Bella and the Beast (2 page)

“Remove your hands at once,” a male voice hissed from behind. “That is French silk from Paris.”

Bella dropped the cloth and spun around. It was the man in the black suit. From close-up, he had taut shiny skin like the carapace of a beetle. When he curled his lips in disdain, the ends of his long mustache waggled like antennas.

Bella lifted her chin. “I wish to speak to the proprietor.”

The man snatched up the length of silk, turning it to and fro as if to assure himself it hadn't been soiled or torn. “
I
am Mr. Fothergill and this is
my
establishment. You must depart these premises at once. There is nothing here that you could possibly afford.”

“I came to inquire about the position of seamstress.”

His scornful gaze crawled over her foreign garb. “The post has been filled.”

He was lying, she could tell by his shifty manner. “But the sign is still there in the window.”

“Do you dare to question my word? Out with you now. Gypsies are not permitted on these premises.”

Bella stiffened. Even abroad, Gypsies were regarded as tricksters and thieves. “Sir, you are mistaken—”

Her words broke off as Fothergill seized hold of her upper arm, his fingers biting like pincers. Without further ado, he hauled her toward the front of the shop.

Many of the customers turned to stare, whispering and exclaiming, some arching their necks to get a better view of the spectacle. One young blond lady in a pink bonnet said something to her friends and they all laughed aloud. From them, the tittering swept the large room in a wave that inundated Bella and completed her humiliation.

Heat burned her cheeks. During previous interviews, she had detected a certain suspicion in the faces of those to whom she had applied for a post. People had seemed wary of a woman in foreign garb. But none had been so scornful as these posh aristocrats who viewed her as an object of ridicule, as if she were dirt beneath their well-shod feet.

Their laughter sliced deeply into Bella's pride. The weeks of fretting and frustration already had eroded her confidence. A part of her wanted to cringe, to scuttle away in shame. Yet another part, a fierce primitive core, imbued her with a volatile fury. The force of it rose in her like a tide of fire.

Nearing the front door, Bella reached beneath her robes and drew out an ivory-hilted dagger from its hidden sheath. The ancient metal blade emerged with a metallic snick.

She pressed the tip beneath Fothergill's chin. “Filthy dog! Release me at once!”

The shopkeeper halted, paralyzed. His dark eyes bulged. The manacle of his fingers let loose of her arm.

Gasps rose from the ladies. Several screamed. They shrank back in alarm, skirts rustling and feet scraping.

Fothergill's air of snooty authority had vanished. His face took on the paleness of a corpse. The trembling of his lips made his mustache quiver. “P-please!” he gurgled. “Don't … don't kill me!”

Bella kept the tip of the knife beneath his chin. She relished his fear. She wanted the insect to squirm. It proved he was no more her superior than the bandit who'd crept into her tent in the deserts of Chaldea, intent on stealing her purse.

That one had fled howling into the night, dripping blood.

One of the onlookers let out a sob of fright. A glance around showed the ladies were staring at her in wide-eyed terror. She had lingered here too long. “I'll spare your miserable hide this time,” Bella hissed. “But the next woman you mistreat may not be so generous.”

She slid the dagger back into its sheath at her waist.

Fothergill staggered sideways. He clutched at his throat, gingerly rubbed it, then examined his hand for blood. Seeing none, he drew himself up. “Blasted dirty Gypsy!” he sputtered. “The magistrate shall hear about this!”

Magistrate.

The word cast a chill over Bella. She could ill afford trouble.

Turning, she yanked open the door and dashed outside into the cloudy spring afternoon. She took off down the busy street, zigzagging past housewives with shopping baskets, dons in black robes, and ladies peering into shop windows. Behind her, Fothergill alternately shouted for a constable and implored someone to stop her.

Several tried.

She evaded the grasping hands of a stooped old workman and then a white-aproned chemist who had stepped out of his apothecary shop. The other pedestrians gave her wide berth. Determined to elude arrest, she plunged into the heavy traffic on the cobbled road, dodging a wagon filled with large barrels. Too late, she spied a fancy yellow carriage coming along at a fast clip.

