VII

"When a woman is talking to you, listen to what she says with her eyes." Victor Hugo

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VII.

That morning, Peter had discovered that he did not possess the virtue of subtlety. Such was the case when he began inquiring with Grace after Belle. He, along with the rest of his family and the dinner guests, had stayed the night at Ashwood House. Peter had been expecting, hoping, to meet Belle again at breakfast, but alas, she had already left for her work in the Ashwood village.

It was then that he had learned of the ridiculous deal she had fallen victim to in order to earn a wage in the village, and it angered Peter greatly that anyone could view such a deal as fair. It certainly was not fair.

Peter was utterly unsure of the spell that Belle had cast over him the night before at dinner, but something had changed within him. Standing before her, as he was now in the grocer, Peter felt completely bewitched. He had never experienced such feelings before. His attention had never been captured like this before.

Of course, he had noticed pretty women before, but then, he supposed, Peter had never seen a lady as beautiful as Belle. He had never seen a woman like her before ever. It was as though he'd had no idea that women could be so lovely before he laid eyes upon her.

But beauty, to be certain, was merely skin deep, and what commanded Peter's attention was note solely Belle's striking face. Peter wanted to know her nature, her mind, her thoughts. She wielded an almighty shield to keep herself safe. He felt a yearning from deep within to gain her trust. He wanted her trust, and he wanted her faith. He could see that these gifts would indeed be challenging to earn from one who had no doubt suffered as she had.

Peter had dreamt of it the night before. The very thought fuelled an anger inside of him that he had never known was there. But in looking upon Belle, in seeing the fear in her eyes at the very notion that Mr Andrews was angry, Peter knew that he could never be irresponsible with emotions like anger.

She possessed a heartbreaking amount of fear for someone so young. Peter believed they were probably a similar age to one another, and he felt rather selfish at really never knowing true fear.

Inconvenience and frustration, to be sure, but never fear.

Peter wanted to earn Belle's trust. Such a gift would be an honour.

Mr Andrews stomped back into the shop and glowered at Peter. He would regret his slight deception only in the way that it might impede on the service his mother received, but he would never regret securing Belle a fair deal.

Regardless of the fact that Peter had assured Belle that Mr Andrews now understood her value, Belle had tensed now that he had returned from the flat upstairs. She was looking past Peter now, watching Mr Andrews carefully, almost as though she was ready to run at any moment.

What sort of evil had she known in her young life?

"Will you show me what you are doing?" Peter asked, recapturing Belle's attention.

She blinked a few times, before her golden eyes settled back upon him. Would Peter ever get used to those irises? He did not know. How striking they were against the beautiful, cool brown of her skin.

Peter decided that he was going to remain in the shop for as long as Belle was today, though he did not want to offer to stay with her, to wait with her, or to protect her. He did not want Belle to focus on the fact that she was afraid, but Peter did not want to leave her when she was feeling frightened.

"Men ... do not like ... to know ... to sew." Belle stammered a little, stumbling over her words, and perhaps choosing a few that did not entirely make sense together as her accent became more pronounced through her apprehension.

But Peter did understand what she meant. And quite selfishly, he was glad that he was not the one stumbling over his words, though he did acknowledge that Belle's tongue tiredness was not because of infatuation.

Peter gestured to the buttons on his coat, and he smiled reassuringly. "My coat has buttons. Oughtn't I know how to sew one back on should I lose it?"

Belle swallowed nervously. "No," she replied, her voice steadying. "You should pay me to do it."

Peter laughed. Genuinely. He could see as her shoulders relaxed marginally that she had made a joke, and he appreciated how challenging that had to be in a language that was not her mother tongue. He could also appreciate how challenging it had to be to joke when she had been feeling so frightened. But then, Peter hoped, that he had somehow helped to ease her fear.

But Belle relented, and for the remainder of the day, Peter sat behind her and watched her work. She finished darning a sock, and before this day, Peter had never before realised what had happened between the times he had worn holes in his socks, and his mother had returned them to him as good as new. Belle then moved on to hemming the skirt of a dress, and he watched in almost hypnotised fascination as her tiny hands moved so delicately with the needle.

Belle did not speak to him as she worked. Peter was determined not to distract her. He was simply there so that her shoulders could remain relaxed.

Though after a few hours of watching Belle diligently sew, Peter was quite certain that his hands, which really looked like a link of sausages in comparison to Belle's, were quite unsuited to such delicate work. Belle's hands moved with expertise and experience as she formed one perfect stitch after the other.

Customers came and went, and Mr Andrews returned into his charming self. Purchases were made, and Belle received more work from people bringing her their garments for alterations, as well as people coming to collect the clothing that she had finished.

Belle was a passive proprietor. That was what Peter observed. She kept her eyes low and her voice demure. Peter did not intervene on her behalf, even when customers, neighbours of whom he had known he whole life, barked orders at her as though she was a servant and not a businesswoman. Quietly, Peter willed Belle to do this herself.

Though this was how she had seemed for much of the dinner the night before as well. Belle did not tend to make eye contact. She did not speak until she was spoken to. She did not fight. But instead, she wielded her shield and she protected herself the only way she knew how.

Belle did not fight, and Peter could only assume that was learned, ingrained behaviour. From where ...? He hated to imagine.

The final customer through the door that day was Alex, who greeted a prickly Mr Andrews before turning towards Belle's table. His dark eyes widened when he saw Peter seated behind Belle. His head cocked to the side a little before his eyes narrowed.

