(This story is written strictly for the free enjoyment of fans of the "Beauty and the Beast" television series. No copyright infringement is intended.)

          Old Beginnings

          Angie

Love took up the glass of Time, and turn’d it in his glowing hands;
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.

- Alfred Lord Tennyson

It was evening. Catherine was Above and Father had managed to convince Vincent to play a game of chess with him. Vincent was regarding the board with his usual concentration. It was so intense that Jacob marveled that the chess pieces didn’t either ignite or dissolve into sawdust. Vincent would give him no quarter. Jacob could already see that the inevitable was happening and his pupil was ready to trounce his instructor, yet again. He sighed.

In her apartment, tired after a day of cleaning, sorting and packing, Catherine was stretched out on her bed, propped up with pillows, reading Alfred Lord Tennyson. She had found an ancient volume of his complete works in Mr Smyth’s book store. Locksley Hall had caught her attention having recently been mentioned in the newspaper. Its apparent prescience regarding the modern world was fascinating, despite the fact that the Victorian poet laureate had died before the last century began.

She was now a little over a month pregnant and beginning to come to terms with what that meant – what a child would mean to her love for Vincent, or his for her. Oddly, the poem seemed to even have an opinion about that.

"Baby lips will laugh me down: my latest rival brings thee rest,
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother’s breast.
O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due,
Half is thine and half is his: it will be worthy of the two"

That got her thinking. Whatever a child meant, she would never, never allow Vincent to believe that their relationship would somehow be impaired by this new life she was nurturing. He would always be her soul’s and heart’s ease. Of course, he would probably have his misgivings. She must make a special effort to see that they did not take root.

She could sense Vincent’s concentration through the bond, knew that he was probably playing chess with Father.

Catherine resolutely focused on her reading.

"Thou shalt hear the ‘Never, never’ whisper’d by the phantom years,
And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears"
That might almost be referring to their bond.

Father cleared his throat, remembering belatedly that he had something to tell his son. "Vincent, there is something that I recalled the other day, when you described your life here – before Catherine came into it – as a Fabergé egg. It reminded me of something I have kept all these years.

"I have never told you much about the period when we found you. It was a painful time for us, a difficult time for John and Anna – this you know. Your introduction to our world was a challenge, one we did not completely accept or understand for some time. But when we did, you changed us all by your presence. You know that too. But there is more.

"When Anna found you, and brought you to me, I questioned her closely. She brought you to me first – despite what John told you. John was not himself and she was afraid of what he would do if he saw you. You were outside her experience – anyone’s experience.

"You were wrapped in many layers of rags, Vincent, so many that your true size was not evident until we unwrapped you. Whoever had taken such care must have wanted you to have a chance of survival on that very cold January night. You were so tiny that I feared you were premature. But you were well-formed despite your … um … obvious differences. Your tiny hands had perfect – and soft – nails and your body was covered with fine golden down. Your lungs were strong and your heartbeat robust. You could also see well – it was obvious that you were aware of your surroundings. Despite these differences, the state of your umbilical cord indicated that you were only hours old. That’s why I am so sure of your birth date.

Vincent had looked up and was watching Jacob’s face, curious now.

"But I was very sick and cried for days. At least that’s the legend," he remarked quietly.

"Oh yes, Vincent, you cried – mewled really – and for a long time I could not understand it. You were not really sick, just hungry, but we could not get you to suckle or take formula - and you were getting weaker by the day. One of our women had recently given birth and she tried over and over again to urge you to take a nipple. You were stubborn. Then, somehow, I realized that you needed something else entirely. It wasn’t food you wanted, it was the woman who had given you birth. You were pining to death for love of her.

"There was nothing I could do about that, Vincent. I felt helpless. We had no way of knowing who your mother was – or where she was – or even if she was still alive. But we did have the only thing she gave you – the rags she wrapped you in. I had put them aside to examine later, but had forgotten them in my concern for you. I took them out and looked at them more closely, beginning with the outermost. They were unremarkable, just much-washed, well-worn household fabrics that could have been almost anything in their prime. However, when I examined the one which had been closest to your skin, I realized it was not like the others. It was fabric too, but clean and soft, beautifully made and tightly-woven. It was so close to the colour of the other rags, that I had missed its differences in my hurry.

