Chapter five - Beatrice

Beatrice shifted over onto her side and snuggled further into her pillow, trying to cling to the fringes of a lovely half-remembered dream. It was really more of a feeling than any actual visual images. An awareness of an enticing pleasantly musky scent surrounding her. A warm, comfortable feeling of being coddled in loving arms. A sense of belonging.  Something that had been missing in her life for far too long. Her intellectual self recognized it all as merely a dream, but she felt so happily safe and secure she struggled to hold onto the feeling for just a little longer. But it wasn't to be.

As the vague dream continued to slip away into the mist, she groaned with frustration. It had been so many years since she'd been held in loving arms. Not since her parents passed away, and she'd come to live with her older brother and his family. A place where she had never felt welcome. Michael tried his best, but his attempts at brotherly affection were awkward at best. The seventeen years in age difference between them meant they were little more than strangers. His wife, however, had never made any secret of the fact that she considered Beatrice a burden and never let Beatrice forget it. Sissy had little sympathy for the shy, awkward teenager still mourning the loss of loving parents. A pretty little girl just entering her teen years Sissy saw as competition for her husband's affection.

Beatrice was there on sufferance, and she was reminded of it every day. Sissy treated her as little more than a servant, someone she could order around and yet didn't have to pay. And after Michael succumbed to fever last fall, things had gotten worse.

Their dwindling finances made life a struggle. The income from the investments her father and then brother had made through the years barely paid the bills. In order to economize, Sissy had been forced to dismiss all the servants, but she refused to stoop to performing menial tasks herself. Why should she lift a finger when she had an able young girl to do the work? Beatrice had been forced to take on many household chores. Not that she could complain. After all, someone had to ensure food was cooked and the place was kept clean and habitable. At least she could be thankful she had a roof over her head and food in her belly. And her young nephew and two nieces were a joy.

Reluctantly, with a soft sigh, she rolled to her back and allowed the dream world to evaporate. The children would soon be scampering about, and the last thing she needed was for them to wake their mother. She heard a creak and then a quiet thunk as, somewhere nearby, a door closed. The crisp bite of cool air passed over her blankets, and a small grin ticked to her lips.

That would be Martine, the youngest and most inquisitive of all three. The child was always asking questions, constantly needing to know everything. She was also the most reckless and prone to getting into trouble. Knowing she couldn't put off the day any longer, her eyes fluttered open.

Her jaw dropped, and she sat bolt upright as she gasped in shock. Instead of the faded wallpaper of her tiny bedroom, she found herself staring into a massive stone hearth. She could have stood in the middle of it, and her head would not reach the stone mantle. A small fire snapped and crackled, happily lapping away at the logs in the grate. A large kettle steamed on a shelf inside the fireplace, and a baking crock sat just to the side of the hearth. Over the open flames, a large soup pot hung from a hook, and the heavenly aromas wafting past her nose had her tummy rumbling with hunger. She licked dry lips as she suddenly realized she was starving, and that soup smelled so deliciously tempting.

But wait. If there was food bubbling over a blazing fire, then that must mean that someone was nearby to tend to it. And hadn't she just been dreaming about a large bear, or was it a man? Beatrice cautiously lifted her head to look around but didn't see anyone. She was alone in the cavernous room. With bare stone walls and a barrel-vaulted ceiling that disappeared into the darkness overhead, the place seemed almost cave-like. It was dark, lit only by the fire in the grate, what little daylight filtered in through the two narrow windows high above in the opposite wall and a single lantern hung on a bracket on the far wall.

A heavy wooden door, which she concluded had to lead directly outside, stood off to the one side below the windows. To the left sat a small water barrel on a stool and on the floor to the right, a large wooden box. A narrow shelf with a row of hooks from which clothing hung floated above the box. She recognized her own blue cloak among the rest. Off to the side were her shoes, with a massive pair of boots sitting on the floor beside them. No doubt they belonged to a giant of a man. She gulped in fear, beginning to feel a bit like Goldilocks about to meet Papa Bear.

There seemed to be very little in the way of actual furniture in the room. The pallet she lay on took up a good portion of the floor. An enormous clothes chest sat nearby, a bit rough and obviously newly built. The wall above it was lined with shelves. From what she could see, there were wooden cups and bowls stacked neatly, jars of spices and herbs aligned in tidy formation. Everything looked neat, clean, and well organized.

Against the far wall, beneath the hanging lantern, stood a high, rough table, beside-which sat another stool. Both had the same rough and newly made appearance as the clothes chest. Everything seemed functional rather than decorative, but the raw wood gave it all a fresh, new look. On the table were several strange looking tools and a few small blocks of wood in various sizes and shapes. But then a beautiful figurine sitting in the midst of the clutter caught her eye.

An angelic little cherub, about the size of a small infant, sat in the midst of it all. Carved with singular perfection, the child like innocence was captured in its purest form. The piece was exquisite. Large, soulful eyes stared out onto the world, unblinking. Chubby cheeks, rosebud lips, and the sweetest curls encircled a perfectly sweet round face. The tiny angel knelt, hands clasped in prayer, her robes flowing around her as if caught in a light breeze. Her wings were folded behind her shoulders, the feathers just peeking out from behind her head. Whoever carved such wondrous beauty was a master at his craft.

