XIV

"Oh, it's delightful to have ambitions. I'm so glad I have such a lot. And there never seems to be any end to them-- that's the best of it. Just as soon as you attain to one ambition you see another one glittering higher up still. It does make life so interesting." L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

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XIV.

"Two shillings, Mr Andrews, as is our agreement." Belle approached the counter with the coins and gently placed them before the shopkeeper. Mr Andrews nodded dismissively, but he did not verbally respond. Belle pursed her lips, before uttering, "I wish you a good night." She then fixed her cloak before leaving the shop and stepping out onto the street.

As soon as she was outside, Belle spotted Peter walking towards her from the direction of his mother's house. The moment he saw her, he smiled warmly, and Belle felt a rush of calm wash over her. It was certainly an intoxicating feeling, and one that dissuaded her more and more from keeping any sort of distance from Peter Denham.

"Might I escort you home?" he asked as soon as he was in earshot.

Belle nodded, feeling her cheeks heat.

Proudly, Peter offered Belle his arm, in full view of every person on the street, and watching from their windows. He did not mind at all to be seen with her, and that made Belle's heart swell.

"I wanted to tell you that I very much enjoyed our evening the other night," Peter said as they began walking. "Of course, it was not our night, I mean to say that I enjoyed the time that we spent together. Of course, I would never presume ... or assume ... or expect ... oh, what I am trying to say is –"

Belle could see that Peter was quickly becoming flustered and tongue-tied. She had understood the first part of his sentence, but as soon as he began to stammer words, he had lost her. She wondered that if he knew this, whether or not his embarrassment would ease. But, as she had already realised, Belle found enjoyment in Peter's bashfulness. "I enjoyed our evening, as well," she said, interrupting him.

To say that she enjoyed it was putting it most lightly. Belle had never experienced such comfort with a man before. She had never experienced any comfort with a man before. She was always on her guard. She had to be. But she did not need to be with Peter.

"You did?" Peter sounded relieved.

"I am safe with you. I promise I enjoyed it."

Peter's reached with his other hand to rest on hers affectionately, and only for a brief moment. He wouldn't push. She could see it in his eyes as she looked up at him while they walked.

"How was your day?" he then asked, relaxing his shoulders.

"Quiet," Belle replied. "Most days are quiet. People ..."

"People what?" prompted Peter.

"People tend not to speak to me," Belle explained. "Or if they do, it is ... oh, I do not know this word in English ... à contrecœur." It was indeed very begrudgingly when villagers would engage in conversation with her. In fact, Belle did not think she had ever had a conversation with a villager that was not in relation to a mending need of theirs. "I have told you before that I make people uncomfortable."

"And I have told you before to hang them," Peter retorted firmly, shaking his head in disappointment. "I do not know what à contrecœur means," he said, with an atrocious accent, "but I can infer."

"Your French accent is terrible."

Peter smirked, before chuckling. "Is that all you got out of what I said?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "Do you hear me mocking your English accent?"

"It is à contrecœur," Belle persisted, smiling. "You must roll the r sound off of your tongue. It is soft, not harsh."

Peter played along. "À contrecœur," he said again, still as British as anything.

Belle boldly stopped him and reached up to his face, using her hand to squeeze his cheeks so that he looked like he was holding his breath. "Soft, gentle," she instructed. "French is a romantic language. It is not for harsh tones. Say it again. À contrecœur."

Peter did his best to speak through Belle's grip, which was stopping him from bastardising the word. It was not perfect, but it was better. But Belle was having fun, and she felt a brief thrill in teasing him.

"You're hopeless," she scolded, a smile on her face.

"Well, I'll have you know that we use a harsh h sound in England," returned Peter with a grin. "I do not know what 'opeless means," he said, imitating the way she said the word. "Say it again," he challenged, looking down at her with an intense, yet playful gaze.

Staring up into his blue eyes, Belle lost a little of the nerve she had found as she felt her heartbeat quicken. Belle used every bit of her concentration to push the h sound out of her mouth as she stammered through the word, "Hopeless."

Peter's smile softened. "Maybe," he agreed, "but you certainly are not. I mean it though. Hang them. There will always be small minded people wherever you go. Wherever any of us go. Sadly, this country is filled with them. It is a very old country in that way. It is very hard for people to rise up in this society, and even more so for people who have journeyed from afar. But that doesn't mean that we can't dream." Peter took a breath. "Would you tell me what you dream of? What is it that you would want for yourself? If you could have anything, what would it be?"

Belle's mind went immediately to her answer to that question. She knew exactly what she wanted. She had prayed for it for years. And when her prayers were not answered, she had taken it upon herself to secure her own freedom. And even though she was thousands of miles away, she was not free. If she could have anything, it would be that.

But she sensed that Peter was asking after her fantasies, her wishes ... those unrealistic dreams that children have that never come true. Belle certainly had plenty of those as well, but one above all.