"On impulse I picked you up, removed the infant’s clothing we had put on you, and wrapped you in that blanket. Immediately, you stopped crying and went to sleep, exhausted. I realized the blanket had something of your mother in it – that she had touched it and held you in it. It must have carried her scent, a sense of her warmth and love.

"When you woke up, you began to suckle and we all felt such relief that our community celebrated. We named you Vincent then, after the hospital – but its meaning, "conqueror", seemed singularly appropriate too – even more so as the years went by. You conquered our hearts and over the years have met all the challenges your unusual attributes made necessary."

Jacob paused and tried to get his thoughts back on track. He was wool-gathering again.

"The point I’m making, Vincent, is that although we know nothing about your mother – or your father – there is no doubt that you were loved. We cannot know why you were abandoned, but I am sure it was not by choice.

"You only needed the blanket for a short while, as if it gave you the will to live. Anyway, you outgrew it quickly. Your rate of growth was almost twice that of any baby I had seen. The blanket was never washed because I did not want to risk it. One day, I thought, you would want to see it."

Vincent by now was looking at Father, his remarkable blue gaze so intent that Father found it almost painful.

"Father," Vincent began, and found himself momentarily at a loss for words. "Father, why did you not tell me of this before?"

"Vincent, to be honest, I had forgotten. I am an old man. My memory is not what it was – and I admit it tends to be a bit selective. I have not thought about the blanket for decades. You were so precious to me, to this community, and such a great joy. What could it have changed? I didn’t want you upset, so I pushed it from my mind and forgot about it. A bad habit of mine," he mumbled, looking down at the chessboard.

Vincent stared at Father, trying to hide his annoyance. Why did Father always worry so much about him getting upset? Was he so emotionally unstable that any little thing would set him off? He knew he was not – quite the contrary. He could get angry, certainly, but only with great deliberation. His true anger manifested itself only in the throes of his berserker rage, saving those he loved from the threat of death.

"Where is this blanket, Father?"

Reading the self-indulgent couplets of the Lord of Locksley, Catherine sensed Vincent’s sudden shift in concentration and looked up from the book. His emotions were running close to the surface and she could feel amazement, disbelief, annoyance – and something else. She kept herself calm, not wanting to intrude, but opened her side of their bond completely.

Avoiding Vincent’s accusing eyes, Father got up and hobbled over to a wardrobe in the back of his cluttered library and bent down to open a drawer. He extracted a plastic bag, walked back and put it on the table, beside the chessboard, then sat down again, waiting silently.

Vincent regarded the bag, almost afraid to touch it, afraid of what its contents might tell him – afraid it would tell him nothing. As if moving through thick molasses, he lifted the bag, his hand trembling slightly. It was fairly heavy. A small pale blanket was neatly folded inside, its colour hard to determine. It was, as Father had said, a very densely-woven piece of fabric, like felt. Carefully, he untied the ribbon which closed the bag, holding the neck. His sense of smell was very acute, so he closed his eyes and gently eased the bag open, putting his nose inside it as he did so. And was transported into the past.

He could smell a woman who had recently given birth. He knew that smell from assisting Father. But there was more. This woman had been frightened, but not of the child she held. Something else. Her fear lived in the blanket – and more. She had loved the tiny bundle she held. Vincent could smell that too because her scent was all over it. There was a hint of dried lavender. He had no doubt that this was his mother he sensed. Something in him responded and he sighed.

Father watched as Vincent, eyes closed, soaked up the sensations from the blanket, then heard the soft sigh, His son’s face was absorbed, tense.

Vincent put his hand into the bag and felt the blanket. It was soft but firm. It seemed to have a peculiar texture, one that seemed to change as he rubbed his hand over it. He looked at it closely as he did so. When he finally tightened the neck on the bag and re-tied it, he had a very thoughtful expression on his face.

