XVI

"Many survivors insist they're not courageous: 'If I were courageous I would have stopped the abuse.' 'If I were courageous, I wouldn't be scared'... Most of us have it mixed up. You don't start with courage and then face fear. You become courageous because you face your fear." Laura Davis

*TW - Mentions of SA*

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XVI.

The very thought of his name paralysed Belle. The memory of his face, in all its forms, haunted her nightmares. They had done since she was a small girl.

The earliest memory that Belle possessed was the very first time that he had displayed his monstrous, gluttonous, evil self. While he had only been a young man of sixteen, young Belle had been all of five years old.

He had called her his favourite. He had given her treats that the others didn't receive. It sickened Belle to her core to remember ever feeling any sort of gratitude to him, now knowing what he had been planning on doing. If she allowed her mind to wander, she could still feel the innocence in her heart leave her the very moment he had shut himself in a room with her.

After the first time, Belle didn't want his favour. She didn't want his gifts. She didn't want to be within a hundred miles of him. But her life was not her own. She had no power, no say, and no right to refuse. But she did.

Every time, she fought. Every time.

This behaviour only made him angry, and he grew utterly obsessive.

Belle had never understood the word 'insatiable' before being at the mercy of him. And she was powerless to stop him. Nobody would help her. Nobody could save her. How could they? When they, too, were at his mercy.

Belle had never understood his obsession. She had never known what she had done to appeal herself to him when she had only been a five-year-old child when he had set his sights on her.

The only way she could make any sort of sense of what had happened to her was that some people were innately evil, and would, indeed, face judgement for the pain that had been inflicted upon others. Every scar she bore, save for the sabre wound on her abdomen that she had received while hiding from the smugglers with Alex, had been as a direct result of his anger.

But the scars that were invisible to the naked eye, were perhaps the worst of all.

Belle couldn't bear to be touched. She was too afraid to look people in the eye. She was too frightened to speak for fear that she would say something out of turn. She never felt safe.

But things had begun to change since she had met Peter Denham. Belle had felt the sort of security that she had never imagined was possible. She had found a man with whom she felt safe, and she had known what it was like to be held with gentle hands. She had finally known a good man, the sort of man who could only be a figment of her imagination were he not a living, breathing, blue-eyed, handsome, gentle giant in front of her.

Belle had fallen in love. Real love. Not ... not his kind. Really, she had not realised that she was falling until she was very really in it, in the very thick of it. And all Belle wanted to do was lose herself in it. She wanted to leap into Peter's arms and to ask him to take her somewhere they could be happy. She wanted to be married in the way she had seen while living in England. She wanted a family ... and she thought now that there was a real possibility that she could become a mother.

And at the same time, Belle knew that none of that was a possibility. None of it could be. The dreams that had tried to eclipse her nightmares had failed, because she was still bound to the man who had shut her inside of a room when she was five years old. The same man who had done so repeatedly, over and over, brutally, evilly, sickeningly, until she had escaped at eighteen during a hurricane.

Belle had thought she understood being owned until the day her master had died. She had marked the fourteenth anniversary of the day she had been found as an infant only three days earlier. He had assumed his father's role as master and made it his intent to possess Belle in every way humanly possible.

He had taken her before a priest. She didn't understand why. She didn't know why he wanted to marry her. But again, the only way she could make sense of it was to believe that he desired to possess her before God as well.

Belle had cried, and refused, and she had begged for help, foolishly believing that she was safe in a church, and safe with a priest. But she hadn't been safe. She was never safe. And that priest had not been a man of God. He had watched him strike her down on the altar, and he had performed the ceremony as her cheek swelled, and her lip split open and bled right on the floor.

Belle understood the Devil to be known by many names. Satan. Lucifer. Beelzebub.

But in her nightmares, and her memories of hell, his name was Jean Leclerc.

***

Peter felt like a right fool. How on earth had he managed to miss something like this? How on earth had he allowed himself to humiliate Belle in such a way? Of course, he did not think any less of her for not being able to read, but he could see by the expression on her face that the confession ... well, it looked like it sickened her.

Peter hated that she felt such shame, and he hated that his oversight and his obliviousness had been the cause for her cool, dark skin to become ashen-like.

He wanted so desperately to be able to take her shame away from her. Didn't she understand that he could never think less of her?

"Do you need to sit down?" Peter asked tenderly.

Belle slowly nodded, and Peter helped her to the chair behind her table. Lord, she looked as though she had seen a ghost. What on earth had he done to her? Peter stashed the book inside of his coat pocket, wishing that he'd never given it to her. It was completely insensitive of him.

This action seemed to capture Belle's attention. Her golden eyes watched his hands, before she finally looked up at him. Would there every come a time when the colour did not bewitch him? "You do not want me to have the book?"

Her voice was startled, raspy, disturbed. Peter wanted to bang his head against her sewing table.

"Not if it is going to make you feel like this," Peter replied softly.

Belle blinked, a little of her colour returning. Her breaths seemed to even out, and she rested her hands on the table. "Your gift did not make me feel any sort of bad way, I promise. I ... I am honoured that you want to give it to me. If you still do, that is."

Peter was confused, and extremely hesitant. If the book had not elicited that reaction from her, then what had?

Slowly, he pulled the book back out from his coat pocket, and gently placed it down on the table, the cover brushing her fingertips. Belle immediately ran her hand over the cover, as though she was petting a cat, feeling the embossed letters of the title.

"I don't want to be a fool. I don't think I am," Belle murmured. "Susanna tried to teach me words on the journey to England. But it was very difficult. I learned to speak better, but reading ..." Belle swallowed. "It is very hard."

