

You were always a dutiful girl, I’m sure you’ve only allowed such riches to go to your head for a moment. Once you’ve come back into the sphere of reality, I hope you’ll give your Papa some thought while he wastes away on his small income.

Belle had replied by sending him a list of how she was dividing her pin money, so he could see just how much she was using to provide for him. Her tears humiliated her. She ought not to let his words affect her so, but she could not deny it. Her father always did have a knack of making her feel that she was worth very little and yet at the same time that she was responsible for his whole world. Both felt heavy on her shoulders and she responded in a vague way, careful not to get his hopes up for a visit–for she knew Rupert would never want his father-in-law to come. She also wrote the banker that Rupert had set up to be over the funds for her father and wrote to provide the means to take care of the debts. It really would leave her little pin money to spare for frivolities–not that she thought she needed much else–but to have her father sink into debt once again was a worse idea in her eyes, so she paid for them and softly begged him to spend within his means, knowing full well her advice would go unheeded.

“You will be pleased with this correspondence from Jeffrey.” Rupert waved a letter towards her the same morning at breakfast. She made herself smile in response and pretended to be intrigued. She was. Really she was, or at least she would have been on any other day, but it was so hard to feel much of anything after the way her inner being had been bloodied and beaten by her father’s careless words. 

Rupert looked at her thoughtfully for only a moment–the man was so observant, too observant sometimes. Like at this moment, when the last thing she wanted to tell him was that her father had exceeded his income and that it might be soon when she would run out of money to give him and was terrified to see a look of regret fall on her husband’s face. Regret that he had married her. The longer she was mistress over such a large estate, the handful of sneering looks she received because she wasn’t as fashionable as the previous Mrs. Gold, the more she discovered the depths of grief that Rupert still suffered, the more she was convinced that she would find that look about him sooner rather than later. She was not a grand lady, and she carried with her, her own fill of grief, as well as a burdensome father whose shadow followed her no matter how many miles lay between them. 

He gave his thoughtful look, wrinkled his forehead and then went on with what he was saying. 

“I’ll not read the letter as it will not show the sender or I in a very good light.” He grimaced in a rather comical manner.  That made her smile easier to come by and he seemed relieved upon seeing it. 

“ But he declares here that a trip back to your hometown might be in order in the next few months–for a wedding.”

Now she was beaming, her previous worries momentarily pushed to the side.

“He has proposed! And Ruby has accepted? I wonder that she did not write, for she has been hoping he would for the past two weeks at least.” 

Rupert’s smile was that indulgent one that told her that she was being amused, that this was something he cared much less about than she, and they both knew it. She wondered at this often, that he seemed to enjoy such things, put up with the occasional call or small dinner, because she had wanted it. She felt guilty that there was so much that he did put up with on her side, and there was so very little she must do on his. But, he was smiling, so she would try not to think too deeply on the reasons why. 

“It may come in tomorrow’s post, for it seems he wrote this on the very day he had decided to ask the question. He’s not one to plan these things out. I think he woke up that morning, decided it would be a good thing to do, and I’m sure has now done it.”

Rupert said it in a half-amused, half groaning way that caused Belle some trepidation. “Do you think he will be consistent then?” Then she remembered who she spoke about–Rupert's greatest friend. “I do not mean anything against your friend, of course, I just had a sudden thought over…”

Rupert waved his hand in that dismissive way. “I can understand your worries, but I can also assure you he’s as loyal as anyone can be in this world–I should know.” He mumbled the last part of what he said, and she only barely caught it. He seemed solemn yet confident in what he told her, much to Belle’s relief. “It is just his personality–cheerful, easy going disposition yet with intense loyalty.”

“You make him sound a bit like a puppy.” Belle couldn’t help but smile. 

Rupert chuckled. “I suppose that’s the very thing to liken him to.”

“Well, puppy or not, I’m glad to hear it. Hopefully he won’t be against blunt opinions and the occasional fiery temper–bit of a shapeshifter, her–she’s a lovely person, but get on her bad side and she turns into a growling wolf.”

He shook his head. “He has spent a good year together under the same roof as me, in the past and I am sure my bluntness and temper could rival Miss Grayson’s. A Bear, I think, might be the best thing to compare me to–an old, lame, grouchy bear.”

The smile was gone, and she thought she could hear, below the teasing, that he was condemning himself while assuring her that Ruby and Mr. Hatfield could live together happily. His forehead creased in a sad way, and she had an urge to reach out and smooth them. 

“Too elegant for a bear.” She found herself blurting her thoughts aloud. She felt her cheeks heat in embarrassment for her outburst. He started and his eyes widened with surprise over what she had said and then smiled, a wonderful, mischievous, crooked smile–it meant teasing for her, but it was much preferred over the sad, self hating look that had been there before. 

“So I am elegant, am I, Mrs. Gold?”

She tried to take his teasing in stride, though still feeling rather silly for allowing her thoughts to be so open in the first place. 

“You know very well that you are.”

His teasing smile faltered a moment. “I have tried to be–to smooth over all the roughness that being only the son of a steward makes me.” His smile was pensive now. “I am glad to find that I’ve succeeded–in your eyes anyway. So if I am too elegant to be a bear, what can I be compared to?”

Belle looked at him and tried to narrow down Rupert’s character so as to ascertain how to describe him. The truth was, there was still so much she did not know about him. He was elegant, hard as steel on the outside but hid a heart that beat (just as Mr. Hatfield had told her all those weeks ago) true and warm for those he cared about. She had seen it in the way he grieved for his son, or the way he spoke to a child of a tenant they had visited together. Surprisingly, she had seen it in the way he indulged her when she knew he most likely would rather do something else. That he cared for her on any deep level might be a bit of a stretch, but he had been kinder than she thought possible. These were all thoughts of a moment, for in the next she gave her answer.

“I’m not sure, Mr. Gold, but when I have discovered it, I will be sure and let you know.

Chapter Text

Chapter 18

Doubts and Dreams

It had been Jeffrey who had stuffed his hands in his coat pocket, who had looked more sheepish than he had ever seen him be before, and who stuttered and stammered the words to let him know what the gossip of the ton was saying about his wife. 

Jones and Gold. Scandal. 

After spending years trying to make himself look as much like a gentleman as could be possible when he decidedly wasn’t, his wife’s continuous adultery had made its way into the gossip columns. It was something he had feared, ever since he had found them out from a loyal servant, a year after he thought he was blissfully married. 

“Call him out, fight him!” Milah had laughed the first time she had been found with a man.

“I will not, I’m no fool to ask to die.” Her conquest, though young and ignorant, had enough muscled brawn to warrant caution from Rumple. He wasn’t suicidal by any means. 

“True enough, my husband is no fool–he’s a coward!” Milah spat looking at him with growing disgust. It was the first look of complete disgust she had given him, but it certainly would not be her last. When they were first married she often requested privacy, avoided him when possible, and insisted that she was happy but busily doing things and couldn’t spend time with him. He would learn better soon afterwards.

After only a week in London, he should have known she no longer cared for him. She smiled and fawned over anyone and everyone, especially the handsome young ones, though she did nothing truly inappropriate–in public. 

He had brought her back to Dark Castle after he discovered her infidelity, began to buy secrecy from those who knew and to make logical excuses for why they left in such a hurry. He did everything he could to keep both their reputations intact. Then it was learned that Milah was with child, and he nearly forgot about anything else than Belford’s well being. If his wife was unfaithful during their yearly trips to town, he turned a blind eye. That she cared nothing for him, was indeed obvious. She avoided him and their son, and he told himself he did not care. 

On their last trip to town, apparently he was too focused on Belford and business, for it seemed all of London knew of his wife’s newest conquest but him. When it was made known he burst in on their reported lodgings. 

“Jones.” Rupert glared at the man in wild disarray, his wife sitting, sniffling on a lounge chair. 

“You are right, love, the man is prodigiously ugly–it’s a wonder you can stand to look at him at all!” 

“I don’t, if I can help it!” She said through sniffles and Rupert went to swing a fist in the man’s face. Jones was young, agile, and trained. A new captain in His Majesty’s Navy, making a name for himself in more ways than just playing with another man’s wife. Jones caught the fist and pointed at his nearby sword. 

“I don’t think you want to do that, Gold.”

“Here is what I will do if I see your face again–I’ll sue you for every penny you’ve ever received on that rotting piece of wood you call a ship. Get out of my life if you value your money or life!” He stormed at the man and Jones did look at least a little taken back at Rupert’s vehemence. He took Milah by the wrist after shouting for her to finish dressing and yanked her every step of the way out the door and into the carriage. 

“Still a coward, Rupie. You won’t sue, it might ruin your precious reputation.”

“You’ve ruined our reputation!” He shouted, inches from her face, and grabbed her shoulders, though not too roughly–he hoped, he hardly knew in that moment. “Everything I’ve ever worked for is lost because of you. Everything I’ve worked for to help smooth Belford’s way is lost because of you–Have you no shame, woman?”

“I have shame!” She cried. “I have the shame every day of being married to you! An ugly, groveling coward who won’t even fight for what is his. How could I not yearn to be with someone else, anyone else when I have the misfortune to be married to you! And then when it’s Killian–who is everything you’re not…” She looked off wistfully and he only saw red. 

“When we get back to the house, you will have Millet pack your bags and ready yourself to leave, for we go this very evening!”

“What?! But…”

He growled and snapped. “You’ve lost any say in this, Milah. We will go and try to weather the gossip at Dark Castle and only hope that in a few years, it might have died down enough to be seen by society again.”

“Years!” She cried out again. “Years! Coward! You are a coward! Coward!”

“Rupert, Rupert, please wake up, please”

A voice that was certainly not Milah’s, gently pleaded with him, and he woke to find Belle’s concerned face hovering over his. Funnily enough, it was her avoidance of his face, the lack of seeing her eyes all evening (and some evenings before that)that had him back into the same scene, the same memory he dreamed over and over again, as if Milah was haunting him from the other side of the grave. 

“Are you alright, Rupert?” She was putting her fingers through his hair in a comforting way and he almost hated to say anything, as it might cause her to stop. He was always surprised by any touch that went outside the realm of what was absolutely necessary–that he nearly closed his eyes again and relished in the lightness of her fingers and the way she almost seemed to care for him. She was just concerned for him like she would be to anyone else, and he needed to answer her. 

“I am. I apologize.” He added, hoping that he hadn’t said anything too revealing in his dreaming state. 

If he had, she made no move to enlighten him, to tell him that she now knew his wife thought of him as a coward, or that he had growled and lashed about–exactly like a bear. She only moved her hand down to his and squeezed it. 

“It seemed like a horrible nightmare. Do you, do you wish to speak about it?” Her voice was gentle, as if she really wanted him to take comfort in her. Perhaps she did, as that just seemed to be her way. He was coming to love her way. It was everything he had never experienced before and he selfishly yearned for it. 

“It was more like a memory.” He would only reveal, not wishing to give Belle all the details on how little he was able to hang on to his late wife. He was already worrying he had lost the budding companionship in Belle–perhaps he had been mistaken, he could believe he had been silly and seeing things in this moment, for she was being so kind, gentle–he could see her worried eyes in the light from the candle she must have lit. 

“I’m sorry.” She cooed, and he ought to be annoyed with how almost like a child she was treating him, yet he couldn’t deny how her gentle words soothed the pain from the memory he had experienced. “Belford.” He startled at his son’s name coming from her lips. “What was he like?”

She had asked the question with much trepidation. Most likely worried over mentioning his son’s name, but worrying over his dream–memory–at the same time, for he realized that she thought that was what he had dreamed about. He was glad she thought that and not the reality. It had been a while since he had a nightmare–about Milah or even about Belford’s death (he always dreamed the actual accident–his mind supplied gruesome details that he never saw). In fact, since he began spending his nights with Belle, he had been finally able to get some peaceful sleep. It was as if her presence had been the antidote to the haunting that had come when he came back to Dark Castle. Only his insecurities over her had brought it back. 

Could he talk about his boy? With Belle– kind, concerned Belle, perhaps so. His heart squeezed in his chest, but he breathed in deeply before he began. 

“He was the best part of anything I have ever done.” His voice began in a rough whisper. “He was bright, stubborn, and probably more observant than was good for him.” He looked down at their entwined hands, thinking wistfully back to all the times Belford had realized that his mother did not care for him. 

“Like his father, then.” He could hear the soft smile in Belle’s voice. 

“Mmm, I suppose so…” He refused to think about the fact that he had not even been completely sure that Belford had been his. Belford was his in all the ways that mattered, and always would be.

She gently traced her fingers over his hand. He had a strong desire to pull her closer, to bury his head in her hair and allow her warmth to thaw his battered soul. He did not, and only remained lying stiffly, hardly realizing when the gentle touches ceased and her quiet breathing began to take the rhythmic turn in sleep. He turned to stare at her for longer than was strictly necessary and then blew out the candle. He would not cross the invisible boundary between them, but he might have cradled the hand that was still in his, to his chest, as he fell asleep. 

…

Belle, 

Mother will be the death of me, I can guarantee it. While I told Jeffrey that I didn’t care two straws about what flowers are in bloom for the decoration of the church, mother cares a great deal and is determined we must wait until the end of June. To wait three whole months! I know it sounds like very little time and is very little time, but when there is all the expectation of felicity and happiness around the corner, three months is an eternity. However, I know I will acquiesce, in fact, I’ve all but done so. So then, it will be at that time that we expect you and your Mr. Gold, to come at least a couple of weeks early to spend with the both of us. Jeffrey says he will write to Mr. Gold and invite you both to Oakley Park, where I expect one of us each day to walk to the other’s house (and I will endeavor not to be too distracted by anything my fiance will be doing). 

You asked again about your father, and I asked mine in hopes of obtaining some information to give you, as I have not seen him in town (then again, I will admit that I have been rather distracted by my fiance). My father says he’s gotten with some bad people and hopes your Mr. Gold might write him a strong letter of warning. It seems that all the decent gentlemen in –shire, will not abide by his using your purse to fatten their own pockets (see there, Belle, I always told you that you were well loved despite the horrid young men’s sneers at your father’s words), but all the very worst of the men who do not deserve the name ‘gentleman’ see it as an opportunity for enriching themselves at your expense. I am sorry if it hurts you, my dear friend, but I simply speak plainly what my father said on the subject…

The rest of the letter spoke of the new dresses she was having made and wondering what fabrics Belle would suggest now that Belle was the great lady she was. Belle could hardly read any of it as she shakily pulled out her father’s last letter that made very little sense and included yet another long list of creditors that he had obtained.  

“...hopes your Mr. Gold might write him a strong letter of warning…”

Could she dare burden Rupert with what her father was doing? She knew she would have to eventually–at this rate she would run out of money before they could make it to June. Her father had always been her constant source of mortification and nothing had changed in that respect. She felt sick when she thought of telling Rupert that her father needed handling. Perhaps if she were with child already it would be different…

It had only been three months, and already she was beginning to be disappointed when each one ended and there were no signs of a coming baby. She thought that if she had begun her fulfillment of the arrangement, she would not feel so guilty for coming to him for help. She also felt guilty for keeping the knowledge that she was spending all the pin money he had given her on someone who would not spend it wisely. She was essentially wasting his money, after promising to be a good wife to him, after he had helped her father’s financial situation. 

The entire thing was a horrible mess. 

She had seen Rupert’s curious looks, for he was so aware of her moods even when she tried to hide it, she had seen the disappointment in his face when she did not open herself up to him, and it had caused her not to be able to look him in the eyes–which, in turn, had caused some distance to come between them. He was less enthusiastic about spending an evening with her–was much more engrossed in his books or business to engage in conversation, and he had begun to wake before her, leaving the bed feeling cold and empty. 

It was all her fault. 

When his nightmare woke him in the middle of the night, she felt some of that closeness again, and she selfishly relished in it. He was letting her be close and he did not wake before her, but she woke to find her hand cradled to him like some sort of precious thing. That had been two days ago–the morning before she received the incoherent letter from her father, and it had sent her back into a feeling of despair over what she should do. Food had no taste, even her books made her feel guilty for indulging when there was something she needed to address. 

Giving to the poor seemed like a temporary balm for her guilt plagued heart, so she threw herself into that instead. She loved walking to and fro on the massive landscape, though the March days still left the fields cold. She loved seeing the thankful faces of those she gave to, the children that would cling to her skirts and look at her with such awe and wonder that she stored it up to take out and ponder when she was feeling her worst. 

So she spent the following few days after Ruby’s letter, all the while feeling the rising guilt, the trepidation of a new letter with new lists of creditors and a letter full of indignation for a daughter who, her father thought, was stingy with her money. 

…

Something was wrong with his wife. 

He had been aware that something was off. She fidgeted with her hands more than normal, her eyes would never rise high enough for him to read them, and at dinner, she pushed around her food without it actually ever reaching her mouth. He had at first, of course, thought it was something to do with him. That she had realized the state of her future, that she would forever be shackled to him and he had wallowed in this self pity until the night of the nightmare. After this, he realized that it could possibly be something not related to him (and how selfish of him to think that everything came back to him–was he such an egomaniac to believe so?), and something else had happened to Belle.

Confirmation that something was indeed wrong came a couple of days later when Mr. Dove carefully approached him. 

“Mr. Gold, there is something I wish to speak to you about.”

Rupert sat in his oversized chair in his study. A little man in a big chair addressing a big man in a small room. It would be a comical sight if Gold had not had hundreds of these interviews, and if the coming subject matter didn’t seem so serious. 

“Go on.” He said, using his hands to demonstrate his words. Mr. Dove nodded, showing no nerves but did straighten a little, readying himself for the conversation. 

“A footman, the one that accompanies Mrs. Gold, when she has a large amount of things to bring to the poor, has come to me, a little worried over her.”

A knot formed in Rupert’s stomach. He raised his eyebrows, schooling his emotions to try not to show how worried he became at the words. 

“He’s worried she’s making herself ill. She spends long hours among the poor and the tenants in need…”

“And that concerns him, how?” Rupert interrupted, but Mr. Dove did not start or look frightened. Rupert wasn’t sure he had ever seen him in a state that wasn’t perfectly calm. 

“She misses lunch, and goes out in all weather–it’s like she’s so engrossed in her work that she does not heed the time or her surroundings, except the people she helps. Once back, she apologizes profusely to the footman for causing him to miss his own lunch, and makes sure a lunch is given to him as soon as she returns though doesn’t extend the order to herself, and waits until dinner.”

A dinner she does not eat. Rupert said to himself.

“I find it peculiar that this footman has concerned himself with Mrs. Gold’s affairs. Does he disapprove of the long hours, her charitable work that he must carry around–what of it?” He had enough of unfaithful staff and while this report concerned him, concerned him more than he dare admit right at the moment, he did not want complaints to start among his staff over Belle’s kind nature. 

Mr Dove’s face clouded over. Apparently he could show something other than calm. 

“Sir, I believe you’ll find that Mrs. Gold has endeared herself to most of the staff here, and perhaps none so much as Leroy, who normally is concerned with little but the food and drink made available here. He came to me, worried to even bring it up, knowing it was not his place. However, only a concern for her health had prompted him to address it.” Dove looked him straight in the eyes, with no break of contact. He was usually a man of few words, but all his words carried truth and meaning. Rupert nodded his head in response and sent his steward away with a “Thank you for bringing it to my attention, I’ll be sure and look into it”, but did it in such a way that showed he really did take his words seriously.

Mr. Dove smiled, said  “Thank you, sir” bowed and left him to his own bewilderment, anger, and fear. Bewilderment, awe, and something that resembled pride, because in three short months a simple footman would face possible punishment to make sure the mistress of the castle was well–anger that he had been too worried she might be disenchanted with him that he had missed the amount of time she was spending out of doors in the waning winter–and finally fear, fear over whatever had caused Belle to be in this situation. He was determined to find out and went to find his wife to do so.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19

A Father’s Reach

The weather continued to be bitterly cold, even as April began. If Belle had been thinking of anything other than the terrible guilt that washed over her seemingly at every moment, the now beating in her head both of pain from the weight of her thoughts, and knowing her need to disclose to Mr. Gold just what a mess he had married into with her father, she might have given some thought to the fact that her boots had been stretched to their limit for the day, though they were well made and new. They were no longer doing their job in keeping her feet warm. She had layered well (mostly thanks to her maid, as her mind only knew guilt and did not think of chill and proper clothes), but did not heed just how she ought to feel the cold, not until she found herself  in one of the small valleys in between the hilly landscape, heading back towards the direction of Dark Castle. 

She had been thinking too hard to notice. Of course, she had. She had been thinking thoughts as dark as the skies had been, and now that she was more aware, she realized that both she and the skies had been weeping and she was now standing in a puddle–the reason her poor new boots had been stretched to their limit and now that she tried to wiggle her toes, she realized just how horribly cold they were. 

This was ridiculous. When she lived with her father, she had spent many days worried over his debts, then there was even the time where she thought all was lost, that her father had finally made such a reckless wager that they would never recover and she would be forced to go out into the world, perhaps seeking employment as a governess, or be so low as to be forced to accept Mr. Gaston’s proposal. In those times she had never behaved so cowardly. She wept, felt all the sweeping emotions necessary and felt her energy and hopefulness drain from her like the water was beginning to do, away from the higher little hills into the small valley where she stood. She knew what the difference was this time. Rupert. 

Rupert had swept in and while he might not have phrased it in the most heroic way (she excused him all of this, now that she knew the depths of his grief), he had saved her from her despair, and at the time, from the shame of her father. 

