"Have enough courage to trust love one more time and always one more time." Maya Angelou

*TW - mentions of SA*

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XVII.

Belle jumped awake when she heard a booming crash. Her heart began to thunder in her chest as she felt the pure energy begin to course through her veins. She shuffled up to a seated position in her bed, pulling her blanket up to her chin as her body began to uncontrollably tremble.

No.

He couldn't be back already. He was supposed to be away for another week at least. The last lot of bruises and welts had barely begun to heal.

"BELLE, WHERE ARE YOU?" she heard his furious voice bellow. She also heard the thickness of his voice, as though it was lubricated with drink.

Belle was in the slave bunk with everyone else. When he was away, she slept in there, on the small, wooden cots with the scratchy blankets. Perhaps one would wonder as to why she preferred such meagre quarters when she had the option of sleeping in the master's house. But Belle could never sleep in that house. In the two years since Jean had forcibly married her, Belle had not slept for one minute in that house.

Belle heard the fearful whispers of the others who had been awoken by Jean's shouting. Though the darkness concealed their expressions, she knew that their faces would have looked quite frightened.

Belle couldn't remain silent. She couldn't hide now.

Though Belle had learned to remain silent. Sometimes she could be so quiet that people would often forget she was there. She learned to move soundlessly. Should an itch arise, she could think it away. She would never, ever speak unless she was directly spoken to.

It was how she survived.

But Jean was furious, and Belle's galloping heart knew what was coming. Jean had a fearsome temper. Jean could become angry if the crop was not being harvested quickly enough. Jean could become angry if a thread had come loose from the hem of his shirt.

He was angry tonight that his enslaved plaything of a wife was not where he had left her.

It must have been God who intervened on behalf of the others, as it was not Belle who got up out of the bed and put one foot in front of the other. Stepping out into the humid night, Belle was confronted first by the scene of ale. It permeated the air, and his clothes stunk.

Jean was a large man in every sense of the word. He overindulged on his favourite French cuisine and he was nearly as round as he was tall. But with his size brought strength, and one swipe from his meaty hand could knock her unconscious as he had many times before.

"There you are!" he sneered in a drunken slur. He gripped a lantern in one hand, and she saw his top lip upturn distastefully. Jean usually kept his sandy coloured hair combed neatly, but he looked quite dishevelled, and his shirt and breeches looked creased and crumpled.

Belle swallowed. It never got any easier. Sending her mind elsewhere did nothing to detract from the harrowing experience. She fought all she could, every time. She never wanted to give up. But she could never win. She was never strong enough to win. When Jean didn't want her to struggle, he could easily silence her with the swing of his fist.

Jean stepped forward and reached for her, intending to grab hold of her upper arm, but Belle instinctively jumped out of his reach.

"Little slut," hissed Jean, "probably been out here whoring yourself!" He lunged for her again, but this time he did not reach for her arm, instead grabbing hold of a fist-full of her hair. He yanked, and by some miracle he did not pull her hair out, instead Belle lost her footing and was dragged a few feet by the roots of her hair. Her scalp burned, and Belle let out an involuntary yelp of pain. Jean laughed.

He liked pain.

"Where has your mind wandered to, my dear?"

Belle jumped so violently that she felt as though she had left her body behind and she was now on the ceiling. She quite nearly fell backwards off of her chair as reality suddenly settled back in.

She was not in Saint-Martin. She was not sixteen and at the mercy of Jean. She was sitting at her table in Mr Andrews' grocer, and Peter's mother was standing before her, leaning on her cane while smiling at her.

Mrs Denham had a very kind and cheerful face, and Belle could see that she would have been very lovely in her younger years. Her three daughters had definitely inherited their mother's fairness. But she did not see much of Peter in her. The Denham siblings all had such blue eyes, and Belle deduced that Peter had inherited his handsome looks, and his blue eyes from his late father.

