The bills for the wedding itself he paid for in his last days as the wealthiest merchant in the city. He would not be able to fulfill the contracts for his daughters’ dowries, but his two elder daughters were in themselves reward enough for any man. And her sisters would do something for Beauty.
It was ten days before the wedding when the news broke. People were stunned. It was all anyone talked about for three days—and then the next news came: The Duke of Dauntless and the Baron of Grandiloquence had broken off the wedding.
The messengers from their fiancés brought the sisters’ fate to them on small squares of thick cream-laid paper, folded and sealed with the heavy heirloom seals of their fiancés’ houses. Lionheart and Jeweltongue each replied with one cold line written in her own firm hand; neither kept her messenger waiting,
By the end of that day Lionheart and Jeweltongue and Beauty and their father were alone in their great house; not a servant remained to them, and many had stolen valuable fittings and furniture as well, guessing correctly that their ruined masters would not be able to order them returned, nor punish them for theft.
As the twilight lengthened in their silent sitting-room, Jeweltongue at last stood up from her chair and began to light the lamps; Lionheart stirred in her comer and went downstairs to the kitchens. Beauty remained where she was, charring her father’s cold hands and fearing what the expression on his face might mean. Later she ate what Lion-heart put in front of her, without noticing what it was, and fed their father with a spoon, as if he were a child. Jeweltongue settled down with the housekeeper’s book and began to study it, making the occasional note.
For the first few days they did only small, immediate things. Lionheart took over the kitchens and cooking; Jeweltongue took over the housekeeping. Beauty began going through the boxes of papers that had been delivered from what had been her father’s office and dumped in a comer of one of the drawing-rooms.
Lionheart could be heard two floors away from the kitchens, cursing and flinging things about, wielding knives and mallets like swords and lances. Jeweltongue rarely spoke aloud, but she swept floors and beat the laundry as pitilessly as she had ever told off an underhousemaid for not blacking a grate sufficiently or a footman waiting at table for having a spot on his shirtfront.
Beauty read their father’s correspondence, trying to discover the real state of their affairs and some gleam of guidance as to what they must do next. She wrote out necessary replies, while her father mumbled and moaned and rocked in his chair, and she held his trembling hand around the pen that he might write his signature when she had finished.
Even the garden could not soothe Beauty during that time. She went out into it occasionally, as she might have reached for a shawl if she were cold; but she would find herself standing nowhere she could remember going, staring blindly at whatever was before her, her thoughts spinning and spinning and spinning until she was dizzy with them. There were now no gardeners to hide from, but any relief she might have found in that was overbalanced by seeing how quickly the garden began to look shabby and neglected. She didn’t much mind the indoors beginning to look shabby and neglected; furniture doesn’t notice being dusty, corners don’t notice cobwebs, cushions don’t notice being unplumped. She. told herself that plants didn’t mind going undeadheaded and unpruned—and the weeds, of course, were much happier than they’d ever been before. But the plants in the garden were her friends; the house was just a building full of objects.
She had little appetite and barely noticed as Lionheart’s lumpen messes began to evolve into recognizable dishes. She had never taken a great deal of interest in her own appearance and had minded the least of the three of them when they put their fine clothes away, for they had agreed among themselves that all their good things should go towards assuaging their father’s creditors. She did not notice that Jeweltongue had an immediate gift for invisible darns, for making a bodice out of an old counterpane, a skirt of older curtains, and collar and cuff’s of worn linen napkins with the stained bits cut out, and finishing with a pretty dress it was no penance to wear.
Nor could she sleep at night. She felt she would welcome her old nightmare almost as solace, so dreadful had their waking life become; but the dream stayed away. Since her mother’s death it had never left her alone for so long. She found herself missing it; in its absence it became one more security that had been torn away from her, a faithful companion who had deserted her. And it was not until now, with their lives a wreck around them, that she realised she had forgotten what her mother’s face looked like. She could remember remembering, she could remember the long months after her mother’s death, waking from the dream crying, “Mamma!” and knowing what face she hoped to see when she opened her eyes, knowing her disappointment when it was only the nurse’s. When had she forgotten her mother’s face? Some unmarked moment in the last several years, as childhood memories dimmed under the weight of adult responsibilities, or only now. one more casualty of their ruin? She did not know and could not guess.
What unsettled her most of all was that her last fading wisp of memory contained nothing of her mother’s beauty, but only kindness, kindness and peace, a sense of safe haven. And yet the first thing anyone who had known her mother mentioned about her was her beauty, and while she was praised for her vitality, her wit, and her courage, far from any haven, her companionship was a dare, a challenge, an exhilarating danger.
In among her father’s papers Beauty discovered a lawyers’ copy of a will, dated in May of the year she had turned two, leaving the three sisters the possession of the little house owned by the woman named. Beauty puzzled over this for some time, as she knew all her father’s relatives (none of whom wanted to know him or his daughters anymore), and knew as well that her mother had had none; nor did she know of any connexion whatsoever to anyone or anything so far away from the city of the sisters’ birth. But there was no easy accounting for it. and Beauty had no time for useless mysteries.
There was a lawyers’ letter with the will, dated seven years later, saying that the old woman had disappeared soon after making the will, and in accordance with the law, the woman had now been declared dead, and the house was theirs. It was called Rose Cottage. It lay many weeks’ journey from the city, and it stood alone in rough country, at a little distance from the nearest town.
Even their father’s creditors were not interested in it.