Rupert had since grown so dear to her, that she dreaded watching his face go from that mischievous smile he sometimes gave to the temper she knew he could have. She no longer feared him hurting her, but a disappointed face, one that was disappointed in her, was something that seemed far worse than anything that she had gone through when it had been just herself to shoulder the burdens her father made her carry. 

Yet, she thought again, her cowardice was ridiculous. 

She pulled up her chin, and tried to pull down her overcoat in a motion of mock bravery, but found she could not really feel her fingers. Oh. She must have forgotten her gloves at Mrs. Tilly’s when she had gone to gather and bring in some of the wood that one of their servants had chopped for her the day before. She had then set about making a soup out of her ingredients she had brought on a trip before and had hand fed the old lady–for her grown child, who worked at the house, would not be there until the next day to check on her and the lady looked so feeble that day that she felt compelled to do something for her. She had noticed the sky was overcast and cold (apparently she could be aware enough of the weather to notice if for Mrs. Tilly, but hadn’t thought through the fact that it would be just as cold for her return–it was quite ridiculous really, as she had already established) and like the thought that she might be needed. 

Now her new gloves were on top of the small counter in Mrs. Tilly’s house and she could no longer feel her fingers to make herself feel even slightly brave. Now that she was taking note of her own body again, she realized that she was chilled to her very bones, that the overcoat was completely soaked by the rain and had reached into the other layers and she could feel the rain all the way down to her chemise. Her boots squelched as she walked now (for she had escaped the puddle and found a few more as she made her way towards the massive stone structure ahead), and she could now realize that her thick socks were also no match for the cold and she shivered from the overall realization of just how cold she was. 

She was still a half mile away from Dark Castle. She tried to think of roaring fires and perhaps a request for a hot drink when she returned. (she would feel bad to ask Ella to begin the long process of making a hot bath for her, so perhaps she could simply change into dry clothes and sit close to the fire while she warmed. It would be her own fault   she was chilled, after all, and while she knew she could command almost anything and it be done, she could never do so without the memory of just how troublesome some of those tasks could be). 

The further she walked, the harder it was to do so. It probably didn’t help that she had been out twice before this week, and both days, while not as rainy as it was on this day, had been damp and equally as cold. She had remembered to keep her gloves on those times (it had been a simple delivery and Leroy had given her enough looks of concern that she had no need to be herself. It was embarrassing enough to realize they had walked and delivered through lunch and he must have been hungry the entire time. She had cried in her room out of guilt and embarrassment then, telling herself she would pay more attention to her surroundings and the people in it from then on out–how selfish of her to allow her problems to hurt others!). She had come back chilled then, as well, but had fussed over Leroy’s lunch and then gone to her room to do the crying over her selfishness–missing her usual meeting with Mrs. Lucas (which sent her into another bout of guilt and told Mrs. Lucas that she would not do so again). 

What time was it now? It was impossible to know in this rain. She had gone and been so full of her thoughts that she had done the things she said she would not do, and now she both dreaded and yearned for the entrance to Dark Castle. 

But, the entrance did come, and so she walked into it, determined to conquer her selfish thoughts and guilty pangs and the first step towards this, was to confess to Mr. Gold what she ought to have done before. This was the real issue, and before entering, bolstered herself to do so. She would be brave–or, at least, would act as if she were, until bravery came to her. The disappointed looks would come, and she would cry for the closeness they had begun to share and replay it in her darkest moments: the warm brown eyes and the sly twist to his mouth that seemed only for her, wishing them back. All she knew was that she could not go on forever this way–the not feeling, not sleeping, not knowing anything but the plaguing grief, was too much, and she was not being fair to the husband she had promised that she would be the best she could be. She held her head high while she only wished to lower it and walked inside. Her cheeks and head felt hot despite the chill, and her head pounded all the harder with each step taken. The rush of warmer air that met her upon the foyer, only chilled her all the more. She had no time to dwell on it, as an impatient Mrs. Lucas nearly met her at the door. 

“Mrs. Gold! What a scare you gave us! We looked all over the house for you, as we didn’t think it was your day for being out–but here you are, and to walk in all this rain too!”

Mrs. Lucas looked fierce but worried and Belle was not scared of her. “And you are soaked through! Well, Mr. Gold has been traipsing the house as steadily as the staff, but he can’t see you until you get changed into dry things. Off with you, I’ll tell Mr. Gold he can see you directly afterwards.”

In the past months that she had come to Dark Castle, Mrs. Lucas had always treated her with respect, as any mistress of a castle ought to be treated, in her estimation, but the last few weeks she had been treated less like a mistress and more like a child that needed direction and soothing. If her mind was thinking things through properly, she would realize that it had been when her father’s letters became less coherent and the lists of debts long. Belle, after losing a mother at such a young age, rather than be offended, had almost yearned for it, even when she knew she ought to act more like the lady of the castle, and less like a forlorn child. How Mrs. Lucas had sensed this need when Belle had done her best not to be so obvious, probably just meant that Belle was losing her ability to mask her true feelings. She had always been able to do it decently with her father and even Mary. Ruby was less oblivious, knew her moods better, but even she accepted whatever Belle was willing to be open about. The Dark Castle (and by default, Rupert) had given her a chance to feel things with her whole being, to be happy through and through, and perhaps the past few weeks had her forgetting how to hide the sad parts properly. 

Only a few minutes later, in dry clothes but still struggling against an inward chill and a pounding head, she knocked on her husband’s study. She probably didn’t have to do that–he was her husband, after all, but she supposed it was a habit. Her father’s answer to her knock was always the indicator on how inebriated he was, how angry he might be, and how likely he was to throw his fist or something else. Rupert’s neutral, “Enter.” was gentle in comparison. 

She turned the knob, her chest pounding nearly as hard as her head, her palms sweaty, and the rest of her shaking with either nerves, cold, or a combination of the two. 

“Belle.” Rupert said her name as if it were something precious, his whole face became warm and soft as he took her in. “Where have you been? It’s been hours since anyone has seen you and no one seemed to know that you’d gone out.” He didn’t seem angry, no accusation in his tone, yet Belle felt a surge of guilt. 

“I’m sorry.” She whispered. She really was sorry. She ought to have told Ella, or Mrs. Lucas, or Mr. Dove, or someone. She thought she just needed air–to get away from the kind eyes of those who worked at Dark Castle, so she had stolen out as best she could, and then decided that taking care of someone else was the only way to dampen the worries and guilt in her soul. She tried to explain. “It was a sudden decision. I decided to visit Mrs. Tilly. Grace wouldn’t return until Saturday and it is so cold there and her rheumatism is at its worst at such a time.” She pleaded with him to understand with her eyes, though she tried to remain calm everywhere else, despite the shakiness in her hands. 

“Belle.” After he stood up at her entrance, he sat down upon his desk chair. There was a massive wooden desk between them, and after this second entreating utterance of her name he got up again and came around the great gulf between them, and encouraged them to near each other by the fire. After doing so, he reached out to grasp her hands, and his eyes widened. 

“Belle!” Her name was uttered this third time, much differently. “Your hands are like ice!” And he absently began rubbing them against his own to try to warm them. He was being so kind. He ought not to be so kind, not when there was so much she needed to tell him. How was she to start?

“I’m sorry.” She said again, and she could feel her lip quivering. Wretched way to begin, she thought. 

“What’s wrong, Belle? What has happened? Is it so bad–life here with me? I know it’s not as flashy as London, not as pleasant as somewhere with people and things to do…But I had hoped, now…” Oh no, he was taking her changing mood upon himself! The guilt now was an insurmountable ocean wave, ready to knock her over with its power. She squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to steady herself, the ache in her head had reached such strength that she could hardly think, but she must interrupt. 

“It’s not you-or life here… Never you, sir.” She muttered, pulling his hands nearer her, as if it were some anchor, when she knew that once she disclosed the truth, it would be pulled away from her. 

“My father…Papa, he…” The words were half out. Mr. Gold could probably easily guess the rest. She could already feel his arm stiffen at her words. The worst was to come and she needed to get it all out. She opened her eyes slightly, winced as the light in the room made her head all the worse. 

“He’s accumulated debts, and I’ve let him–I’ve paid them, so so many of them. Wasted the money you gave me… I didn’t know what to do, I’m sorry, Mr. Gold.” His face was stiff, angry, and her eyes were blurry with tears that were sure to burst soon. 

She felt her hands grow cold with the absence of his to warm them. He pulled himself up off the chair in a motion that would surprise a person who knew how much his leg pained him–like she did. That he so quickly wanted to be away from her hit her like a dagger and sent pain to an already pain filled body. 

He paced. Limping painfully, he paced. She could hardly see him through her tears that she silently shed, but she could imagine the storm cloud of anger hanging on to every feature. She no longer worried that his fist would make contact with her face–if it had, she probably would have excused it, really, it was her own fault for spending all the money he gave her and then telling him she could not handle her father. She lowered her throbbing head, wishing he would speak, wishing he would lash out and have it over–to tell her that he was tired of the burden she had placed on him, wished he would have chosen anyone else so that he might not have to dole out money to an unworthy father in law. She selfishly was ready to have it over with so that she might safely cry in her bed and rest her now aching body. If only he would speak!

…

Of course it was her father. And he had orchestrated this disaster.

He ought to have guessed it, in fact, he had pinpointed the cause of her pained face the first time all those weeks ago, and yet dismissed it, willed himself not to think about his good for nothing father-in-law. He had heard Mr. Ashe degrading words to Belle in front of a man he did not know, and yet he dismissed him and charged his wife to take care of his finances. Out of sight out of mind, he thought. 

What a fool he had been. 

He had a horrid desire to see those letters that caused Belle to sit before him, trembling in her seat. It would serve him right, it was what he fully deserved, less than he deserved after pretending he did not have to take personal action for so long. 

For a good ten minutes, he could see nothing but his own guilt in the matter. He went over every opportunity he had over the past several weeks to find out what was wrong, instead he had assumed it was her disillusionment with himself and it took a footman to wake him up to how dire the situation was. The veil of guilt ripped from his eyes, or really the pain in his leg brought him out of the self centered fog and allowed him to remember he needed to begin making a plan…and apologize to his wife. 

He limped over to where she still sat, head leaned over and cradled in her hands, eyes shut. She would hate him for placing so much on her shoulders and pretending it didn’t exist. She would hate him and he would watch the spark of something whatever they had before, dim before his eyes. He kept approaching her anyway, feeling every ache and shooting pain in his leg, knowing he deserved it all. 

He sat heavily in his seat, not purposefully, but there was no way to gracefully lower himself when his leg was in this much pain. Belle did not look up. 

“Belle.” He pleaded, words not wanting to come, but needing to. “Forgive me, Belle.” 

Large blue eyes filled with tears and glossed over with pain shot open. 

“F-forgive you? That’s not…you’ve done nothing.” 

He groaned. “You’re right, I’ve done nothing. Nothing to ease your burden.” He took a shaking hand and traced a tear that had run down her cheek. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head and then winced. 

“I can hardly believe you aren’t angry with me. You would be justified in being so.” She whispered, tears continuing to trail down her cheeks. She fumbled for her handkerchief to wipe it away, but the flow did not stop. 

“Why should I be angry with you? You only did what you thought was your duty, tried to handle a situation I had placed upon you. I thought I was doing some noble deed by putting power over your father in your hands. I also selfishly thought I would no longer have to think about Mr. Ashe.” 

She winced again, her head dropped, guilt played on her features. Guilt that ought not to be there. 

“But in doing so, I forgot about a promise I made.” Her eyes opened again and her head tilted in curiosity. 

“You didn’t hear the promise,” his voice wavered ever so slightly as he confessed.  “but when I proposed I made a promise to myself that your father would never hurt you again. And he did, didn’t he? He hurt you, and I provided the means for him to do so.” He cradled her cheek for a moment, losing himself in her beautiful eyes, before realizing how warm those cheeks were to his touch. 

“Oh Belle, you have made yourself ill.” His chest squeezed with a new worry. 

“I’ve only a small headache.” She replied softly. 

He took all of her in, this time trying to block out all those other emotions–only looking through the lens of observation. Her eyes weren’t just glazed over with tears, but pain and fever as well. He swore under his breath.

Chapter Text

Chapter 20

In Sickness and in Health

Rupert liked a plan. Carefully thought out, every detail accounted for, every eventuality written down, just in case–no surprises that way. 

When Rupert met Belle and couldn’t get her blue eyes out of his mind, he knew he might become enchanted with the girl, temporarily at least, until her inner nature was disgusted by him, but he felt up to the task of keeping any emotional feelings well regulated. That was planned for, written into his plan of marriage. He certainly had not put into his plan this feeling of all encompassing desire to love and protect his wedded treasure, nor did he take into account that she might be as beautiful on the inside as she was on the outside. 

He also realized that he had not planned for an ill beautiful-on-the-inside-and-out wife and that left him lost and scrambling to ring for servants and  holler out for someone to quickly go for a doctor. His heart clenched in panic, and he turned back towards Belle. 

Her eyes, though glassy, were wide with confusion and what looked to be wonder. He didn’t feel as if he had the luxury of analyzing what her eyes were saying, when he knew she was sick with fever. 

“Do you think you can walk upstairs–I’ll go with you, but there’s not much I can do…” He motioned with his cane, wiggling the cursed instrument that indicated the deeper curse in his leg–the curse that wouldn’t allow more than a simple lean on his arm, and that was stretching things. There would be no heroic gesture of sweeping her off her feet and carrying her light body up the stairs as if she weighed mere ounces. Those were for the likes of those Gothic romances that she swore she did not enjoy very much (and he had only admitted to reading two of them to the giggles of his wife, a sound that he dearly wanted to be repeated, even if it did mean more stabs at his ‘elegant’ reputation). He could hardly carry himself up the stairs, much less his wife. 

Belle tilted her head, winced at the motion and still looked clearly baffled. “I am not close to fainting, I think.” She gave a tight smile. Too tight–he didn’t like it. 

A servant appeared and he sent them to alert Ella that Mrs. Gold needed her nightgown set out, and a tray of tea and broth prepared.

“Oh no, I do not need…” Belle weakly protested as soon as the servant had been sent off her errand. 

“Come, let’s get you upstairs.” He turned to her. She pleaded with her eyes, but it was a weak plea, a confused plea and he didn’t know what to do with it except lead her up the stairs to her room and make her as comfortable as he could. 

She dressed, tea arrived, and the doctor came, eventually. 

“A bad cold, nothing much more, thank Heaven, eh Mr. Gold?” Dr. Whale tried to assure him as they spoke outside her room. “Though I will admit, she does have a fever and that is something to watch out for. Give her broth, bathe her head, and let her rest for a few days. I’m sure she’ll be set to rights in a week's time. If she worsens, send for me again and I’ll be here in a flash.” The smile was polite, a rehearsed expression that Rupert did not like but could not argue with. He seemed legitimately unconcerned with Belle’s diagnoses, most likely wondered why Rupert cared so much when he had worried so little when the late Mrs. Gold came down with one of her frequent headaches that she declared was a sign of the end–a sign that the house disliked her and would eat her alive. She had been dramatic, and the doctor had been sent much too frequently to amuse her little whims. 

This was Belle though. She did have a headache, as well as a fever and all the aches and pains that came with such illnesses, and she had not made one complaint. In fact, she had not stopped looking bewildered that such a fuss was given since he had begun to frantically scurry about. 

The doctor was thanked and sent away to some other house–perhaps his own, Rupert did not know. 

Rupert turned and faced the door to Belle’s room, only hesitating a moment before entering. Ella met him quickly and quietly, though still keeping respectful distance and made a silent gesture towards Belle’s bed, alerting him to the fact that she was asleep. Ella began to move Belle’s chair closer to the bed, and gathered up a cloth and some water that had been fetched during the frantic moments before the doctor came. 

Ella looked up at him before beginning her ministrations or sitting in the chair, as if she were waiting on something. 

Oh. 

She was waiting for him to leave. He had done his duty, he had fetched the doctor, he had waited for the diagnoses, he had understood there was no danger and could therefore go about his business without guilt or worry. Ella would take the role of nurse, staying by her mistress’ side until the fever left her and she was able to get out and about on her own. Rupert could leave, and Ella expected him to do so. In all truth, he had already stayed far longer than he ever had for any of Milah’s ailments, whether real or imagined. 

However, he could not leave her. 

Ella seemed to sense this. “Shall I bring in another chair, sir?” She said in an almost whisper. 

Rupert schooled his expression into his neutral one, one that was completely at war with the vulnerable worry he felt at the moment. He waved his free hand in a dismissive way, though putting it right back on his cane, as his leg was hurting like mad. Apparently searching the halls of Dark Castle for Belle and then pacing a great deal in his study had finally taken their toll, not to mention the bone aching cold that seemed to seep in from the stone walls and latch on to his crippled limb. 

“Not at all.” He did the half whisper back. “I will watch over Mrs. Gold, you may come and bring the dinner tray for both of us when it is time–Tell Cook to bring soup for both of us.” He thought to add, and Ella only widened her eyes for the briefest moment before signaling her obedience with a curtsy. 

Rupert slowly guided himself into the chair by the bed, trying to ignore the sharp pain pulsing up his leg, and instead tested Belle’s fever by kissing her forehead (yes, he imagined that checking with the back of his hand would have done just as well, but didn’t seem half as accurate at that particular moment). It was hot, worryingly hot, to him at least, and he began to wring out the rag and laid it carefully on Belle’s forehead. She jolted only a little, but settled again. She slept semi-peacefully, sometimes taking deeper breaths, indicating that she hadn’t reached a deep sleep yet. 

He took a glance about the room, taking in the bare walls and furniture. He knew how the room looked, of course he did–he spent more nights in this room than he did in his own, but he hadn’t really had a mind for observing it (there had been more important things to think about). Even so, there were a few times when he had only momentarily wondered why she hadn’t had it done over in her own style. Most women would have been itching to put up new papers and to shop for wall hangings, bedding, and furniture. He almost smiled at the thought of Belle’s simple taste and lack of frivolity, when he froze in his chair. 

She had not bought for herself, because she feared having the money to do so. It had all been spent on her father, of course. 

“He’s accumulated debts, and I’ve let him–I’ve paid them, so many of them. Wasted the money you gave me… I didn’t know what to do, I’m sorry, Mr. Gold.” The sorrow in which she spoke those words! 

Well, that would not be an issue any longer. 

His leg screaming, he fished about for some paper and a pen–there, at her little writing desk. There were small drawers on each side of it that made him itch to open and try to discover what exactly that fool had said, but he would not tack on any more guilt than strictly necessary. Instead he began scribbling instructions to his banker, his solicitor, all the necessary people to make the arrangements. Next was the dreaded letter to his father-in-law. 

Mr. Ashe,

I write to inform you that from this day on your accounts will be handled by me. Mrs. Gold has done exceptionally well managing your necessary expenses, and I plan to further use her methods on your private ones. This means you will have to beg and plead, to me, for every penny you require outside of that amount. You will need for nothing–food, shelter, clothing, this will all be taken care of by other people, therefore, there is little chance I will see any future expenses you require as necessary. Do not expect it, and plan your pleas carefully–for I will not tolerate harassment for funds. 

I also request that all alluding to money and expense be taken out of your letters to my wife, as well as any other–less than desirable language, you are used to  indulging in. She is to be spoken to as mistress of Dark Castle, which she is. If I hear of anything more than simple, everyday correspondence where you speak only of weather, the town, or the roads, I will be very unhappy, sir, and I do not think you would like to see the consequences of such emotion. 

Yours respectively,

R. Gold

He allowed himself to breathe, letting his anger eek out with the ink of the pen. He glanced over at his sleeping wife. He would take care of her–truly take care of her, as a proper husband should. She might never love him, and that was to be expected. He had taken her to Dark Castle, giving her little choice in the matter, and she had bloomed and blossomed into something spectacular as the lady of it, making staff and master alike love her. To think she could somehow love him despite it, was a stretch, but they had been friends, there was something simmering below the surface, he thought. No matter how it turned out, he would take his vows seriously–he would love her, comfort her, cherish her, in sickness and in health for as long as he lived, come what may. Doing so for Belle, would be a joy, whether she showed him the kindness and care she showed everyone, or whether it ever became something dearer. 

He folded the paper and limped back over to his station, nearly falling when his foot hit the edge of the carpet. His leg was useless tonight! He swallowed his grunt and was thankful she still slept. 

An hour must have slipped by–perhaps two. Gold had changed out the rag a number of times, thankful that her fever did not seem to increase, though it seemed to remain unchanged. Belle shifted, and then he saw her eyes, curious, wondering, then realization of where she was, finally wide, pain filled eyes at noticing that he was nearby. He wondered if she wished he wasn’t there, and there was a little hurt in his soul at the thought. 

“Rupert.” She whispered, her voice groggy, almost hoarse. 

Idiot! He was already failing in her care!

He went for the pitcher and poured her some water. She took it with even wider eyes, but did not resist the offer. She gave back the cup, worry etched in the forehead he could now see, as the rag had been placed back into the bowl for the moment. 

His hand was now suddenly taken by two warm hands. She looked up into his eyes. Worry, pain, distress. Her eyes were screaming at him and his throat seized at the noise. 

“How your leg must hurt. I’m so sorry.” She spoke as if she were the one to have caused the pain. 

Rupert blinked. This was not what he had expected. He had thought he might hear a plea for Ella to return (though she would say it kindly, as only Belle could do, even while her eyes would have said something else). Perhaps he thought she would have given some request for her comfort. But she was worried over… his comfort. He must have stared at her for a solid five seconds in bafflement. 

“How do you feel?” He managed to say. 

She turned her head away from him, almost as if she were ashamed. “A little better. Sorry, that you’ve gone through so much trouble, Mr. Gold.”