"If I were a white lady, I would want my own shop where I would make and sell gowns just like the one that I made for Susanna. I would be a modiste. Ladies would come from all around just to buy something of mine. Creating and sewing is ... it is really the only thing that I can do well." Belle could certainly see her dream in her head. She could picture her name on a shop sign. She could hear ladies declaring that their gowns were made by Belle Desjardins. But it all quickly vanished when Belle saw herself as the modiste, and not a fancy, fashionable white lady. "But dreams are just that, are they not? Dreams. Wishes. They are not possible."

"You certainly are unbelievably talented," complimented Peter. "I really know nothing of women's fashions, but even I could appreciate the craftsmanship that went into Susanna's wedding dress. Never abandon your dreams, Belle. I implore you. I hope that I may be living proof that nothing is impossible.

"I always loved school growing up. I was a bright student, and I certainly had always wanted to pursue my education. But my family, my siblings and I, we grew up very skint after the death of my father. And so, I became a blacksmith's apprentice. Did you know that?"

Belle shook her head.

"My poor mother, bless her, could never have afforded to send me to university, and so it would have been very easy to resign myself to the life of a blacksmith. I certainly have enormous respect for the trade. It is very physical, very exhausting work. But it was not my dream. Now, I know that I cannot compare my struggles to yours, and I understand that our circumstances are very different, but had I given up on my dream, I would never have fought for the opportunity and the role I now have at Beresford Press."

Belle could hear the passion in his voice, and she could see the justice in his eyes. He truly believed that she could have anything that she wanted. He was naïve in such a lovely way.

"If you ever feel your will to fight wane, I am more than happy to pick up the sword. I have made a few of them in my day, you know."

"You would do that for me?"

"I am quickly finding that I would do anything for you," Peter replied honestly.

A small gasp escaped Belle's lips. No, certainly she had misunderstood. Her English was not perfect. It could not even be considered very good. She had certainly not comprehended the meaning of his words.

"Maybe one day I will have my shop," mused Belle. "One can dream."

"Yes, they certainly can."

"What exactly is it that you do?"

Peter seemed glad, and very proud, to explain to Belle what it was exactly that he did for work in London. Some of the words were lost on her, but from what she gathered, Peter had a head for arithmetic, and he handled the finances of the business, the procurement of paper and ink, the payments to authors and distributions of their books, the wages of the printers ... everything. It sounded like arduous work meant for someone as clever as Peter.

Belle wished that she was clever. Another wish, another dream.

She certainly was not as clever as Peter. She knew for certain that he would never think less of her for her lack of education, but that did not make it feel any less shameful.

Women, people, who had experienced life as she had ... well, it was common for masters to keep their enslaved possessions as illiterate as possible. It was one of the methods that discouraged escape attempts, and it kept them solely dependent on their masters.

"Would I be able to give you a present tomorrow?" Peter asked.

"A present?" repeated Belle, frowning. Whatever for?

"I would love to give you a copy of a book, the first Jack and I ever published. Perhaps it might sit on your bookshelf and serve as a reminder to never give up on your ambitions. Nevertheless, I would wager you would enjoy the story. Jack has terrific taste in literature, and he never chooses a disappointing manuscript."

Belle felt the blood drain from her face, and she was grateful that Peter could not see it. She appreciated the tender thought that had gone into his idea for a gift, but she would not be able to read it. It felt very embarrassing to think that Belle could not appreciate what it was that Peter did properly. And she was certainly far too embarrassed to confess this to him.

Belle forced herself to shake away the negative thoughts, and instead, she made herself focus on the kindness that Peter was trying to show her. He truly believed that she could achieve anything that she wanted to. While Belle knew that in reality, it was impossible, that did not mean that she was not grateful to Peter for such belief.

Where on earth had this man come from? Belle had known far too many white men. In fact, there was a time, not even that long ago, that she would have been happy to never know another one of them again. She didn't know they were capable of being so good, so kind, so gentle.

"I would love to have your book," Belle told him fervently.

There was, indeed, one dream of hers that she could achieve if she did not give up on it. Belle would properly learn to read.

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I hope you reeeeeeealllyyy enjoy this chapter ... as it's the last one before I drop a lil bit of a bomb on you. 'Kay, it's not little...

I'm so sorry for making you wait for this chapter! I went to see Frozen on stage last week and was so tired when I got back that I could not write.

But, if you haven't checked it out already, my 10 year anniversary Bonus Epilogue of The Stowaway has been posted! I hope you like it!!

It's just ticked over to 1am so it is welllll past my bed time. I've been writing this chapter with my eyes closed, testing my touch typing lol, as I am so tired. Two weeks left in the school year! Two weeks left with my kids. I will be so devastated to lose them, even if they are only moving onto Year 1 up the hall. I meet my new class on Tuesday. I'm excited, but I'm not ready to lose my current kids yet. You love them like they're your own!!

Alright, I need to take my makeup off (I am literally so tired and I just want to close my laptop and sleep but I realised I've still got bloody makeup on lol). Night everybody!

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