Belle laid casually at the edge of the stream reading a book. Since Trudeau’s death, books and baking had become her passions. Both were a problem. The only source of new books was at the church, a place she was told that she was no longer welcome until she showed remorse for her sin.
Also, the flour needed for baking could only be found at Mrs. Cannon’s supplies store, a place she was told that she was no longer welcome until – well, there was no until with that one. Mrs. Cannon had simply declared her a derelict and had refused to again sell anything to her.
That didn’t mean that Belle couldn’t get access to both books and flour, though. Bell’s father would return and pick up books as Belle needed it, and he would pick up all the ingredients from around town. That included the ingredients for Belle’s baking delights.
All of the baking did have an effect on Belle, though. She was no longer the dainty girl that had loved and lost Trudeau. She was significantly rounder now. And when the town’s women spoke of her, they described her new look as that of a girl who was no longer looking for a husband.
Books and baking weren’t Bell’s only interests, however. After Trudeau’s death, Belle barely left the house. It was then that she truly got fascinated by the gears and springs of her father’s clocks. Before then she had never considered how useful all of those little mechanisms were for solving problems.
For example, who needed to stir a cake’s ingredients by hand? To mix it thoroughly, Belle would have to take a tight grip of the bowl, firmly grip the wooden spatula and then really grind the ingredients together. With a series of different sized gears precisely placed in a box, however, Belle figured out that she could use a handle to mix the ingredients twice as fast while exerting half the effort.
This wasn’t the only improvement to her daily chores that she discovered. Washing clothes occupied hours of her time three times a week. However, using the weights of a cuckoo clock, she found that she could redirect its potential energy to gently turn wooden paddles in a bucket full of water. Cleaning their clothes would take a little longer than by hand, but in the meantime, Belle found that she could use her mechanical mixer to make a cake or just sit back and read a book.
Fishing at the stream was also one of those activities that she found could be made easier with a few gears and springs. Anchoring a fishing pole into a box, Belle attached a line to a lever and a spring. When the fish bit taking the bait, it would flip a lever, release a spring, and hook the fish with the expertise of fishermen. And all of this was as she casually laid back reading a book.
Belle was deep into the final chapter of her book when her fishing box triggered with yet another catch. “Darn it, Catherine, you will have to wait. But I am sure that you will tame Petruchio yet.”
Belle placed her book aside and turned her attention to her fishing box. Peering into the clear stream she saw that she did indeed have a fish on her line. Cranking the handle on the side of the box, the fish lifted into the air. Knowing that she now had more than enough fish for dinner, she unhooked the fish, dropped it in her basket with the others, packed up her fishing box, and prepared to leave. It was then that she heard rustling in the bushes.
Belle popped up and stared at the spaces between the tree trunks. Ever since Trudeau’s tragic death, she had become intensely afraid of wolves. “Is there someone there?” She asked feeling prickly heat on her chest and neck. “If there’s someone there, you better reveal yourself,” she demanded preparing to turn her fishing box into a projectile weapon.
“It’s only me, Belle,” a boy’s voice said from within the trees.
Belle scanned the woods in search of him. “Martin?” She asked, her muscles relaxing.
“Yes, it’s me,” the boy said stepping out from behind a tree. He was holding a bouquet of wildflowers.
“Martin, what are you doing here?”
“I came to bring you these,” the boy said approaching her.
Belle looked at the flowers perturbed. “And why would you be bringing me these?” She asked making no effort to retrieve them.
Martin blushed a little. “Because I like you, Belle.”
“Martin, you are just a boy. I am much too old for you.”
“I’m not a boy,” he said defensively. “I’m fifteen now.”
“Oh, fifteen,” she said pretending to be impressed. “Pardon me. You are practically a man.”
This made Martin feel good. Pushing out his chest, he held the flowers higher. “That’s right. I’m almost a man. And I would like to marry you, Belle.”
“You would like to marry me?” Belle asked amused. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Okay then. Tell me, why have you never brought me flowers while I was in town? Why do you only bring them to me out here?”
Martin’s confidence wavered. “Because I don’t think my parents would approve of me courting you.”
“They wouldn’t?” Belle asked unsurprised. “And why is that, Martin? Is it because I am much too old for a young man like you?”
Martin began to shrink. “I don’t think so,” he admitted shyly.
“Then could it be because of a certain rumor that has been going around town concerning the private activities between me and my now deceased fiancé?” Belle asked knowingly.
Martin said nothing confirming everything for Belle. “That’s what I thought.” Moving to finish packing her gear, Martin desperately cut in front of her.
“But, Belle, I love you,” Martin proclaimed holding the flowers tightly to his chest.
Belle had always tried to be nice to Martin, but here, on the anniversary of Trudeau’s death, she had had enough. “You love me, Martin? You are saying that you love me?”
“I do,” the boy insisted.