Peter felt his stomach tighten. Why did he suddenly feel as though he was the one in danger?

Alex approached the table, removing his hat, and Belle took his arrival as time to conclude her work for the day. Alex then uttered something to Belle in French, his eyes flashing to Peter briefly, and Belle replied in the same tongue.

Peter couldn't help but feel as though they were speaking about him, and he wished he could understand.

"How do you do, Mr Denham?" greeted Alex, finally.

Peter stood, smiling awkwardly. "Well," he replied. "And you, Mr Whitfield?"

"Well," Alex returned. "I have come to escort Belle home."

Peter could sense his dismissal in Alex's tone, as well as an air of distrust. Which, Peter granted, was fair. They did not know each other well, and it was clear that Alex cared for Belle a great deal. He was protective of her, as though she were his younger sister.

Peter was momentarily distracted by the sound of coins, and he watched as Belle collected two shillings from her money tin before she took a deep breath and approached Mr Andrews. She walked stiffly, yet quickly, and she kept her eyes low as she placed the money on the counter for him.

Mr Andrews did not say or do anything to acknowledge her, save for snatching the coins as soon as her hand was away from them. Belle darted back to her table to collect her money tin, before she nodded to Alex.

Peter could not help but feel a little disappointed in this arrangement. Yet another surprise for him, considering he had only laid eyes upon this woman last night. But he at least thought he might have a chance to speak with her a little more had he been allowed to walk her back home. But it seemed this was not to be.

Peter realised that walking alone with a man was probably not going to earn Belle's trust. Alex, he understood, was different.

The three of them left the grocer and stepped out onto the street. Peter felt a sense of regret knowing that this was when he was going to have to leave her. When could he reasonably see her again? He could not very well sit behind her all day tomorrow, could he?

Alex said something to Belle, again in French. Belle nodded, before she looked to Peter rather shyly.

"Thank you," she said softly, yet gratefully. Her gratitude was layered, and Peter understood that she was thanking him for several reasons, some of which she could not articulate. After thanking him, however, she turned, and began to walk on ahead in the direction of the road that would take her up to Ashwood House.

"Are you not going to escort her?" Peter asked Alex, his brows furrowed. "If you will not, then I would be happy to."

"I told her to start walking, and that I would catch up in a moment," said Alex coolly.

"Ah," realised Peter, nodding his head once. The feeling of apprehension reappeared in his stomach.

Alex straightened his posture, making his already impossibly broad shoulders seemed wider and stronger. Her was an incredibly large man, with the sort of brawn that Peter had never before seen on another man. Really, with the flick of his finger, he would be quite capable of knocking Peter off of his feet, and he was not a small man either!

"What are you doing?" Alex demanded to know, his teeth clenching. "I do not care that you are a relative of Susanna. I care very little about you in this moment. What are you doing near Belle?"

But before Peter could even form a response, Alex interrupted.

His accent was not as thick as Belle's, as he had clearly been speaking English for longer, however in anger, the French became more obvious. "She is not a plaything ... not a conquest or a game you can play. Belle has suffered more in her young life than you could ever conjure up in your worst nightmares," Alex seethed in a hushed voice through his barred teeth. "If you are wanting a woman to ..." Alex did not finish the sentence, but he had implied the ending well enough. "Belle is not the one. She will not be used or toyed with. Not a hair on her head will be harmed so long as I am living. I made that promise to her, and I will keep it. I will say it again, Peter Denham. I do not care that you are a relative of Susanna's. If you are even thinking about hurting Belle, I suggest you run very far from me."

"I would never hurt her," replied Peter defensively. "I would never hurt any woman. I have three sisters, Mr Whitfield, and a mother. I am not the sort of man who plays with women," he said distastefully. "The whole reason I came here today was because I wanted the very best for Miss Desjardins! I negotiated her a better deal, to allow her to keep her income, and I stayed behind so that she did not feel afraid to be alone with Mr Andrews."

Alex exhaled, nodding once slowly.

"I understand her experiences –"

"You don't understand," interrupted Alex, though he did not do so rudely. In fact, his tone was sad. "You don't understand what she has endured. I can to a point, but not even I know, not even I can fully understand."

Peter accepted that, and he regretted his choice of words. Of course, he could not understand. But that did not mean that he did not want to. "I would never hurt her," Peter said again. "It is the very last thing I would ever want to do."

----

Oh, Peter. I wish you would treat ME right ... :(

So it's been a little bit since I last updated, not too long but a little bit longer than I'd usually leave you hanging. If you missed the post on my message board, long story short, I had my heartbroken.

I don't normally tell you guys about my relationships, purely because if they end badly, I don't want to be reading about them in the future when I come back to my old author's notes. This will be a fun one to come back to!

This one stung. This one hurt me in an unreal sort of way. I basically spent the last week crying, convincing myself that no-one will ever love me (I was feeling very sorry for myself lol). I was in a different sort of pain.

I'm not okay, but I know I will be. What I do know is that I am ready to fully experience and collapse over Red (Taylor's Version).

I suppose another positive is that I can draw from a whole new level of pain to make my poor characters suffer ... but then ... my men are always gentlemen. They're good.

In other news, my 10 year Wattpad anniversary is coming up on November 20 and I am writing a bonus epilogue to celebrate. I have created a Google Form and the link is on my message board, for you to go and vote for which couple you would like to see again! It's been awesome to see which couples you guys have missed, and I've gotta say, you're surprising me with some of them! So don't forget to have your say!

I hope your hearts are healed, healthy, and full. Vote and comment xx