It almost ran her down. The skittish chestnut danced sideways. Despite the efforts of the driver, the animal veered too close to the foot pavement. A stack of wooden crates in front of the greengrocer's crashed to the ground.

Fruits and vegetables rolled in all directions. The proprietor shouted curses as the hapless gentleman reined in the wild-eyed horse. People went scrambling after the goods. Several urchins began stuffing their pockets with strawberries and oranges.

Bella seized advantage of the distraction by losing herself in the multitude of shoppers. She slowed her steps to a swift walk to avoid drawing attention. Making a quick turn at the nearest corner, she slipped down an alleyway, hurrying along before emerging into a tree-lined neighborhood.

Clouds hung low, heavy and gray, swollen with rain. The cool air smelled of dampness and coal smoke. Bella cast a furtive glance over her shoulder to make certain that no one was following. There were only a few people outside, and thankfully, none paid her any heed as she headed rapidly past a row of brick town houses.

The stone buildings of the university were visible over the rooftops, along with the tall pointy spire of St. Mary the Virgin's Church. Though new to the bustling town, Bella had learned to orient herself by those landmarks to keep from getting lost during her hunt for work.

Work.
She was still unemployed. Having made a spectacle of herself, had she ruined any chance at all of securing a post?

Her wild anger subsided, leaving a sick sensation in the pit of her belly. She should
not
have lost her temper. She should
not
have drawn a knife and threatened Mr. Fothergill, no matter how insulting he had been. If she were tossed into prison, how would Lila and Cyrus survive?

At fifteen, the twins deserved the chance to continue their studies. They mustn't be forced to labor for a living just yet. They would have the formal education that she herself had been denied. Bella had been the only mother they had ever known. She must not fail them.

Her spirits sank lower. She'd have to stay out of sight for a time, in case the constable had been ordered to search for her. Thank heavens Fothergill did not know her name or where to find her. In a few days, perhaps it might be safe for her to venture out again to seek employment.

She had to hope so. Her nest egg had shrunk to almost nothing.

If only Papa's deathbed rambling about a pharaoh's treasure had been true. If only she had been able to find the elusive Mr. Aylwin. Then her troubles would have been over …

As if to mock her, a gust of wind blew cold raindrops at her face. Bella drew the green shawl up over her head. Wishful thinking accomplished nothing. Dreams wouldn't fill their bellies.

A steady drizzle began to fall as she made her way toward home. At least she and her siblings had a roof over their heads. They belonged here, she reminded herself. Papa had been a baronet. Their blood was as English as any of those nasty ladies in the shop.

Bella had been born in Oxford twenty-nine years ago, though she had no memories of the place. She had been very young when she'd gone abroad with her parents so that her father, Sir Seymour Jones, could pursue his interest in ancient civilizations. Her childhood had been an endless adventure of wandering through foreign lands, finding ruins in jungles, discovering giant statues carved into mountainsides, exploring old palaces from long-forgotten empires.

Yet always it was England that had captured her imagination.

By the campfire each night, Mama often had related stories of their native land. She would tuck Bella in at bedtime and describe a gently rolling countryside, a misty green place of forested hills and winding roads where you might spy a princess riding in a gilded coach or a fairy peeping out from a clump of ferns. It had sounded far more fascinating than the turbaned natives of the East or the caravans of smelly camels.

Now, the cold rain made her shiver. The hem of her skirt grew sodden from the many puddles. Life in England was no enchanted tale. Though the surrounding landscape was indeed lovely, with cultivated fields and pastures of woolly sheep, she had not the leisure to admire it.

Near the edge of town, she quickened her steps along a dirt lane that was lined with small homes. She tried to boost her spirits by telling herself that it would be pleasant to spend a few days with Lila and Cyrus. She could help them with their chores and lessons.

As the rutted track meandered past a stand of oaks, Bella came to an abrupt halt. She blinked to clear the raindrops from her eyelashes. Straight ahead lay the house that had been her father's legacy. The ivy-covered cottage had glass windows and two upstairs bedrooms tucked beneath the thatched roof. Wisps of smoke drifted from the chimney. In the tangled garden, a few yellow roses provided splotches of color.

