The girl was permanently curious. Not content with a simple answer for a simple question, she was eager to stick her nose into the center of the matter. She would stare at pages of books, lean closer to calculating beads, and insist that he showed her where something happened upon the painting on the wall.
As soon as Belle had discovered it to be a map of the known world, she had needed an accurate location for every piece of history Henry had imparted.
Not only was she eager to learn, but Belle's memory was actually very good. Perhaps not stretched and used to its fullest over the years, but no less effective for the neglect. Each fact and date he recited, she remembered. She bore no reverence for the significant figures of history, but that did not diminish her interest in their lives. She stared in awe when he spoke of armies crossing whole continents. She closed her eyes in an effort to imagine the pyramids of Egypt. She gasped and felt outraged over the betrayal of Julius Caesar.
To Belle, every member of the historical tapestry was a human being and deserving of attention and care. Not only was it oddly endearing, but it cemented his lessons in her mind as only shared experiences could.
Letters and writing were a greater challenge, but her recognition of letters sped the process along. Within a few days, he had her sounding out words and able to slowly read basic sentences.
For all intents and purposes, Henry should have been over the moon at the girl's progress. Proud, even. He had so far succeeded in taking a child of worldly ignorance and turned her into a young lady who might at least be able to hold a conversation. And he had done so in only three days.
Instead, he felt his own dignity beginning to fray, as if the girl were stealing his polished serenity with every lesson, becoming more a lady as his polite standing diminished.
No longer was he in charge of his own thoughts; no longer did he control his own actions.
When in lessons with Belle, he found himself watching her more than was proper. When they were apart for meals or morning rituals, he thought of her near constantly. When left to his own company at night, he feared dreaming about her almost as much as he feared not to.
At first, Henry had attributed his interest is only that of an engaged teacher. He had considered the lessons they had completed and planned those that were to come. He had tried to imagine her reactions to his tutoring, attempted to read her face and features in his mind. He had convinced himself that such considerations were a mark of a good counselor, that one must know the reaction of their pupil so that they could preempt concerns.
Then, the thoughts had grown broader. He had imagined Belle's face as he spoke. He had tried to consider her thoughts. He had lingered on how her hair might look, how she might tilt her chin as she listened. He had imagined the flash in her eyes and the way she would shift in her seat if they were kept indoors for too long.
Now, as he watched Belle bent low over the desk, he wondered about taking her into the grounds. For a moment, rational thinking said that he only wished to show her the gardens because any lady should be familiar with her home. But, as his eyes lingered on the curve of her neck and the way she stuck out the tip of her tongue when concentrating...he knew the truth. He simply wanted to see this girl smile.
And that was the other problem...
With every lesson passed from him to her, the girl herself was disappearing. Belle the child was becoming Arabelle the woman. With her already twenty years of age, it shouldn't have surprised Henry that she would alter quickly, claiming the mantel of years she had already lived. But it did. It surprised him, not only in the speed of her transformation but in how it was affecting him. How it was causing his thoughts to wander and his eyes to drink her in each morning. It was as if he was fearful of missing a stage of her growth, always looking for the next development or new turn. Always trying to commit her current stage to memory.
"There!"
Only a solo word, but it held a full body of satisfaction. Leaning to look over her shoulder, Henry spied a neat row of letters. Each was formed with a steady perfection that had taken Belle several moments per shape. Still, it was the first time she had ever written more than counting bars.
"Well done!" Henry swallowed over the lump in his throat as she beamed up at him. Her hair had been fastened into another braid that day, this one fused to the back of her head. A single lock was starting to come undone, curving over the rest. Henry felt his fingers itch to press it back down.
He folded his arms.
"I think your victory over language comes at a fortuitous time, my lady. It is near the evening meal."
For some reason, this news was less than joyous to Belle.
"Will ye eat with me?" she asked.
"Dine with you," he corrected out of habit.
"Will yedinewith me?" she asked again.
Henry swallowed. For the last two nights, he had removed himself from Belle's company during the evening meal. At midday, the two of them would share in a platter of bread and cheese while their lessons continued but supper was a private and formal affair. He had left her in the care of Coira, no doubt so that she might dine with the family of the house. He had never asked her about it, for she had never ventured any comment.
"It is not usually customary," he explained.
"But ah need yer lessons!" Belle was spinning in her seat, clearly eager to latch on to an excuse for his company. "Ah dinnae—I do not know what thing to use with what dish or how to sit right. Coira said I should ask you."
"Did Lady Henderson make a comment?" Henry winced at the idea that the lady of the house would snub her nose at Belle. The woman was understandably upset over the entire thing, but she had, so far, kept herself at bay from the two of them. Henry had only glimpsed her once in passing since that first night. And even that had been fleeting.
Belle was frowning.
"Ah thoughtahwas Lady Henderson? That's what ye call me."
"Ah, yes. Lady Henderson is the term for the woman of greatest authority who bears the name in a single room," he explained hurriedly. His hand waved away her concern. He wanted to know if the woman had made Belle uncomfortable. "If she were in the room, Lady Henderson would be Lady Henderson and you Lady Arabelle. Without her, you are Lady Henderson. But did she criticize you?"
