Rosalind - Beauty and the Beast meets Dracula retelling

58- Melancholia

The next day passed like an unliftable weight. Harlan told Rosalind he would stay with her while Jacob and Julien fetched the rents but she did not long for her father's company.

"You are a busy man," she began. "The tenants do not give you a hard time when it comes to handing you their coin, my brothers are not as proficient with public relations as you are, father." Rosalind patted Harlan's hand as she smiled through the lies. She knew her brothers were more than capable of collecting the rent. "You will be here for supper," she cajoled as she held Harlan's long coat for him, "and I will be perfectly fine with Clairie and the others."

When the Hershel men waved to Rosalind from their horses, she waved back and touched her fingers to her lips in a parting kiss. She watched the three of them depart into the hazy fall of snow. When they had gone from sight, she stepped away from the window with a sigh and headed towards the kitchen to get a cup of tea.

Barely an hour ago, Clairie had fretted over the lack of porridge Rosalind had eaten for breakfast. Gently scolding that three spoonfuls were not enough. Not wanting to cause a fuss, Rosalind pretended to eat, but while the maid had her back turned, Rosalind tossed the food away.

Now, she longed for the warmth of the kitchen where the youngest maid often worked. Rosalind slipped inside and sat at the table.

"Miss," Clairie wiped her hands on a dishtowel and headed to her mistress. "Can I get you something?"

The scent of thyme tea filled the room, coupled with the warmth of the wood-burning stoves, the room felt cosy and welcoming.

"May I have a cup of tea with honey?"

The maid took a porcelain cup dotted with purple flowers and filled it with tea before spooning in some honey and handing it to Rosalind. "Miss," Clairie said nervously. She sat across from Rosalind and began to wring her hands.

As she was lifting the tea to her lips, Rosalind paused. "Yes?"

"What was he like?" the maid asked in a whisper, "The Borgo Beast?"

Rosalind set the cup down, her eyes dancing over the flower print. He has a name, she wanted to say but bit her lip realizing she did not want to share that information with anyone. "At first I was frightened," she began softly. "I knew of his...legacy. Of the murders." When Rosalind saw the maid listen intently, she knew her friend was waiting for the part where the lord had hurt her. But such accusations would not leave Rosalind's lips. "He acted as a lord should. Proper. Kind..."

"Kind?" Clairie cupped her hands over her mouth to hide her laughter. "Oh, miss...were you put under a spell?"

Rosalind's hands darted under the table, her fingernails digging into her skin as she balled her hands into fists. "He acted as he promised my father he would. He treated me with respect and hospitality."

Clairie continued to giggle through her fingers. "I am happy he treated you well." She lowered her hands and smoothed out a wrinkle on the ivory tablecloth. "I cannot picture a monster who has spread pandemonium for one hundred years to ever be kind, but I am glad that you were treated as a lady like yourself ought to be treated..." Clairie paused before she added, "and not some harlot."

Rosalind pursed her lips. She thought about flinging the tea against the wall, watch the porcelain shatter. The word harlot rung in her ears as her brother's utterance of whore did. "I feel a bit tired, Clairie," she muttered, "I am going to take a small nap." Rosalind thanked the maid for the tea then rose and headed back towards her room.

Had it not been for supper, Rosalind would not have left her room for the next two days. Every morning Clairie brought her breakfast as Agnes had. During the mornings, the Hershel men left early for work and returned for their evening meal. Rosalind spent hours perched by her window, collecting the cold from the glass. In the snowflakes, she saw Troy and Caspian, each one rewarding her with memories of pleasure and sorrow.

When a silver butterfly fluttered to her and rested upon the small outer ledge, she was certain she heard it speak. "You left your home a lady, you have not returned as such. Though your virtue remains intact, you fell from grace the moment you longed for both father and son." The little insect's fragile wings fluttered.

Rosalind wanted to open the window, take the creature in her fist and squeeze the life out of it. "Do not tell me what I should or should not have done! My virtue is no one's business but my own. There is no law in any book which makes me any less of a lady because I care for them both." She smacked the glass, making the butterfly lose its grip and fall. "Do not judge my heart, beastie."

The butterfly hurled towards the snowy ground. Its wings were too heavy from particles of snow to take flight.

"No," Rosalind cried as the butterfly fell, "come back. I am sorry! I am so sorry! This melancholia is killing me."

But the tiny insect fell until it was swallowed by a never-ending white.