Mr. Gold. Such a cold name from her lips, at least in that tone. This was no teasing retort, this was distance. It hurt. 

“It is no trouble, Belle. Please, you must tell me what you need, if you are in any pain.”

A sob stole from her and he brought her hands that were still on his and pulled them closer. “What is it, Belle, please tell me what is the matter?!” 

She gently shook her head from side to side, tears streaming down her face. 

“How can you be so kind to me after all the trouble I’ve caused?” Now her face was turned back towards him, both her face and her eyes questioned him. 

“How can I not try to reciprocate just a little of the kindness you’ve shown me since the day I met you? The kindness you showed me even after the way I treated you. 

You are no burden.” He insisted. Surely she must understand that. This was why she was giving him those looks. She felt like she was a burden, a nuisance. How could he convince her? 

Her eyes softened, but the look of quiet wonder remained. The tears were still there, but they looked different. He brushed them away, and cradled her face. 

I love you. Was on the very tip of his tongue. Would his love be a burden for her to take? Would she feel obligated to show something in return, when she had only come into this arrangement through desperation? He tried to think through it logically, but logic escaped him. There was only memories and guilt, and only the slightest spark of hope that had taken hold in some dark recess of his soul. 

“I love you, Rupert.” 

The spark became a blaze. 

“You love me?” He asked incredulously. This could not be happening. It must be some sort of dream. 

“I’m sorry, I know it was not a part of the agreement–I–you do not have to…”

He had to interrupt. 

“I love you too, Belle. My wonderful, darling Belle. You love me? Truly? It’s not some fever induced mania that’s settled over you?” 

Belle gave him a smile. There was still an air of illness about her–flushed cheeks and glassy eyes, but they were happy too. 

“I hope not. As foolish as I was to venture out into the rain and cold, I don’t think I am in  so much danger as that.” She bit her lip and he felt a strong desire to kiss her–so he did. Softly and earnestly, pouring every bit of his love into it, trying to show her how grateful he was for it being reciprocated.

Perhaps things would turn out to be some sort of glorious dream that would shatter as she discovered more of the unloveable parts of him. But he would enjoy the dream while it lasted, and push to the side all those darker, worried thoughts to be pulled out for another day. Today Belle said she loved him, and that was more than a lame fool deserved.

Chapter Text

Chapter 21

Foolish Endeavor

How silly she had been! Her head ached considerably, she felt incredibly hot one moment, could not stop shaking the next, and every joint hurt within her. She needed water, and at the same time worried that the broth she had eaten earlier would not stay with her. For some minutes she waded through the waves of pain induced nausea that washed over her. She had been silly to be so reckless with her health–especially as there had been no need for worry after all. 

For Rupert loved her. 

He said he did, anyway, and she felt like she could believe him. He must, to worry about her so much even after all the trouble she caused. She had not been fussed over like that since her mother was alive, for though Mary had always done her best, she had so many other duties that Belle always tried to play off any illness she had ever had, as insignificant. Rupert’s care was something different, something deeper, altogether, and though she felt miserable, she couldn’t help but smile to herself as she thought about all he had done for her. He had shushed any giggling staff heard going about their work in the halls, had read to her until she must have dozed back to sleep again, and kept checking her forehead (Kissing a great deal of her face, was a more accurate description, but she found she quite liked this method of ascertaining her temperature), and asking how she felt, as if it would change from moment to moment. 

She had insisted she wasn’t as bad off to warrant such a fuss, he had disagreed and shifted in his chair, and couldn’t hide the grimace when his leg moved only slightly. There was that guilt again for the pain she had caused him– was causing him. 

“I’m alright, truly. Send Ella up if you are really worried, though I would feel guilty for even her to keep watch when I am in no danger. But you must rest your leg. It pains me to see you in pain. I cannot rest if you are hurting yourself on my account–please?” She pleaded with him, and he had nearly crumpled towards her in emotion, reaching out to reverently touch the side of her face. 

“Such care for an old monster.” He sighed. So much grief and pain exposed in that sentence. Oh that her love would be enough to take it all away! She was not so naive. 

Her head might throb, but thankfully a thought bubbled its way to the surface and she reached up for his hand. “Too elegant for a monster.” She smiled as he snorted, though a small smile came to his face too at her words. “Too kind for one too.” she insisted. 

He shook his head. “Not kind. Kind is not the word for what I am at all.” 

“And I respectfully disagree, dearest Rupert.” She hummed. “Now, will you not humor your violently ill wife, hmmm?”

His lips went up on one side, the mischievous side, how happy it made her to see it. “And now you are violently ill?” His eyes sparkled, despite all the self depreciation he seemed to be wallowing in. 

“Only when it suits. Now will you lie down–for me?” Her voice turned serious. She knew the chair could not be comfortable for long and he had been sitting there for hours. 

“I won’t leave you, Belle. I’ve been so lacking in your care thus far–please, let me do this?” His eyes were soft and pleading. 

“Then come to bed then and rest your leg. I tell you, I cannot rest while I know that you suffer.” 

“If you insist?” He seemed to question it, and hover over the bed for a moment even though they had shared her bed many times before. Perhaps because she was sick this time, or because it was so soon after they had declared their love. Whatever it was, she had insisted, and so after taking off his coat, vest and wearing only his white linen shirt, he was content to lie beside her, and finally stretched his leg out with only a small wince and groan. She had a thought that there were so many things they could discuss, so many questions in regards to this newfound love shared between them, but when she tried to open her mouth to speak, she found herself too tired to do so and Rupert, ever the observant one, had shushed her soothingly and she found an escape through sleep from her pounding head. 

Now she was awake again. It was night–all was dark but the waning fire in the hearth. She knew her fever must have risen as she could not stop shaking, and she felt as miserable as a person does when ill. She again wished for water, her throat felt like gravel, but she hated to wake Rupert and cause a fuss when he had been fussing so much and had so little rest, himself. She wanted to take the couple of steps towards the pitcher and glass that had been set on a nearby table for her, but her bones ached just at the thought. She sat through the dilemma for a few blurry minutes–unsure if she might have even dozed off even as she contemplated it. A soft snore beside her and a swallow to emphasize just how sore her throat was, made her determined to just get a sip of water which her groggy mind assured her was just the thing she needed to feel better. Painstakingly slow, she pulled herself up out of the bed. Her legs shook beneath her and she worried that they would buckle. If she was thinking clearly, the knowledge that her fever was high and that she had eaten very little for a good long time would have made the unsteadiness understandable and expected, instead, she only found herself grasping for furniture and deliriously wondered why the room kept spinning and her knees wobbled. The room spun once more before she found that at some point she must have fallen, for the next thing she knew, she was once more on a mountain of pillows, looking into the eyes of a franticly worried Rupert Gold. 

…

Sleep plagued him. His mind returned to a time when Belford had been ill, only this time there was some sort of injury as well. Fever and infection racked his tiny frame, and he kept crying out, wondering why his father could not do something about it. 

“I’m so sorry, Belford!” His dream self sobbed, taking in the weakened breathing of his child. 

“It hurts.” Belford whispered, and suddenly blood began to appear on his little nightshirt and spread to other parts of him, growing bigger and bigger, Rupert becoming more and more agitated until he finally woke up with a gasp . 

A crash. A crash had been what had woken him. He took one deep breath to steady himself before ascertaining his surroundings. A chill entered him when he took in that he was in Belle’s room and her side was empty. 

“Belle!” 

A whimper answered him and he fumbled to get himself out of the bed and find his cane. His leg screamed at him for doing so, but he ignored it, practically launching himself around the bed to get to the other side, crashing down to the floor when he saw her laying there. He cried out to her, but there was no answer. Her body was hotter than it had been before, too hot, and he clumsily picked her up and pulled her back onto the bed in a motion that would have hurt all his dignity, had there been anyone to watch, or if he had been aware enough to care. He didn’t care–his mind could only focus on his sick wife in front of him as he went for the bell to ring for someone, so the doctor could be fetched immediately. 

An entire day and most of another night of quiet vigil ensued. Belle slept fitfully at times, would wake enough to take a bit of water and broth, but did not seem to be present with them. Her fever left her delirious, yet the doctor assured him that he thought it would break at any moment. Rupert said a constant plea to the heavens to ask that the fever break. He longed to see those blue eyes again, in all their sharp clarity. 

Rupert never lay back down upon the bed again. To do so felt like abandoning her, to go to his room and have Ella look after her felt like abandoning her, so he did everything from the chair beside her bed. He did his correspondence, spoke to Mr. Dove, only when it was a necessity, and Mrs. Lucas when she poked her nose through and begged him to not make himself ill while trying to take care of Mrs. Gold, and to tell him he had better eat every bit of what was brought up if he didn’t want to waste away before his dear wife woke up. He had humored her as best as he could, had answered all the questions she had put to him, for just like everyone else, Belle had warmed her way into the souls of everyone who came near her. She wasn’t just liked, she was loved, from the gentle inquiries of Mr. Dove, to the sharp nosed cook who took special care with her broth, all the way to the clumsy chamber maid who came in and gave worried glances over at Belle as she performed her tasks. Each small token of their worry caused Rupert’s heart to grow increasingly warmer towards the wonder that was his wife– a wife who said she loved him! It would never cease to baffle him, but he would do all he could to deserve her. 

The said chamber maid had just left when he happened to glance down at his wife, ready to check her fever for the hundredth time that morning, when he saw, instead of her eyes closed in sleep, clear blue eyes he had been yearning for. 

“Oh, dear Belle!” He nearly sobbed, but studied her instead, trying to ascertain how she felt from just looking at her. This time he thought ahead and went for a glass of water, letting her take sips before she spoke. She looked tired but her eyes were clearer, her smile soft and aware–his Belle was back to him. He sent up a silent prayer of thanks. 

“How do you feel, Belle?” He whispered. 

“Better, much better. My head no longer aches.” She said softly and closed her eyes for a moment, relishing in the comfort of her pillows. Her declaration that she was better, he somewhat doubted. He had a sneaking suspicion that she downplayed all her maladies–not that she was being dishonest, but that she truly felt that they were nothing to signify. Well, he would learn to observe her even better than he did now.

Her nose and forehead scrunched up for a moment. “I think I tried to get a cup of water last night, what happened?” Her voice was raspy, but a beautiful sound to his ears as it spoke rationally–he prayed the high fevers were behind them. He reached a hand to her forehead, praising God for only the slightest bit of warmth that he found. 

“Twas the night before last–you fell or fainted, or something. I–I should have never fallen asleep and left you to fend for yourself, Belle. I’m sorry.” It was something he had been wrestling with ever since, and the reason why he continued the painful watch from the chair. 

She scrunched her forehead even further and a look of worry accompanied it. “So long?”

“Yes.” He rasped, hardly able to hold back the true emotion from the past couple of days nor the present exhaustion he felt. “You gave me a bit of a fright–you frightened us all, really. You’ve had many well wishers among the staff, Belle–you are well loved, my darling.”

Her look softened at the last bit, the term of endearment.

“And you, how long have you kept your vigil in the chair?” Her forehead wrinkled over in worry–worry for him. 

“It’s no matter.” He began to flutter a hand, but a pained look from her stopped it. 

“It matters to me.” A tear floated down her face and it hurt his chest to see it. “Please, do not let my foolishness cause you pain. It would not do to have you falling ill trying to nurse me.”

“You are many things, my dear Mrs. Gold.” He allowed teasing to line his words, and he could see by the slight twitch in her lips and softening in her eyes that it was working to ease the worries that had gathered in her eyes and face. “Foolish is not one of them. Rest, my dear Belle, I make a promise that I will not make myself ill.”

“Only if you will rest. Please?” But her eyes shut despite herself and in seconds, she was sleeping softly, peaceably, better than she had the past two days, before he could answer. He felt confident enough in her recovery to allow himself to slide near her. He kept himself upright, pulled her into himself in an embrace, allowing her head to lay on his shoulder, his leg outstretched, in thankful agony. He told himself he would only hold her and rest his eyes, and of course the last two days hit him with a powerful force that he could only succumb to the darkness, at least assured of the fact that Belle could not rise without waking him. 

…

It took Belle three days before Rupert would let her leave her room. She was allowed to lounge in her chair, a great stack of books was brought, he spoke comfortingly through the changes he had made in her father’s accounts, a worried expression in his face as he went through each detail, and then went through the pin money he assured her was owed her for all the money she had given up. She had argued, assured him it had been her own fault, but he would not agree and insisted on the back payments. 

The Rupert Gold that led her to the dinner table, the first evening she was allowed to roam the house ( as long as she did not exert herself too much–the man was really fussing over her too much, but she relished in the love behind his motives too much to care), was both vastly different, and ever the same man that he was before. There was love and care in all his movements and looks, and that love was for her. She thought, perhaps, that the love had been there for some time–that it had been what had been written in his teasing quips and warm eyes, and now the love was just out in the open. He looked less worn, free-er somehow. It was overwhelming to think that the difference was her. 

“I was thinking.” Rupert cleared his throat after their meal had begun. “That after we travel to Oakley Park, we might go on a belated…wedding trip.” He seemed visibly nervous, Belle couldn’t help but smile at it, knowing that he was suggesting such things solely for her benefit. 

“I would like that.” Her words made his smile wider. 

“Napoleon has made travel outside our beloved England a bit difficult, but I put said beloved country in your hands as far as where you would like to go. Tell me where you’ve always wanted to go, dearest Belle, and it will be done.” 

The endless possibilities, him offering it all up to her–it was overwhelming. She hesitated, never having this kind of freedom in her hands and almost frightened of the feel of it. He was waiting for an answer, beginning to look nervous again. She swallowed. 

“I-I’ve always wanted to see the sea.”

Rupert grinned. There was not even the slightest hint of mischievousness about him, his smile was all softness and full of love. 

“Well then, Mrs. Gold, the seaside it shall be.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 22

An Unwanted Guest

3 months later...

The carriage rumbled across the muddy road. A cold summer rain had bathed all the roads well, hollowing out already made dips into something deeper and made even the most comfortable of carriages jostle a little as they hit a puddle. Rupert felt each one with a stifled alarm. Flashes of the last ride with Belford came back, just as they had the last long trip he had taken, however, this time he realized that he again carried such precious cargo that would break him just as horribly if such treasure was lost. He imagined every bump and every jostle would send him careening into the nearest tree and he would wake up to find Belle gone from him forever. 

“What’s wrong?” He snapped out of his fears for a moment to find Belle looking up at him in concern. He attempted to brush it off and waved his hand. 

“Nothing…”

“Don’t wiggle your hands at me and tell me it was nothing.” Her smile was gentle, and only the slightest bit of irritation was in her voice. “You were scowling at me–you haven’t done that in a good while. Now, tell me, what have I done to deserve such a look?” 

Guilt struck him with great force and he quickly replied, “You’ve done nothing but exist and be wonderful, m’dear.” He forced a tight smile but realized his explanation was not one at all. Belle tilted her head and a crease came between her eyebrows. 

“You scowl at me because I’m wonderful?” She laughed a little. “Come, what is it? What’s wrong? Truly.” Her teasing melted back into concern, and he leaned over and kissed her softly on her cheek and then trailed down to her lips, where he then traced those same lips with his fingers, relishing in her concern and care of him. 

“Closed carriages on long journeys–they remind me.” His voice became smaller until he was unsure if she even heard him. 

“Belford.” She whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“They remind me...” He knew he needed to further explain, especially after claiming he was scowling because she was so wonderful–she would wonder what he meant, but wouldn’t ask it, now that she knew he was wallowing in memories. “They remind me of what I now have to lose. You mean so much to me–more than life itself. If anything was to happen to you Belle, I–”

He stopped short when he felt his hand–which were now both fists, grabbing onto the cushioned seat beside him, threatening to rip the soft fibers if he were to pull any harder. His fist was taken up in her small fingers and brought to her lips in a soft kiss. 

“I’m right here, my darling, and plan to stay that way for as long as you’ll let me.” She nestled closer to him, and he had a great urge to free her hair from their bonnet, cap and pins, and run his fingers through it–he knew how soft it was, and he felt that to do so would be some sort of grounding, an assurance that she was there, but, she would not appreciate him doing so, and causing her to arrive at the inn in a state of disarray, so he compromised and pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her, and allowing his leg to scream at him for doing so. The pain of his leg, and the pleasure of feeling her next to him, kept him nestled firmly in reality–that Belle was here with him, and in this moment he could imagine it would always stay that way. 

Once they came to the inn, Belle’s fussing, care, and worry over his leg was met with much more appreciation and less wondering this time around. What a wretched beginning he had made of things all those months ago and how thankful he was that Belle had bravely stepped out and had been her kind self despite his scowls and biting remarks. 

Belle’s constant smiles and enjoyment of seeing the great wide world waned as they came closer to the town of her birth. Her breathing became heavy, her eyes clouded. Her eyes. Her eyes always told him whatever she was feeling, no matter what the rest of her face attempted to display. In this instance, her entire self radiated with hesitancy, her eyes were a mix of excitement and trepidation. 

“Your father will not harm you, Belle, I swear it.” Now he did growl, as he read in her looks what it was that she was thinking. 

She gave him a slight smile. “I know–I’m sorry. I’ll be glad to see Ruby again–as you are to see Mr. Hatfield, I’m sure.”

He gave a feigned groan. “I think he might be rather insufferable to be around at the moment.” 

Belle’s smile grew, which is what he had hoped would happen. “With good reason, I believe.”

“Mmmm, perhaps. If I do not hear I told you so in the first five seconds of our meeting, I will be very much surprised.”

“I don’t know.” Belle was attempting to look serious, but her lips kept twitching with amusement to keep it up very long. “It might be an entire ten.” They laughed. It was good to laugh when the air in the carriage had seemed so heavy before. 

…

“Welcome, welcome! Come on in–watch your step, Mrs. Gold, there’s a bit of an unevenness here–Gold, you should remember, don’t trip, old man.” Mr. Hatfield was just as jovial, or perhaps more so, than he ever had been. He laughed with his whole body, and his eyes twinkled incessantly. “Aunt Beatrice is holed up in her room, hardly leaves it these days, poor girl–I don’t think she does very well, you know.” His face became at war with his more optimistic tendencies, and Belle could tell that he was truly concerned for his aunt as he led them inside the house at Oakley Park.

“I know you’ll be wanting to freshen up, my dear Mrs. Gold.” He motioned to the maid who was to lead her to her chamber. He then turned to Rupert. “Come Gold, there’s a little time before dinner yet…” 

And they parted ways before dinner, though not before Rupert, who had her arm tucked under his up until this moment, had squeezed her arm comfortingly and given her such a look (that she reciprocated readily and wished they were alone so she could give him a good kiss for such a look), that she couldn’t help but allow her eye to wander over to his friend, whose arms were crossed, and looked ready to laugh aloud. 

She motioned that she had something to say, Rupert leaned down just a bit, while she raised herself as much as she could before whispering near his ear, “I’ll see you soon, Dearest.” And gave a wild smile to Mr. Hatfield, who could no longer keep his laughter contained. She knew how it would be, and couldn’t help laughing herself when she heard him declaring that Rupert was “Besotted! Admit it, you’re besotted with your wife! Ha! Never would I have anticipated such a happy event. Well,...” And Rupert, at that moment turned, before the both of them had quite gone out of sight of one another–she halfway up the stairs at this point, he, nearly to a lower hall–and gave her a teasing grimace that spoke their earlier comments. Rupert was about to receive his, I told you so’s and she stifled a giggle as she went to her room. 

The next day Mrs. Grayson met them in her parlor and extended a warm hand to Belle while both she and the rest of her girls made customary curtsies to her, Rupert, and Mr. Hatfield. Belle nearly lurched towards Ruby and they engulfed each other in a hug, despite a rather shrill sigh from Mrs. Grayson. 

“Really Ruby!” She gasped under her breath–Ruby merely rolled her eyes at Belle and smiled towards her mother. 

Mr. Grayson appeared from a nearby room and began to engage the men in talks of business, land, and the cold weather that never seemed to warm the summer to its appropriate temperature. Mrs. Grayson made some remark that showed that she had only heard half of what they said, but wanted full includement, and Anna and the rest of the girls looked as if they wished they were anywhere else. Ruby and Belle squeezed each other’s hands and took chairs slightly away from the rest of the group. 

“Why Mrs. Gold, are you not a fine lady now, yet insist on bounding into hugs as if we were still girls of fifteen? I had expected you to come back as the epitome of fashion and elegance.” Ruby’s way of speaking set Belle at ease right away. She had wondered–though they had kept a consistent correspondence, what it would be like to see Ruby after an absence of six months. She felt herself an almost different person–before she was a friend of the shadows, and now she finally felt as if she could come out and experience the warmth of light and sun. 

“I never was a fine lady, as you very well know and certainly never elegant–that has not changed. No, the elegant title belongs to my husband.” And in saying such her eyes strayed to him, and their eyes caught, causing them both to smile at each other. When she turned to face Ruby again, she was giving her a sly smile. 

“I think we have much to discuss, Isabelle Gold–your letters have been quite insufficient, I believe.” 

“What do you have to discuss–anything interesting? Come, we must have our share, you cannot have Mrs. Gold all to yourself!” Anna whined in the most dignified way possible, sounding a little bit like her mother did on occasion. 

“Yes, something very important.” Ruby groaned, and suddenly reached to take Belle’s hand, gently pulling her upwards. “Belle and I were just saying how we needed to look and see what flowers we will use for the wedding.”

Mrs. Grayson, who was not really listening to the men, nearly squealed at this. “But that has already been settled!” 

Ruby, pulling Belle as she crossed the room as quickly as politeness allowed, set her lips in a line before answering. “Then we shall pick them, then!”

