Once Upon A Time (6) Belle Read online

  Belle: A Retelling of “Beauty and the Beast” By Cameron Dokey CHAPTER ONE

  I’ve heard it said – and my guess is you have too – that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. But I’ve never been certain it’s true.

  Think about it for a moment.

  It sounds nice. I’ll give you that. A way for every face to be beautiful, if only you wait long enough. I’ll even grant you that beauty isn’t universal. A girl who is considered drop-dead gorgeous in a town by the sea may find herself completely overlooked in a village the next county over.

  Even so, beauty is in the eye of the beholder doesn’t quite work, does it?

  Because there’s something missing, and I can even tell you what: the belief that we all harbor in our secret heart of hearts that beauty stands alone. That, by its very nature, it is obvious. In other words, Beauty with a capital B.

  Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

  Now that’s another statement entirely.

  And what it means, as far as I can see, is that those of us whose looks aren’t of the capital B variety can pretty much stop holding our breaths, stops waiting for the right eyes to show up and gaze upon us. Out Beauty – or, more precisely, our lack thereof –

  has already been established. It’s as plain as the noses on our small b faces.

  That sounds more like the way things actually work, doesn’t it?

  I suppose you could say that finding out just what a pair of eyes can do, and what they can’t, is what the story I’m about to tell you is really all about. It will come as no surprise that it is, of course, my story. Which means I should probably back up and introduce myself.

  Annabelle Evangeline Delaurier. That is my name. After my father’s mother and my mother’s mother, in that order. But, though it was my father who decided the entirety of what I would be called, it was my mother who sealed my fate and set my tale in motion. For she was the one who decreed o would be known as Belle, a name that means Beauty in the land of my birth.

  There were problems with this decision, though nobody realized it at the time.

  Two problems, to be precise: my older sisters, who displayed such extraordinary Beauty that they were famous for miles around.

  My oldest sister was born straight-up midnight, on a night so clear and cold it snatched the breath. A night that made the stars burn sharp and bright as knives. The baby’s hair was as dark as the arc of heaven overhead, her eyes a blue both fierce and sparkling, like the stars.

  In celebration of my sister’s arrival, Maman, who has a tendency to be extravagant even in life’s simple moments, named the infant Celestial Heavens, having earlier extracted a promise from my father that she could name their first child anything she wanted.

  As I’m sure I don’t need to point out, Celestial Heavens is quite a mouthful.

  Fortunately for all concerned, and for my sister most of all, my father’s more practical approach to life won out. Celestial Heavens the baby might be, but even before the ink on her birth certificate was dry, my sister was being called Celeste, as she has been from that day forward.

  My second sister was born on the first day of the month of April, just as the sun rose over the horizon. Her hair was as golden as the sun’s first light, her eyes as green as the meadow that the sun ran through on its way to make the morning. Ma father, now somewhat prepared for what might come next, took it in quiet stride when my mother named this daughter April Dawn. By the time the baby had been tucked into her cradle that night, she was being called just April, and she has been ever since.

  And then there was the day that I arrived.

  At noon, on a day in September that could have been either spring or autumn, judging by the blueness of the sky. Or by the temperature, which was neither too hot nor too cold. A quiet, peaceful kind of day. The kind that, at its end, makes you wonder where the time has gone. A day that doesn’t feel like a gift until it’s done. For it’s only as you’re drifting to sleep that you realize how happy you are, how happy you’d been every moment you were awake.

  It was on just such a day as this that I was born.

  Even my coming into the world was straightforward, for my mother later related that the time of her labor seemed neither too short, nor too long. Following these exertions, I was placed into my mother’s arms. My father sat beside her on the bed, and both of them (or so I am told) gazed lovingly down at me. And if my father felt a small pang that his third child was yet another daughter and not a son, I’m willing to forgive him for it.

  It wasn’t that he valued daughters any less, but that, after two such extraordinary children, he was ready for one that was, perhaps, a little less remarkable. A child who might be more like him, follow in his footsteps rather than my mother’s. And as he could not imagine how a girl’s feet might accomplish such a task, in secret, my father had longed for a boy.

  “Well, my dear?” my father asked my mother after several moments. He was referring, of course, to what I would be named, for, as always, the choice would be Maman’s. She knew what to call my two sisters without hesitation. But here a curious and unexpected event transpired.

  Accustomed as my mother was to the spectacular arrivals of Celeste and April, my appearance called forth not a single inspiration. Though her imagination was vivid, my mother simply could not conjure what to call a child who had arrived with so little fanfare, on a day that was so very unremarkable.

  My mother opened her mouth, then closed it, without making a single sound. She took a breath, then tried again. And when this attempt also failed to produce a name, she tried a third time. Finally, she closed her mouth and kept it shut, looking at my father with beseeching eyes.

  Fortunately, my father is quick on his feet, even when he isn’t standing on them.

