To readers of my other stories: This one is different. It started out as a short story in my 'fairy tales' line, but I quickly realized I had much more story to tell here. The build-up is slower and longer, the character development more in depth, and the sex scenes, once you get to them, are more 'flowery' than my other works, although still rooted in non-con. The resemblances to REBECCA are quite intentional, and I hope you enjoy the melding of the two stories. Feedback and constructive criticism would be welcome.
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The day my father lost our family fortune is the day my life truly began. I'd grown up rich and fairly spoiled, though I like to think it didn't corrupt my personality completely, as it had my elder two sisters. A merchant who had found success early on, my father was eager to take risks, and in large they paid off for him. His wealth increased, and with it his ability to take larger risks which paid off in larger and larger profits. A single streak of bad luck turned out to be his downfall. One small misfortune led to another and another, and he threw his funds at the issues with abandon in an attempt to recover. Jealous competitors took the opportunity to turn his creditors against him, and paid off other merchants to avoid doing business with him. The whole debacle culminated in his largest gamble of all - a game of cards. He'd always been lucky and he risked too much - everything we had, in fact.
We three sisters knew nothing of his troubles until the night he came home, broke and desolate, to tell us that we were now poor and must give up our fine things and our stately home. Where we would go, he did not know. My sisters sobbed uncontrollably, beside themselves with grief over the loss of their beautiful dresses and the luxurious lifestyle they'd become accustomed to. I attempted to console our father, though my own head was reeling from the shock and worry of it all.
"I'm glad your mother never lived to see this, Beauty," he cried into my shoulder. "I should die from the shame." I started slightly at the use of my childhood nickname. When I was a young girl, I had been unimpressed with the name Belle, likening it to the giant bells in the church tower that were always waking me up far too early every Sunday to summon the faithful worshipers. My father had explained that Belle meant beautiful woman, not the bells of the tower. Unimpressed, I scoffed that I'd rather be called Beauty so no one else was confused. It became something of a family joke and the nickname persisted throughout most of my childhood, though its use tapered off as I began to mature.
"Where are we to go? What will become of us?" My eldest sister Margaret was inconsolable. She snuffled into her silk sleeves and even used her finest lace handkerchief to actually dab at her eyes, a sure sign of her deep distress, for she never used those articles for anything but show before. Mary, our other sister, clutched her handbag to her chest tightly, as if the answers to all our problems lay inside and must be protected. Tears streamed down her face and she silently sobbed, a peculiar wheezing sound coming from deep in her throat.
"I shall write to our cousin," said Father, "I have been kind enough to him when I had the means, perhaps now he can return the favor."
**
We were allowed to remain in our home for a time, although solicitors were in and out all day long, and most of our belongings were removed. We girls were given simpler garments that had once been set aside for our servants. This sent Mary and Margaret into fresh horrors, though with any choice in the matter removed, they soon learned to sullenly adapt to the coarser, more modest dresses. I bemoaned the loss of my own things; my books, my lovely little herb garden I'd so carefully cultivated for years, the china tea set that had once belonged to our mother that was my special prize. I tried not to let Father see my distress, and to put on a brave face for him and my sisters.
Father did hear back from our cousin before very long, and the news was somewhat of a relief to us all. There was a small farm in the next village over from where he lived, and he was willing that we should move in and take it over, with a break from the usual rent he charged until we were settled in and turning a profit from the farm. The prospect of farm life horrified my sisters, who had never cleaned or cooked a day in their lives. Privately I had my own concerns for myself, but a small hope that I could begin my gardening again and make it useful to us, somehow. We packed up the few belongings we'd been allowed to keep and began the arduous cross-country journey to our new village, Eastwatch.
The journey was long, and dirty. We learned more about ourselves and each other in those weeks spent cramped together in a small wagon than we had previously our whole life. We learned to cook - not well, but enough to eat - and to wash our own clothes, with help from other kindly passing travelers. Margaret sobbed when her first finger calluses began to form, the loss of her lady's hands hitting a new low for her. I missed my soft, comfortable shoes and my warm bed, but I never complained to Father. He heard enough of it from my sisters.
We reached our new home and settled in as best we could. Farm life was difficult to adjust to, but we tried. The neighboring villagers were curious, our unusual circumstances drawing in their questions as well as their kindly advice. Small gifts were made by the most generous; a pat of butter here, a morsel of salt pork there. What with one thing and another, we began to develop a routine and to actually grow comfortable in our new life.
Rumors abounded throughout Eastwatch of the mysterious Lord of the province. It was whispered that he was a monster, cruel and hideous, who stayed in his castle and never came out. 'He's disfigured' whispered the girl in the marketplace. 'he eats small children who don't obey their parents,' chided the old ladies. 'he's an immortal monster, sent to terrorize us' jawed the old men around their hearthfires. Monster or no, he was a recluse, and we never saw him.
Months after our new life began, Father received a letter from the city. A ship that had been presumed lost had come into harbour, and Father was summoned to the city to take account. There was great excitement in our home that evening. My sisters fairly drooled over the prospect of having money again, and even I began to think with longing of how some money could ease our burdens. My father began to prepare for the journey.
"What can I bring back for my girls?" he asked us over our last dinner together.
"Finer dresses!" Piped up Mary immediately, then had the grace to look slightly abashed. "Or perhaps some new fabric, to make a new dress," she amended.
"Please Father, some gloves," pleaded Margaret, casting a glance at her callused, freckled hands. "at least I could protect them from the sun."
"The finest lady's gloves," promised Father, "and of course new fabric. Rolls of the most beautiful I can find. But Beauty, what about you?"
"I don't need anything, Father. Just for you to return safely."
"Please, dear, there must be something you desire." I thought for a moment. My little herb garden was flourishing and I had learned to care for other food bearing plants as well, but I longed for something pretty to look at sometimes.
"Rose seeds?" I asked. "If it's not too much trouble. I'd love to see them in full bloom around our house."
"Of course!" Father smiled, and we were all filled with hope. We settled into bed early that night, and Father left the next morning at first light. Our lives went on more or less the same without him, and before we knew it two months had passed and we began to anticipate his return. The weather turned cold and we feared that a snowstorm might keep him from us longer, a fear that unfortunately turned out to be true, and the very thing that would tear me from my family.
A blizzard struck the town of Eastwatch. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but whiteness. The snow swirled all through the night, building higher and thicker as we fervently prayed that Father was safe somewhere, and warm. Margaret swore she would not mind forgoing the gloves, if only he would return safely. In the morning, the snow had stopped, but the world seemed empty, too quiet. We couldn't hear anything or see anything but snow. It felt as if we were the only people left in the world, as if the blizzard had wiped out all traces of the human race save our little home. Through the silence and the white, Father appeared on the horizon.
We ran to him, eager to relieve him of his burdens and bring him in to warm by the fire. Upon reaching him, we drew back in concern. He looked so haggard, he appeared to have aged years, and it wasn't just his unkempt traveling beard. His eyes lit up briefly when he saw us, but quickly the joy turned to something else... sadness perhaps. We hustled him in to the hearth and plied him with hot tea and a biscuit, anxiously awaiting his news, whatever it might be. In time, as his hands warmed and steadied, and his tea cup was emptied and refilled, the story came out.
The ship, as it turned out, had already been plundered by pirates and was nearly stripped bare save a few items the crew had hidden. The trip had been almost worthless for him. After paying the crew what he owed them and covering his lodging, he had barely enough for the return trip, let alone fine silks and gloves.