“Pick them! Whatever do you mean, Ruby–they shall be wilted days before your wedding.” Both Anna and her mother looked appalled. 

“I simply must know Belle’s opinion of them then. Oh bother it, we want to be alone in the garden!” She gave a sharp look that everyone was familiar with (even Mr. Hatfield, who was hiding a laugh) and no one dared reply. Rupert also looked shocked at Ruby’s sudden outburst, and his look almost made Belle laugh, for it just confirmed how much the elegant gentleman he was, despite insisting he only played the part. 

It was still cold outside, despite it being June, and the flowers that Mrs. Grayson always boasted were the best in the county, looked sparse and dull. 

“Mother is very put out with these.” Ruby pointed to a sad looking peony shrub.

“We just haven’t had enough sun this year for anything to look entirely healthy.”

“Well, I did not come out here to discuss flowers, of course.” Ruby began. 

“Of course, and it was very wicked of you to try and deceive everyone so.” Belle laughed. 

“Perhaps, but Anna can truly be insufferable sometimes. Perhaps she and Gaston will make a match and they can make each other miserable.”

Belle gasped. “Do not wish such a thing on your sister.” She would not wish it on anyone, not even an enemy. 

“He is coming, Mr. Gaston, that is–to the wedding, I’m afraid.” Ruby hesitated, most likely watching Belle blanch over the news, she knew her heart began to race too fast at her words. “It was not my idea, of course. Father didn’t want to invite him either, but Mother complained so loudly and for so long, that he said he could no longer bear it. So, Gaston is to come in a few days, and hopefully not stay very long. I’m sorry Belle.”

Belle swallowed. She ought not to yet feel such fear. She had Rupert now, surely Mr. Gaston’s attentions would no longer be extended to her, yet she did fear, memories of that horrible summer replaying in her mind.

“It’s only natural, he is your cousin after all.”

Ruby groaned. “I suppose. Now! To what I really wanted to speak about–your dear, Mr. Gold. I think you’ve warmed to him a little.”

Belle smiled. “Perhaps more than a little.” 

Ruby laughed. “And he, you? Although it’s not surprising that he should fall in love with you. Anyone in their right minds can see that you are the best of women.”

Belle shook her head and smiled. “I don’t know about that, but he and I–” She felt her cheeks warm. “We have an understanding.”

Ruby snorted. “You are married, of course you have an understanding!”

“I only mean, we’ve expressed our mutual feelings for each other. He’s very kind–oh Ruby, he’s been so good to me.” The awkwardness melted away into a declaration of what dwelled in her heart.

Ruby pulled Belle in a hug, one that reminded her of when they were younger and hadn’t seen each other in a few weeks. “I’m only glad to hear it. You deserve it, Belle.”

Belle shook her head, a prick of guilt that had been weighing on her for the past couple of months reared its ugly head at her friend’s assertion. 

“I only wish I could repay him for all he’s done for me. He lets me do so much, and has given me so much, and I– I have yet to fulfill the entire reason he wanted marriage to begin with.”

Ruby grimaced. “You mean, a child?”

Belle’s cheeks prickled again. “Yes. I know he loves me, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that he was desperate enough for an heir that he married someone he did not know very well, and spent a great deal helping me, in the bargain.”

Ruby squeezed her arm. “It has only been six months, dear Belle. You must not fret.”

“I know. I just can’t help fearing. Mama had such difficulties, and then lost George after all that–I should have told Rupert before he married me that it was possible I could have the same difficulties.”

Ruby gave her a look. Almost the same look that quieted her family and told them she would have her way despite their protests. “Listen to me, Belle. You will not think such things. Your mother was weighed down by your father–I do not mean to offend you, but it is so–and though I have nothing so concrete to back my claims, it is my opinion that he was most of her trouble. 

You do not have such troubles, and therefore, you do not have anything to worry about. Enjoy your husband, Belle, do not invite trouble where there is none.”

Though Ruby’s words pained her, she knew her to be right. She nodded, though tears pricked her eyes. “Wise, as always, Ruby. Now, let’s talk about your future husband, shall we. I want to hear everything.” And so Ruby did. 

…

“Hello Mary.” Rupert bit back any anger he felt towards the man he was about to approach as he was welcomed at the door of the small town home by Belle’s former maid. 

Mary’s eyes only widened a bit when she was addressed by name, and curtsied a greeting. “Mr. Gold.”

“I think Mrs. Gold is hoping to see you soon. She has spoken very highly of you.” He attempted a smile, and Mary looked as if she breathed a breath of relief. 

“Thank you, sir. Mrs. Gold–is she well?” She stumbled. 

“She’s very well.” and then went on towards his purpose. “Might I see Mr. Ashe? It would be even better if you did not alert him to my presence. I think I shall surprise him.”

“Yes, of course”, and he was brought into a small room with a lounge chair that had a sprawling, snoring, Mr. Ashe upon it.

“Mr. Ashe.” Gold growled out sharply and loudly. The sleeping man started from sleep, looking wildly about, for the supposed intruder, his eyes finally landing on him and his eyes bugging out even bigger than before. 

“Mr. Gold!” His tone was a mix of fear and a bit of indignation–which was just as well for Gold’s purpose.

Gold fished out the letter from his coat and held it up.

“Mr. Ashe.” Gold said once more to the man’s rounding eyes, placing his cane between his legs and waving the letter in his other hand. “I think we have much to discuss.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 23

Motivation and Meetings

“What is the meaning of this, Mr. Gold?! Barging into a man’s home without warning, at this time in the morning…”

“That’s quite enough.” Gold said forcefully, now both hands went over his cane and he stared at his father-in-law until the man showed genuine uneasiness, and thought better of his outburst. Mr. Ashe motioned and mumbled, somewhat politely, towards a chair and asked him if he would like something to drink, motioning to an almost empty decanter. Seeing the liquid caused another growl from Gold, but he readied himself for the confrontation. The anger could build, but a plan was necessary, or he would give into the urge to take his cane and beat the man who had once dared beat Belle. He remembered the ire he felt when he had seen the discoloration on Belle’s cheek all those months ago. Now the memory sent a surge of anger so forceful, he could feel the metal tip of his cane beneath his fingers, just itching to be used as a weapon, but he had to smother it and pull his mask back on his face so he could address the matter at hand. 

“I prefer to stand. My business will not take long, I hope, and then I will leave you to your sniveling and whining alone.”

He did walk towards the glass decanter and pour himself a drink, letting it reach to the very rim. He could see in his peripheral vision, Mr. Ashe’s eyes widened as he saw the precious liquid nearly gone–he now smothered a grin that wanted to rise and continued his quiet solemnity. He limped back across the room, not spilling a drop, before then pouring it into a nearby vase. 

“What are you…” Mr. Ashe’s already red face became redder. Gold glared at him, stopping his outburst and walked back to the decanter and poured the last drops into his glass. This he drank, before setting the glass down hard upon the desk. 

“Mr. Gold! That was my very last bit of good port. How could you do so to a man with such limited means?” Mr. Ashe’s face screwed into very ugly lines, made all the uglier by Gold’s knowledge of his deceit and general personality. It was a wonder that a woman so wonderful and beautiful as Belle could be the product of that man. She must have, therefore, taken after her mother. 

“Your last drop, Mr. Ashe?” He spoke in mock surprise. “And are you a man who can not afford such things? Why, my dear Mr. Ashe, I am well aware of your funds, and know exactly how much port ought to be left. It is also my understanding that you have taken to selling the furniture I provided you to fund this habit of yours when you found that I limited you to an amount of spirits that is normal for a gentleman. Are you telling me that the funds from the sofa that my sources say you sold only a fortnight ago, has already been depleted? Or may I gather that you’ve indulged in more than just the buying of spirits?” Gold raised his brows, daring him to respond. Mr. Ashe had the good sense to look guilty, though the anger behind the guilt was grating. 

Gold waved his hand dismissively. “It matters not to me whether you sell all the furniture beneath you and sleep on the floor– do it and become the groveling animal you are.” at this, Mr. Ashe began muttering. Gold pressed on. “It does matter to me how you speak, or rather write, to my wife. Do you deny what you have done, sir, and after I strictly forbade such speech?”

“See here, Mr. Gold. I am the girl’s father, and as such I have a right…”

Gold, trying to maintain control, lifted his cane and swung it angrily back down to the ground, making a loud thumping sound, that caused Mr. Ashe to start. 

“On the last day of December, in the church not five miles from here, you relinquished your right to Mrs. Gold, and gave her care over to me. And yet you write such filthy words in this letter you attempted. You whimpered, and condemned, and commanded her as if she were little more than your slave, forcing her to bear the weight and guilt of your moods and whims. She is beholding to you no longer, in fact, it is you that are beholding to her.”

Any fear that Mr. Ashe should, or did, have, he had no longer. Anger lined every part of his face and he balled his hands and stood at his full height, towering over Gold a good several inches. Gold was used to being smaller than most, and therefore, had perfected a stature of power and control, if not of height. He met the man squarely, his jaw tight and his eyes steadfast. Mr. Ashe was red all over, not of the shame he ought to have with those horrible words he spoke to Belle. Words that said she was useless for nothing more than her beauty to keep him (Gold) satisfied and willing to listen to her in providing her father the funds he desired (though even then, Mr. Ashe had said he worried that she was not doing enough, that she ought to exert herself more, that she was not being that dutiful daughter he had raised her to be, that her mother would be disappointed in her for not providing for her only family she had left. While the relationship with her father was fraught with complications, the one with her mother, he could sense, had been one of love and care. Belle loved her mother dearly, and he could sense that it was not the first time that Mr. Ashe had used his wife’s memory to get Belle to heed his whims). 

“And you are telling me that you read my letter to my daughter before she had a chance to make her own opinions on it? A gentleman does not do such a thing.”

Gold gave a small huff, he would not express his slight guilt from hiding the letter from Belle. After her worry and illness, he had been infiltrating all letters from her father–which was only three, one for each month Mr. Ashe was made aware of his supplies, and the deficit he kept creating by trying to use funds he did not have.Belle did not need to see or know the crude words inside, and his guilty conscience only pricked him occasionally when Belle would remark that she felt it curious that her father never wrote her anymore. No, he would not disclose any of his inner feelings, instead he hid it by letting his lips curl menacingly.

“Good thing I’m not a gentleman then.”

Mr. Ashe seemed at a loss of words, so Gold continued. 

“Belle has expressed a reluctant desire to visit you, to see how you fare. When she comes you are to present yourself as the model of good behavior. You will not drink strong drink, you will not demean her or speak a word of crassness, indeed, you will say nothing unless it is to ask her how she is, or how the roads were when she came. Do you understand?”

Mr. Ashe fumbled a bit, shifted from one leg to another before a quiet indignation seemed to come over him, for he was foolish enough to straighten his shoulders a little and look back at him. 

“And what if I decide that she needs to know that her husband keeps missives from her own father away from her–that you will not supply me with what I need to survive?”

Gold, remaining calm as ever, looked down at his cane as he shifted it from one hand to another, twisting it in his hand before moved it to the other.

“Despite the latter being untrue, I will again remind you that I am no gentleman, and that it would be a great shame if you came across a great accident, where you tripped and half your face  and body was bruised and beaten, by what would, of course, be the stairs?”

All the red from Mr. Ashe’s face drained until he was white as a sheet. 

“And don’t think you will get anywhere from blabbering what’s been spoken here, today. I think you’ll find that your reputation for whining about the misdeeds you think that have been done to you, will fall on deaf ears. While you may be a gentleman by blood, I have practiced the look, and have the means to belay questions. I ask again, do you understand your part in Belle coming to visit?”

Mr. Ashe fell upon his chair in a great heap and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. 

“I-I understand.” He mumbled.

Gold walked a step forward, making sure his cane made as most noise as possible as he leaned forward towards the man. “I’m sorry, I do not think I heard you.”

A little anger lit behind Mr. Ashe’s eyes, but his shoulders deflated. “I will do as you’ve asked.” He spoke louder. 

Gold nodded and flickered his hands in a dismissive way, turning himself into an almost foppish sort of gentleman. “I am so glad we could have such an amiable chat, Mr. Ashe. Good day to you.” And he turned away, and left. 

…

The vicar's words could not hold Belle’s attention, and she had no idea if it was a fine sermon or not, for her mind was deep in thought and memories. While the church held the memory of her wedding, which she could look back upon with at least a half a smile, thankful it had happened despite her worries at the time, but it also held a thousand more memories. Memories that had witnessed more mortification than she could count and where she had wished the back pew would swallow her whole. She had prayed many a prayer in this church, prayed for a father that never repented, for the love of a community that never seemed to come through for her when needed, yet, as she looked over the way her past had formed to become the future she now looked forward to, she did not feel that her prayers were so vain, after all. 

It was as if Rupert could sense her thoughts, as if he could see as well as she could in her mind’s eye the Sunday services where there would be snickers and whispers behind gossiper’s hands. The times her father was nursing a drink induced headache and had slumped over in his pew, or the times when he exited the church and would slap a young man on the back and talk loudly about what a dutiful, wonderful girl his Belle was and how she would be a blessing to anyone who would marry her, not hiding the obvious way he was trying to push her off to anyone who would take her- he must have read her thoughts, for Rupert squeezed her gloved hand and looked over at her with a look of concern. She smiled and tried to shake off the memories of both the building and the town. She squeezed the hand back, his presence helping the bad memories to still, and instead, she thought about the visit they had paid her father the day before. 

Mary had been all smiles upon seeing her, and Belle had been more than glad to see her as well, had expressed as much and asked if they could visit a little after she had seen her father. Seeing her father needed to be done first, as she wasn’t sure her nerves would allow her to do anything else. Her legs were nearly like jelly as she tried to take the steps necessary to reach her father. Rupert was a strong presence beside her and she felt herself grip his arm tighter as they stepped forward.

“You don’t have to see him–he’s done nothing to deserve such acknowledgment.” Rupert had told her after she had brought the subject of seeing her father, up. 

She had twisted her hands in her lap, something she had not done in a good couple of months–only when she saw another month go by where there was no sign of a babe on the way was she bound to do such a thing, but she did it in the privacy of her own room, where no one was the wiser of her unladylike action. “I know,” she had told him, “I know he doesn’t deserve it, but I can’t help but want to make sure he’s alright, especially after he stopped writing.”

If it wasn’t her imagination, she had seen a bit of guilt flash on Rupert’s face confirming her suspicions, but she did not dwell on it. He nodded, told her he understood, and that he would be there for her when she went. He had deserved a kiss for his forbearance, and thankfully Mr. Hatfield was nowhere in sight. 

Now she was in her father’s town-home, and he smiled nervously as he saw them enter the small sitting room. 

“Belle, my girl, it is-it is good to see you.”

Belle tilted her head at his nervous greeting. She looked over at Rupert, trying to see if he might be scowling at her father and be the cause of his nerves. Rupert’s face was his normal mask, the face he made when he didn’t want anyone to read his real thoughts. 

“Good to see you, Papa. And you are well?”

“O-Of course I am, always well, of course. And the roads–they were wet, I suppose. Lot’s of rain–we’ve had a lot of rain here lately.” 

Now Belle was truly confused. 

…

“Thank you, for whatever you said to my father beforehand to make today so smooth.” Her words on their way back to Oakley Park made him stiffen. Had Mary told Belle that he had been there? 

“I–I don’t know what you mean.” He struggled as he felt like squirming in his seat. Jeffrey’s Curricle did not give him room for it, and it wasn’t something he would be caught doing anyway, no matter how uncomfortable he felt. 

Belle turned to him and he caught a sly grin out of the corner of his eyes. “Papa has never, in all of my twenty years of life, once commented to me on the state of the roads–at least, not in so amiable a way, and not unless he paired with it a reason it was somehow my duty to make the trip better, or my fault it was so wet or bumpy.  Never half so pleasant as what happened today. Not only that, he asked me what I thought of the weather, and if I liked Dark Castle, without complaining that it was my duty to invite him to stay there.”

Rupert swallowed. “I may have had a chat with him about my expectations of the visit.”

“Mmmm, and did your prompting to do so, have anything to do with the letters I have not received since I was ill?” Now she lifted her eyebrows. His stomach flopped with guilt. 

“Belle, I–please forgive me, I just would not see you made as low as you were when you became ill. I couldn’t...”

He felt a hand on his knee, stopping his words. “I don’t like that you hid the letters from me. But I– I understand why you did.”

“Forgive me.” He pleaded, his mind trying to think of anything that could pull him out of this hole he had made for himself. 

“Of course, Rupert. How can I not forgive you when they are done with such good intentions. However–and I know I did not make the best impression of this–I am stronger than I look. I will not wilt with his harsh words, not when I have your love to bolster me. It shames me to think that you read his words.” She shook her head, as if she were embarrassed, which caused him to feel ill. But afterwards, she brought back her smile, and he couldn’t help one of his own in relief. 

“Did Dove tell you?”

“What?” Her head tilted. 

“The letters, did Dove tell you?”

“No, I guessed, I suppose. I didn’t know for sure. I just know that Papa had, on the very day he seemed to receive his allotted funds, sent a letter complaining about them. After the second month of not receiving one, I had a suspicion, but you confirmed it.” She smiled again.  “Why did you think it was Mr. Dove?”

Rupert gave a heavy laugh. “He disapproved.” 

Belle beamed. “Of course he did!”

Rupert smiled in return. “Of course he did. He always takes your side in things.”

When they had returned to Oakley Park, there was an afternoon of awkwardness. Belle attended to Jeffrey’s Aunt Beatrice like she had done since she had arrived, smiled and talked as she always did with Jeffrey, laughing at his antics and finally played for them all, before they retired to bed. The conversation they had once alone had him confessing the entire thing–though he may have omitted the threat to beat Mr. Ashe’s head in and pretend it was an accident. Belle had caught enough (for she was a bright one, his Belle), to know that it had been a very serious discussion. At the end he expected her to give him a scolding, to tell him to not meddle in her life so, or make a mess of her life like he had of his own. Instead she snuggled closer to him and looked imploringly into his face, as if she were searching out an answer to a question that had been on her mind a great while. 

“You really love me, don’t you.” She had breathed out  what was more of a statement in a whisper, yet spoke as if she was in awe of it. 

“Of course, I do. I’d do anything for you.” He answered in the same imploring whisper. 

“Thank you.” There were signs that she was on the verge of tears and he held her tighter to his chest.

Belle stole a look at him after a quick glance at her father who sat in their pew, letting him know where her thoughts had been. He said a small prayer of thanks that she did not now hate him for withholding the correspondence. The preacher finished his sermon with a prayer, and it was time to file out of the church.

A bit of sun spilled onto the pathway coming out of the little building, as if God himself, was baptizing his congregation with the sun they had so desperately needed. 

“If only the weather would hold.” He heard Ruby say to Belle, as she had long taken Belle’s arm and claimed a need for her. He had graciously (or not so graciously–he was worried he might still scare the girl, for Belle had to remind him not to scowl) bowed out and allowed Belle’s attention to be given to her friend. 

“Look at Anna.” Ruby wrinkled her nose towards her sister. Rupert looked too, and he saw her cousin, Mr. Gaston, speaking who knew what, under one of the trees, while Miss Grayson fluttered her eyelashes and blushed in an unnatural way. Mr. Gaston flickered a look towards Belle and Ruby, one that Rupert followed. He then noticed that if Belle and Ruby were looking at him, he made himself a flirt to Anna, but once they shifted their topic, he practically ignored his companion, and instead gave a dark, long, longing look towards the one he was putting on a show for. Rupert bristled.

Belle saw the look too. He knew it, because her face lost all color, and despite her friend going on and on about what a dunce her sister was, she sought his face. It was contorted with worry and pain and it was all he needed to bring Belle back to him, urge her to crook her arm around his, pull her as close to him as politeness allowed and curtail the friend’s small tête-à-tête.

Chapter Text

Chapter 24

Not a Gentleman

For the next few days, the weather did hold. It was still a couple more days until Ruby’s wedding, so Belle had decided to take advantage of the time and good weather, to walk to her friend’s house, which was only three miles away. Belle was thankful for her good boots–for only six months ago, her shoes were worn and walks like this would have been difficult. It made her thankful for Rupert’s timely save, once again. That thought made her wistful, and the wistfulness permeated through her, and she seemed to only be able to think on all things melancholy. Perhaps this was made all the stronger for knowing that if she took a different path for just a couple more miles, she would find her old home, which held the hardest memories of all. A lump formed in Belle’s throat as she thought of her mother and the struggles she had faced. If she closed her eyes, she could still picture her mother’s pale face as she lay on the bed, her swollen stomach too small–the baby born hours later, smaller still. 

“Sickly and small, just like you were–but you lived! Why couldn’t he have lived instead?!” Her father’s words echoed in her mind as she stepped over a stretch of mud. She knew her father meant that he wished he had a boy–an heir. The desire for it had caused the worry lines on her mother’s face to be permanently etched there at only two and thirty. After all the years of waiting and the worry, she held hope that the child she carried would be the long awaited son. It was, but the hope and celebration died along with the child.

Baby George. He died two days after birth, Belle’s mother followed only a week later, dying from fever– and she was certain at the time, a broken heart. There had been nothing to strengthen her, to give her the will to live, Belle had thought. She caught a sob that threatened to loosen, by putting her hand over her mouth. For months after her mother’s death, her twelve year old self had felt let down by her mother’s passing. That as much as she loved and held her mother dear to her heart (and the ache that her passing had left was nearly unbearable), the thought that Belle hadn’t been enough motivation for her mother to live had been a blow and burden hard to bear. Years and maturity had reminded her of her mother’s weak constitution while being with child, and the tender moments they had shared, where Belle had never felt that her mother would have preferred her to be a man. Her Father could still sting her with his words, but she no longer painted her mother with so negative of feelings as she had when she was but a girl of twelve. 

