Would you care to write a drabble of the castle redoing Mrs. and Mr. Potts's wedding because Chip found his mother's wedding dress and was bummed that he missed it?
THIS! IS SO! FUCKING CUTE!!!!
WHAT THE FUCK!!! WHO GAVE YOU THE RIGHT!
“Oof.” Lumiere sneezes. “I try
not to go up to this attic, much—”
“Why? Worried you’re going to find an old flame?” Plumette teases.
“No! No. Where do you hear such stories?! I never dated a Christmas ornament, I told you that never happened—”
“Mm-hmm. So why do you live in terror of the attic?”
“It’s not terr—AGH.” Lumiere sees a spider and leaps. Stubborn, still, as he stands on top of a chair: “It’s not terror. I just…don’t like old things.”
The two of them stand, surrounded by the dusting heaps of objects. Unmoving hat stands, cutlery, trunks, closets, knick-knacks: it is all too silent for Lumiere, too dead. Nothing here moves or feels or glows. Nothing has a heartbeat.
It reminds him too much of the night of the curse.
Plumette sees his eyes start to
glance toward a dusty, broken feather-duster, and sidesteps in front of it so
all he sees are her skirts. “Mon amour! Come, now. We don’t have to stay. She
just wants her old trunk, to get the linens from it—”
“Oui! Oui.” He starts from
reverie and jumps toward the old trunk, hauled up in the back of the attic.
“Beatrice” is inscribed on it, hard nails in cracked leather; and it still
smells like tea and clean muslin and English-garden-rosemary. “I suppose she
hasn’t had this out since she came across the channel—uff.”
Lumiere has never been strong in his arms. They get it down the stairs—where Adam, thank heaven, is there to pick it up with ease—and the maître d'sighs and massages his limbs.
“We’ve found you your trunk!” he calls to Mrs. Potts. “And about ten thousand pounds of dust. Did you secretly want to kill me? You know I’m allergic—”
“You’re just French, that’s what, no backbone for the harsher things in life,” says the housekeeper, bustling forward and smiling at the chest. “Now! Look at that! You’ve done wonderfully, Lumiere, Plumette. Hold it there, there’s a lock—”
The trunk flies open, with another cloud of dust. Lumiere sneezes in misery and stands back.
The whole castle has gathered for the momentous occasion of opening Mrs. Potts’ bridal trunk—Belle and Chapeau and Adam and Chip and all the rest, to see Mrs. Potts’ old life in all its dust and rosemary. She herself hasn’t looked at it for years; but she wants the linens, now, the ones her mother wove for her. They’ll look nice, out on the table. Mrs. Potts doesn’t like to hide things away, any more—she has the good china out at every meal, and lets Chip run around to his heart’s content.
He is not running now, though. He peers into the box with an eager face.
“I don’t see any linens,” he says.
“It’s not pirate treasure, dear, I told you,” says Mrs. Potts, digging down inside. “Just a trunk, with a few old secrets. Like—oh!—that.” She takes out an old, English-style Christmas ornament—a hammered-tin angel, with cunning eyes.
“I told you,” Plumette whispers, poking at Lumiere. He pretends to sneeze and looks away.
“Now let’s see, this isn’t table cloths—nor this either—now! Dear! What’s this?”
She draws it out, with careful fingers. A beautiful, light-blue dress—of the old sort, the kind from thirty, forty years ago, the kind Belle knows from the sketches of her mother. It’s a costly dress, for Mrs. Potts; it would have taken a year’s salary for a miller’s daughter to afford such a gown, though it looks plain enough in Adam’s hall.
Chip gapes. “Is it a fairy-gown?”
“No, dear, though it might have fit through a thimble once—my mother made this lace herself.” Mrs. Potts smiles, and fingers the fading fabric. “I got married, in this dress. To Mr. Potts himself. Pretty, isn’t it?”
“You—got married in this?” Chip’s eyes wander over the little English primroses embroidered on the silk.
“Yes, dear. My mother cried to see it.”
“Why wasn’t I there?” he demands.
“Luv! You weren’t born, yet.”
“Well, why didn’t you wait until I was born?” Chip is inexhaustible. Plumette hides a laugh, and Belle’s close-lipped smile tucks up in one corner.
“Oh, dear, it was such a long time ago. You wouldn’t have wanted to be there for it.”
“But I did! I do! Oh, mum, please! Can you do it again? So I don’t miss it this time?”
Mrs. Potts starts to say no. But then she remembers—don’t hide anything away—and Chip is so eager, so happy, as he holds the dress made by a woman he will never know.
“Well,” says Mrs. Potts, “my mother surely wouldn’t mind. She always said we’d have to do it again, do it proper, without the cats all crawling on the altar.”
She doesn’t let Lumiere help. Plumette, she does—“Because you’re a rational soul, dear, and don’t get these extravagant ideas”—but she keeps a steady order to things, and turns down the buckets of roses and the twenty bridesmaids and the gold-trimmed invitations the maid suggests.
“No, no, that won’t do at all,” she says. “We’re honest folk, me and Mr. Potts. We’ll get married in the ordinary fashion.”
“But a swan cut from ice is the ordinary fashion—”
“In Paris, maybe. But we’ll have a Yorkshire wedding, here in Villeneuve.”
So they trim up Pere Robert’s little church, and order in blackberry ice cream, the kind that Stanley makes himself. (he’s taken to new hobbies, since the old ones went out of style.) Belle researches old English vows, and together with Adam cobbles together some little promises the two old lovers can keep—to keep a steady hob, and love each other beyond curses and broken crockery. Mrs. Potts gets out the dress, and looks at the seams with a furrowed brow, and carefully lets it out an inch here, and an inch there. She washes the lace and tucks it up on a chair, with little rose-bundle sachets to keep it sweet.
Chip is everywhere. He cannot be stopped. The castle gives up on keeping up with him—he slips past Adam’s fingers, and skyrockets past Lumiere’s, and Belle can only get him to sit down after giving him peas to shell, or rings to polish, or shoes to shine. He is never happier than when his father asks him to pick out a proper corsage—“no enchanted roses, now; there’s my boy.”
The wedding is held on a morning. Plumette insists that late afternoon would be more fashionable, but Mrs. Potts maintains that afternoon weddings are always rainy. Never mind if that was in Yorkshire—she has a morning wedding, and Chapeau’s sisters help her get dressed.
Chip is perched in the front row. His legs won’t stop jiggling. He grins at the church’s high ceiling, and the fresh-scrubbed altar, and Belle standing there with her fingers on her lips.
Mrs. Potts looks beautiful. The old dress suits her perfectly; and Mr. Potts cries to see her, and opens his arms, and lets Adam give her away. Cogsworth dabs his eyes, and hands the two the rings—crafted to look like two clasped hands, and the ones they’ve worn forever, but shined to look new by Chip. And they say the gentle vows that Belle wrote, and Pere Robert blesses them, right as it starts to rain.
“Oh! This is lovely,” whispers Mrs. Potts, slipping on her ring. “My mother would be so proud.”
“I know she would, love,” says Mr. Potts. “And—oh! Oh! Dear!”
There are cats flocking all over the alter, tipping over the candles and strewing the bread. Chip stands by, an open sack in one hand, another cat crawling across the other.
“I thought,” he says, beaming at his mum and dad, “if I spoiled it again, we could have another wedding every year. Like your mum would want!”
And the Yorkshire rain—come just to Villeneuve to say hello to Mrs. Potts—can’t drown out the laughter in the little church.
[i’m running out of prompts!! get in here!!]