  “My dear,” he said to Maman once more. “You have given me a beautiful and healthy daughter, and surely that is gift enough. But I wonder if I might ask for one thing more. I wonder if you would allow me to name this child.” Her lips still firmly closed, my mother nodded her head, and my father bestowed a name he had long cherished: Annabelle, after his own mother, who had had the raising of him all on her own. Then, mindful of my mother’s feelings, he gave me the name of her mother as well.

  In this way, I became Annabelle Evangeline, and no sooner had my father proclaimed his choice than my mother recovered enough to announce that she wished me to be known as Belle. If I could not have an arrival quite as remarkable as those of my sisters, I could at least have an everyday name that, like my sisters, would match the Beauty I would surely become.

  Allow me to set something straight at this point.

  There’s nothing actually wrong with the way I look. I have long brown hair that generally does what I ask it to, except on very rainy days when it does whatever it wants.

  I have eyes of a deep chestnut color that are not set too far from each other so that I appear to look over my own shoulder, nor so close that they appear to be trying to catch each other’s glance across the bridge of my nose. And there’s nothing wrong with my nose, either, thank you very much.

  In fact, I have a face that is much like the day on which I was born. It contains neither too much of one thing, nor too little of another. A perfectly fine face. Just not an extraordinary face. And therein lies the problem. For the Beauty of my sisters can actually take a person’s breath away.

  I think my favorite example was when April surprised a would-be burglar in the middle of the night. She was no more than nine years old – which would have made me seven and Celeste eleven, just so you know where we are.

  The thief, who turned out to be not much older then Celeste, had come to steal the brace of silver candlesticks that always stood on th
e sideboard in our dining room. April had gotten out of bed for a drink of water. They encountered each other in the downstairs hall.

  All it took to subdue the boy was one look at April’s golden hair, shining every so faintly in the darkness, giving off a light of its own. The thief saw all that Beauty, sucked in an astonished breath, then fell to the floor like a sackful of rocks. The noise of this, no to mention April’s sudden cry, roused the rest of the house. The would-be robber was still passed out cold, the candlesticks on the floor beside him, when my father summoned the constable.

  The story has a happier ending than you might suppose. For April took pity on the lad and convinced my father to do the same.

  Shortly after the constable arrived, and with his permission, Papa offered the unsuccessful thief, who had the extremely un-thief-like name of Dominic Boudreaux, a choice: Dominic could go to jail or he could go to sea. Papa is one of the most successful merchants in all our city. His ships sail to every part of the globe, and he had a ship scheduled to set sail with that morning’s tide.

  Not surprisingly, Dominic Boudreaux chose the second course. As a result, he departed for his new life as soon as he’d made up his mind to have one. To the astonishment of all concerned, Dominic took to the sea like a sailor born. He’s been sailing for Papa ever since, for about ten years now. Papa gave him command of the newest ship in the fleet when he turned twenty-one, the youngest man he’d ever raised to captain. When Papa asked Dominic what he thought his ship should be called, Dominic answered without hesitation: the April Dawn.

  It’s a nice story, isn’t it? But I’ve told it to you for a reason other than the obvious one. Because what happened to Dominic and April in the middle of the night tells a second story. A tale about Beauty that I’ve often murmured to myself, but that I’ve never heard anyone else so much as whisper aloud. And that tale is this: Beauty does more than stand alone. It also creates a space around itself. Beauty casts its own shadow, because it finds its own way to shine.

  There’s a catch, of course: For every moment the Beauty shines bright, something

  – or someone – standing right beside it gets covered up by Beauty’s shadow. Goes overlooked, unnoticed.

  You can trust me on this one. I know what I’m talking about.

  On the twenty-fifth day of September, ten days after my tenth birthday, it happened to me, for on that day I performed an act I never had before. I stepped between my two sisters, and the shadows cast by their two Beauties so overlapped each other that they completely filled the place in which I stood.

  As a result, I disappeared entirely.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I didn’t literally disappear, of course. I was still right there, just like always. Or rather, not like always because, incredible as it may seem, I had never actually occupied the space between my sisters.

  Maybe it was because Maman sensed the possibility of what did, in fact, occur.

  Or perhaps it was simply that, in spite of her sometimes impulsive nature, Maman liked everything, including her daughters, to be well-organized. Whatever the reason, until that fateful moment, I had never occupied the space between my sisters for the simple reason that we spent our lives in chronological order.

  Celeste. April. Belle.

  Everything about my sisters and me was arranged in this fashion, in fact. It was the way our beds were lined up in our bedroom; our places at the dining table, where we all sat in a row along one side. It was the order in which we got dressed each morning and had our hair brushed for one hundred and one strokes each night. The order in which we entered a room or left it, and were introduced to guests. The only exception was when we were allowed to open our presents all together, in a great frenzy of paper and ribbons, on Christmas morning.

  This may seem very odd to you, and you may wonder why it didn’t to any of us.

  All that I can say is that order in general, but most especially the order in which one was born, was considered very important in the place where I grew up. The oldest son inherited his father’s house and lands. Younger daughter did not marry unless the oldest had first walked down the aisle. So if our household paid strict attention to which sister came first, second, and (at long last) third, the truth is that none of us thought anything about the arrangements at all.