Wiping away the rouge tears that had fallen while in such thoughts, she trampled the squelching mud with greater gusto. Ruby would be full of happiness as she got ready for her wedding in two days, Belle would not be the cold dreary rain they had, to cloud this beautiful day. 

As the Grayson’s land began to stretch before her, the cozy gate to their domain swirling in a delicate shape, she also was worried to see a man on a horse, not a hundred feet in front of her. At first she thought it was Mr. Grayson, but the large shoulders and tall hat told her that it was not, and, in fact, the person she had hoped would be out taking a morning ride. She supposed he was, but doing so much too close to the house. It was the very reason she had come so early–while it would probably get her an annoyed look from Mrs. Grayson and the other sisters, Ruby loved her too dearly to laugh at her for not coming during calling hours. 

Her heart thundered in her chest. 

I am Mrs. Gold, married to Mr. Gold, the rich and powerful Mr. Gold, and Mr. Gaston can have no cause to harass me without eliciting his ire. She told herself this over and over again as she caught the gaping smile and him immediately riding towards her. 

“Why Mrs. Gold, how good to see you.” And see her he did, with his look lingering over each part of her, as if he had all day to peruse. 

“Likewise, I’m sure.” She spoke through her teeth, curtsied and then began walking as quickly as her legs would take her towards Mr. Grayson’s home. 

“You’ve come to call upon Cousin Ruby, I gather.” Mr. Gaston attempted to converse, a mock politeness about him–she disliked it, and also disliked that she inwardly trembled at the memory of him, on that summer that she was to turn sixteen. She lifted her chin. 

“As you see. Now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Gaston.” She attempted to walk again, this time he rode right into the walking path to block her. 

“Marriage suits you.” He spoke, his eyes ever roaming, causing her heart to beat all the faster. “You look almost healthy now, which is good, really good.” His tone dripped with more meaning than he conveyed by words alone.

“Sir, you take too many liberties by making such comments, I bid you farewell and go and visit my friend.”

“Gold has no idea the gem he’s got, I measure–crippled fool. But, you would play the mercenary, and you lost a strapping man in the bargain–for I would have felt every bit of your worth. I hope your scheme’s been worth it.”

Belle felt like spitting at him, to use biting words to tell him how wrong he was. Her chin lifted further and she walked around his horse, as if she had not heard what he said. He was the fool, and his words did not deserve an answer. 

“Oh Ruby!” She was never so glad to see her friend. “How can you stand for that great brute to be in your house!”

“You must be speaking about Cousin Gaston. My father is much put out with him–has he accosted you, again?” Ruby knew very little of that summer, but she did know that he had pestered her and sworn to marry her. 

“He spoke words that no gentleman ought to say to a lady–and to a married lady at that! To presume that I would be dissatisfied with my husband and mourning Mr. Gaston’s loss.” She shook her head and relayed what had transpired. She couldn’t help the tears that stung her eyes. She hated that she did so when Ruby ought to be only happy and joyful. “I’m sorry, Ruby, I did not mean to dampen such a lovely day, not this close to your wedding.”

“Oh hush, Cousin Gaston has gone too far. Mama can be upset if she wants, but I am done with the man. He shall not be at my wedding, if I can help it.”

“Oh…” Belle stammered. Ruby’s eyes were dark fire. 

“Don’t you say another word. Come, let’s go and look at my dress. It was finished today, and you must see the trim! So much lace will surely drown me, come and see what you think.”

When it came time to leave, Belle agreed to take the Grayson’s carriage back. She hated to inconvenience them so, but she hated even more, the possibility of meeting Mr. Gaston on the way back to Oakley Park. She had a childish notion to fling herself into her husband’s arms when she returned, and sob uncontrollably in his chest, knowing that in his arms she would be safe from all harm. It was a silly notion for a great lady such as Mrs. Gold to indulge in, and when she returned to find that the men had gone fishing, she lifted her chin and paid a visit to Aunt Beatrice, instead. 

Aunt Beatrice insisted that Belle do some sewing where she could see her, so that at least one pair of hands could be busy (poor Aunt Beatrice’s hands were curled up painfully with rheumatism and could no longer hold a needle very well. It had all come upon her suddenly, she told Belle, and she hated to be idle, but there was nothing for it but to lie lazily on the bed and wait until her silly nephew figured out what to do with her). Belle was only thankful that her hands did not shake, and that Aunt Beatrice did not notice her inner turmoil. After a good hour of work, she thought they had done enough to warrant a bit more in the book they were reading through. This was Belle’s preferable pastime with Aunt Beatrice, thus far, and Aunt Beatrice for her side, seemed to enjoy the enthusiasm in which Belle read the words. 

“I think your mind must be miles away there, young woman.” She said “ young woman” like a grandmother might scold a young child she loves. Belle did not mind it, and it made her think of Mrs. Lucas and how she suddenly wished herself back at Dark Castle, where everything was comfortable and safe. 

“I am sorry, Aunt Beatrice.”

The old lady tsked, and would have made some sort of waving gesture, had her hands and arms not ached so. Belle felt for her pain, and the intensity in which it had attacked her. Rupert had assured her that it had not been so bad six months ago-and eight months ago she was hosting card parties–what a sad progression of events!

“It’s not that Gold, is it? I know he can be rather grave and biting at times, but I don’t think he means much harm by it.”

“Oh, no, it isn’t Rupert at all–he’s…” wonderful, kind, considerate…safe. These were the words that first came to her mind, but she did not know if she could extoll her husband’s virtues without turning three different shades of red before finishing. Then again, she often wished that the real Rupert, the one behind all the pain and suffering, could be seen by others more often, and what an opportunity to champion her husband’s side! “...he’s all that is good, Mrs. Hatfield–Aunt Beatrice. I’ve only had a taxing day, that's all.”

“And then you come and an old lady makes you mend for the poor basket and read long passages. Say no more–go get some rest. Your reading was putting me to sleep as it was, and I could do with a little shut eye, myself.”

Belle felt guilty for being relieved that she might go. She assured Aunt Beatrice that she was no burden, and that she enjoyed their time, but yes, she might go and lie down for an hour before dinner and see if that didn’t help her fatigue. 

So Belle did just that, but found upon lying on the bed she could not rest, her mind churned with Mr. Gaston’s words, and the memory she always tried to forget, and the worry that she would not be able to enjoy another morning’s walk without the worry of being met with Mr. Gaston, upon it. 

Rupert found her as she sighed upon the bed, with him smelling freshly washed and not at all like he had spent the day beside a lake, and handling fish. It was amazing to her how Rupert could present himself so elegantly at all times, and made her love all the more the times where she caught him in the early morning hours, looking a little more rumpled and less put together. It made her smile to think of it, Rupert caught it the smile, though his forehead creased in questioning curiosity. 

“You are well?” His tone was calm, but she could hear the underlying concern. 

“Well enough, I think.” She was unsure of how much to tell him. “It’s silly really,” She spoke her thoughts out loud, and they seemed all the sillier. “Ruby promises I’ll have no future cause for worry or concern, but I’ve made too much of something, and I can admit that I’ve longed for your return.”

She was well aware that Rupert understood very little of what she said, and only looked more concerned at her words. He limped quickly over to where she had draped herself, though by this time she had sat up and tried to put the pins that had fallen out back to where they had been before. He captured her hand and kept hold of it. 

“What has happened, Belle? Tell me.” His command was dripping with worry. After what had happened with her father she had a sudden fear that if she told him, he might do something dangerous and meet Gaston with pistols at dawn. That was a silly notion, and she brushed it off as quickly as it came. 

“It is only that I met Mr. Gaston on the way to Ruby’s.” The hand was squeezed tight as she said it, and Rupert’s body went rigid. “And he said words that made me feel angry and uncomfortable, that is all.”

Rupert took a deep breath. He thankfully did not scoff at her words. When the incident had happened, she remembered how she wondered if she had made an error when it came to wanting to keep it a secret. She remembered her faltering hand on the knob of her father’s study as she told him that supper was to be had in the next few minutes. She only faltered a few moments, for once she turned the knob and woke him from what appeared to be a drunken stupor, he flew at her for waking him, then for not telling him sooner, and was there to be beef tonight? Chicken? Oh no, chicken was not to be born, and he railed at her again. So much so, she did not falter in her resolve from that moment on.She would not find a protector in her father, and could only be thankful for the one that had intervened for her that day. Mr. Gaston had left the next day, and did not return for three years, so she had not worried about him until he had come back last December. 

“He did not hurt you, did he?” Rupert’s eyes were suddenly roaming her, as if looking for an injury. The sharp brown, though not warm or soft in this moment, was much to be preferred to the lurid way Gaston had roamed it earlier. 

“Oh no, not physically, nothing like that. He just made crass comments that weren’t befitting a gentleman.” She spoke slowly, though now that she was in the security of her husband’s embrace, she could now allow her emotions to flow freely and she felt herself quiver involuntarily. This caused his eyes to be all the sharper and he narrowed them at her, though not exactly at her, for it was as if he was looking through her, perhaps at an imaginary Mr. Gaston, perhaps his mind working too quickly for him to pay much attention to what his eyes did, but it caused a knot to form in her stomach, though she knew he was not angry at her. 

“What did he say, Belle, can you tell me?”

Belle tried to breathe through the shaking that stole over her body, not just at the words Mr. Gaston had spoken that day, but the actions and words all those years ago. 

“You are shaking, Belle. Oh dearest, tell me what has the scoundrel done that I may make sure it never happens again.” 

His tone was yet calm, his words pleasant, but there was in his countenance such determination that she was now frightened that he might truly meet Mr. Gaston at dawn to clash swords or shoot him if he could. She shook her head, trying to find the right words so that he understood her reaction, but would not be so keen to do anything rash or dangerous. 

“It is not so much his words, Rupert–if this were his only time...that is, his words were not pleasant. He only said that I looked well, but in a way that there was no difficulty to know that he was looking at me as one might a prize horse–noting that my health had improved. Then–then he said you knew not what you had gained, and I ought to feel what I had lost–in him, by my rejection.”

Rupert’s reply was a low growled out mutter that Belle did not understand. 

“But Mr. Grayson is sure to send him away, I think. Ruby says she will not have him at the wedding.” She assured him, hoping to assure herself in doing so.

Rupert, now with Belle fully in his arms and he, making comforting circles on her back or making his way through the now fully unpinned hair, stopped and pulled her chin up from his chest and caused her to look at him again. 

“Belle. As much as it pains me to hear you spoken to in such a way, I sense…I sense something else has happened, perhaps in the past? I know he was a brute to you when he proposed marriage, has it to do with that? My brave Belle who has endured all those harsh words of your father–not just words but deeds as well.” He brushed his fingers along the edge of her cheek, in the same spot of the very last bruise she ever received from her father, as if Rupert could still see it in his mind’s eye. “Something much worse than words has caused the trembling, and I–I cannot see you thus without pleading with you to share your burden with me.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head, willing the words to come as her body shook all the more. 

“It was the summer before I turned sixteen…” she began.

Chapter Text

Chapter 25

Another Wedding

“It was the summer before I turned sixteen…” Belle began, Rupert did his best to remain calm, his face one he hoped was of comfort and not the dread and expectation he felt inwardly. 

“...Mr. Gaston came to the Grayson’s for a couple of months that summer, as he had done a couple years before, but then I was but a child and he did not pay any attention to me. He was quite shocked that I wasn’t anymore, and told me so when he met me again and looked at me not as one would a child, but as a man does a woman and it made me very uncomfortable.” And with those words, her nose wrinkled and she shook her head, as if she were imagining over again her feelings of that day. He was sure she was. Oh what Rupert wanted to do to a man (he would not call him a gentleman) who would single out a young girl of fifteen, alone and unprotected in the world. Gold contained all the anger that had begun to build at the beginning of her story, hoping he could maintain his composure for the duration of it.

“He always seemed to find me–in the fields, alone in my little parlor, or when I would go and attempt to practice the piano at the Grayson’s. He never did anything untoward, and there was thankfully always a servant nearby, or Ruby who would run into their parlor to make it impossible for him to do anything that could be considered very bad, even if he had wanted to. He spoke to me only of racing, horses, hunting and fishing, and most especially the great pride he felt in his property and inheritance. He dropped insinuating phrases, bathing them in that mock politeness that feigns feelings of inadequacy, though the tone of pride is felt through and through–phrases such as ‘ It only needs a woman’s touch’–or ‘What you could do if you were mistress there!’ Those phrases  were presumptuous, and I perhaps ought to have been even more frightened than I was, but I did not consider them too closely. I only knew I disliked him, and wished him to go back to his beloved property for I was young and did not understand the world.”

Her words stilled, even while her body shook again. She was taking deep breaths, as if trying to strengthen herself for what was to come. He rubbed her hand with his thumb, he pulled even closer, anything to show that she had him for comfort, if she would but take it. She seemed to understand his movements, though she pulled herself out of the embrace slightly and lifted her chin. She was pulling on her cloak of bravery, despite the waves of fear that he could hear in her tone. 

“I like to take morning walks–as you know.” She attempted to smile, and he attempted to smile back–he wasn’t sure either was very successful. “Somehow he knew my pattern for it, and where I went.” she shuddered. “How he knew, could have been as simple as asking Anna or even Ruby, for they wouldn’t have known their Cousin’s intentions, yet when it happened, I worried it could have been a more sinister plot on his part. He has no realization of privacy and decent behavior, so I have to assume he could have followed me, to know my routine.” Her lip quivered in the telling and he squeezed her hand in comfort. “However it was…” She swallowed, making her voice steadier than it had been before. “He knew where I was headed, overtook me, dismounted his horse, and took hold of my arm–declaring that he had loved none but me the whole summer and must have me as a wife.”

“And you were but fifteen years old.” Rupert said incredulously. He had worried over the great chasm of years that lay between the two of them, yet, Belle had come to him fully a woman– at that time she had yet been a child!

“Yes…He said it in such a way that he assumed I would accept, that it was a presumed fact. I-I tried to pull away, but his grip only got stronger. I declared that I would never marry him and did not love him, but instead of showing heartbreak, like I, in my foolish, childish way believed he would do–recalling any love story I had ever read where the love is only one sided– he became angry, his eyes darkened and became determined. He neared me to kiss me, I could feel his dirty breath on my face, but David, dear, dear David, Mary’s husband, discovered the scene and punched him just in time, sending him sprawling to the ground. Mr. Gaston swore at David and then swore at me and told me that he would marry me–that it was a vow he would keep, and that I would be sorry for my refusal, and then left. I begged David not to tell anyone–I was most worried that father would see Mr. Gaston’s behavior as an opportunity to force a marriage between us, and then I would be miserable for the rest of my life. I later wondered if I should tell father, at least to tell him that Mr. Gaston made me feel uncomfortable, but he had one of his outbursts over what was being served for dinner, and it made me lose any confidence I had that he would be any sort of protector.” She had closed her eyes, as if to block out the painful memory, and now he did pull her in close and let her lay her head on his chest, allowing her to cry any tears she would, on his chest, and for his part, tried to breathe calmly, though a fury had been lit in his soul. A half groan, half growl escaped his lips involuntarily and as soon as he realized what he had done, his heart began to thump quickly and loudly, worried that he would cause Belle to want to step away from him. Instead, she seemed to snuggle closer, to pull him even closer than they were before–as if it were a greater cause for comfort. He wondered at it, but did not fight against it, but instead reciprocated the action and relished in her nearness. 

“David was good to his word, and nothing came of it.  Gaston left the next day–and he has never done quite anything like it again. Yet the memory of it, today, makes me shake, as if it happened yesterday. The what ifs that plagued me after that day haunted my sleep for over a year and then him happening upon me today–well, I am a mess of nerves, I’m afraid... I’m sorry.”

“You had every right to be frightened. You felt alone in the world.”

“Yes. I knew that David had no sway with Papa, and Mr. Grayson was family to Mr. Gaston–so I dared not tell Ruby the whole story. At the time I was embarrassed of the whole thing and even thought she might scorn my accusations as a silly tale.” She whispered.

“I can promise you this, Belle, You are not alone anymore.” He whispered a reply gently into her ear, kissing the place when he had finished.

Her crying quietened and she paused to look up at him again. She was smiling! It was weak, but there. “I know, and I am more grateful than you can ever know. With you–I feel safe.”

It warmed him to hear it and he drew her to him once more. 

The night found him holding his Belle near, and wishing he was truly worthy of her confidence in him. He’d like to swear he would always be so, that his strength would be enough to protect her always, but as an ache in his leg reminded him, he had his limitations.  There were things he could do despite the limp, that wouldn't need physical confrontation and was just as satisfactory, and he began to as soon as the sun crept through curtains. Yet, he could not feel comfortable, until he knew that the rascal had left town for good. For there was one thing of which he was sure–Belle was no longer alone anymore. 

…

It was a dreary day for a wedding. The clouds had come back with all their usual force, and had settled a cold sort of mist that dodged the most well placed umbrella and left a person soaked through in no time at all. Such weather might have made a weaker person cast down, but nothing could dash the joy and hope of Mr. Hatfield, Ruby and, Belle might add, Mrs. Grayson. For Mrs. Grayson was at the peak of her productivity and pride as a wife, hostess, and mother–to have a daughter married, and married so well! While she had asked that Belle be at the ready with smelling salts, should a sudden wave of faintness seize her, and an extra handkerchief, should she cry more than was the job for one well embroidered one, she was never in any great danger of succumbing to either. 

Ruby had sighed once or twice that Belle was not one of her attendants–that the job should go to her sisters (“And Mr. Gold to be the best man! Why shouldn’t you, my greatest friend, have to step aside because you are simply married first?”). Belle had said all that was good and right–had assured her that she was only glad to be there for her, a support when Ruby had been so great a one to her. 

“I know you are a little angry with your mother and all her little things she must have, yet, Ruby, let me assure you that the wedding itself matters very little in the great scheme of things. It is the marriage to a good man that will be the greatest part of all, whether the peonies are in their bloom or much greenery must be added.” Belle had said one day, when Ruby’s mother’s new insistence made her friend rant and growl.  Belle could not help but smile at the angry, pacing bride, showing the earnestness of her words and being amused at the scene all at once. 

“And you are right, of course, Belle–and you should know too! What a cold, dreary wedding you had, how Mr. Gold scowled at you and the rest of us. You know, I don’t think he’s scowled once since you’ve come back. Must be your influence.” Belle smiled again at her friend’s reply, and was in awe that when she considered it, the words were true. 

Inside the church, Belle sat with the family, Rupert looked smart in his new coat and vest–and she was not at all sad (only a little for Ruby’s sake, she supposed) that she was able to be one of the audience, and not having to stand and gaze back at the assembly. Rupert, she knew, did not enjoy being in front of so many people, but was good enough not to scowl. When he happened to glance at Belle (which was often) he even softened and gave a half smile, which made Belle very happy, indeed. 

Mrs. Grayson had all the pews decked with gauze, lace and flowers, until the entire place smelled like a hothouse. When it came time for the bride to be walked forward, Belle beamed at her friend decked out so prettily. 

Ruby stood tall and elegant in her long gauzy dress, sleeves puffed and sitting right at her shoulders. There was a floral pattern at the top and it made her bouquet of peonies blend to make one perfect picture. She dared glance back at Mr. Hatfield, and for once he looked as solemn as a statue. His eyes were twinkling, yet this time with unshed tears. He felt the moment keenly, Belle was sure. When Ruby came near, he smiled a shy smile, as if to give courage to them both over the great undertaking they were making, in giving love and care to each other–as long as they both should live. Belle could not feel anything but relief and joy at seeing how serious Mr. Hatfield took his vows. Ruby had done well, and she wished them all joy, and that they might be happy as she. 

Afterwards, came the wedding breakfast, and again Mrs. Grayson had done everything to demonstrate what a wonderful hostess she could be. The bread was good, the meat excellent, the table set in the most becoming way. Not only did the eyes behold it, but the partakers said it in exactly that way. The cake was filled with almonds and fruit and the icing had white peaks and floral accents that looked almost too good to eat. 

“And you shall take the top layer with you, you know, for your first christening.” Mrs. Grayson had whispered loudly to Ruby, who blushed a very pretty shade of pink, and gave a sharp look at her mother, while turning and giving another blush to her husband. Belle swallowed at the remark, pushing back feelings of guilt as she remembered that there would be no babe to welcome their first year of marriage. She reminded herself there would be no cake either, as if that made her feel any better.

The couple were off at last, and were waved to, from inside the house, as the weather threatened to give everyone a bad cold, should they dare stay out in it for longer than five minutes together. 

“And you shall go on your own wedding trip too, dear Belle, shall you not?” Mrs. Grayson said in her busybody way, knowing exactly the answer, but if it was confirmed by the most reliable witness, then she could spread the word with greater pride.

“Yes ma’am.” Belle gave a smile to her husband. “We shall just see to it that the caretaker for Mrs. Beatrice Hatfield is settled for a few days before we venture onward, but yes, we will be gone in less than a week’s time.”

“Oh yes…” Mrs. Grayson fanned herself with her handkerchief, mostly unsuccessfully. The poor thin piece of cloth had not been used for real tears, but it had made a show for ones she pretended to shed when Mrs. Baker looked over at Mrs. Grayson, to see if she was affected. It had also been used to pat her forehead when she had been too anxious over the feast. She was more settled now–everything had gone smoothly, and everyone had mentioned what a wonderful wedding and breakfast she had pulled off. It was a credit to her skills and she was ready to be happy with everyone, or at least sympathize with them. “...Poor Mrs. Beatrice. I might take her a piece of the cake, shall I?”

