Six

~Three Weeks Later~

Christmas Eve was not a day Mr. Prince woke up to with feelings of excitement. As a boy, like most children, Christmas had been his favorite holiday. Since the death of his family, he has found few reasons to celebrate. That feeling worsened with Belle’s departure and lack of letters. Mr. Prince had harbored the secret hope she might at least remember him and write, but no word had come from her during the weeks she had been gone. Now, all hope of ever seeing her again was taken from him.

During the first week, Mr. Prince suffered in the same despair in which he had spent the last nineteen years. He’d nearly slipped back into his old habit of keeping everyone out of his life. This time, however, he realized he couldn’t do it. Belle had shown him a world he refused to see before, and he couldn’t stop seeing it. Not now. It would have been a thankless way to show everyone what she had done for him.

Therefore, he prepared for Christmas. He’d gone out with Chip to find a tree, and he ate porridge, though sometimes his heart wasn’t in his work. Chip helped when he could. He even kept his seat beside Mr. Prince in the evenings; it was a small gesture, but one which meant a lot to Mr. Prince.

On Christmas Eve Mrs. Potts spent the day baking. Even though Mr. Prince had stopped celebrating Christmases in the past, no one else had, and now he tried to join back in. He did his best to help in the kitchen. Neither he nor Mrs. Potts spoke of Belle, but he knew they both thought of her and missed her the same.

When they were done in the kitchen, Mr. Prince prepared to take his leave to clean up and change out of his flour-covered clothes. He knew everyone liked to gather in one of the parlors and sing Christmas carols together. He determined to join in even though his heart ached even more now that the sun had set and Christmas day crept closer.

As he prepared to leave, Mrs. Potts reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“I know it’s been hard on you, Adam,” she said. It had been years since she’d used his first name and it warmed his heart. “But she would be proud of you.”

“Of course she would,” he replied as he returned her smile. “My dear wife would love to find me in the kitchen, making little tarts.”

Mrs. Potts laughed and nodded. “She would, but she wasn’t the one I was talking about. I meant Belle.”

His little Belle. His smile warmed.

“I can only hope she is going to have a Merry Christmas,” he said.

The parlor was warm and bright. Lumiere, Cogsworth, and Chip had decorated the tree, and somehow it hadn’t fallen over even though Cogsworth and Lumiere worked on it together.

While they sang, and Mrs. Potts played the piano, Mr. Prince admired the tree. The candles winked on it and brought an extra feeling of warmth to the room that reached all the way down into the depths of Mr. Prince’s heart. This was the kind of Christmas Eve he used to love. All he missed were his daughter’s hand in his and his wife’s head on his shoulder.

For a moment Mr. Prince closed his eyes and allowed himself to travel to distant memories. He could see his wife. She smiled at him, holly in her hair while she stood under the mistletoe and giggled. She’d always liked to stand there until Mr. Prince got close, then she would run away. Once or twice he could catch her unawares, but he always had to be quick.

In between songs, Mr. Prince’s daughter would try to guess what he had gotten her. She would squeeze his hand, beam up at him, and rattle off suggestions. Her hand was so soft and warm, her little fingers curled around his. He’d never had a chance to tell her about the roses, the same with Belle. The garden had grown wild, and the greenhouse fell into disarray until Mr. Prince and Mrs. Potts had recently worked so hard to bring it back. This time he determined to keep it blooming.

Opening his eyes even though it meant his daughter’s hand wouldn’t feel as real, Mr. Prince realized everyone stared at him. They’d stopped singing, and he had as well, though he couldn’t remember when. Other things began to dawn on him, such as how everyone smiled, and how his daughter’s hand still clutched his.

Heart pounding, Mr. Prince looked down and stared in amazement—as Belle’s face looked up into his. He would have dropped her hand in shock, but he didn’t want the apparition to fade.

“Hello, Mr. Prince,” Belle said, and Mrs. Potts lost it. She leaped up from her stool, clasped her hands, and laughed and cried at the same time.

“She’s been writing us; it was a surprise. Your Christmas present. It has nearly killed us all to keep it secret!”

Mr. Prince hardly listened. He only glimpsed the woman who stood beside a tall man as he leaned on a crutch. Mr. Prince pulled Belle into his arms and hugged her tightly, unable to find the right words to thank God for one of the best Christmases he had ever enjoyed.

Introductions were made. Belle clung to Mr. Prince’s hand, unwilling to let go. At the same time, she held her dad’s hand, fearful if she released him he would disappear from her side.

There was much to talk about, but at the moment it didn’t matter. When everyone met her parents, Mr. Prince asked Belle to follow him, and she did.

He led her down hallways and, as they walked, he talked to her. She heard the pain in his voice as he spoke but said nothing, allowing him to say all on his mind.

“My wife and daughter died of cholera when my daughter was still young. When I lost them, I thought I would never again see beauty in the world again, or laugh, or even smile. You showed me that God has been here for me all this time and has cared for me in my suffering. He sent you to me, Belle. You taught me how to be happy again, you showed me how beautiful the world He has given us is.”

By that time they had come to a door. Mr. Prince stopped and took her hand, his eyes full of love.

“This isn’t much as far as thank yous go, but it is the best way I can express it. Thank you, Belle Maurice, for not giving up on a grumpy, bitter old man. And thank you for coming back to me. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

Still holding to one hand, he opened the door with the other and Belle staggered back and stared in amazement. Before her spread out a garden. A winding, cobbled walk wove through a warm greenhouse, and on all sides of the walkway bloomed roses of different colors. Never in her life had Belle seen such beauty, and it slowly sank in that Mr. Prince intended to give this garden to her. Belle turned and threw her arms around his neck.

“I don’t know what I would do without you either, Mr. Prince,” she whispered. She buried her head into his shoulder. “And I don’t think either of us will ever have to try and figure that out. Thank you for welcoming me back home.”