But that wasn't what held her attention.

Parked by the garden gate was the most magnificent vehicle that Bella had ever seen. The cream-colored coach had fancy gold scrollwork on the door and enormous gilt wheels. A burly driver sat on the high perch, rain dripping from the brim of his tall black hat as he held a team of four white horses. By the cottage door, a footman in a leaf-green uniform stood guard beneath a black umbrella.

Bella gawked. The carriage looked as if it had sprung straight out of a fairy tale. But why was it here, in front of
her
cottage? Had it taken a wrong turn? Then why wasn't the coachman asking directions of the inquisitive neighbors who peered from their doorways?

Who was the owner of the vehicle? More to the point, where was this esteemed personage? Inside the cottage?

Her heart lurched. Had one of the customers in Fothergill's Fashion Emporium recognized Bella, perhaps from a prior job interview? Had the lady come to berate Bella for her deplorable behavior?

Surely not. She had seen no one familiar in the shop.

Then who else could it be?

Perhaps some calamity had befallen Cyrus or Lila. Perhaps they had ventured into town against Bella's orders. Lila usually obeyed the rules, but her brother was prone to wandering off to explore the neighborhood. Maybe he had trespassed onto private land. Maybe at this very moment he was being taken to task by some royal grandee. A villain as horrid and judgmental as Fothergill.

Bella's fingers briefly touched the hilt of the hidden dagger. Her sturdy half-boots squelching through the puddles, she darted behind the coach and made haste toward the cottage.

The garden gate opened with a squawking of hinges. Her skirt caught on a bramble as she hurried down the flagstone path. As she stooped to disentangle herself, the shawl slipped from her head and plopped into the muddy garden. Brackish water stained the green yarn.

Bella rolled the soiled garment into a ball and stuffed it beneath her arm. The white-wigged footman by the door cut his gaze toward her. Though his young features remained impassive, she felt rattled, her nerves on edge.

She marched to him. “Who is your master? Why are you here?”

“It is not for me to say, miss.” He stepped to the door and opened it. Then he waited like a marble statue for her to enter the cottage.

Bella's anxiety deepened. The visitor must be someone very rich and very important to have such a discreet, well-trained servant. How long had Lila and Cyrus been at the mercy of this stranger?

There was only one way to find out.

 

Chapter 3

As Bella stepped inside the cottage, the rainy day cast gloom over the tiny entry hall. Ahead lay a narrow stairway and, beyond it, the corridor that led to the kitchen. A lighted candle flickered in a sconce.

She hastily hung her shawl on a wall hook. Through the doorway to her left, the dining table was littered with abandoned books, as if the twins had been interrupted at their studies. Three wooden crates stacked in the corner held all of her father's scholarly papers. To her right lay the entry to the parlor where she and her siblings gathered in the evening to read aloud or to review lessons.

The murmur of voices tugged Bella in that direction. Her fingers on the sheathed dagger, she stopped just inside the doorway. A fire hissed on the stone hearth, warming the room with its scattered chairs and tables. Age-darkened landscape paintings decorated the walls.

Upon their arrival, the cottage had had a musty aura of neglect. Lila and Cyrus had taken the oversized Turkish rug outside to beat away a quarter century of dust, while Bella had scrubbed every inch of the stone floor. They'd opened all the windows, knocked down the cobwebs, aired out the straw mattresses in the upper bedchambers, and polished the bookcases that flanked the fireplace. They had cleaned until the place took on the fresh smell of beeswax and lye soap.

Today, however, a trace of flowery perfume drifted in the air.

Bella's gaze swept the chamber. In one corner, rainwater leaked slowly into a basin from an unseen hole in the roof. Plop, plop, plop. Then she spied the visitor.

At a small writing desk, the lady sat on a straight-backed chair like a queen on her throne. A mulberry gown trimmed with lace hugged her slender figure. As she turned her head to regard Bella, the elegant bonnet on her coal-dark hair framed a face of delicate loveliness. She was an older woman, though it was impossible to guess her age, for her skin was smooth and lustrous.