Belle had smiled and nodded her head. And so, dear Mrs. Grayson, sent over a slice with her compliments and a note that hoped Mrs. Beatrice might feel better upon eating it. Aunt Beatrice said there was much too much sugar in it for her but dictated a note that thanked the sender anyway.

It was strange to be mistress of another’s domain, even for just a few days. Mr. Hatfield had done most of the work, his instructions for how the house was to run in his absence, already given to his steward. Aunt Beatrice could still rule from her bedroom, but felt ill enough that she didn’t mind Belle making arrangements in terms of dinner and the new caretaker. Belle visited, and questioned the new employee until she felt certain that Miss Astrid would well look after Aunt Beatrice. It pleased Belle, furthermore, that Mr. Hatfield trusted her so much that he relied on her judgment of the woman, and she made her questions all the sharper, to make sure she had made Aunt Beatrice’s last years pleasanter for the doing so. 

Then there were the bags to be packed and the arrangements made (though the arrangements were all done by Rupert, who was always busy with pen and paper, it seemed). Before long, it was time to go into the carriage once again, and take another long trip–this time to the sea, to Brighton!

Chapter Text

Chapter 26

The Seaside

Brighton was one of those towns where Rupert was still unsure of how he felt about it. It was one of the more popular places along the coast, and it being so was the reason why he had brought Belle. She would like the assemblies, the large circular libraries, and the old Lewes castle ruins. The sea, the reason they had come, had been a favorite destination for their country, ever since the Prince Regent had made frequent visits there. For Rupert, he thought the place too noisy and overrun with tourists. He had, however, the knowledge that the clifftop held the very best views, and he was itching to see Belle’s face when she saw the sea for the first time, and knew that if he could but see her smile and bright eyes on the water’s first appearance, he would be set up to enjoy Brighton as much as anyone could. 

So, it was with much anticipation, that he woke his sleeping wife with a kiss on her cheek, her head having laid on his shoulder from the very outset of the journey, as if his shoulder was made to be a pillow–this was something he was more than happy to provide. Her steady gentle presence made all of the anxiety of traveling in a closed carriage all but disappear. 

“I thought you should like to be awake for our first view of the sea, Mrs. Gold.” He bit back his smile, waiting for the sleepiness to drain away from her face, as she began to wake and realized what he had said. 

“We are here, then?” She said in a drowsy but happy manner.

“Mmmm, yes. Driver!” And he used the tip of his cane to beat against the roof to signal it to stop. If she looked outside, she would see, so he impulsively blurted, “Close your eyes!” before she could do something reckless and spoil his fun. 

She tilted her head at him, gave a sly smile and her eyes said, “silly man!” he did not care, and grinned with no embarrassment. 

“I won’t let you fall.” He assured her as she closed her eyes.

“Of course you won’t–I trust you.” She said it so quickly, with so little thought. To be so fully trusted like that, still baffled him, and his heart swelled at her confession. 

Trying to stay true to her trust, he got out first and used his free hand to take one of hers, coaxing her feet onto the steps with enough detail to keep her step sure. Her nose wrinkled adorably as the cold wind swept over her. 

“You look like you just swallowed something sour, my dear, whatever can be the problem.” He chuckled, knowing exactly what had caused that look, but was enjoying, too much, her first literal taste of the sea air. 

“Salt and fish–what a combination!” She laughed and took a deep breath as if that would help matters. Perhaps it did, for in two such breaths she seemed to enjoy it and nearly bounced where she stood. 

“This way, if you please.” He pulled gently on her hand, though would not have her go far–his nerves would be too worried that she would somehow fall off the cliff and he would never forgive himself and probably just go ahead and take himself off of it and join her. 

“Can I open my eyes now?” One eyebrow rose in question, her whole face going with it in a smiling way, her excitement evident, despite the closed eyes. 

“Just a couple steps more…”

“ Now can I open them?” She insisted, though playfully. 

“Now.” He hoarse out, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on her face as the entirety of it was lit up like the brightest candle on the darkest day. Her eyes drank the scene, her hands took his arm in excitement, the curls that framed her face bounced in the movement. 

“It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my entire life.” She spoke in awe. 

“Yes, I agree.” He smiled, never taking his eyes off of the beauty before him. The wind was sharp enough to push some of the hairs out of her cap and he reached and grabbed it before it swayed too much in the wind, wrapping the soft hair around his fingers and tucking it back into its cap. He was helping her, he would confess if pressed, that he enjoyed feeling her soft hair between his fingers, would be the actual and complete truth. 

“You’re not even looking!” She half laughed, half snorted, pulling on his arm in the direction of the cliffs.

“I am looking well enough, m’dear–and I think what I see is more beautiful than anything I’ll see if I turn around.

She lowered her face and reddened–then shook her head. 

“Silly, silly man–I love you.” She whispered. 

He looked around for anyone who could observe them–as he had hoped, the area was nearly deserted. He could see someone in the great distance, the carriage driver was not looking, and he stole a kiss before Belle could stop him. She gasped.

“Rupert!” 

So he laughed. She caused that, she brought laughter and joy, and love back into his life when he thought he would never have it again. He brought his hand to her face. 

“Sorry my love.” Though really, he was not sorry at all. 

…

While the chalky cliffs of Brighton were a lonesome but a beautiful sight, the sea stretching out for an eternity before her, the town itself was a bustle of productivity. While the weather might be temperamental, and cold, it seemed that the whole country had come to take the waters or to enjoy the sights and sounds of the bustling place. 

Their carriage stopped in front of a row of buildings, a startling white to the gray skies, and the deep blues of the sea directly across from it. The buildings were made to look like one large mansion, but were separated into different apartments that a person could rent, and it was one of these that she and Rupert would stay for the next two and a half months. A friendly face greeted them as he welcomed them to their temporary stay. 

“David?” Belle gasped and looked between him and Rupert in confusion. 

“They came before us to prepare the place.” He used his dismissive motion yet she had the suspicion he was only trying to belittle what had been done, while at the same time, he could see a smile creeping up his face. 

“But Papa?”

“Your father has a couple of other servants that have been hired that will do well enough.”

David beamed in a knowing way, seeming to enjoy the exchange between them as much as Rupert. If David was there, then…

“And Mary?” She whispered, daring to hope…

Rupert’s smile was obvious now, though he shrugged as he spoke. “I know Ella was a fine lady’s maid, but you always compared her to Mary, so I figured–only the best for my wife!” 

He made her too happy for words, so she flung herself at him, despite what David might think. A sudden thought overtook her, that despite how happy she was, she felt a prick of guilt for it. 

“What about Ella? I would hate to be the reason she is out of employment.”

Rupert fluttered his hands again. “No need to worry, m’dear.” He spoke calmly, but his face was still getting over the public display she had just given–she was sure her cheeks were pink, though she couldn’t feel sorry for the action, it was the most natural thing for her to have done. 

“It seems that a Mrs. Ruby Hatfield was in need of a new lady’s maid, as she had shared hers among all the sisters, so I suggested Ella, and Ruby seemed very pleased that you would have Mary back.”

Belle was nearly bouncing with joy. “Thank you, Rupert, oh, thank you! You have no idea how happy this has made me. And David, I am very glad to see you too.” She turned to look at Rupert pleadingly–he chuckled. 

“Go off with you then, I’m sure you’ll want to rest and change before dinner.” He leaned closer to her, and his breath moved her hair. “Happy belated wedding, Dearest Belle. I vow to make it my mission to make you happy for the rest of my life.”

She nearly squealed, then remembered that David was, well, not quite looking on, but he was still in the room, so she thought better of it. She whispered another “Thank you.” and only wished there was something she could do for him to repay him. There was nothing for it, though, but to dash upstairs to where she had been told her room was and nearly cry with joy at the sight of her maid, once again placed by her side. 

“Oh Mary! How glad I am to see you!”

“And I you, Mrs. Gold.” Mary’s smile was genuine, but there was a bit of nerves about her that made Belle shake her head violently. 

“None of that, you know. I was Miss Belle before, I don’t see why it must be any different…” and before Mary could argue she continued, worried but on one point. “And you don’t mind, do you? Moving eventually to Dark Castle, leaving my father’s house and the town behind? I would not want you to be unhappy for my sake.”

It was Mary’s turn  to shake her head. 

“Of course not ma’am–we were overwhelmed by Mr. Gold’s generosity and surprised by his suggestion, but we were only too happy to oblige. I’ve missed you, Mrs. Gold–Mrs. Belle, I mean, and David and I count ourselves lucky to work for you both.” Her words were warm, and Belle hugged her maid–this time there were happy tears on each side, not the nervous, uncertain ones like those that were shed on her wedding day. 

“I think…I think Mr. Gold must love you very much, ma’am.” Mary gave a shy smile as she helped Belle out of her travel things. 

Belle bit her lip and beamed. “I do believe you are right, Mary.”

…

“It lasted a week…” Rupert groaned a sigh behind the paper he was reading. 

“What lasted a week?” Belle took her tea, relishing in the warmth coming from the small cup. This was unlike any summer she could ever remember, where she was glad for a warm fire after only a half hour’s walk along the beach near the cliffs. It had not rained that day, so they had taken advantage of the fact, despite being soaked from the spray that the sea sent them, and the blustery winds they fought. Now they were changed, and growing warmer, and indulging in cakes and tea. 

“Our tranquility.” Rupert answered, passing her the paper and pointing to a particular paragraph. 

“The Mr. and Mrs. Gold of Dark Castle in –shire, near Storybrooke, has made a visit to Brighton for the summer season and is staying in the –buildings on –street.” She read aloud. 

“What does this mean? Surely we will not be disturbed by people we do not know.” 

“It is true that my acquaintance here should be little to none–but even if someone who is also traveling for the summer sees this and has even the smallest acquaintance, I’m afraid we might get overwhelmed with cards from people who will claim even the smallest acquaintance, just to have a look at the new Mrs. Gold…

At least it’s not London…” He added and sighed once more. 

“I imagine you have a large acquaintance in London.”

His eyes darted to hers, a flash of pain and guilt lit there for a moment, and he seemed to study how to answer. 

“Yes, before…Milah had a large throng around her at all times and attended every event she could. Afterwards–after Belford died I went back and I’m afraid my connections weren’t the best sort. I–”

He paused, as if not sure how to go on. She grew concerned, his look reminded her of the early days of their marriage, where he lived so far in the past she wondered if he would ever make it to the other side. He was remembering something, something painful, and it pained her to see it. 

“You do not need to tell me, Rupert. I am content with the fact that we will have few people to bother us here in Brighton. I am quite alright with not going to London.”

He shook his head, the paper having lowered to his lap, wrinkling, though he seemed not to care. 

“But you should. You should be able to go for a season, indulge in what the city has to offer, buy gowns of silk and be shown off at balls and parties. You ought to be the gem of the ton , baffling them that someone as beautiful as you would marry the ugly, rich son of a steward.”

“Rupert” She began to scold him, but he stopped her with his words. 

“No, Instead, if I took you there, you would be laughed at, and everyone would wonder what sort of hold I must have over you–what deal I must have struck. What gamble I must have wagered–and won to have gained your hand. The sad thing is, it’s not far from the truth. It is the truth, just not something that happened in the gambling dens I used to frequent.”

Belle’s mind reeled with all he said, yet the way he spoke about himself and what had been the reason for their marriage made her set her cup down and walk over to her husband, forcing him to look at her–not over her, not at some image of the past that made him hate himself with a strong and bitter hatred, but at her, the woman he loved–and that loved him. 

“That is not how I remember things.” She whispered, but forcefully, making him focus on her words. 

“What?”

“What happened–How we came to be married. You gave me a choice, remember?” 

Rupert snorted. “Some choice. I remember only too clearly. I insinuated that you would be a simpleton not to agree, that your father would put you in the same position again soon enough, and I made you feel that the only option was to marry me. Oh yes, I remember distinctly.”

“Despite how few options either you or I felt were available, you gave me a choice and in the end, I chose you…I still choose you. If I had it all to do over again, I would want you. Please, I cannot bear the way you speak of yourself. If anything, it should be wondered that an impoverished woman should have caught the eye of so rich a man, hmmm? For I admit I wondered for a very long time why you should have ever chosen me.”

“Oh Belle.” There were so many words and emotions tied up in that one phrase, and she kissed him softly in reply. 

She brought her chair and her tea closer to him, a little further from the fire, but she found she was sufficiently warm, and felt that he needed the reassurance of her presence. 

“Regardless, I made a reputation for myself.” He continued after a few minutes as if they had not stopped speaking about his time in London. “When Belford died, I lost myself in drink and cards.”

Thinking of her husband in the same vices as her father, pained her chest a little, and she could hardly imagine the serious, careful, sober man before her as indulging in such things. 

“I rarely lost, and since the upper crust would glare at me for taking their precious trinkets and things away, I decided the less…glamorous places would not be so picky who won their loot. It was not the best of places, Belle, yet there was more than one rich fellow or gentleman even , who frequented the place. One of the reasons the place was so popular was because there was a woman who was allowed to flaunt herself among the men.” He swallowed, and Belle waited in trepidation of his next words. 

“Her name was Coraline and at the time, despite all the other patrons, she chose me as the person to gain her attentions. I was flattered, for she was beautiful, and I…I, oh Belle, I was a horrible person.”

“You said, yourself that you were deep in grief. Sometimes a person doesn’t think clearly at such times.” She rationed. 

His eyes turned to her, cold, dark. “It is no excuse!” He barked. “I had never had the love of Milah, never had her wanted attentions, like…like that. I did not know what romantic love was, and thought that the passion I felt for Coraline was real. Despite her own reputation, I thought I would marry her.” There was a pause, he chuckled darkly. “Turns out there were other men willing to stoop to her level too.  They were handsomer and richer, therefore, she left me to my bitterness. I did things, Belle, and I’m not proud of them…but perhaps…Your worth shines all the brighter for being such a stark contrast to me–to them. Pure light to rotten darkness.”

Belle shook her head. “I am no paradigm of virtue. I have made my own mistakes. And you are no pool of darkness, Rupert. You were bitter, and yes, you made mistakes, but you are not the same man you were then. You’re my Rupert, my dearest Rupert.”

“And I have not scared you away with my confession? I confess it was bad of me to do so on our wedding trip–and not to have confessed sooner, so you would know the kind of man you married.”

Belle chuckled. “You did not scare me away in our first months of marriage, dearest, I doubt there is much you can confess that would scare me away now. You are truly stuck with me, sir.”

Rupert laughed, but there was the gleam of tears in his eyes. He leaned over and kissed her. “And I’ll ever live to attempt to deserve you, m’dear.”

…

The circular library was located in an entire three story building, with the first floor being full of dark desks and rows of books, the second floor given to reading, chatting, and refreshments. Belle wondered how a person was supposed to read when there was so much chatter going on. It was not a reading place, it was a socializing place. However, if there was talk of books, Belle felt she might approve. She had gone alone to the second floor–an old acquaintance of Mr. Giles, and therefore knew Rupert since he was a lad, had come to take the waters and was presently below stairs talking to him. Belle had smiled, left them to their talks of war and politics and had made her way up to the second floor. Finding a lounge chair, she rested upon it and tried to begin reading when she noticed a pair of bright blue eyes watching her from the other side of the room. It was a curious glance, almost a laughing one and the man’s uniform spoke of his rank and exploits. Despite the uniform, he was very little weather worn, and looked younger than Rupert. 

The man only looked at her for a second, left, then came back up with the person that had helped her with her book earlier. 

“Mrs. Gold, Captain Jones would like to make your acquaintance–shall I introduce you?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 27

Seaside Pursuits

“Mrs. Gold, Captain Jones would like to make your acquaintance–shall I introduce you?” 

Belle sighed in resignation. It was the fourth or fifth time already that she had been approached in such a way. They were mostly busybodies and those interested most in wanting to boost themselves in the social sphere, or to perhaps gain some sort of connection into the inner circles. Most just wanted, as Rupert had said, a peak at the new Mrs. Gold, and she wouldn’t begrudge them their curiosity. So, she smiled at the man in front of her and greeted him as she had all the others. 

“That will be fine, Mr. Greshim, isn't it?”

The older man smiled and gave a small, polite bow at her remembrance of his name. 

“Captain Killian Jones may I introduce to you Mrs. Gold, Mrs. Gold, this is Captain Jones.” They bowed and curtsied, and Mr. Greshim bowed and left them. 

“I must apologize for being so bold, Mrs. Gold.” He tilted his head and his eyes twinkled. In fact, his whole face seemed to smile and twinkle in one smooth motion. “But I knew the former Mrs. Gold and couldn’t help but have some curiosity for the present one.” His smile filled his whole face, yet she felt he was measuring her in his glance, comparing her to her predecessor. Six months ago, the thought would have left her feeling worried, worried that the impoverished gentleman’s daughter would shine through any nice frock she wore. Now, she knew that for all the pomp and frivolity that the former Mrs. Gold engaged in, and no matter that she had been beautiful, she had also been selfish and cruel, even, when it came to the neglect of her husband and son. Belle wondered at a man who claimed to be the acquaintance of the wife but made no mention of the husband, wondered if he was another such shallow creature, and gave him a tight smile in reply. 

“And now you have met her. My husband is downstairs, if you would like to remake his acquaintance as well.”

He gave his tousled head a little shake, his hat tucked safely under his arm. He was a handsome man, and she imagined that he was very well aware of the fact. “Your husband and I aren’t on the friendliest terms, I would imagine, but there’s no reason you and I cannot be friends, don’t you think?”

Belle’s friendly smile faded. “I do not like to offend anyone, but I do not think it wise to encourage a friendship of which my husband would not approve.”

Still speaking in an easy going manner, his smile formed two handsome dimples on his cheek. Belle was not impressed. “And he would force you to only form friendships with whom he deems worthy? Mind you, I believe it, I never met a more scowling fellow in my life.”

Belle felt indignant. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I feel that neither of those things are your concern.” She stood up to go downstairs to where Rupert was–she was done the man. 

Captain Jones gave a concerned bow. “Please forgive my impertinence and bluntness, just now.” His face contorted in what looked like genuine remorse. “...especially as we’ve only just been acquainted. Please forgive me madam for behaving so rudely.”

Despite Belle’s distaste for how he had spoken of Rupert, she was well aware that Rupert could be rather gruff with others and would have been moreso, had they met when the former Mrs. Gold was behaving so horribly. It could have been that Milah had flirted with the captain–Belle could well believe it, for though Belle could see some overblown confidence, he was both handsome and charming, and the late Mrs. Gold could have very well been indecent enough to inflict the wrath of Mr. Gold on both herself and the man with whom she flirted. If this was the case, then she could not but help but forgive him, though in the same breath, she wished to be away from him. 

“Of course, now if you’ll excuse me.” and she was only too happy to find Rupert ready to travel back to their lodgings. 

Once back, she was unsure if she should mention Captain Jones to Rupert. If she was right, if the man had flirted and had been flirting with the late Mrs. Gold, then she would only be dredging up bad memories, hurtful memories, and Belle hated to do so. The Captain had not said anything untoward, only rude, and he had apologized for his ill-spoken words. Brighton was a large place, and there was every possibility that she would never have to see the man again anyway–she hoped not, for Rupert’s sake, that he would not be forced to meet with bad memories. 

Disliking to withhold anything from her husband, it took Belle an entire nights worth of little sleep, to decide that she would rather save Rupert from the pain of hurtful memories, than to sate her curiosity as far as the degree of acquaintance between him and Captain Jones, and just why he had not wanted to meet Rupert again.

…

The rain had squashed much of their sight seeing plans, but the social scene was just as active as it always had been. He could sense Belle’s disappointment in not being able to enjoy more time on the shore–when there had been a day of a bit of sun, she had spent the entire morning collecting shells, washing them, sorting them into shapes and patterns, wondering what sorts of projects could be made out of them. Rupert had gotten her a box to sort them, so that way they would keep that way until they got home, and she had chatted with him as he limped along beside her in the sand, or as she sat at the table to organize them. It had made her so happy to spend a day in such a manner. He thought back to Milah and how little the outdoors interested her, in contrast, Belle had sighed when the rain came back, cold and bleak, to curtail any shell collecting plans she had. The way that sigh broke his heart had him scrambling to find something to put a smile back on his wife’s face. The theater was not sand and sea, but it was something that Belle had yet to experience, so he immediately set about arranging things. 

Now they sat in the boxed seat he had procured. Belle had looked around at the others who sat in such seats–the silk and feathers and pearls and diamonds were all alike in their gaudy pageantry. He saw Belle in contrast, tasteful and elegant in her new light blue gown. The sheer, lace like fabric that was laid over the silk, made the gown look like it sparkled, even in the low candlelight. The fabric folded and pleated in such a way as to present as several different colors, depending on the angle you looked. A single strand of pearls embraced her neck, her hair was done up simply, no extra adornments, yet elegantly–she was stunning. Out of all the over adorned peacocks, she stood out as a dainty swan. 

Belle caught his stare and leaned over towards him. “You are staring sir, and though you are not scowling, I must worry that you might be comparing me to the other attendees of tonight’s event. I am sorry to have so missed the mark–I look rather like a pebble in a chest full of gems, tonight.” She had begun teasingly, but her eyes traveled to the others, some of those others were looking over from their boxes at them, some from below, doing the same. He could see some of her insecurities hidden beneath her teasing, and while Belle was not one to be vain, he knew that, like him, she felt a little underqualified for the position in society they held. 

He smiled. “I was comparing you, m’dear, and congratulating myself on having beside me the one handsome woman in the entire room.” 

