The wedding preparations at Chateau Beaumont have the entire town abuzz. From the inn, I can see the barrels of wine carted up the hill to the chateau and the herds of hogs and sheep driven up for the feast. Armies of cooks, waiters, housemaids, seamstresses, gardeners, and stableboys stop at the inn on their way to their new employment. There’s no longer any talk of the chateau being cursed. The Beaumont fortune cascades down the hill and into the town like a spring rain, and all talk of monsters and fairy curses is washed away.
After my meal, I leave the bustling town behind and follow the steep, winding path upward to the ancient stone church of Clairvallon, being readied for the nuptials. I have never been here before, but I want to know more about this God who would sanctify so unnatural a union. The Basilica of Mary Magdalene, they call it, dedicated to the Magdalene, patron saint of sinners who have mislaid their virtue on their journey through life. Pilgrims from provinces far and near have climbed this steep hill on bleeding knees to pray to the Magdalene, so they say. I have forgotten my prayers, if ever I knew any, but folk come here seeking comfort, and I would be comforted.
But I find this place, too, all abustle over the coming ceremony. Young monks are on their knees, not in prayer, but scrubbing the broad stone steps beneath the huge arched portal. Others are trimming the lush greenery in the yard. Berobed men scurry in and out of the doorway beneath the portal under the supervision of a senior monk with a sour face. I dare not disturb the scrubbers, nor risk the wrath of their superior.
Yet, as I stand here below the steps like generations of pilgrims before me, I find my gaze drawn up and up to the massive portal carved in stone above the doorway and the tall, narrow Gothic windows above. All are alive with carvings to show folk the ways of the righteous. Giant figures of saints and kings gaze down from the niches of the upper windows, but my eyes are drawn back to the lower portal, an enormous half-moon lying on its side above the doorway.
The scene carved in the portal is Judgment Day, with Christ seated at its center, surrounded by His holy people. They are the apostles, I suppose, with the Virgin Mary and the Magdalene among them. Surely whatever local noblemen paid for the building of the church centuries ago, and the abbé who dedicated it, had their portraits etched in stone in Christ’s company. But what captures my attention is the long lintel that serves as a base for the half-moon, supporting the scene. Two lines of smaller figures march to meet in the center, eager to be resurrected under Christ’s benevolent gaze. But these figures are not priests and merchants and princes. They are the lame, the poor in rags, the disfigured. Some have hollow, staring eyes, lost to madness. Some are hunchbacked, some clubfooted. Some have the heads of monsters.
I swallow hard. Monsters at the feast of Judgment Day. The hand of the Christ rises above them one and all, offering His blessing.
Perhaps Beast will be welcome in the next world as he is, if not in this one.
But how unfair that he must wait until then.
The senior monk peers over at me with suspicion, and I hastily bow my head. When I notice that the gold ring on its red ribbon has jostled loose from my bodice in my journey up the hill, I grasp it in my hand. Twisting it in agitation, I gaze up again at the frieze of monsters. What became of Rose’s sisters, I wonder, and their plot to slay the monster of Beaumont?
And before I can draw another breath, I find myself standing before the massive gilded gates of Chateau Beaumont. I can’t be dreaming now; it’s the middle of the day! Yet here I am, standing on the stone bridge across the moat, which is jammed with carts and drays of all sorts making deliveries to the chateau.
“Watch yourself there, ma’amselle!” cries a carter as he drives his mule past me, and I grab at the low stone wall to get out of the way. I feel it cold and rough against my hand. A wave of heat from the lathered animal washes over me along with the stinging odor of its sweat. How can this be real? Then I look down and see, to my amazement, that I have somehow fidgeted the enchanted ring over my finger. Its magic has brought me here!
After pressing myself to the wall, I remove the ring hastily from my finger and slide it back inside my bodice while I peer around. Some of the vehicles crowding the bridge before the gate carry supplies, but many are delivering wedding gifts. The gatehouse is occupied by a new, less ferocious gatekeeper in Beaumont livery who must weigh the merits of each request for entry before signalling the two robust footmen inside to throw open the gilded iron gates.
Through the gates, I see that the red roses still grow in the terraced beds that fill the courtyard garden, high enough to be seen above the wall. But the bushes have been trimmed and bullied into severe formal patterns, and the blooms do not burst with the same energy they once had under Beast’s loving care. I suspect Jean-Loup has given the task back to his gardeners.
On the far side of the rose terraces stand the familiar stone archways that front the east wing and the carriage house. The rooms in this wing, so long unused, are filling up now with wedding gifts and supplies and servants to see to them. Footmen in livery bustle about in the breezeway under the arches, attending to each new arrival. I glimpse the Beaumont carriage gleaming in renewed glory. Another figure bustles about in an official manner. I realize it is Rose’s father, the old merchant. He is back in looks again, ruddy-cheeked, clear-eyed, his pointed little beard now white but neatly trimmed.
A wagon halts before him, and servants are ordered to unload the chests it carries. Rose’s father marches out to examine their contents.
“Lace!” he barks to a nearby footman. “Not the best quality, although finer than that stuff the Comtesse de La Roche sent. Tell Jacques to make a note.”
I return my attention to the archway of roses vaulting over the broad gravel drive and notice that two female figures now stand at either side of the driveway nearest the gate. They are both clothed in grey gowns the color of stone. It’s not servants’ clothing; the silken fabric looks too fine. Still, their dress is almost a kind of livery, with their matching silver lace collars, untrimmed robes, and tall felt hats with modest brims to keep off the sun. They might be taken for statues, but for the way they fret and fidget at their appointed posts. I can’t imagine what purpose they serve until a cart is let through the gate and directed to the lady at the left of the drive. From a purse at her waist, she extracts a coin and hands it to the carter, then gestures him down the side track for the kitchen wing. They are here to dispense the Beaumont munificence, I see, to impress the tradespeople with the chevalier’s generosity.
Although I have never seen these grey women before, not even when I was in service here myself to Jean-Loup, something about them tugs at my memory. Then I realize where I’ve seen them before: they are Blanche and Violette.
Another wagon is let in and directed to the right to Rose’s eldest sister, Blanche. We are near enough now that I see her fumble in her little purse, eyes downcast, her expression stony; she produces a coin and hands it to the driver.
“For your trouble,” she mutters. Then lifting her chin a little, she adds in frosty tones, “The Chevalier de Beaumont and his lady welcome you.”
So this is how Rose repays her scheming sisters! They are forced to stand and watch the endless parade of servants and sycophants and revellers come to pay homage to their more fortunate sister and her handsome chevalier, doling out coins like common almsgivers in penance for their pride.
But I was just thinking of them, not a moment ago, at the Basilica of the Magdalene — far, far away from here, at the opposite end of the town. Is that what brought me here to them? In response, the ring warms a little against my skin. I had scooped it up that day for Beast’s sake because it was important to him, but I’d forgotten until this minute that it was enchanted. Now I realize how powerful it is — infused with his mother’s love.
Weary, now, of the revelry and anticipation all around me, I make my way into the shadows behind the gatehouse and withdraw the ring on its ribbon. I slip it on my finger and wish to go home to Mère Sophie.