Hello all! I recently decided that Carlisle/Esme is the best ship ever, and I've been wanting to do a story like this for awhile. It will be multi-chapter, but I'm not going to waste time getting to the point. Much time, anyway. In essence, this is my version of Esme's human life. It's mostly canon; I follow the same storyline.* I only add to places where Stephanie Meyer left it blank.
~Sun~
Chapter One: Hope is a Deadly Poison
There is something satisfying about the act of working with one's hands, the feeling of the damp soil molding to your fingers. You think you are the one digging, digging into the earth, but the clay also shovels underneath your fingernails, wedges itself so thoroughly that you doubt it will ever come out. It is hot. The sun beats as harsh as a whip onto your back. Your hair sticks to your forehead. But once the soil has been tilled, ready for crops, once that seed of life has been planted, you are glad that the act of pushing through was painful. Pain is remembered better than happiness. The pride and joy that proceeds this task brands the entire act into your memory forever.
That is how I imagine it.
I have never had a need to farm, to work with my hands. I live on a so-called ranch; I call it an estate. And with the embroidery, the fine paintings, and the inheritance, how could it not be an estate? This is my father's empire.
I think that is why he wanted a son. He didn't receive one. He refused to try again. Instead, he works harder, finds better deals, and hires better workers. He doesn't see the wonderful home around him. He sees the mansions. With massive halls and stables and acres for nothing but riding and pleasure and fishing and strolling. And for letting me have private chaperones with suitors. I shudder.
Presently, I sit by the window with my embroidery, watching the hired hands of the farm. If mother walks by, she will slap me on the hand and tell me that I need to spend less time fantasizing about things I don't need, don't want, and can't have. It is unlikely that she will find me, however. She is probably preparing for a guest or two, plotting how to climb higher up the social ladder.
Mother likes to pretend we're rich; Father likes to pretend we're poor. Mother constantly invites friends over to show off her wealth; Father encourages friends so that we can climb the social ladder and, thus, become wealthier. As they treat wealth in the opposite ways, they are almost exactly alike.
The rising sun finally falls upon me at the right angle, showering me in the sticky summer's heat. I like to think that the sun makes me pretty. My hair is light-brown, thick, and curly. It frames my face well. My eyes are a dull green. I am pretty. But my mother is beyond beautiful, and I am plain compared to her.
Mother rushes to open the door and I know a guest has arrived.
I look down at my half-finished embroidery. The golden threads shine in the light. I have been making the pattern myself, and I can't seem to find an idea for the angel's face. He is decidedly male, carrying a bow and arrow, clothed in armor and surrounded by clouds. Another one, an angel depicting me, stands beside him with a harp. Soon, I tell myself. You just have to wait for inspiration. I usually use my mother's face for the female angels, but I always stop when I try to make one of them a man. Sometimes I use my father, other times I make someone imaginary. Either way, I always depict their expressions with upmost care. I believe this pattern is almost complete.
The sun crawls a little higher in the sky. Mother brings a long-expected guest into the house, Mrs. Anderson, along with her daughter, Maggie. Maggie is fourteen, two years my junior, yet she appears to be older than I am.
"Good afternoon, Maggie," I tell her.
"And to you, Ms. Platt," she says stiffly. I smile in response. She keeps her eyes to the ground.
Mother leads the four of us to the sitting room. Maggie wears a grimace, Mother is curious, and Mrs. Anderson is anxious. I am a bit bored. I vaguely realize that I am still clutching my embroidery. Cautiously, I set it down.
"Oh, Mrs. Platt!" exclaims Mrs. Anderson. "You'll never believe it. Dr. and Mrs. Harris are throwing another party! Most of the town is invited."
Mother smiles. "Why should I not believe it? They throw parties almost every week." 'Dr.' Harris is not the least bit interested in his work. He was once a wonderful doctor, but now he mostly uses his title for social gain. Who am I kidding, everyone in this town uses their titles, friends, and children as tools for social gain. It doesn't leave much time for embroidery or painting. As soon as I think the words, my hands yearn to have the project back in my hands. I simply must finish it today. I have been working on it for too long.
"It is not the party that is important, Mrs. Platt!" Mrs. Andersen continues. "It is the company! There is a new bachelor in town."
Mother gasps; Maggie groans. "A new bachelor!" the former exclaims. "Mrs. Anderson, are you sure?! Is he quite fine?"
"Quite wealthy and quite kind. Such a compassionate young man." Blushing, Mrs. Anderson shoots a glance at her daughter, who turns an even brighter shade of red. "Also... well... Maggie says he is very handsome. On top of it all, he is a doctor. Staying with Dr. Harris's family at the moment."