Belle’s smile grew, insecurities left in the dust. “You are unfair!” She whispered loudly, though not loud enough for any of their neighbors to hear. 

“No, I am being truthful, simply truthful. You are beautiful, Belle. And that dress brings out the blue in your eyes.”

Belle’s smile became deep and warm. “Since you are being so kind to me, I’ll allow your earlier remarks, but I will not allow that there are no handsome women here tonight. They are all so beautiful. And so many colors of silk! I’m afraid my eyes have been opened to all the latest styles. Shall I emulate them, Mr. Gold?”

Rupert groaned. “If you have any compassion on me, you’ll do no such thing.”

Belle laughed, though not loud or annoyingly. No, she was altogether too perfect for this world and he was only too aware of the discrepancy in them as a couple. How could such a woman bear to be with a growling, limping fool such as he? He did not know, but he had, at least, gone beyond the time of questioning it for too long and simply boasted in his good fortune. 

The play began. Rupert believed it was Hamlet, but he was distracted by Belle’s beauty, and too busy scowling at those who would look their way and whisper behind their hands. Belle was fully focused on the play, gasping and sighing at all the right parts, unaware that she was the main attraction of the evening. 

Her enjoyment of the play made him happy he had spent so much money on the box he had rented for the season. The theater there in Brighton, had the boxed seats that hovered above the red velvet lower seats. This made the middle boxes the very best for viewing the stage, therefore one of the said boxes in the middle being the one he procured. After taking time to scowl at another obvious gawker, he sighed, however, that the event had gone so well, and tried to go back to enjoying the well acted play–or rather, Belle enjoying the play, he only knew it was well done because she mentioned it at some point when they went back to their lodgings. 

“Mr. Gold?” They were making their way through the crowded lower area, trying to make it back to their carriage, when Rupert recognized a man who had gambled with him many times in London. He was an alright fellow, he supposed, though just looking at the man caused Rupert to feel a sting of embarrassment over how they were connected. He had stayed in the more well-lit, more reputable gambling rooms, and Rupert felt another sting of humiliation  to know that it was he who had the worse reputation of the two of them. Would it taint Belle, somehow, in these people’s estimations? Would someone like Mr. Clarke let people know that the curiosity now residing in Brighton was the wife of a man who had lowered himself among the sludges of London? 

“Mr. Clarke.” Rupert said stiffly, though reminded himself to give a tight, polite smile, as he remembered that it was what Belle would have him do. 

“How good to see you! Have you been in Brighton long?”

“Not long, only a fortnight.” The stiff, formal phrasing fell from his lips like the well rehearsed play they had just attended. How he despised tedious chatter!

“This weather is not very conducive for sea bathing, is it? Perhaps you’ll allow me to call on you at some point this week. My wife…” He turned to place formal eyes on one of the over adorned peacocks Rupert had noticed earlier on his arm. “Has expressed interest in meeting your wife.”

Ah, she wanted to gawk, well…

He sighed, knowing what they wanted him to do. 

He gave a stiff bow to Mrs. Clarke, and then turned to his own wife, and to his horror, saw the wide blue eyes of none other than Captain Jones–a person he hoped to never see again for the rest of his life. Rupert’s heart beat furiously. What was he doing here? How had he not noticed him as he spoke to Mr. Clarke? Jones took his hat, quickly placed it on one side of his face, obscuring him from Rupert’s view, and then gave a bow to Belle–lifting his hat just in time for the blasted man to give Belle a knowing smile and a wink! As if he knew who she was–that was impossible. The knave! 

Belle’s face had turned, and while there was a curious look of surprise and annoyance on her face, she quickly readied herself for introductions and smiled at Mr. And Mrs. Clarke.

“Mr. and Mrs. Clarke, may I introduce my wife, Mrs. Isabelle Gold. Belle, Mr. Clark and I were briefly acquainted in London–In the year ‘13.” 

Belle curtsied and said all that was polite–too polite really. She looked at him to see what to do with their desire to call, but he knew he was not being very helpful by staying neutral. He was hoping that she would give a polite excuse if she really did not want them to come–he did not want to sway her one way or another. Finally she smiled and said that it would be a pleasure to receive them on a certain day, a couple days hence, at 3 in the afternoon, and it was settled. Unfortunately. 

He only sighed over it a second before scanning the room and seeing if he could see the captain, but the man was long gone. Once they were back inside their carriage, he took Belle’s hands and his curiosity towards what had happened between her and Jones, yet paused before opening his mouth. What good would it do to call attention to Jones? Should he even bring it up? There was a good chance she didn’t know who he was, except a pompous attendee at the theater who wanted to gawk at the new Mrs. Gold. 

“What is it, Rupert?” Belle looked at him, concerned. 

“That man, the man who wore the captain’s uniform.” He began, trying to figure out how he would explain why he was even bringing him up. 

“Captain Jones.” Belle whispered and then swallowed. 

Rupert froze, his eyes immediately falling on Belle, searching in the moonlit carriage for her expression, but it was too dark to see properly. 

“You know him?” And he knew he barked the question but this was all too much of a nightmare for him to do otherwise.

Chapter Text

Chapter 28

Gold and Jones

“You know him?” Rupert had barked. Belle felt like she had swallowed a stone and could hardly reply. 

“Not very well.” She had managed, but it sounded like a strained whisper, the tension in the carriage was palpable. 

“Well enough to know his name, and for you to allow him to wink at you, I gathered.” The words had a bitter edge that not only left Belle with a horrible aftertaste, but also a feeling of a knife being shoved in her chest at his tone of betrayal. What had this Jones done? And with a sinking feeling she wondered, Why did I not tell him before? She lowered her head, shame washing over her. Not only could she never repay Rupert for all the things he had done for her, and not only was she deficient in performing her one main duty to him as a wife, but she had betrayed his trust by keeping from him, her meeting with this Captain Jones. Oh how she wished she could go back and undo her blunder!

She wrung her hands. “I am sorry.” She whispered and he scoffed. She continued. “I am so sorry for not saying anything before, but it is not how you suppose.”

The air remained tense, she wondered that he made no mention of her thundering heart, so loud in her ears that she could hardly hear the clapping of the horses hooves or the wheels against the cobblestone. 

“How do I suppose it to be, then?” His voice reminded her of when they were first married and she shuddered as he bit out the words. 

“Rupert!” She gave a small cry, her heart broke to hear him speak that way, to know that he imagined that she was familiar with the captain, in a way she was now supposing his former wife had been. 

Rupert gave a shuddered sigh, the fight seeming to go out of him, though she could not see his face very well in the carriage. 

“We will talk about this later, Mrs. Gold.” A bit of warmth came back into his tone, but it was still somewhat stiff and formal. 

“No, Rupert, we will talk about this now.” She trembled in the seat, but she was determined to rectify her mistake. She cleared her throat, and told about the meeting in the circular library, every word the Captain had spoken, and every thought she had when they had interacted, and her reasoning for not disclosing the meeting to him. By the time she finished, they had arrived at their lodgings and the lantern light outside the buildings cast a bit of light on Rupert’s face. He was listening–he was no longer scowling, he was not interrupting, declaring that he did not believe her. This, at least, was encouraging. 

She was nearly at the end when she was interrupted by the carriage stopping and they walked silently into the townhouse, letting the servant help them out of their outer wear. 

Waves of guilt, hurt, and worry over how Rupert went from sounding as he did those first weeks of meeting each other (and the hurt that had fueled it) to a sort of defeated sigh, washed over her. He remained silent, and wouldn’t look in her eyes. She wanted to force him to do so, to tell her what he was thinking, yet something held her back. Perhaps her courage had all been used up by her insistence to disclose her side, perhaps she was merely tired from the play and all that had transpired–whatever it was, she found herself both anxiously waiting and dreading a knock at her door. Finally, it did come. 

Concern lines were etched across his face and she released a breath she was not aware she had been holding. She stood up quickly, reaching for his free hand, raising it and kissing it tenderly, and then meeting his eyes, hoping her eyes showed what she was thinking and pleading for. 

“Do you forgive me, Rupert? I truly did not know how deep I would hurt you by concealing such a thing.”

Rupert shook his head, but his face held no anger, but pain and even some guilt. 

“No, it is I, once again thinking ill of you so quickly–how dare I do so to my dearest friend and love.” He reached and placed a soft kiss on her cheek, her forehead, and finally her lips. He leaned down a little and whispered in her ear, 

“Do you forgive me, Dearest Belle, for jumping so quickly to unjust conclusions?”

“It’s all forgotten.” Belle assured him, and Rupert sighed again. 

“You do not have to tell me, but I am here to listen if you would like to tell me what happened between you and Jones to cause such a reaction.”

And so he did. Belle’s heart broke once more at the recitation of all the pain Rupert had experienced. By the end, she had done as much as she could to comfort him, the sadness at him losing Belford because of the ensuing carriage ride back to Dark Castle she could see weighing heaviest on his mind. 

…

Belle had taken her shoes off to feel the sand between her toes. She knew it was not very lady-like, that there could be some blabbering gossip who would show up, take note, and publish throughout the town that Mrs. Gold exposed her feet to the world! However, Rupert did not mind her childish desire to soak in the slightly warmer day, to collect more shells and feel the sand between her fingers and toes. His leg hurt him more that day, and he had stayed on the shore nearer where they were lodging, letting her explore further on. 

She saw a white and gray swirling pattern on a particular shell, peeking out between the grains of sand. She bent down to pick it up and as her eyes went beyond it, and further down the shore, she saw with dread, the same captain that had caused so much trouble in Rupert’s life. He was leaning over, talking to a tallish sort of woman, though shorter than him by a good few inches. They both turned and looked straight at her. 

It was Millet.

Curiosity and dread fought for prominence and Belle had a sudden urge to take off in an even more unlady-like run towards Rupert. She glanced his way, kicking herself that she had let him become no more than a speck in the distance. Why had she gone so far? She knew why…she was loaded down with so many shells that she had excitedly examined and imagined all the time she would spend in Dark Castle, making things out of them. Now she only wished she had gone back when Rupert had made mention of his leg–how selfish she’d been in letting him convince her to continue on while he waited! Looking back at the other two figures, she saw they were coming towards her–there was nothing she could do now, but face them. 

“Look at you, behaving like a common servant.” Millet hissed as she glanced down at Belle’s feet, gaining steps ahead of Captain Jones. 

“What do you do, here?” Belle tried to put on an air of cold politeness, despite the lack of footwear and her reticule full of clanking shells.

“Believe it or not, we lower classes are allowed the sights and sounds of Brighton as well as anyone.” She spat, her face contorting with keen hatred. It was so different from the feigned politeness she had shown when she had been Belle’s lady’s maid. 

“That is not what I meant, as I suspect you very well know.” Belle tried to sound calm, but her heart beat hard and fast. 

“Now, now Millet, do not frighten poor Mrs. Gold so.” The voice of the Captain broke in, just as casual and charming as he had before, though this time Belle knew what a deceitful facade this was. 

“I restate my question, what are you two doing here–together?” She thought her heart would beat out of her chest, it was making such a noise in her ears. 

“Thank you, Millet, once again, for alerting me to this beautiful lady’s presence. You may go and join your mistress.” Jones had completely ignored Belle, Millet humphed and Belle was now faced Jones alone. Not completely, of course. It being a calm day after all the cold and rain, the beach had a good amount of people milling about. To Belle, though, she could see nothing but the closeness of one man, and the sheer distance of the one to whom she wished to flee. 

“If you will excuse me, Captain Jones, I must join my husband…”

“Wait!” Jones flung out a hand and captured her arm. 

“Unhand me, sir!”

“My apologies, Madam, but I implore you to listen.” He let her arm go, just as fast, and just as he had before, his tone was polite, apologetic, but she could see the hint of a smile that seemed, at least to her in that moment, to be menacing. 

“You have nothing that I wish to hear.” She insisted. Jones did not grab her again, but his face contorted into something she could not read. 

“Do you not wonder how I am here, and more importantly, why I am here?”

He made it seem like there was some sort of plan and purpose–That he had not stumbled upon her that day in the library. The thought sent a chill, and while she certainly wished to know, just so she could warn Rupert, she did not want to stay there another moment. She backed up another step. 

“When Millet wrote me and told me that not only had the wretched cripple married again, but that he had taken the new Mrs. Gold’s side and flung poor Millet out without a means to support herself. I, of course, set out to find a situation for the one who had been such a friend to my Milah. To think, one so faithful to Milah would be done so wrongly–and that he had taken your side when he had scorned and neglected Milah for so long…sending her to her death…”

Belle, who had been taking steps to get away from him, all while he had continued, taking a couple towards her, felt horrified and intervened, despite her better judgment. 

“Rupert did no such thing.”

Jones scoffed. “All she wanted was a little fun, away from the stodgy man she had to call husband, and he insisted that she leave London that very night. He cared more for his precious reputation than anything else, including her. And that led…to the death of his wife–my Milah, more mine that she ever was his.” Jones spoke as a man gone mad with grief. There was despondency in his voice and it caused Belle to pause. 

“No true gentleman takes another man’s wife, Captain Jones. She was never yours to have to begin with. I am sorry Milah died, but it was an accident. Now, if you will excuse me.” Belle started to leave again, but Jones walked ahead of her. 

“When Millet wrote to me that her new mistress had gushed about the new Mrs. Gold being in Brighton for the season, I knew then that I must do something to the man who had taken everything away from me.”

If Belle’s heart pumped fast before, it seemed to dash ahead of itself at his words. Her heart thumped painfully, her head swam with the threat to Rupert, and her feet felt frozen in the sand. 

“What do you mean to do to him?” If only she was further! She had not made it far enough to see more than the shape of him and his cane. Would he recognize her from this distance, and the captain too? If only she could shout and warn him to be on his guard! What could the man do, here in public? She tried to use this line of reasoning to calm herself, but it did no good. 

“Nothing hurts him so much as jabs at his precious reputation. A son of a steward must always feel the need to prove himself, I imagine. It would be such a shame if there should be another hit to it…” He suddenly grabbed her arm once more, this time with a stronger grip, and before she could register what was happening leaned over and to kiss her!

“Get away from her! How dare you touch her!” Rupert’s voice boomed out from behind her, before she felt the pressure of the unwanted kiss. Jones loosened his hold, and she wiggled out with a yelp of terror at what had almost happened.

“You deserve no less, and infinitely more for your hand in Milah’s death.” Jones eyed the grip on Rupert’s cane, and the sharp and unadulterated anger in Rupert’s eyes. Belle worried for Rupert and what he would do, even while rejoicing that he had seen her and come. 

Crack 

Belle winced as she saw the cane suddenly come down upon the captain’s shoulders. Now she did hear a gasp from a passerby but was too worried for Jones’ retaliation to look and see who had done so. 

Jones rubbed his shoulder but instead of throwing a punch, backed away one step, Rupert took that step forward, never swaying from his stare at the man. 

“Get out. Get out and never come back. Unless, of course, you would like to make this an affair of honor.”

Jones swallowed, but did not flinch. “I have no need, for I’ve done what I came to do. The damage is done and you’ve only made it worse. Enjoy taking to the assemblies and plays, a woman who allows men to kiss her in public. How pathetic her husband must be.” Jones spat the words, but felt that he needed to leave immediately. Rupert groaned. 

“I’ve never felt my injury so acutely–I should seek out and duel him and kill him for what he’s said and done.” Then turning to Belle wrinkled his forehead in concern and took her by the arms. She did tremble a little, but his arms felt safe, and she was only too glad to see the other side of Jones. 

“Are you alright, Belle?” 

She could only nod, the memory of the man’s  almost kiss replaying in her mind, wishing she could forget the horror of that moment. 

Rupert led Belle back, and it was only as they came close to their lodgings that she remembered his leg and thought of how horribly it must be hurting him. 

…

Rupert wished the pain in his leg would drown out the pain in other places. Must his past haunt him no matter where he went? He felt selfish when it was into Belle’s arms, he found comfort in the night when nightmares of Milah’s and Belford’s deaths plagued him. He hated that Belle’s first worry was Rupert's reputation and her concern for him when she returned. She did not show it, but he could see how much the interaction had affected her. She told him she was fine at least a half dozen times, but he could only try to believe her and worry all the same. 

It was a horrible two days of nervous anxiety,  and he thought it would be made worse when the Clarke’s came to call. 

He could see Belle stumble over the serving of their tea, her eyes darting at Rupert and dread settling in her eyes, as if awaiting the moment when Mrs. Clarke would declare her an adulteress and run out of the room. The fact that they had visited either spoke to the hope that perhaps nothing would come of the whole thing, or that they had come out of curiosity. He hoped for the former with all his might. 

“Oh! I am so glad we are finally able to meet again!” Mrs. Clarke said in a whiny tone that would grate on his nerves if he had to listen to her for more than two seconds together. “What a shock you have had, Mrs. Gold and how gallant your husband must be in your eyes when he saved you from that ruffian!”

Belle’s eyes widened and she met his own in question, before looking back at Mrs. Clarke. 

“I am sorry, to what do you refer?” Belle spoke softly, Rupert ever thankful that her voice did not sound like two metal carriage wheels scraping together like Mrs. Clarke’s. 

“Why, when Mr. Gold beat the man trying to accost you, to be sure! The whole of Brighton is abuzz with Mr. Gold’s exploits. You are the hero of the hour, sir.” Mrs. Clarke smiled and fluttered her eyelashes–Rupert tried very hard not to roll his eyes. Belle, on the other hand, seemed to eagerly latch on to these words. 

“Oh yes, I am so thankful I was saved from–from that horrid man.” 

“And to think that Captain Jones was thought handsome! (not that I ever did, mind, only Mr. Clarke can be considered so in my eyes, I only tell you what I know from others) I can assure you that no one who is anyone will have anything to do with him from now on–I tell you, if I should see him, I would be afraid of my life!”

Belle looked at him with bright, smiling eyes, and Rupert couldn’t help but chuckle inwardly at how Jones' plans backfired. The hero of the hour! What a thought!

Chapter Text

Chapter 29

A Wish Exposed

Four months later…

Hopper’s graying red hair blew furiously in the cold wind, fighting to come out of his less-than-secure short, black hat. Rupert’s own floppy brown hat threatened to blow away, and the nip in the air had him thankful they had bagged all the birds they would for the day and Dark Castle could already be seen rising up in the distance–he could already feel the warm fire waiting for them. More importantly, his wife’s waiting smile.

“Mrs. Hopper tells me of your efforts to help your tenants get ready for the winter, due to the bad harvest. Such Christian efforts are to be commended, if only the other large estates would be so generous.”

Rupert rode in silence for a good few moments. “Belle–Mrs. Gold’s idea, of course.” Of course it was. In fact, she had put her whole heart and soul into the project after the Hoppers had come over for dinner and he and Mr. Hopper had discussed the lack of harvest the bad weather had brought. She sewed furiously, helped make baskets with food, and orchestrated firewood to be distributed, walked in six-inch deep mud across fields and hills in her pursuit and she had plans on how to continue it through the even colder months. In fact, Mrs. Hopper and her children had joined Belle while the men hunted. 

“Exemplary woman, I dare say. My Mrs. Hopper feels a sort of motherly draw to your wife, I think. I hope you don’t mind. She told me she feels Mrs. Gold needs it. I beg your pardon, Mr. Gold, I hope it does not offend…”

Rupert waved off the soft spoken man, almost amused at his worry. He wasn’t one to speak of such things–to Jeffrey he gave very little of his thoughts and feelings, only when they were face to face had he given some description of the deep seated insecurities that Belle’s father had brought upon her. To express his worries and hopes and concerns would have been a little sentimental–and no matter how much he liked Jeffrey, he disliked being sentimental, even more. 

Yet, as he glanced at the worried expression on Hopper’s face when he had disclosed Mrs. Hopper’s sentiments, he couldn’t help but reply, “I think your wife and her general mothering of your flock, and to my wife more specifically, is much appreciated by Mrs. Gold. I will not be offended by such efforts.”

Hopper smiled. Rupert missed the openness of Jeffrey when he was back at Dark Castle, and perhaps it was that fact that caused him to realize that he was glad that Belle had wanted a closer acquaintance with the Hoppers. Hopper was intelligent and did not seem to judge him based on the general knowledge of his past reputation, nor on how little the former Mrs. Gold did anything remotely close to what a good Christian person ought. Mr. Hopper was quiet and did not see the need to punctuate the companionable silence with noisy chatter…Well, normally he did not.

“With that in mind.” Hopper seemed to swallow, though Rupert could not see him fully, as he rode beside him. “Perhaps you will allow me to bring something to your attention that is very personal in nature, but my wife is a little worried about it, and asked if I might somehow help...”

Rupert stiffened. 

“I beg your pardon, again, Mr. Gold. I know it is none of my concern, but your wife seems so sweet, and you seem so worried for her happiness, that I…”

Rupert did not wave his hand about this time, but still made a gesture, urging Hopper to get on with what he wanted to say. Hopper seemed hesitant to speak. Apparently words were necessary.

“You may go on, Mr. Hopper. I can’t say I am particularly thrilled with the prospect of what I am about to hear, but as you’ve already begun, I can see no reason for you to stop now.”

Hopper looked uncomfortable. For someone whose job it was to give spiritual advice, he seemed always hesitant to do so. 

“Mrs. Hopper has told me that Mrs. Gold gave her a brief history of your courtship and marriage.”

Rupert gave what he was sure was a glare, but he tried to reign it in. He was just as much ashamed as annoyed, yet, he thought that he and Belle had gotten through that part of their history and wondered that it must be brought up now, and to relatively new friends, as well. 

“Or lack of courtship, you mean to say.” Rupert supplied, stiffly. 

