Author's Note: For anyone who is reading 'Battle of the Angels', it WILL be finished... eventually! But this idea has been growing in my mind for some time now and I thought I would be driven mad if I didn't write it. I know there are quite a few of these about, but I don't care, I want to give my own spin to it. It's rated T at the moment, but there are a few chapters ahead when the rating will go up because of Charles. I hate him so much but kinda enjoy writing him! Anyway... read on and review if you will.

Warnings: None in this chapter. Plenty in further chapters to come.

Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight. If I did, Peter Facinelli would be a closet in my room.

Chapter One

September 15th 1911

Esme's POV

The late afternoon is hot, unseasonably so. The sun, although it has almost completed its journey across the velvet blue sky, still burns down turning all that it touches into gold. Gold has always been one of my favorite colors. It seems to me that it is full of joy and promise. Gold is the color of the ears of corn ripening in the fields, leaves in autumn and of course, the sun. My father would say that gold means riches. Cold hard money. There are more important things.

I sit, curled up in the corner of the couch, peering out of the window. My sewing lies forgotten on the small sidetable. Is there anything more dull than pulling a thread endlessly through a section of fabric with a needle? I would much rather be out in the garden sketching or climbing the trees in the orchard. Sighing deeply I eye the small square of cloth on the table next to me.

I can hear my mother moving around upstairs. She will not notice if I go outside for half an hour or so. Guiltily I rise from the cushioned seat and run toward the back door, casting one look behind me at my abandoned sewing.

I pull on my old leather ankle boots which I use when I am occasionally required to help my father in the fields. That is not often, these days, as my mother believes that a sixteen-year-old girl should be occupied with more maidenly pursuits. I contemplate throwing a shawl over my shoulders, but the sun is still beaming brightly and I decide to forgo it for now.

My spirits soar as soon as I am outside. I love nature, I always have. As I head toward the orchard the leaves crunch under my feet, they are just starting to brown with the beginning of the fall.

'Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,' I murmur to myself as I make my way to my favorite tree. It is a knarled and twisting spiral of wood, towering far into the sky. Most of the apple trees are virtually the same, straight and uniform. I've always liked this one because it is so unusual. Just for a moment I take the time to wander around the base of the trunk, running my fingers along the bark. My mother would scream if she could see me. She always complains that the skin on my hands is rough and un-ladylike thanks to all the time I spend in branches. I know she despairs of ever finding me a husband. Husband. Just the word panics me. I am only sixteen! I do not want to belong to a man who will probably turn out exactly like my father... gruff, violent and temperamental. I am not completely naïve in the ways of the world. I am well aware of the looks I get whenever I am in town with mother or father. The stares of men. I know that my mother especially is hoping for a good marriage for me. I am their only child and they have pinned all their hopes for a happy future on me making a good match.

Ever since I turned sixteen, this has become more of an issue in our household. My mother has taken to teaching me 'maidenly' pursuits such as sewing, painting and playing the piano. The painting I do not mind so much as it is very similar to my sketching. But the other activities bore me to tears. Sometimes I wonder if my mother is truly happy. I doubt that she can be. Being married to a man who is often violent toward her. Having to run the household by herself. I do not want any of these things for myself.

Abruptly I start to heave myself into the branches, aware that I am getting smudges of green sap on my white dress. My mother will scold me and then tell my father when he gets in from the fields. He will then beat me for being so careless with my clothing and climbing trees when I should be helping with the chores. But somehow, I do not mind. Not here, not among the branches and the leaves with the sun burning down and warming my pale skin. The smell of apples, earth and bark is strong and I relax against the branch. It is peaceful here, with nothing but the birdsong for company.

'Esme! Useless child, where are you?' My mother shrieks from the porch, scanning the garden, trying to find me.

My grip on the branch I am holding onto falters and I jerk at the sound of her voice. Too late I find myself falling, unable to clutch onto anything to halt my descent. The branches flash past me in a blur and then suddenly I hit the earth.

Crack!

I am aware that my body has landed on the ground at an odd angle. There is a split moment of peace and then the pain starts shooting up my leg. It is like nothing I have ever experienced. The agony is stabbing and unrelenting. Unable to help myself I let out a cry of pain and feel the warm tears start spurting from my eyes and course down my pale cheeks. The pain makes it hard to concentrate on anything, yet I am sure I hear my mother come running. She has undoubtedly heard my cry.