"Will he be staying long?"
"Long enough for someone to find him a suitable bride." Mrs. Andersen giggles. "Maggie is a bit younger than him. But Helen or Ruth are just old enough. And your Esme... yes, I believe she would do quite nicely. If I had not already chosen him for Ruth." Maggie sighs, and I suddenly understand her hostility.
"Mrs. Andersen!" Mother protests. "How presumptuous. You know quite well that I have already chosen a suitable husband for her." I ball my hands into fists. "Besides which, I doubt she would be interested.
"We shall see," says Mrs. Andersen.
Maggie sighs and picks a book. I love reading, but I rarely do it. Father often discourages it. He seems a bit behind the times. His scoldings are harsh, and I avoid them as much as possible. Presently, however, Father is nowhere in sight and I can understand her need to escape our mothers. I pick my embroidery back up and begin working away at the stitching around the edges. Fuming inside, I stitch furiously. In, out, in, out, in out.
"I'm sure Ruth can win him over. She is very outgoing... more outgoing than your Esme, for certain."
"Esme does not belong to anyone, so she is not my Esme, for your information, and she is not shy, only artistic. She prefers to paint and embroider and sculpt."
"A girl? Embroidering? Yes, that is proper, but they all seem so rebellious these days." It does not go unnoticed that she calls me 'girl,' not 'woman.' Mrs. Andersen peers her nose over my sewing. She is not welcome, and I glare at her. Mrs. Andersen gasps in pleasant surprise. She is impressed; I am slightly smug. "Hmm," she says haughtily. "Not bad at all. Still, Ruth's is far more impressive. And she can cook." My cheeks flame, and I know they must be bright red. My attempts at 'cooking' always end in disaster.
"But can she embroider like that? Does she weave tapestries? Not that I am interested in this bachelor, for certain." A tapestry? Yes, I suppose that is what I am sewing. I can hardly see the original fabric, and the picture is remarkably lifelike. Maggie and I drift onwards in pleasant silence while the two adults in the room squabble like children half my age.
"What is his name?" my mother finally asks, a few minutes later. I glance upwards; this conversation has cooled. I begin to add a halo to my angel, the female one with the harp on the other side. She is more beautiful than I am, paler, too, but is recognizably me. In my mind, I can see the halo growing to a larger size, an elaborate pattern rather than a simple circle. A sun, framing her face. Just like how I imagine the sun makes me look beautiful. I need to rethread the needle, however. I reach for the golden thread. In, out, in, out, in, out...
"I believe his name is Dr. Cullen," Mrs. Andersen says with a smile. "Dr. Carlisle Cullen." She feigns the accent of an Englishman. Maggie blushes harder. I sigh and re-thread the needle.
"What a lovely name."
"Very unusual." In, out, in, out, in, out, in...
"Almost like how 'Esme' is unusual." ...out, in, out, in, out, in...
Mrs. Andersen laughs. "Are you suggesting that they're 'made for each other?'"
Snap! I know the sound like a gun firing isn't real, but I can almost hear it as it happens. I ruined a stitch, but taking it out would cause twice the damage. Now the picture is going to be ruined. The sun isn't as beautiful as I imagined it would be. I feel my heart drop a little more.
"Mrs. Andersen, how presumptuous! Things will fall into place as they are meant to. Besides which, I already have my eye on Charles Evenson for her. He is just the right age, and our long-standing family tradition is finding someone for our daughters with the Evenson's and the Campbell's. Ruth and Helen can argue over this... Dr. Cullen. But my daughter knows what's best for her. Isn't that right, Esme?"
The anger subsides and all that is left is despair. "Yes, Mother. Charles is wonderful." I give a fake smile. "Very handsome, and quite an inheritance."
Mother shoots me a glare. Lie better next time, her eyes tell me. I swallow, disappointedly tracing my finger along the run in the fabric.
"When is the party? Will there be dancing?"
"Of course there will be dancing!" Mrs. Andersen exclaims. She chuckles. "I hope Ruth will practice."
Mother laughs, and I can't help but join in, considering what happened last time.
"Does Esme know any dancing?" asks Mrs. Andersen.
"A bit, yes. She knows enough dancing." She glances at me. "I just don't think she likes it."
"That's a step ahead of Ruth and I." Mother looks confused an Mrs. Andersen grins. "Did I ever tell you about the time that I 'danced' into a table?... my partner was Ashley." I glance up, recognizing the name.