Father’s brows gathered in puzzlement but Vincent said nothing. His face had gone still. Jacob’s curiosity finally got the better of him. "Vincent, what did you learn from the blanket?"

"Much that I need to think about, Father. But you are right. I was not abandoned by choice. My mother loved me – but she was afraid. The blanket too is unusual in its own way. I’d like to keep it for awhile, if I may."

"Vincent, keep it forever, if you wish. It is yours by right. I doubt I could learn anything further from it. It is speaking to you."

Tennyson lay forgotten on Catherine’s lap. She was looking across her terrace at the city lights and tears were flowing freely. She could feel Vincent’s sadness, and she sensed it was something that had been buried deeply. That could only mean one thing and she wondered at it, as she forced herself to be calm.

Father must have revealed something about Vincent’s babyhood. Since nothing was known about his birth, it could only be something that come with him to the tunnels. She knew only one thing that fit that description – the so-called "rags" he had been wrapped in. Father must have kept something all these years.

It was nothing that threatened their relationship, she knew without a doubt, but it was affecting the man she loved. Vincent was not trying to dampen his emotions, a sure sign that he was deeply affected. He had momentarily forgotten her, for which she was grateful. He must be quite distracted.

She was just wondering if she should go Below and comfort him, when his customary calm returned, but now with a new sense of purpose. She sensed he was deep in thought, but now very curious – and puzzled – but also strangely at peace. Catherine deduced that it had to be something with a scent that spoke to him. Vincent’s sense of smell was very keen, as she knew all too well.

Early on in their relationship, she had discovered that the first thing he did when they embraced was take her scent. She had come to love the way he bent his head sideways, his hair tickling her face, as his nose approached her neck. She couldn’t see his facial reaction, of course, but she had always found this welcome highly erotic – especially in their early days, when he was so hesitant about showing his love.

She had done a little experimenting with the perfumes she used and discovered that he seemed to prefer an ancient cologne that had also been a favourite of her mother’s – 4711. She always had a bottle of it because of its bittersweet association.

After that discovery, she had removed all other scents from herself and her apartment. She did not want anything to detract from herself and the scent Vincent loved best. Now, with no competition, 4711 seemed to drive Vincent wild. He nuzzled her neck, not just smelled it, these days. She must remember to take some more Below when she returned. The cologne would remind Vincent that she was not made of fragile porcelain – or ice – as she neared the birth of their child.

Vincent stared at the chess game, seeing nothing and thinking deeply. Father cleared his throat, and Vincent looked up at him, brought suddenly back to reality. He came to a decision.

"I don’t think I can continue our game, Father. Shall I concede it to you?"

Father was tempted, but had to be honest. "No, Vincent, we’ll just leave it here for another time. Sleep well."

Vincent left Father’s chamber and returned to his own. Then the older man sighed and regarded the chessboard, brows knitted in concentration. With a little more time to think, he might yet salvage this game.

Catherine, aware that Vincent was preparing for bed, went back to her book.

Not in vain the distance beacons (did he mean "beckons", she wondered). Forward, forward let us range,

Let the great worlds spin forever down the ringing grooves of change

A suitable ending for tonight, she thought. She closed the book and slipped under the covers. She could sense that Vincent, despite his earlier upset, was tired as well. She sent her love down the bond and felt his return, like an embrace. She sighed happily.

The next morning Catherine returned Below in time for breakfast. She would not willingly miss one of William’s meals. Afterwards, leaving Vincent to continue some work of his own, she went back to her apartment to finish up, filling boxes with articles to be donated to the local charity thrift. Another had items of use to those Below. She filled a suitcase with some special outfits and evening clothes, a couple of pairs of shoes to match, a purse or two. It was liberating, getting rid of so much. She had even given several dresses to Jenny, who would put them to good use.

This was her last connection to her old life. She had not yet decided what to do with the apartment, but with the brownstone almost ready for occupancy, she must soon do so. At least the hard work was finished. A few pieces of furniture would be moved Below or to the brownstone soon.

By the time she caught her breath, it was nearing dinner time and she realized she had missed lunch. Not a good practice, she berated herself – especially now.