Sure enough she reaches me within minutes and I can sense her kneeling beside me. A hand reaches out to stroke back the errant curls which have clustered on my forehead which is now damp with sweat.

'Esme? Honey?' There is a pause as she takes in the sight of my crooked leg. 'John! John, come quick!' she cries. Our farm is a small one, and at this time of the day, when it is virtually evening, my father will be making his way back. Sure enough, after a time, I hear his heavy tread thudding on the earth, sending reverberations through my head.

'What on earth...?' I hear him shout, as he sees me. 'Helen, what has the stupid girl been doing now?'

I can feel my mother run hands over my injured leg and I moan as the pain intensifies. 'I think she's broken her leg. Can you call Dr Phillips? And get one of the farmhands to carry her into the house.'

This surprises me. Usually my mother would never have spoken to my father in this manner. But panic is evident in her tone, and it doesn't seem she cares. What is even stranger is that I hear my father agree.

'I'll get Will to help her into the house.' I hear him run towards our home, calling out for Will as he does so.

Soon enough I am being lifted by strong arms. My leg jolts as I am hauled into the air and I bite my lip. I can feel the sweat beading my forehead, dampening the dark brown curls. Then I am being laid gently down on the couch and someone, Will perhaps, carefully places my broken leg on the cushions.

My mother moves around the room, drawing the curtains and lighting the lamps. Evening has truly fallen now. I lie on the couch, only vaguely aware of her movements. After a few minutes I hear my father enter.

'Dr. Phillips is on vacation,' he announces glumly. I am glad of this. Our family doctor, scares me. He has wild black hair and staring eyes. He has also never made a secret of his desire to court me. He looks like he is in his fifties! 'The hospital said they would send another man... a Dr. Cullen.'

'Did you hear that, Esme?' my mother asks, in a tone that is far gentler than any she usually employs with me. 'Dr. Cullen will be here soon and he'll fix your leg up for you.'

'Damn foolish thing to be doing,' my father mutters to himself. 'You're too old for that sort of behavior, Esme. You should be helping your mother around the house and finding yourself a husband. We will have words after your leg is healed.' I shudder. I know exactly what he means by having words.

Only the ticking of the clock in the drawing room marks the passage of time. I toss on the couch, my leg unbearably painful. At some point my mother sends for a cold flannel to press onto my forehead, which does help a little.

Suddenly there is a knock on the door. My head swiftly moves toward the noise... at the promise of swift relief from the pain. My father moves out of the room and down the hallway.

'Dr. Cullen?' he asks, and I presume the man replies in the affirmative. 'Good. She's in the drawing room... I'll show you the way.'

There is the sound of footsteps; my father's heavy footfall and a lighter tap which must be this Dr. Cullen. Then the door opens and my mother stands up to greet the new arrival. My view of him is blocked by her back, but I hear his voice as she greets him and there is something strange in her tone. She seems almost breathless.

'Dr. Cullen, it's a pleasure. I am Helen Platt. My daughter, Esme, we think she's broken her leg.'

'It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance Mrs Platt. I'd like to take a look at young Miss Platt, if you wouldn't mind.' The voice. It is deep and reassuring. Very masculine yet somehow caring. I feel myself relax without even meaning to. My mother moves from her position in front of the couch, allowing me to see this Dr. Cullen for the first time.

Words cannot describe him. He looks like an angel, standing there, framed by the light from the hallway. His blonde hair is smoothed back from his face, which is strong and formed of chiselled cheekbones. Yet it is his eyes which pin me to the couch with awe. They are deep and golden, full of a depth I cannot understand. It seems that they pierce right to my very soul, and I can feel myself blushing. He smiles as he catches sight of me, and I turn a deeper crimson, fully aware that I must cut a hideous sight. Lying on the couch with a sap-stained dress and old leather boots, my curly hair matted and sweaty. I understand now why my mother sounded breathless. This man looks like one of the Greek Gods I have learned about. Apollo... God of the Sun. Yes, that sounds about right.

Apollo crosses to me and kneels beside the couch, that warm genuine smile still on his face.

'Hello, Miss Platt. I'm Doctor Cullen. Can you tell me what happened to your leg?' His voice is rich and gentle, instantly soothing.

'I... I was climbing a tree...' I start hesitantly, glancing to my mother who rolls her eyes heavenward. 'My mother startled me and I fell.'

Those full lips twist upwards as he looks at my face. 'I see. Climbing a tree, were you?'

