Emboldened by The Beast’s clear expression of admiration, Rose began to look for a way to strike the final blow in her campaign to attract his romantic attentions. A brief experiment with the bodices in her wardrobe was quickly abandoned; her breasts were simply too small for additional support to accomplish anything. A search through the house’s bedrooms yielded a more promising avenue of attack: an old but serviceable box of make-up. After a few attempts she managed to produce an effect that satisfied her, and so with her cheeks rouged, her eyes shadowed and her lips ruby red she made her way down to dinner.

“Good evening Rose,” said The Beast as she entered the dining room. “How many potatoes would you like with your stew?”

Throughout the meal, The Beast made conversation as he usually did, and so after a few minutes Rose began to try to turn her head so that the light would show her new appearance in its best light. The Beast appeared not to notice. Eventually, Rose allowed her vexation to get the better of her.

“Do you notice any difference about me this evening?” she asked.

The Beast sighed and put down his cutlery. “Indeed I do, Rose. It has not been lost on me that recently you have got it into your head that you need to be something you are not. The gowns are one thing, but for whatever my opinion is worth, I would sooner keep the company of a sincere young girl than a painted whore.”

For the first time since she had come to The Beast’s home, Rose left the table without asking to be excused. She held in herself with dignity until she was out of the door, and then broke into a run as she made her way to the bathroom to wash away her tears of chagrin.

That night, Rose heard voices from her bedroom. One was The Beast’s. The other, deep and vibrant, was a lady’s. Not pausing to think, she snuck out of bed and onto the landing wearing only her shift. Lying on her front and peeping through the bannisters, she was able to spy The Beast and a woman in hardy travelling clothes conversing in the entrance hall. She was perhaps in her early thirties, and strikingly handsome, with a confident bearing, hard eyes and full lips. Rose felt a stirring of jealously as she listened.

“…it’s more than enough for now, thank you,” the woman was saying. “Is there anything I can bring you when I next visit?”

“Aside from the usual, yes there is as it happens,” replied The Beast. “I have been thinking of expanding my library with some more modern volumes. Sir Walter Scott, the latest Jane Austen, that sort of thing.”

“Jane Austen?” questioned the mystery woman, with mild incredulity. “Since when have you taken an interest in Jane Austen? Come to think of it, since when have you kept this place so clean? You have another girl here, don’t you?”

“It’s not what you think Agnes,” said The Beast, guiltily.

“Oh no?” Agnes’ tone elevated scepticism to an art form.