Peter couldn't imagine the confusion inside Belle's brain in learning to speak, read and write in a language that was not her mother tongue. How challenging it must have been for her teaching experience to be English. He wondered if reading would have come easier to Belle had she learned to read and write in French first.

"You are not a fool," Peter assured her. "Of course, you are not." Peter knew then that he most definitely took his ability to read and write for granted. He could not remember a time when he was illiterate, and it was truly criminal considered so many in this country were not afforded and education. "If you would let me, I'd like to teach you."

Perhaps ... just maybe ... she would eventually be able to write to him when he returned to London. His return was nearing, and thus their impending separation was nearing, too. Peter had been intending on asking her to correspond with him. Thank the Lord he had found this out before doing so, or else he would have really put his foot in it more than he had already.

A subtle, very small smile teased Belle's lips, and Peter thanked God for it. He had not permanently wounded her. "I am a slow learner," she whispered.

"I am a patient man, as I hope you already know," he returned.

Peter's stomach then suddenly dropped as he watched Belle's golden eyes become glassy. Tears. Why? What he had done? What had he said? What on earth was wrong with him? Why was he determined to harm this poor, beautiful girl?

But Belle composed herself quickly, and instead picked up the newspaper which had been folded on her table. Peter recognised it as one of the London papers, and realised that it must have been one of the newspapers that Adam sent for at Ashwood.

It was not long until he saw the sickeningly dark headline.

SCANDAL BLACKENS THE HOUSE OF ASHWOOD

Peter wanted to swear while tearing the rag to shreds. Oh, how he'd wager the editor of that paper cackled to himself at the double entendre he had created with such a word.

"Would you ... would you read me this?" Belle asked fragilely. "I know my name. I know it when I see it. My name is in this. Please, would you read it to me?"

Peter hated to think what this sort of article would say about Belle with a headline like that. He would have to think fast to soften the blow. Would it be cruel to lie to her, or would it be crueller to tell her the truth?

Peter took the newspaper from her, and he read over the article as quickly as he could.

It is the union that has shocked a nation. This past Saturday, on September 28 in the year of our Lord 1811, the Lady Susanna Beresford, only daughter to the late Duke of Ashwood, was married to a West Indian negro slave.

Peter hissed.

"What?" asked Belle. "What does it say?"

Peter's eyes flashed to her. "They are not particularly fond of Alex," he said truthfully.

Belle pursed her lips. "I can imagine. A marriage between two such people must be quite unheard of."

Peter read on, his stomach curdling as the writer referred to Susanna as chattel, and any children that they would have as mulattos.

The bride's association with enslaved negroes did not cease with her intended. West Indian slave woman, Belle Desjardins, was reported to have been the designer and craftswoman of Lady Susanna Beresford's wedding gown.

Witnesses of the marriage stated that Belle Desjardins' design was a modern and expensive creation that did well to disguise the designer's bondage roots. In what was a startling turn of events to many in attendance at the Hertfordshire event, Miss Desjardins showed a level of expertise in her craft that ensured the bride elevated that sorry state of affairs.

While she couldn't read this, Peter could protect her. Perhaps it would not be for forever, but it could be for now. He didn't want her to experience whatever she had been only a few minutes earlier. He couldn't see her face like that.

"Belle Desjardins was reported to have been the designer and craftswoman of Lady Susanna Beresford's wedding gown," Peter read, editing out the unnecessary drivel. "Witnesses of the marriage stated that Belle Desjardins' design was a modern and expensive creation that did well to highlight her skills as a modiste. Miss Desjardins showed a level of expertise in her craft that ensured the bride was fit for the occasion."

Peter couldn't read anymore. He could see Belle's name mentioned elsewhere in the article in conjunction with Alex's, as they were described yet again as slaves infiltrating their way into a prominent family. He did not have the ability to think quickly enough to make something up out of that sentence.

"London loved your dress," he said softly. That, at least, was not a lie. They had paid Belle a rather backwards compliment.

Belle smiled, this time a little more widely. "That was not all they had to say, was it?" she probed.

"You knew I was lying?" Peter frowned. "Why are you smiling?"

"My name was written five times. You read it only three. You are protecting me. There is a difference. How I wish ... I want ... I have always wanted to be protected."

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I hope you enjoyed it!! Nothing made me happier than reading your shocked comments on the last chapter. I love getting you all with my twists! But my heart broke for my baby Belle writing this for her. I hate that this was my plan for her, but sadly, it was the evil, horrible fate of so many enslaved people. There were and are some disgusting people on this planet.

I finished up the year with my kids yesterday. I cried as expected. We had a massive group hug in front of everyone, and I told them that I loved them one last time. I always make a point to tell my kids I love them. I really do, but sometimes children don't hear that they are loved, and kids should hear that they are loved every single day. So if it has to come from me, then I am happy to do it. They always have me.

Omg I'm tearing up writing this.

I just love them so damn much, love them to pieces like they're my own. I've had 41 children so far in my career. 22 more to add next year. 22 more kiddos to love.

We spent this past week having fun with lots of craft. I am the anti-mess teacher. I can't stand mess. I hate glitter. My kids know how I expect our classroom to be and they keep it ship-shape for me. But I got the glitter out for them this week and they had a ball. I actually took a video of them in the absolute mess on the floor and I asked them if they were having fun, and if they wished I'd let them have glitter more often, and they were so excited. If I could, I would totally post the video on my instagram because it is the cutest thing.

Next year, I'm setting a goal for myself to be looser with mess, and to let my kids be more creative, because seeing them make a mess with glitter, but be so proud of their creations was beautiful.

I'm also setting an early goal to really hammer home to my class that I'm lactose intolerant because the amount of chocolate I received for Christmas was ridiculous hahahaha!!

Alright, I need to get to sleep. Vote and comment xxxx