Rose’s mood is surprisingly sunny when she rises in the morning. She hums a little tune as she bathes at her washstand and allows more fine clothing to arrange itself on her person. She carries me into the dining salon, sets me beside the chocolate pot on her table, cracks open her egg in its china cup, and devours a sweet, rich pastry. She smiles up at the portrait of Jean-Loup as we descend the stairs.
Today, she dares to go through the grand front doors and down the drive under the arch of roses. She is now so accustomed to having me nearby that she takes me along. I’m useful to have in hand when she’s thinking out loud: “Shall we go in here?” or “Let us see where this leads.” Beast is nowhere to be seen; he forgoes the pleasure of his beloved garden during the daylight hours in deference to her. Neither is there any sign of Redbird.
At the end of the drive, Rose is drawn to the wide stone arches of the carriage house, where she has not yet been. I have never been here, either; it lay outside the scope of my duties when I was a servant, and for all our rambling about the chateau, Beast never brought me here.
A breezeway under the arches connects a series of barnlike rooms. In the first one, I see the battered cart Beast filled with vessels of water for his roses. But a far more magnificent carriage draws Rose’s attention, made of polished, exotic wood and trimmed in gold. The driver’s bench is elevated to a disdainful height, the wrought iron back wheels are enormous, and a wine-colored curtain is drawn across the window of the covered cab. The Beaumont device is painted on the door, the Beast Rampant above a field of spearheads. The carriage has grown dusty since the servants ran away, but here and there the wood and gilt still catch the gleam of my light.
Rose decides to investigate the other rooms, mostly work and storage areas, that lead back to the chateau, thrusting me forward to light the way. In one, the shadows reveal an old ironmonger’s forge covered over in cobwebs. Rose pokes me timidly into the gloom and utters a little cry when my skittering light picks out a shape in the far corner, not quite a figure but something more than a shadow sprawling amid a mound of straw bales.
It’s an old suit of armor, dark and rusty, partially hidden among the bales. Some of the joints have separated so that it lies in pieces, broken rivets scattered here and there, a steel gauntlet like a severed hand lolling in the straw. A helmet with a pointed visor has rolled carelessly to the straw-covered floor, but the breastplate remains intact, propped up on one of the bales. It bears the Beaumont device, and although it’s chipped and worn with age, I know where I’ve seen this armor before — in the portrait of Rene Auguste LeNoir, Jean-Loup’s father.
But now it’s tossed aside like an old rag in this forgotten corner. It’s the only object of any value I’ve yet seen at Chateau Beaumont that is not pampered and revered. Given the reverence with which Jean-Loup always spoke of his father, I would expect to see it polished and glittering in the entry hall or the grand stairway, for all to see. And yet here it lies.
But Rose no longer shares my curiosity, hurrying through the last few rooms, where items not currently in use in the chateau are kept in chests. Rose steals a peek beneath a lid here and there; the daughter of a merchant, she must know the value of beautiful things. Outside, we cross the horse track that separates the carriage house from the main building and return to the chateau. When we are back in the entry hall, Rose makes her way to the foot of the stairs and gazes up again at the portrait of Jean-Loup.
“Chevalier,” she whispers, “I hope I may dream of you again!”
I’m so shocked, I nearly jolt myself right out of her hand. How dare she come prancing in here, into Beast’s domain, and start dreaming of Jean-Loup? He is gone, Jean-Loup, and I am sworn to see to it that no trace of him remains anywhere, not even in dreams.
A small musical peep interrupts us, and Rose looks up. Redbird is perched on the rail of the second-floor landing, peering down at us with his lively eyes. How did he get in the house? There must be a window open in the attic.
“Redbird!” she cries happily. “Have you come to visit me?” He gives a chirp of assent. But before she can say any more, Redbird suddenly flies up into the shadows of the stairwell, leaving only a cascade of tinkling notes behind.
“Wait, pretty bird!” she cries. “Don’t go!”
His birdsong wafts down from above, and Rose climbs after him, following his song, until we come out into the gloomy attic. Rose hesitates, clutching me close, but Redbird chirrups again from the back corner. The little door in the turret stands open, and he’s perched on its arched top. Then he flies into the dark passage within, and Rose makes up her mind to follow; she climbs the little carved staircase into the library.
It’s eerie for me to be up here again. The last time was the night of the storm when I told Beast about Jean-Loup. The glass vase still stands on the writing table, but its water has dried up. A brittle stalk and a few crumpled petals littering the desktop are all that remain of the last rose. Beast can’t have been back here. Perhaps he finds the memory of the last evening we spent here together too upsetting.
But Rose knows nothing of that. Sunlight pours in through the colored glass, and the image of the castle and its princess enchants her. While Redbird warbles his melody, she sets me on an open space on one shelf and inspects the books, peering at the spines, drawing out this one or that to riffle through the pages. When her father the merchant was prosperous, she must have had the advantage of a genteel education — music, embroidery, books. At last, she carries a few books over to the chair. She places me on the end table at her side and burrows into the cushions with her first volume.
“You have a lovely rose garden, Sir Beast,” Rose volunteers that night at dinner after Beast has joined her at his place at the far end of the table.
“I am so pleased you think so,” says Beast, trying to contain his eagerness that she has begun a conversation with him.
“My father spoke very highly of it,” says Rose politely. “He also mentioned the splendid hospitality you had shown him.”
Before Beast terrified the old man in the garden, I think to myself, but I doubt her father would have shared that part of the tale with his children. At least not the part that involved his attempted thievery.
“It was my pleasure,” Beast replies. To make more conversation, he adds, “I hope he arrived home safely.”
“Quite safely, thank you,” says Rose.
Beast waits another moment and then gently prods, “Your family was glad to see him, I expect.”
“Yes. Of course,” murmurs Rose, but says no more. Even from this distance, I can see Beast’s expression fall a little. Perhaps he thinks he ought not remind her of the loved ones she’s had to leave behind because of him. Or perhaps he was hoping for a more spirited response.
Even Rose has now noticed how quiet Beast has become and casts about for a new topic to break the silence. “Sir Beast, I visited your library today,” she begins.
Beast brightens on the instant. “Is it not lovely? I believe it belonged to the last Lady Beaumont. Please make use of it whenever you like.”
“Thank you.” Rose smiles, lifts her chin with some resolve, and gestures Beast one chair nearer in the line of chairs between them. “Please, Sir Beast, do sit a little closer. I can scarcely hear you!”
Beast, surprised, complies.
When the meal ends, Beast rises to take his leave but pauses when he sees Rose scoop me up again, as is now her habit.
“You needn’t trouble yourself,” he tells her, nodding at me. “The lights in this house will always shine for you, whenever you wish.”
I begin to hope the girl will give me up at last. I would much rather spend my time in Beast’s company.