“I do not know. She did not tell me. To be honest, I do not think Mrs. Hopper knows very many details either, so please do not think your wife betrayed any sort of confidence. It was more to do with her father, I believe, and the way you helped her out of that situation. ”

Rupert slumped his shoulders and  sighed as he felt shamed again for thinking that Belle had said anything derogatory about their courtship–or lack thereof. He nodded, urging Hopper to continue. 

“No, she did not go into any details at all, only that Mrs. Gold…I think she feels she has not lived up to what is required of her. I think there is something in her past causing her to worry over her future.”

Rupert grimaced. “That sounds both vague and ominous. I suppose there is some sage advice coming at some point, Mr Hopper.” He knew he was a bit snappish, but Mr. Hopper, thankfully, seemed unperturbed by it. The man wiped his forehead with a handkerchief (the thought that he had flustered the man in such cold weather to cause him to sweat almost amused him) and continued to smile as though Rupert had not just been short with him. Indeed, Rupert was disgruntled, once again, that he had not noticed anything amiss, and Belle had confided in the parson’s wife, instead of him. Then again, Belle ought to have such a friend. He just wished the rest of the community saw her worth and treated her as more than just a woman who went from rags to riches–a woman married to a man of questionable reputation–a woman only to either look up to as a fashion plate to replicate or else a woman who did not fit the very height of fashion and should be looked down upon, or yet still, simply a side show to gossip about. At least Mrs. Hopper seemed genuine in her friendship and Rupert was only too thankful. He imagined that Mr. Hopper was just as genuine, so he sighed and tried not to scowl too much while Mr. Hopper continued. 

“I only prompt and encourage you to seek this thing out that worries her and causes so much distress. I can admit that communication is the thing that has helped Mrs. Hopper and I have a greater and closer relationship. You seem to care a great deal for Mrs. Gold and she for you–I think you will not have too much trouble.” He smiled again and pointed to the dogs who had rushed ahead and he made some sort of comment about them. Rupert sighed with relief that the awkward conversation was over and could now wonder how to approach things with Belle. 

Once they returned, as they approached the main sitting room, Rupert couldn’t help but smile as the Hopper children crowded around Belle as she readied herself near the fire to read a well beloved story. 

“You will do the voices, won’t you, Mrs. Gold?” A chubby cheeked child asked anxiously.

Belle smiled. “Of course, I shall.” Her eyes flickered towards Rupert, as she must have heard their entrance. She was smiling and happy yet her eyes spoke of something–perhaps it was the conversation he had just had with Hopper, but he thought it might be yearning. What was that yearning? She went back to the three children in front of her and began the story, using ‘the voices’ and it made something squeeze in his chest to see the warmth and enthusiasm she used to interact with the children–the fact that she had even invited children to the house when anyone else would have insisted that they not come or be looked after by a servant in another part of the house. Belle seemed naturally at ease with the gaggle of children around her, and for the first time in almost a year, he remembered why it was he had thought about marriage in the first place–Children, an heir. He also realized something else, something that ought to have been obvious before–Belle would make a wonderful mother. 

…

“Dearest Belle,

I must begin with the worst news first. Though I knew her for such a short amount of time, Aunt Beatrice became a very dear woman to me, and I know you spent a great deal of time with her while you were here. Four days ago, she took her last breath and is now in heaven with her husband and the two poor children she lost in infancy. Jeffrey feels it keenly and we are only too glad we took in his ward, Grace, and brought her to Oakley Park. She has been such a dear and such a light in these dark days. 

There is another such light, and I kept hoping that I would receive a similar letter from you before I shared this news with you. My dear friend, I know I can be rather blunt at times (Jeffrey reminds me of this, just as I remind him that he often does not think seriously enough about things), but please know this, to offend or hurt you is the furthest thing from what I desire to do. Will you then forgive me for telling you that in four months time we should be able to eat that top tier of our wedding cake, and I hope you and your Mr. Gold will be able to come to the christening. Jeffrey is just as happy about the prospects as you can imagine. I cannot imagine a better man to be a father than he–I see how he is with Grace and it warms my heart…”

The rest of Ruby’s letter blurred before her as her eyes filled with tears. She had shed too many of them lately. While she never knew Aunt Beatrice very well, she remembered the lady fondly. It was the second bit of news that Ruby emparted that caused the most heartache and Belle scolded herself for feeling it. She was happy for her friend, but that did not negate the melancholy that seemed to drain all the life out of her. 

She folded the letter, setting it aside, determined to answer it in a cheerful way, but knowing she could do no such thing that very moment. She sighed and made her way to the breakfast table. 

“You are very quiet this morning, m’dear. Do not tell me you are missing the noise and ruckus of the Hopper children?” Rupert smiled, though she could tell he was concerned. 

The mention of the Hopper children sent a surge of sadness through her, threatening to cause her to dissolve into tears. She thought she had gotten through such feelings after talking to Mrs. Hopper. She had been kind, told her that these things take time, and that she seemed to have a loving husband that would be supportive no matter the outcome of their marriage–whether it brought children or not. Belle had smiled and agreed, though inwardly wondering if she would have said the same thing, had she told Mrs. Hopper that the entire reason Rupert had married her to begin with was to have an heir. Regardless, speaking about her worries and feelings had brought her much peace and she was so sure that she had resolved to be patient and content in the meanwhile. 

Then there was the letter. And to add to that, Rupert’s remark on her wishing for the noise of children and she bit back a sob that lodged in her throat. 

“What’s wrong, Belle?” Concern was etched on his forehead–concern she had tried so dearly not to put there. She had failed in this, just as she had failed to do the one thing he had asked for in their marriage. He had done so much for her, and she… She could not dwell on it or she would sob in earnest. 

“I received a letter from Ruby this morning and it conveys some sad news–has Mr. Hatfield written?”

The concern was still there, though he allowed a tight smile. “I do believe he thinks that letter writing is a superfluous endeavor between us now, seeing how you and Mrs. Hatfield are much better at the task.”

She tried to smile and nodded, figuring as much. “Mrs. Beatrice Hatfield has died.” 

Rupert nodded, seeming to search her face before answering. “I am sorry to hear it. She was a dear old lady, certainly, it was very good of her to play hostess to Jeffrey and I when we were scheming for brides.” His smile came and went quickly.  “You feel her loss keenly, then Belle?”

He knew it was more than that. She swallowed. “Yes, that is, I am sorry that she passed. Yet, there is more news.”

He raised his eyebrows slightly, yet waited patiently as she gathered courage to continue. “Ruby and Mr. Hatfield, they are–they are looking forward to a blessed event in a few months. She is in a– delicate condition .” She really did try to smile, she was happy for them, truly she was happy, and she said as much to Rupert as he had not made any sort of response. 

“Belle.” He whispered hoarsely, his food yet untouched, and looked at her intently. “You wish for a child, do you not?” It was not really spoken as a question. He knew. 

She hid her face in hands, not thinking about how impolite such a thing was. 

“Oh Belle…” 

Chapter Text

Chapter 30

A Promising Ending

Rupert’s stomach sank as he saw Belle’s head sink into her hands. This was not simple grief (which he knew was not simple, and yet he had not imagined Aunt Beatrice causing the gut wrenching  sorrow or yearning, there was something else, something deeper in it). Worry–Despair. It was those emotions he read in her eyes before they sunk into her hands that made his stomach drop. 

“Oh Belle…” He whispered, her pain and ache reached out and pulled him in. What was it that Hopper had said? What was it that he said that had worried Belle enough to confide in Mrs. Hopper?

I think she feels she has not lived up to what is required of her.

Was this it, and what exactly did it mean?

“I don’t think either of us has an appetite right at this moment, why don’t we go to the library, hmmm?” He hummed and stood up to get a nearby servant to take some of the more portable portions of their breakfast to the library on a tray. Belle would not like the breakfast going to waste, so they might as well see if they couldn’t eat it there. 

Belle lowered her head but did not argue or protest. It was as if she had foreseen the need to expose her thoughts, and it broke his heart that she had not felt up to doing so before. 

“Tell me what worries you so, dearest Belle.” He said gently as he coaxed her onto his good leg. If a servant came and saw their mistress atop their master’s lap, so be it, for he would cradle his wife and comfort her in whatever way he thought best. 

The seconds that went by after his urging felt long and arduous. He waited, though. He waited until she was ready. He could feel when she took the intake of air to begin, his heart beat a quick rhythm in his chest, hoping that whatever it was he could solve it. 

“I think I should have told you–before.” She sighed, as if she was unsure how to go on. “I’m worried…”

Her eyes had looked down at her hands up to that point, but they flicked suddenly to his own, a look of pleading met him, a pleading to understand. “What if I’m unable to produce an heir? We’ve been married for nearly a year and I-I…” 

“I’ve heard that these things sometimes take a little time, Belle.” He smiled and tried to reassure her, but she shook her head. 

“My mother, she struggled with becoming with child. I was an anomaly, I think, and yet she was weak and sickly throughout her situation and confinement. I was born sickly, yet survived, my brother was not so lucky–something my father lamented frequently.”

“I’m so sorry, Belle.” He whispered. She continued. 

“It took her twelve years to become with child again…twelve long years. What if I am the same, what if I am unable to produce an heir at all. The one thing you asked of me, after everything you’ve done for me…”

That stilled him. Suddenly this was more than the yearning for a child, for the child’s sake alone, but more for his benefit. As if she was not fulfilling her part of their marriage agreement.

I think she feels she has not lived up to what is required of her.

The words sunk like cold stones into his soul. 

“Belle.” He stated, firm, but, he hoped at the same time, warm. “You have blessed my life more than I ever dreamed a person could. It is I who seems to reap all the benefits of this union. I worried so often about shackling you to me–that you only loved me despite the horrible situation I placed you in–that you would have blossomed far better in another’s arms–though I am too selfish to do anything about it, of course.”

He smiled thinly at the words, trying to provide a bit of levity to the scene, though if the glistening of tears in his wife’s eyes and the concern now etched in their depths were any indication, he was doing a horrible job of it. 

“You must not think so lowly of yourself, Rupert. I count myself the luckiest woman in the world to be your wife. You’ve done so much for me, loved me despite all the trouble I’ve brought you…”

“No trouble, Belle, you are no trouble. I will not hear you disparage yourself. Belle, I will be happy and love you regardless of whether or not we have children. If not, I’m sure one of Jeffrey’s children will do just as well. Since marrying you, I must admit that I’ve thought very little about an heir at all.”

Belle tilted her head in curiosity. “You cannot mean it.”

Rupert gave a cautious smile, not wanting to make too light of her worries, but also wanting to show his earnestness. “I am telling you truly, I did not think of it until last night, when you so sweetly entertained the Hopper children. Even then my only thought was what a wonderful mother you’ll make.”

“Oh Rupert, you are too wonderful.” She flung her arms around his neck, sobbing into his shoulder. 

“Oh no, my dearest.” He kissed her forehead, then her cheeks, salty with her tears. “Please believe me, I am fully happy and content–children would only be a pleasing bonus to the wonder of being married to you.”

…

One year later…

“Happy Anniversary, m’dear.” Rupert gave Belle a smile as he pulled out a gold chain with a sapphire pendant on the end. 

“It’s so lovely. Really, Rupert, this is too much.”

The two of them sat in the library, a warm fire crackling in the hearth, a dinner tray brought and quietly enjoyed by the both of them. The year before, Rupert had wanted to do some sort of elaborate spectacle, thinking that Belle deserved to have things the way she wanted–in contrast to the quiet, somber thing that was her actual wedding ceremony. He had thought that an abundance of flowers, a large cake and the few people that actually had shown some good will towards them would be their guests and he could show the neighborhood just how well he thought of his wife. Belle had shook her head and had fidgeted with her hands as she asked if she could tell him what she really wanted. 

“Of course, Dearest. I only aim to please”

Belle had reached up and had cupped his face with her hand, lingering among the edges of his longer-than-fashionable head of hair. “I know you do, and I dearly love you for it, it’s just that…”

Rupert looked on with concern. Her hesitation always gave him a few ungentlemanly words for the father that continued to cause her to worry over others reactions (though it had gotten better, of late, of course, yet…she would hesitate from time to time, especially if she thought he would be displeased), he also had more than his share of guilt to feel for his own hand in her hesitation, though he would forever strive to right the wrongs of his early relationship with her. 

“Do you know, I’ve come to love looking back on our wedding day. It was a quiet affair, yes, but it was ours and it’s dear just because of that. I am forever thankful for the day that I became your wife. Might the celebration of it be quiet too? Just us, if that’s acceptable.”

He couldn't’ help but smile, and it thankfully helped the wringing of Belle’s hands. 

“I would love nothing more than a quiet evening at home, but are you sure you aren’t doing it just to please me?”

Belle smiled in reply. “I do want to please you, however, I will be doing it for myself just as much. I do not want a fancy dinner, Rupert, I want you.”

And so they had a quiet dinner in their library, exchanged gifts, and whispered and laughed and sighed over their unusual wedding and the weeks that followed. Once again, she had requested a repeat of the event and he was only too happy to oblige. 

“It is not enough, I say.” Rupert insisted as he presented her with a bit of music she had spoken of a few weeks ago.

“Rupert! You remembered!” And with that she kissed him, not nearly as long as he wished, but long enough he forgot he ought to reply or say something. 

“I have something for you. First…” She presented him with an embroidered bookmark with his initials and a little miniature of Dark Castle threaded above it. 

“It’s beautiful, Belle.” He said, taking in the delicate stitches, noting how long it must have taken her to do, especially with all the projects she had taken on–not only with her poor baskets and charity pursuits, but also with the redecorating of several rooms. (“ There needs to be more light here, I think.” she had said for a few rooms.) 

“The second gift, I’m afraid, has not been delivered yet.”

Rupert patted her hand comfortingly. “No need to worry, m’dear, the post is sometimes a fickle thing when it comes to promptness. Having you here is enough for me.”

Belle beamed, her eyes twinkling in the firelight. “You misunderstand me, my dearest Rupert. I am afraid you must wait five and a half more months for it to be delivered.” 

Rupert gaped, his mind whirling with the information she had just presented. 

“You cannot mean?” 

Belle nodded, a laugh upon her breath, though there were a few tears in her eyes as she did so–happy tears, he thought. 

“I do indeed. I hope you will forgive me for keeping it from you for so long, I am sure you thought Mrs. Lucas had fed me a good too many cookies. However, I could not feel easy until I felt the babe. I still worry some days…” She said, her mood darkening for a moment before she cleared her throat. “But I will enjoy the time I am given, and only hope that the time might be a good many years to come.”

Rupert felt himself trembling as he took in Belle’s hands and kissed them, before kissing her soundly everywhere else, lingering over her stomach. There was a slight bump there, though she was still so tiny, and she had been rather tired lately–too tired for him to notice certain things that surely he would have noticed before…

“You are happy?” Belle spoke, breathlessly. 

“Of course, Oh Belle, I’m so happy. And you are well?” 

Belle nodded. “Very well, just always a little fatigued.” She laughed. “I’m afraid I’ll become lazy soon.”

He shook his head. “That is one thing I cannot imagine you being at all.”

…

Five and a half months later…

“If you pace any more, you’ll wear out the carpet–do be still, old man, for two seconds straight. You are making me dizzy.” 

Rupert sent a glare towards Jeffrey, which was immediately replaced again by the paralyzing fear he’d been feeling since Belle had woken in the middle of the night in great pain, telling him she thought the baby would be here soon. The Hatfield’s and the Hopper’s had come that morning (the Hatfields having come the fortnight before to wait for the blessed  event), along with the doctor, and the men were left in the parlor, while Rupert’s whole world languished in pain upstairs. 

Fourteen hours. 

It had been fourteen long, arduous hours. How could a body endure the kind of pain he had seen Belle in for so long? 

“How were you when little Jeff was born, may I ask?” He snapped, causing Hopper to look uncomfortable in his seat, despite the opened book of sermons in his hands. 

“Much the same.” Jeffrey laughed, then turned to the vicar beside him. “I daresay you didn’t prowl around like a caged lion when your Mrs. Hopper was in similar straits. You seem the very definition of calm.”

Hopper looked up from his book, a look of thoughtfulness washed over him. “I might not have paced, but…The Almighty did hear words I doubt any of my superiors would allow to be heard from a man of the cloth.” He smiled a gentle smile. “Do be sure, Mr. Gold, your feelings are those that every man who loves his wife has experienced since creation, I would imagine.”

Rupert gave a tight smile and bowed stiffly in reply. He imagined Hopper was right, he was sure that Jeffrey only teased to lighten the uneasy atmosphere in the room, but Rupert could only think of Belle and the little one. So he paced. Exactly like a growling lion in front of the fire, his only thoughts ascending upstairs, a constant prayer on his lips that above all things that his Belle be safe. He wished nothing for himself, let himself be forfeit if need be, but to spare his Belle, please…

“Mr. Gold.” Mrs. Lucas stood at the doorway, a smile on her lips, making Rupert’s heart lighter by the action. 

“Belle?” He did not bother with correcting himself to the polite “Mrs. Gold”. 

“She is well, though she is tired, as might imagine. It was a hard labor, but she came through it.”

“Heaven be praised!” The words burst out of his chest, and he spared not a moment or look for the two men in the parlor as he limped away towards the room that held his dearest treasure. 

He had gotten a hold of himself enough to realize that bursting into the room would be unwise, and might upset or wake his wife, so by the time he had reached her room, he gently opened it to reveal a chaotic scene of swishing skirts and low volumed chatter. Ruby noticed him first. 

“Mr. Gold, Mrs. Lucas was to tell you to wait a few more minutes while we made your wife ready for visitors.”

Rupert tried not to glare, really he did. “Good thing I’m not a visitor.” 

A light chuckle came from the bed that had been thus far obscured by the many women inside. He rushed to her side, coming to a halt as he saw the swaddled bundle in her arms. Suddenly he felt shy–somehow the reality of what they had been waiting for all these months, hitting him with its reality. He was a father, again. Would he do any better in protecting and keeping safe this child than he had Belford? Tears stung his eyes. 

“Rupert.” A weak voice spoke and his eyes went to the tired face of his wife. Hair was plastered to her sweat stained face, her eyes had dark circles surrounding them, yet she remained as beautiful to him as she ever had. 

“Oh Belle, are you well?” He had to hear it from her, to be certain he hadn’t succumbed to his greatest nightmare. 

“I am. It was just a long delivery–I’ve been assured that it is normal for the first child.” Her voice remained weak and he came to squeeze the extended hand she gave. 

“Come, meet your daughter.”

Rupert smiled as Belle pulled down the blanket obscuring most of the cherub-like face. 

“She is so small.” Belle looked at him worried. “But I’ve also been reassured that neither of us are very large, it would be strange to birth a big baby, and yet…” 

The cheeks were plump, but as the child squirmed he could see the sharper features. She was insanely tiny–the fingers that he uncovered were skinny, but he could hardly remember what Belford had been like at the time at birth. 

“But the doctor says she is healthy?”

“Yes.” Belle smiled. “They say she is, and I must believe them. You do not mind–that she is not a boy?” Another worried smile nearly had him crying in earnest. 

“How could I be disappointed in the little beauty you’ve given me, Belle. I did not, do not, care. I am blissfully happy to be a father again.” He used his bony finger to trace the plump cheeks, the wrinkled forehead, to count the little one’s fingers, to uncover all ten toes. “She’s so beautiful.” His whisper was hoarse. 

“What shall we name her, do you think?” 

“After her mother somehow.”

“I’ve always loved the name Rosalind for a girl. I think Rosie would be such a precious name, and look at her cheeks, how Rosy and full of life they are–they calm the worry in my soul.” Belle spoke with so much earnest relief. 

“Rosalind Belle?” Rupert leaned over and kissed the child’s face. 

“Perfect.” Belle’s face looked so angelically happy he kissed Belle’s face too. The oohs and ahs he got over Rosie’s name reminded him that the room had been full of women. 

“Before you glare at our audience, would you hold little Rosie while Ruby and Mrs. Hopper help make me presentable? Perhaps you can introduce her to the nursery.”

His arms were laden with the precious bundle seconds later and he could not stop the tears that dripped upon the baby’s face. Did he ever think his heart could love a child again? Yet he felt it increase with an unexplained rush of love as he felt her in his arms. 

“Come along then, Rosie.” Rupert’s voice was husky with emotion as he exited the room and entered a room that had represented so much love and pain to him. 

When they had found out they were expecting, he told Belle that he thought it was time to say goodbye to the memorial he had made out of Belford’s room. It was the nursery, after all, and Belle had brought healing in his life that he had needed to take that next step. Belle held his hand, and helped him as they watched all of Belford’s things be packed away in trunks and placed where he could still pull the bundles out like memories to replay over and over again at his leisure, but the room had purpose again, living purpose. Now there was dainty pastel papering, a small baby’s bed, a quilt that Belle had sewn, and a hanging made of shells from Brighton that Belle had made that clinked and clanked in a musical way, sure to soothe baby Rosie as she grew. The room would be full of life again, and that’s exactly how it should be. 

“My dear little Rosie, how much I wish your brother could have met you, he would have loved you.” He sighed as he sat upon the rocking chair, another quilt draped over it–Belford’s quilt. Belle had suggested they keep a couple of things inside the room to link the siblings. He took the quilt and draped it over the tiny child and sobbed as he looked down on Rosie sleeping happily within his arms. “I am glad, my dearest little Rosie.” He whispered soothingly. “That you’ll have a mother who loves with every fiber of her being.And I swear–I’ll devote my life to yours and your mother’s happiness. Our beginning was rather wretched, but how wonderful it turned out.”

And how true it was.