Work Text:
Such a Pretty Dress
"Madam Potts, what does this mean?"
The matronly teapot looked up from examining the castle dinner plan for the week to see Belle walk in, a piece of blue paper clasped tightly between her fingers. The long green dress she was wearing (which was now commonly known around the staff as her 'library dress) swished quietly around the girl's feet as she paced along the side of the table, before she placed the note directly in front of the other woman.
In an elegant cursive font that was nearly illegible, the note read: 'The master of the Château de Campagne would like to invite the honoured guest, Belle Lecteur, to a private ball in one weeks time. Please find enclosed an RSVP to be given to the housekeeper, Madame Potts'.
Mrs. Potts thought it over for a moment. "Well, it's clear the master would like to spend some more time with you, my dear," she started gently.
"More time? We're good friends - very good friends, in fact. All we DO is spend time together!!" Belle still hadn't stopped pacing up and down like a wild animal, and Mrs. Potts, accustomed to dealing with outbursts of temper much worse than Belle could ever produce, framed the next question carefully in her mind.
"Are you frustrated with him, child? Do you want to stop spending time with him?" The young girl stopped.
"No - no, I'm not frustrated with him - I like spending time with him, I just -" she broke off abruptly. Belle took a breath. "I don't want to ruin this friendship. It's important to me - I know this is strange, but I've really never had friends that weren't my parents!"
A short pause followed this outburst, wherein Mrs. Potts filled herself with water and hopped onto the range. One of her children (grandchildren really, but Mrs. Potts was so motherly all the children called her Mama) hopped out the cupboard and, closing her eyes (you could determine gender mainly by eyelashes and mouth shape), pulled out a teabag of lemon and ginger from the store-cupboard. Mrs. Potts began to whistle, and she jumped - no, leaped off the hot surface. Out the corner of her eye, she saw Belle's barely-suppressed grin, and she knew they could have a sensible conversation from then on. The small teacup bounded towards Belle, nearly spilling the contents it carried, and perched beside her hand on the wooden table.
"I never really had other friends my age - they all thought I was . . . odd," Belle continued with a frown of distaste at the old insult. "Maman was my closest friend when I was a child; after she died, Papa tried his best, but he's always been involved in his inventions. I don't mind!" she hurriedly intoned. "I loved his inventions, and when we finally got one to work two months ago, we were both so happy." She absent-mindedly started stirring in some honey, and blew gently on the drink. "I just . . . don't want to ruin what's happened."
"Oh, my dear, I don't think that's likely to happen," Mrs. Potts says soothingly. "You and the master are both too sensible to let anything destroy a friendship as strong as this." The younger woman grinned.
"So what should I tell him?" Mrs. Potts asked, pressing her advantage.
"Tell him I'd love to go to this ball."
***
One week later, and Belle was being laced slowly and rhythmically into a corset that looked like it belonged twenty years in the past. Her hair had already been twisted up, and under Madame Armoire's insistence, her cheeks had been slightly rouged. It was very odd, Belle reflected, being laced up by suddenly animate combs and makeup brushes, while a maternal teapot and hysterical wardrobe bustled about trying to find the 'robe de la reine'. With a sigh from one and a squeal from the other, a shimmering dress of indistinct colour was swiftly pulled over Belle's head, and her old blue hair ribbon tied gently around her eyes.
"Not yet, dearie!" she heard Madame Armoire call out. "I don't want you seeing you till you're absolutely perfect."
"Really, Madame Armoire, Madame Potts, this is too much," Belle protested weakly.
"Nonsense, dear, you'll look beautiful in this: Armoire's just a perfectionist," she heard the British woman say. They awkwardly shuffled around her, and she thought she heard Mrs. Potts gasp slightly and say, "Oh, doesn't she look a picture of the young queen?"
But then again, she couldn't be sure, because the ribbon was released from her eyes and then she was looking at herself in the prettiest dress she'd ever seen. It was sunshine yellow, a big skirt, with elbow-length gloves to match, and before she could stop herself, Belle twirled in front of the mirror and remembered she was seventeen and never had an evening dress and had only ever danced standing on her fathers feet.
"I - I don't know how to dance," she whispered quietly.
"Don't worry, child," Mrs. Potts replied just as quietly, "just move your feet and the master will lead you."
She decided not to question how a man who had forgotten how to read knew how to dance, or who the 'young queen' was and why Belle was in her dress. She decided, for once, to be seventeen, and at a ball, and to leave it at that.