The urge to get a closer look had her tossing back the blanket. Beatrice pushed herself up with a groan. Every muscle protested the movement. She felt drained, as if she had been working hard for days, but she ignored it. A little discomfort had never stopped her before. She sat for a moment to collect herself. Odd how simply rising from the bed seemed such an exhausting task.

It was only as the door suddenly opened, and she felt a distinct chill, that she looked down at herself and realized she was completely naked. At that same moment, a virtual behemoth of a man stepped through the doorway. Her jaw dropped, and for a moment, all she could do was sit and stare. Shock held her immobilized. He was as massive as a great bear. And the hair engulfing his head only added to the resemblance. A tremor of fear rippled down her core.

Suddenly, she glanced down at herself and realized the display she was presenting. Mortified, she yanked the coarse blanket closed, wrapping it about herself and fisting it tight at her throat. Consumed with embarrassment, she wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor and vanish. She had never been completely naked in the presence of a man before in her entire life.

Mortification turned instantly to outrage, and without a second thought, she all-but screeched. "Where are my clothes?"

The bear-man came to a halt just inside the door. He frowned down at her overtop of the pile of wood in his arms for a long moment, as if he was trying to puzzle out who she was and what she was doing here. Then he slowly turned away. She watched him lift one massive bulging shoulder as he dropped his burden into the wood box beside the door. Anger burned inside her at his careless attitude. He was purposely ignoring her. Beatrice was tempted to throw something at him, but that would require a visual search for a suitable weapon, and she didn't trust this gigantic stranger enough to take her eyes off him.

She watched his every move with the intensity of a mouse watching a cat, ready to jump and scramble away should he show any signs of approaching. But he merely leaned across the woodbox and reached up to the line of hooks on the wall. With one meaty fist, he grasped the material she recognized as her cloak and, without even glancing in her direction, casually tossed it to her. She blinked and simply sat watching as the lump of material settled at the edge of the pallet near her feet. It was obvious that the rest of her clothes had been hung on the same hook beneath the cloak. She easily recognized her dress and petticoat, corset, and chemise. She was so shocked that she didn't realize she had let herself be distracted and let the man out of her sight. Before she could lift her gaze to find her silent host, a soft thunk sounded, and she was left staring at the closed door.

Beatrice sat there, completely nonplussed. Here she was, all prepared to fight for her virtue, and the man had simply turned and walked out. He hadn't even uttered a word. No explanation, no greeting, not even a grunt. He simply tossed that bundle of clothes in her direction and promptly decamped. How rude. Had the man never been taught manners?

She sat shaking her head in total consternation until it suddenly occurred to her that he could return at any moment. Panic set in. She pounced on the bundle of clothes. Eyeing the door, she cautiously released the blanket and hastily drew on her chemise. The faster she could cover herself, the better. She knew far too well how untrustworthy men could be. It was as she reached for her petticoat that she heard a thwack-thunk from outside. Pausing, she tilted her head and listened.

Again, the thwack-thunk echoed from outside, and her gaze slid to the woodbox. She remembered the blocks he'd carried in and concluded her host was employed chopping firewood. Good. That should give her some time before his return to prepare herself and gather her composure. Beatrice got to her knees, but she must have moved too quickly. Her sight went fuzzy, and she wobbled a bit. She braced herself against the wall as she waited for the room to steady. When she felt capable of staying upright, she rifled through her clothes.

Everything was there. Even her stockings, although they were nearly shredded. Not that the rest of her clothing was in much better shape. Well-worn and patched in a few places, the dress itself was a washed-out blue, so faded it was almost grey. The skirt was slightly shorter than would be acceptable in refined company. The hem had been raised to hide scorch marks from the many times she'd been too near the kitchen fire. The cuffs and hemline were frayed, and the lace trim yellowed with age. She was lucky the dress still fit, as it was one of her oldest and most modest. She had worn it in hopes that Mister Narwhal would be less attentive.

A growling rumble and a hunger pang interrupted her thoughts, reminding her how empty her belly was. Her gaze slid to the pot, steaming near the open fire. The soup smelled delicious. At least she assumed it was soup. The thwack-thunk echoed from outside, and again, her tummy rumbled. Surely, there was no harm in having a small taste. Cautiously, she rose to her feet and, when the room remained steady, moved to the shelves nearby. She chose a small bowl and returned to carefully ladle out a small portion of the steaming liquid. It smelled even more heavenly now that she'd broken the surface. After lifting the bowl to her lips and blowing softly over the rim, she tipped it up and carefully took a sip.

Whoever her host was, she had to admit he was a good cook. The chicken broth was perfect. Not too salty, not too watery, just the right amount of seasoning to bring out the flavor. Despite the steamy heat of the soup, she finished off the bowl in a few appreciative sips. She was savoring the last drop when the door was yanked open a second time, and the man returned, bulging arms laden with another load of wood.

Beatrice froze in place, like a timid forest animal caught in the open. But the giant ignored her. He dropped his load into the box and returned outside, the door thunking behind him. She almost stamped her foot in irritation. How dare he simply ignore her. Not even a nod to acknowledge her presence. What sort of man was he to treat a guest so rudely.