She returned Below, carrying the suitcase and found Vincent waiting at the Threshold. Seeing him was always like the first time. She hugged him close, felt his arms surround her, his love enclose her.

They walked slowly back to their chamber and deposited the suitcase. Then she invited him to renew their love in a more physical way. Gods, she needed him like water or air! He satisfied her so completely that food became secondary to her brain. But her stomach did not make such distinctions and began to rumble loudly.

Vincent laughed at her, pulled her to him and whispered that she needed more substantial sustenance for the sake of both herself and their child. She loved his naked embrace. She was incapable of rational thought while in his arms. He sensed this and let her go, reluctantly.

"Catherine, we must go for dinner. The first signal has already sounded."

They did a leisurely cleanup in the bath chamber, were still there when the second signal sounded over the pipes. They dried and dressed as quickly as they could, making good use of the hot drying room Kanin had created for them when she moved Below.

They were a little late, but managed to get a big bowl of William’s superb and savoury pork stew, lots of bread - and seats near Father. He smiled at them both and inquired after her health. She assured him she was very well indeed. He winked at her.

After a small mug of beer – Father had assured her it would do no harm - and a generous portion of apple pie, Catherine was feeling more than a little relaxed. Vincent, she noticed, was very quiet now.

As people started drifting away to their Chambers, Vincent was obviously keen to leave as well. Catherine waved at a few of her friends as they left, arm in arm. Back in their chamber, she immediately flopped onto the big bed, sighing in contentment. Reaching along the bond, she caught an unusual emotion which seemed strangely familiar. She cast her mind back and immediately associated it with her reading of Tennyson the night before. Then she realized it was not the book itself, but what she had sensed in Vincent.

She looked over at him. He was sitting at his table in profile, staring at something in front of him. Curious, she got up to see what so absorbed him. When she reached him, she was still a little puzzled.

"What is it Vincent?" she asked, although she had a suspicion when she saw the piece of fabric in its plastic bag. She kneaded his shoulders, which seemed a bit tense. Was it from emotion or was he now feeling the affects of the day’s hard work, she wondered.

Vincent looked up, uncertain how to explain this new dilemma in his life.

"Father gave this to me last night, Catherine. I was wrapped in this blanket when I was found as a baby.

"Has it revealed anything?"

"It has answered some questions and raised more," Vincent said slowly. "It is unusual. This blanket is not a rag at all, but very well made – and an enigma."

"Well, in my experience, enigmas either reveal their own answers, or their question is forgotten," Catherine remarked.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned over to kiss him. She was tired, although the evening was still young. Well, they both needed a good night’s sleep, she thought. Her brain was already halfway there. She stroked his hair and found a delectable ear.

"I think I’ll get ready for bed," she whispered into it. "I’m almost dead on my feet."

She quickly undressed, put on a long housecoat, then went into the bathroom to clean up. She was shuffling by the time she crawled into bed, tossing the housecoat over a nearby bolster and crawling far enough over to give its owner plenty of room. This action was still not quite automatic, but she loved the fact that she had to do it. She sighed happily and was quickly asleep.

Vincent, who had been watching Catherine prepare for bed, was so tired that he was almost unable to move. His yawns were becoming more frequent. Enough, he decided. The blanket was a curiosity only. He would not let it worry him.

He undressed, then got into bed carefully, not wanting to wake Catherine, but easing himself close enough to her so he could warm her if she felt the cold. They had found that they were actually warmer without nightclothes. The convenience went without saying.

For once, he thought in amazement, her closeness did not arouse him. He felt immense peace. He did feel the need to hold her close, this soon-to-be mother of their child. He draped his arm over her and she snuggled into his chest. Whatever the relic of his past meant, Vincent knew that their love was inviolable. He would probably never know the truth of his birth, but it no longer mattered. He had learned what he needed to know - that his mother, at least, had loved him. Something in his chest unknotted, something he had not even been aware existed. He felt such a sense of happiness that he sighed, and heard Catherine do the same.

In that position they slept the night away, dreamless and contented.

END