“Then let me inform you of something. Apparently, all of the boys in the village love me, as well as some of the men. But they never tell me when anyone else is around. No, they would never do that. They won’t even admit to anyone that they talk to me.
“I am every boy’s shameful fantasy. I am the harlot. I’m the girl who could give her innocence away to a boy she wasn’t married to. And all of you think that if I’ve had done it once, maybe I might do it again. Well, let me tell you something, Martin.”
Belle stepped towards the boy, snatch the flowers from his hand, and forcefully threw it back at him. “You can take your flowers and backward ideas and shove them up your arse,” she said flustered.
Martin stared at Belle shocked that he had heard a woman utter such a phrase. Certainly, he knew that she was right. That was what the other boys were saying about her. But he never expected a woman to ever say it so directly.
“Belle, I think it’s true what they say about you,” he said attempting to regain his pride.
“Oh yeah, Martin? And what is that?”
“They say you’re trash. They say that you would do it with any boy who brings you flowers and talks to you in the right way. I know that you’ve done it with my friends. Why not do it with me too. I’m just as good as them. I can even give you something if you do,” the boy said holding out his father’s pocket watch.
Belle was exasperated. How could boys be saying something so untrue about her? “I don’t want your father’s trinkets,” Belle said disgusted. “And the things that your friends are saying aren’t true.”
“Are you saying that they are all lying?” Martin asked doubtfully.
“Yes, Martin. They’re lying.”
Martin thought for a second. “I don’t believe you,” he said defiantly.
Upset, Belle took a second and pulled herself together. She wasn’t going to change his mind by yelling at him.
“Okay, tell me something, Martin. When you leave here and go talk to your friends, what will you tell them about what happened? Will you admit to them that nothing happened and will you relate the conversation that we are having now? Or will you feel the pressure to lie and say that I had done to you what they claimed I had done with them?”
Martin’s mouth slowly dropped open as he considered it. She was right. He couldn’t admit to his friends that nothing had happened between them considering she had turned the rest of them into men.
“Well, if you just did with me what you did with the other boys, I wouldn’t have to lie about anything,” Martin insisted.
“I am doing with you what I did with the other boys. Martin, nothing happened between them and me!” Feeling herself lose control, she gathered herself once again. “Martin, I’ve known you ever since you were a baby. I have always liked you. You were a good boy. It’s time for you to be a good man.
“You know me. I have always treated you fairly. I have even defended you when the other boys were picking on you. It’s time for you to defend me now.”
Martin looked at Belle shyly. “But if you just did with me what you did with the other boys, I wouldn’t have to lie.”
Belle looked back at the boy she had once thought of as a friend. “Then I guess you are going to have to lie.” With that, she again collected her things and walked away.
“Is it because you think you’re too good for me?” The boy asked as Belle left him. “Because you’re not. Everybody says you’re trash. Even my dad says it. Why would you be with the other boys and not with me? Huh? Do you think you’re too good for me? Huh, Belle? Do you?”
Belle continued her march off with her head held high. She didn’t want him to see how much he had gotten to her. He had. She was devastated and the tears that streamed down her face said it all. Her heart ached thinking about what the entire town thought of her. It was almost too much for her to bare.
As she approached the outskirts of her hamlet, Belle managed to pull herself together. She was not going to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing how much their mistreatment had got to her. She had to remain strong. She had done nothing wrong expressing her love for Trudeau and she wasn’t about to let any of the closed-minded villagers make her feel like she had.
Stepping onto the cobblestone of the inner square, Belle held her head high and marched towards her home. In the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs. Batton and Mrs. Elise. Mr. Sessions, the village priest, was headed back to the church and Mr. Piccoli the miller was making his weekly visit to town.
The one person that Belle saw that she truly wished he hadn’t was Captain Bernard. Belle attempted to shift directions and scuttle out of there when Captain Bernard spotted her and rushed over.
“Belle, stop there,” Captain Bernard said in a tone gruffer than he intended.
Belle froze and tensed unsure about what direction the conversation would go. As he approached, Belle was cautious to say the right thing. “Can I help you, Captain Bernard?”
“I’ve told you, Belle, call me Bernard.”
“Are you not a Captain in the King’s army?” Belle asked unwaveringly.
“I am, Belle. You know that.”
“Then I shall call you by the rank that you have no doubt earned.”
“I have earned that rank, but I am trying to earn an even higher rank with you. Haven’t I yet made that clear, Belle?”
“You have. And haven’t I made clear my response?” Belle asked finally exhausted.
“You have. But I wouldn’t have made it to the rank of Captain if I folded the minute I met a little resistance, now would I?” He said with a smile.
“Is there a reason you have stopped me, Captain Bernard? Because if there is not, I would sooner be on my way.”
“Must everything be about official business with you, Belle? Couldn’t anything be about two friends talking?”
“For that to happen, one would first need two friends,” she said much more harshly than she had intended.