'I've told her... it's not fitting for a lady to go gadding about in the orchard. But she doesn't listen to me!' my mother bursts out.

'Oh, I don't know,' Doctor Cullen says wryly. 'I've always believed it is good to keep an element of innocent fun in life. Otherwise, what is the point?'

What indeed? I think, and smile hesitantly at the heavenly face hovering near mine. He smiles back at me and tilts his head to the side, eyeing my leg.

'With your permission Miss Platt I'm just going to feel for the break. Is that okay with you?' Unable to say anything I merely nod and feel my face flushing yet again. I hear my father cough from the corner of the room as Doctor Cullen raises the hem of my dress up above my knees and I know he is thinking how inappropriate that action is, even if the man doing it is a doctor. For my part, my skin is thrilling at his touch... his icy fingers on my burning flesh. Doctor Cullen's hands are unusually cold it is true, but this doesn't bother me unduly. In fact it feels soothing as my leg appears to be burning with pain.

'I am very sorry if this is uncomfortable. I have been told I have cold hands,' he murmurs to me, clearly mistaking my expression for one of discomfort.

'No, it's fine. I mean they are cold, but I...' my words falter as I stumble to a halt. My father coughs again from the corner of the room and Doctor Cullen turns his attention once again to the issue at hand.

'Do you want the good news or the bad news?' he asks me after a minute or so of feeling the bone which sends agonizing jolts of pain up my thigh and through my spine. I brush a sweaty tendril of hair out of my eyes.

'I suppose I should hear the bad news first,' I stammer, my gaze awkwardly meeting his face and I begin blushing all over again.

'Well, the bad news is that you won't be climbing trees again for at least eight weeks, Miss Platt.' He winks at me and a tiny smile quirks the corner of his lips. It is truly amazing how an action that simple can send thrills of fire racing through my body. 'The good news is that it is a simple break and should heal with no difficulties.'

My father shifts from his position and I hear him approach the couch. 'So that means she can't do any chores for the next eight weeks then, Doctor?' His voice is rough and harsh. Most men often feel intimidated by my father as he stands at over six feet and is built like an ox. When he uses his threatening or unfriendly voice, as he is doing now, they usually flinch or bristle as if their masculinity is being challenged. The blonde-haired doctor does neither as if my father's tone does not bother him in the slightest. Admiration for this enigmatic man floods me.

He stands easily and faces my father. He is not quite as tall, and not as muscular, but there is something about his stance which somehow suggests to me that it would be a mistake to try to intimidate him. Perhaps my father guesses this also as his shoulders slump slightly and his posture loosens.

'That is correct, Mr Platt. If your daughter's leg is to heal quickly and effectively she should not be troubled with chores around the house. I prescribe plenty of bedrest. In cases such as these it is often the best cure. I will set the break now and return in about a month's time to take the cast off. After it is removed I advise Miss Platt to start taking short strolls around the house to get used to walking properly again.' He turns to me once more. 'Are you fond of books?'

The question takes me slightly by surprise. As a matter of fact I am, although I prefer to be outdoors. I tell him so and he nods.

'Good. I imagine you will be doing a lot of reading in the next few weeks,' he murmurs. 'As for going outside, I would prefer it if you left that until the cast is removed.' My heart sinks slightly at the gloomy prospect of being closeted away in the house for almost a month but I cannot argue with this man. Not when he is looking at me in such a penetrating and almost, God forgive me, alluring manner.

I almost want him to leave. I feel like I cannot trust my body and my mind to behave appropriately when I am around him. I find it easy when my mother finds various suitors for me from the men around town. It is easy to act chaste and shy with them because the reality is that I wouldn't want to touch them with a ten-foot-pole. But now it is different. So different and I am feeling things I am not sure I want to feel.

I cast my eyes down, as though I am saddened at the prospect of spending the next few weeks indoors, which I am, when in fact I am trying to conceal the blush I can feel spreading across my cheeks.

I hear, rather than see, Doctor Cullen get to his feet. Almost immediately I find I am missing having him kneeling beside me, taking care of me. He is talking to my father, I hear them murmuring together in the corner of the room. But I cannot pay attention to their words. I am attempting to rid my mind of very inappropriate thoughts of Doctor Cullen. I do not even know his first name and I am already sinning!

Soon he returns, gently telling me he is going to start setting the break... and all I can see is his golden eyes.