  Until the day Monsieur LeGrand came to call.

  Monsieur LeGrand was my father’s oldest and closest friend, though Papa had seen him only once and that was when he was five years old. In his own youth, Monsieur LeGrand had been the boyhood friend of Papa’s father, Grand-père Georges. It was Monsieur LeGrand who had brought to Grand-mère Annabelle the sad news that her young husband had been snatched off the deck of his ship by a wave that curled around him like a giant fist, then picked him up and carried him down to the bottom of the ocean.

  In some other story, Monsieur LeGrand might have stuck around, consoled the young widow in her grief, then married her after a suitable period of time. But that story is not this one. Instead, soon after reporting the sad news, Monsieur LeGrand returned to the sea, determined to put as much water as he could between himself and his boyhood home.

  Eventually, Monsieur LeGrand became a merchant specializing in silk, and settled in a land where silkworms flourished, a place so removed from where he’d started out that if you marked each city with a finger on a globe, you’d need both hands. Yet even from this great distance, Monsieur LeGrand did not forget his childhood friend’s young son.

  When Papa was old enough, Grand-mère Annabelle took him by the hand and marched him down to the waterfront offices of the LeGrand Shipping Company. For, though he no longer lived in the place where he’d grown up, Monsieur LeGrand maintained a presence in our seaport town. My father then began the process that took him from being the boy who swept the floors and filled the coal scuttles to the man who knew as much about the safe passage of sailors and cargo as anyone.

  When that day arrived, Monsieur LeGrand made Papa his partner, and the sign above the waterfront office door was changed to read LEGRAND, DELAURIER AND

  COMPANY. But nothing Papa ever did, not marrying Maman nor helping to bring three lovely daughters into the world, could entice Monsieur LeGrand back to where he’d started.

  Over the years, he had become something of a legend in our house. The tales my sisters and I spun of his adventures were as good as any bedtime stories our nursemaids ever told. We pestered our father with endless questions to which he had no answers. All that he remembered was that Monsieur LeGrand had been straight and tall. This was not very satisfying, as I’m sure you can imagine, for any grown-up might have looked that way to a five-year-old.

  Then one day – on my tenth birthday to be precise – a letter arrived. A letter that caused my father to return home from the office in the middle of the day, a thing he never does. I was the first to spot Papa, for I had been careful to position myself near the biggest of our living room windows, the better to watch for any presents that might arrive.

  At first, the sight of Papa alarmed me. His face was flushed, as if he’d run all the way from the waterfront. He burst through the door, calling for my mother, then dashed into the living room and caught me up in his arms. He twirled me in so great a circle that my legs flew out straight and nearly knocked Maman’s favorite vase to the floor.

  He’d had a letter, Papa explained when my feet were firmly on the ground. One that was better than any birthday present he could have planned. It came from far away, from the land where all the silkworms flourished, and it informed us all that, at long last, Monsieur LeGrand was coming home.

  Not surprisingly, this threw our household into an uproar. For it went without saying that ours would be the first house Monsieur LeGrand would come to visit. It also went without saying that everything needed to be prefect for his arrival.

  The work began as soon as my birthday celebrations were complete. Maman hired a small army of extra servants, as those who usually cared for our house were not great enough in n
umber. They swept the floors, then polished them until they gleamed like gems. Every single picture in the house was taken down from its place on the walls and inspected for even the most minute particle of dust. While all this was going on, the walls themselves were given a new coat of whitewash.

  But the house wasn’t the only thing that got polished. The inhabitants got a new shine as well. Maman was all for us being reoutfitted from head to foot, but here, Papa put his foot down. We must not be extravagant, he said. It would give the wrong impression to Monsieur LeGrand. Instead, we must provide his mentor and our benefactor with a warm welcome that also showed good sense, by which my father meant a sense of proportion.

  So, in the end, it was only Papa and Maman who had new outfits from head to foot. My sisters and I each received one new garment. Celeste, being the oldest, had a new dress. April had a new silk shawl. As for me, I was the proud owner of a new pair of shoes.

  It was the shoes that started all the trouble, you could say. Or, to be more precise, the buckles.

  They were made of silver, polished as bright as mirrors. They were gorgeous and I loved them. Unfortunately, the buckles caused the shoes to pinch my feet, which in turn made taking anything more than a few steps absolute torture. Maman had tried to warn me in the shoe shop that this would be the case, but I had refused to listen and insisted the shoes be purchased anyhow.

  “She should never have let you have your own way in the first place,” Celeste pronounced on the morning we expected Monsieur LeGrand.

  My sisters and I were in our bedroom, watching and listening for the carriage that would herald Monsieur LeGrand’s arrival. Celeste was standing beside her dressing table, unwilling to sit lest she wrinkle her new dress. April was kneeling on a cushion near the window, the silk shawl carefully spread out around her. I was the only one actually sitting down. Given the choice between the possibility of wrinkles or the guarantee of sore feet, I had decided to take my chances with the wrinkles.