"Oh my," Mother says expectantly, a sly smile on her face.
"Neither of us knew, we weren't looking up. We didn't see that the other person was looking down. I'm not sure who was leading who. It was a very simple dance, but we kept moving backwards. Farther, and farther, and farther, and farther... I didn't realize that there was a refreshment table, and our eyes were on the ground. Finally he looked up and lifted his hand to let me twirl around..."
"No!" Mother gasps.
"And he opened his mouth to warn me, but I was still looking at the ground. He tried to stop me, but my foot caught on my dress and as I twirled... I fell backwards into a steaming hot bowl of soup!" I do not laugh like Mother and Maggie; I am too annoyed with Mrs. Andersen.
"At least you didn't fall out a window," Mother says in between giggles.
"Oh, no, that was the next party," she says wryly.
"Oh, really?"
"I was backed up against the window when I slipped. I think my dress caught onto my shoe. Oh, no, there was something slippery on the floor. Soup! Yes, it was soup, I had spilled it earlier!"
"I hope you didn't spill it while dancing..."
"No, no! Nothing like that. I made someone else spill it by dancing into them. And I was even worse than Ruth. I was floundering in the air, grappling for anything to hang onto... and I brought my dancing partner with me!"
"You didn't!"
"Oh, yes I did. And did I ever tell you about—" Mother and I can tell that she is about to go on another rant about something irrelevant.
"You never answered my question, Mrs. Andersen," Mother interjects.
"Oh?" She scratches her head.
"When is the party?"
"Tomorrow night." A grin spreads across her face. "Dr. Cullen is going to be there."
"Yes," Maggie snaps. "I think we would have gathered that by now, mother."
"Watch your tongue, Maggie," Mrs. Andersen chides. "I believe that the rest of the town is invited."
"Is it? That's wonderful... but I believe you have already mentioned that."
"Oh. I have? Yes, I have. I do that often. Did I ever tell you about—"
"At the Harris Estate?" Mother questions, interrupting. I have no desire to be subjected to another few hours of Mrs. Andersen's speeches about her life. I know Mother doesn't, either. Somehow, though, she manages to make it sound hospitable.
"As usual." Mrs. Andersen beams. "It ought to be a nice social gathering. And, if you want, I could introduce you to a few of Dr. Harris's friends..."
Mother gasps. I roll my eyes again, this time in a downwards direction to avoid being noticed. "Will your husband introduce my husband?"
"Yes, of course! I'll talk to him about it."
"That should definitely help our connections. Nothing makes good friends like good beer and wine." She's talking about the men, of course.
"Agreed."
Mrs. Andersen leaves with Maggie about an hour later. I go to my room and pick up a random book — The Secret Garden. A Christmas Carol lies half-open on my bed. I had just been rereading it when Mother caught me and told me that it was time to leave my room. The Secret Garden was only recently published in its entirety. I have only just started it. I open it to "Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary," and begin to read.
I try to focus on the words, but I feel ill. My head is spinning with a thousand thoughts, a thousand questions. I always try to prepare myself for disappointment. Once I hope that Mother will consider another husband or even suitor for me, I cannot stop hoping. Hope is poisonous. It plants a seed deep inside of my heart. When I try to bury it, the seed blossoms. It is too difficult, too tiring for my wishing to be fruitless. It is better to have unplanted soil than is to have a withered crop.
Perhaps, perhaps I can win over this total stranger. It would save me from the... off feeling I have when I am around Charles Evenson. He is too withdrawn, too... reserved. It isn't that he doesn't speak, it's that he knows how to dodge questions, how to leave no impression whatsoever. I have known him since I was a child and yet I do not know anything about him. Mother wishes for me to continue focusing my attention on Charles. She'll want me to dance with him. But if I can sway Dr. Cullen at the party, and if he is as impressive as Maggie and Mrs. Andersen seem to think he is, surely my mother will reconsider my "perfect" match with Charles.
I neither need nor want her to find another "suitable pairing," I only want her to reconsider. I don't even want a husband.
Maybe, just maybe, I could be free.
*In case you're wondering what I've somewhat changed/added to in the storyline: the story stems from the fact Stephanie Meyer never explicitly said that Esme never met Carlisle before she fell out of the tree. She also never explicitly stated how long Carlisle treated her. I have also added my own plots and subplots that weave into the big picture.
Thank you for reading. I promise I'll update soon. Please take a moment review, and feel free to point out any glaring grammar mistakes. That aren't style choices, like this fragment. Thank you again!
~Sun~