Hurt, Captain Bernard straightened up. Tucking his arms behind his back he relented. “Very well. If you must make this official, then I will concede. What have you got there, Belle?”
“Well, this is my fishing box which I use to catch fish. And this is a basket of fish.”
“You caught a fish?” Captain Bernard asked surprised. “From where? The stream closest out of town?”
“It is the only stream nearby. Are you planning on taxing me for catching some of the King’s fish?”
“Oh no, nothing like that. It’s just that I have tried many times to catch fish in that stream. I’ve never had any luck.”
“Yes, it’s hard. But I have found that with a little ingenuity and a little patience, you can accomplish a lot.”
Captain Bernard smiled. “You never cease to amaze me, Belle. You will be my wife yet.”
“Wife?” Belle asked genuinely surprised. “Do you see a girl like me as the wife of a Captain? Especially a Captain who has a nickname like The Animal?”
“You know about that?” Captain Bernard asked startled.
“A Captain so vicious that he has been known to tear apart the enemy, sometimes with his bare hands,” Belle recited.
“Well, you can’t always believe what you hear,” he explained.
Bella took a step forward. “And neither can you. Now, if there is nothing else, I would like to return to my father. He is expecting me to make dinner,” she said lifting her basket.
“Of course, Belle. Until we meet again,” he said giving her a slight bow.
Belle walked off without acknowledging him further. When she was far enough that she was sure he wouldn’t stop her again, she thought about what he had said. Did he want to make her his wife? If young Martin and his father had heard the rumors spread about her, then certainly The Captain would’ve heard it as well. Why, then, would he speak about marrying her?
Was he just taunting her? Was he as cruel as his reputation made him out to be? Did he believe that she was as easy to fool as the rumors said? Did Captain Bernard, like Martin, think that simply dangling some carrot would get Belle to be intimate with them? Or, even worse, did the Captain incorrectly assume that this was how Trudeau had convinced Belle to lay with him before marriage?
Approaching the handful of stairs that led up to their home, Belle set aside thoughts of the Captain deciding that none of it mattered. There was no way that Belle would become anyone’s wife much less the wife of a man so vicious.
The love of Bell’s life was buried. She didn’t expect to find another man as wonderful as the one she had lost. So, as long as she had her father, she didn’t need anyone else.
Belle opened the door to their quaint home and looked around for the man she loved. “Papa?” She asked not immediately seeing him.
“I’m over here, Belle,” he said from the far corner of the room. He was hidden behind a pile of trinkets.
“There you are. You will be glad to know that I caught a few fish. We will be having fish for dinner,” she said with a smile.
Belle rested down her fishing box and placed her basket next to the stove. With her arms free, she immediately checked the flour pot. It was nearly empty. “Papa, you forgot to pick up more supplies.”
“Oh, darn it, you’re right. I swear I would forget my head if it wasn’t attached my body. I will pick them up tomorrow. Will you forgive me?”
Belle smiled. “Of course, Papa.”
“You know, I knew that adding that alteration to your fishing box would make all of the difference in the world.”
“You were right, Papa. You are always right about such thing. You are the smartest man I know.”
“And you are the smartest person I have ever met,” he said lovingly. “The only person I knew who even came close was…”
“My mother?” Belle asked longingly.
“Right. Your mother,” he replied saddened.
Leaving the kitchen, Belle headed to her father and sat on a nearby stool. “Is there anything else that you could tell me about my mother?”
Belle’s father looked at her seeing the woman he had loved in Belle’s eyes.
“She was as lovely as you are. She was so kind and giving. And the thing that made me know that I wanted to spend the rest my life with her was when I found out how clever she was. There are not many people who could rival your smarts, Belle. Your mother, however, she had a mind like no other.”
Belle sat lost in thought considering the woman she couldn’t remember. She had died when Belle was still a baby. It was the loss of his wife that had driven her father to move out of the city into their hamlet.
Belle often thought about what her life would be like if she had grown up around thinkers and libertarians like the folks her father sold his clocks to. But instead, she grew up among judgmental women who wanted nothing but to find a husband, and simpleminded men who drank away their lives in the local tavern.
Belle wondered how differently her life might’ve been if her mother had lived. Thinking about it brought an ache to her heart that could only be equaled by what she felt for her lost love.
“It’s done,” Belle’s father said bringing her back to the present.
Belle looked up as her father put the finishing touches on a clock. “It’s your masterpiece,” she said walking toward it.
“Actually, creating you was my masterpiece. This is just a well-designed clock.”
“A clock that would fetch you enough money to move us out of this tiny close-minded town,” Belle explained.
“Do you truly want to leave?” Her father asked turning to her.
“There is no life for me here,” she said sadly.
“Then, this is what the money from this clock will go towards. It will be used to make my little girl happy,” he said holding her forearm offering Belle a smile.
“Thank you, Papa,” she replied wrapping her arms around the man she loved more than life itself.