Belle suddenly gasped, it dawning on her that it was Peter's mother who was standing before her. What on earth was she doing here? A quick glance showed that she had not brought along any garments for alterations or mending. Certainly, she must have had something to say. But she was smiling ... so, she must not have had any grievances ... but how could that be? What must she be thinking?

Belle quickly stood up and pulled out her chair. "Would you like to sit, Madame?" she asked nervously.

"Oh, you are too kind. No, thank you, dear," Mrs Denham replied, shaking her head. "Are you alright? You appear as though you have seen a ghost."

Belle managed a small nod. "Fine, Madame," she lied.

Mrs Denham did not appear quite convinced, but she did not press the subject. "I have come to invite you to supper tonight," she announced. "I suggested to Peter that he invite you along, but he seemed to have some sort of silly notion that it would be putting you on the spot ... something about expectations ... pressure, I don't know. He's a worrier, my son. You are courting, are you not? Peter wouldn't say." Mrs Denham looked to Belle hopefully.

And that she was, hopeful. As though she wanted the answer to be "yes". Mrs Denham would be happy to have her son court Belle. Belle would have been happier about that thought were she not still recovering from where her mind had wandered.

How could she answer this woman? What could she say? Belle certainly knew what she wanted to say. But it was not the truth. And it could never be reality. Her stomach twisted with criminal guilt.

But Mrs Denham saved her before Belle had to answer. She sighed. "I suppose that is me putting you on the spot. You're a lady. These things will be announced properly when it is time, I know," she huffed. "But I will have you know, this village talks." She grinned. "And though he might try, Peter is certainly not practised in hiding his affection." Mrs Denham made a wistful noise and she looked over Belle's face, which at that moment was wearing a rather astonished expression. "My, my, you really are the most striking young woman. So, so pretty. But I am getting away from myself. My invitation! Supper tonight. Madame Amélie is preparing a Haitian dish. I really do not know any more than that, I am afraid."

"Is that a good idea?" Belle asked Mrs Denham quietly. "If people will talk ..." Belle could not even begin to contemplate her embarrassment if Mrs Denham and her family were subject to a slanderous article because she dined with them. It was bad enough that the Beresfords were newsworthy at the moment.

Peter is certainly not practised in hiding his affection.

That statement had not been lost on Belle. It warmed her soul in a way that it ought not to be warmed, and never had been before.

"Oh, pish posh," said Mrs Denham dismissively. But then she stopped herself. "I suppose that is simple for me to say, as I have no understanding of what it is like to be wearing your shoes, my dear. But I can assure you that everyone is welcome in my house, and I would so very like to have you to supper this evening. I shall see you, won't I?"

This woman had welcomed Alex's mother into her home and had given her a safe place to live. Belle wondered if Mrs Denham realised how rare she was. It would be a privilege to be welcomed into her home as well.

"Yes," confirmed Belle. "I would love to come."

Mrs Denham smiled warmly. "Wonderful," she replied. "I shall send Peter over to collect you later on. You take care now, dear."

"Thank you, Madame," Belle said gratefully.

Mrs Denham only continued to smile, before turning around and supporting her weight on her cane. She then proceeded to walk out of the grocer, struggling slightly with her pronounced limp.

***

Peter arrived several hours later with a rather distressed expression on his face. He did not even acknowledge that Mr Andrews was present before he hurried over to Belle's table.

"I am so sorry," he apologised as soon as he was before her. "When my mother told me what she had done I was furious. I didn't want her to put you on the spot. The last thing I wanted for you is to feel pressured or feel any sort of expectation from me, but my mother, bless her good intentions, just thinks I am being coy." Peter was frowning with concern, a line forming in between his brows.

Belle had been thinking about it for the remainder of the day, and the more she did, the more selfish she felt. Mrs Denham had asked her to dine with them because she believed that Belle was Peter's future intended. Mrs Denham believed that Belle would one day be a member of her family. She was planning on welcoming Belle into her home.

And if Belle attended, then she would no doubt be portraying herself as the biggest and worst fraud to ever cross the threshold. It was enough that she was not being honest with Peter. She was already tricking both him and herself into believing that there was a future between them. It would be criminal to involve Peter's family as well.

Looking up into Peter's eyes, she could see the turmoil, the stress and worry he was experiencing because of her, and out of concern for her. Lord, she loved him for it, but she knew that was wicked. It was wicked to be putting him through this. It was wicked to be fooling him in any sort of way. Peter Denham was a good, gentle, beautiful young man, and he deserved better.

Belle's eyes flooded with tears as she realised what she needed to do, what she had been delaying and ignoring for their entire acquaintance.

Peter's face fell even further. "Oh, I knew it," he murmured. "I am so sorry. She means well, she really does, but she has no control when it comes to matchmaking. I blame my sisters and their happy husbands for it." He tried to joke, to elicit a smile from her, but none came. "Belle ..." he said softly. "You needn't be upset. You do not need to come tonight. You know I would never force you to do anything that made you feel uncomfortable. Or at least I hope you know that."

How could God tease her in this way? How could He allow her to meet and know such a man only to force her to send him away?

"I need to tell you something," Belle confessed quietly, before eyeing Mr Andrews standing behind the counter watching their interaction with distasteful curiosity. "In private," she added in a whisper.

"Of course." Peter nodded.

Belle stood up from her table and abandoned her project. Peter allowed her to move past him and he followed along behind her. She offered a quiet word of departure to Mr Andrews that went unanswered before exiting the grocer and stepping out onto the street. She looked to her left and then to her right, wondering where they might speak without being overlooked or overheard.

"Come on," urged Peter, offering Belle his arm.

Belle knew it was wrong, but she could not help herself. She threaded her hand through his arm, allowing her hand to rest on the strong muscle there. He led her down the little alleyway between the grocer and the baker, navigating their way around boxes and rubbish that had been discarded there.

And then suddenly they were concealed behind a pile of wooden crates, the hum of the street still audible. Tears had already begun to roll down Belle's cheek as Peter released her, turning to face her.

"What can I do?" he asked her in earnest.

Belle used the sleeve of her dress to wipe her face, and Peter then anxiously retrieved and handkerchief from his pocket. She accepted it to wipe her other cheek.

"You have done everything," she promised him. "You have been so kind to me, so good ... just wonderful." Oh Lord, her chest. Her heart was about to beat through her ribs, ready to split her wide open. Belle could feel the pain building.

"Belle ..." Peter's voice was hesitant. She dared not meet his eyes.

"I have to tell you something," she said again, forcing her voice to be steady. "I have to tell you that I am sorry. I am sorry because I have ..." Oh, she could not think of the English word. Her brain was a mess and searching through her vocabulary was impossible. "I have been ... not honest. Not truthful." She took a shaky breath. "You are ... if I could have chosen ... I would want ... but I did not get to choose ... it was not my choice ... I was forced ... he made me ... I ... I ..."

"Belle," Peter said her name again, only this time his voice was firm. "Look at me, please."

Belle's glassy eyes found his when she lifted her chin. Once again, she was greeted by an ocean of warm concern.

"Take a moment," he said calmly, "find your words, and tell me. Tell me knowing that I would never be angry with you."

And there, in that moment, was when her heart split open.

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I hope you enjoyed it! Completely random time for me, I know! But I'm on holidays now, so I'll be able to post more often. 

I can't believe it's only a few days to Christmas! That's wild! I feel pretty organised present wise, it's just the food I need to prepare. I'm making my pavlova this year, which is my favourite dessert ever, and I'm making it lactose free so I can eat it hahaha. Also roasting a pork and doing my roast potatoes because I make some gooooood spuds!!

I hope you're all winding down as we get ready for Christmas, and that you're able to spend the holiday with your families! I'll try and get another chapter posted before Christmas as my gift to you ;)

Vote and comment xxx