August 1917

Esme's POV

I trudged through the damp shadows and mud down the familiar road. In some ways, it felt like no time had passed since the last time I walked alone down this lane. I'd traveled it so many times over the years, with so many memories blending together, that it almost seemed like the last several months hadn't been real. As the familiar house came into view, dark and shrouded by filmy sheets of rain, I could almost imagine that it had all been some swirling surreal dream that would fade in the bright light of daybreak and evaporate away like a morning mist, leaving me a carefree maiden.

The rain fell harder, pelting my shoulders and face, making me wince. Even that slight touch was agonizing against my bruises. Clearly, the last few months had happened.

I climbed the porch steps, relief and worry mingling in the pit of my stomach. I'd been so happy here…it seemed like years ago. My parents had been proud of me, and we'd all anticipated much joy. They'd been pleased with the match; pleased I was staying in town and not venturing to the western states alone as I'd proposed. They did not want their only daughter far away, living in rustic, perhaps unsafe conditions, and earning her own living as a schoolteacher. Father had actually been appalled at the idea, thinking it disgraced the family name and his own reputation to have a single young daughter traveling and living alone. No, they wanted me settled nearby, producing grandchildren, and visiting. Mama, particularly, wanted me to call on her. I couldn't fault them their wishes, and my heart had swelled with love for them, just knowing I was wanted. And I tried to please them. And in order to do so, I'd tried to please him. But there was no pleasing him….

The porch was dark, but comfortable in its familiarity. I knocked on the door, knowing I was waking them. I hoped any anger my father might have at being awakened would no longer be directed toward me when he saw my face. I gave a second knock. Then a third, and as I raised my hand again the door tore open, and I was greeted with a shotgun in my face. It was immediately lowered.

"Esme?"

"Papa!" My voice choked with relief. I studied his face, hoping for some of the warmth I'd seen last time I was home. "May I come in?"

"What are you doing here?" he asked with narrowing eyes. I pushed my shawl away from my face and heard my mother gasp from behind him. His eyes were wide, but still calculating.

"I want to come home."

He looked at me in silence for several moments. He seemed pained, and hope fluttered and sparked in my stomach. It was immediately doused. "You have a home. A nice home, Esme. Other women in town… they'd love to have such a nice home."

"They can have it," I said simply.

He grew frustrated. "You need to be a better wife, Esme. Not every man is as tolerant as I was when you were growing up. You need to learn your place. Keep the house; keep him happy. If you were doing that, I'm sure this wouldn't have happened."

I looked at him incredulously, tears welling in my eyes. "I've tried to make him happy! He finds fault no matter what I do. No matter how hard I try… You think this is my fault? The pot roast wasn't seasoned to his liking, and so he has the right to beat the crap out of me?"

"Watch your language, young lady!"

"Papa! Offensive language is nothing compared to the sins that he has committed against me. This is not the first time. It started within the first two weeks. I can't… I can't live like this."

"You go home to your husband, and you be a good, obedient wife! There's no place for you here!"

I looked into his eyes, where a cold hard wall was forming. They'd never been particularly warm or kind, but the wall was new. It was formed of determination, but something else…something icy. Fear? Guilt?

"You knew," I gasped. "You knew he was like this when you agreed to the marriage."

"Don't be stupid, Esme. He's probably worried sick about you. He's probably out in the rain right now, looking for you. Go home."

I scoffed. "He's too drunk to even realize I'm gone yet." I shook my head, disgusted by the sight before me. I'd always thought my father was strong, but he wasn't. He wasn't strong; he wasn't brave. He had to make this my fault, so it wouldn't be his. He had sacrificed me to get me out from underfoot.

"He's given you a good respectable home in town. A roof over your head, food on your plate. You'd best be going back to it." The guilt flickered more strongly in his eyes for a moment, but then it was veiled. "I'm going to bed." And I was dismissed. My vision blurred as tears flowed down my cheeks. I turned to go down the stairs.

"Esme, wait," my mother whispered.

She looked behind her as my father climbed the stairs, and then wrapped her shawl tightly around herself and step onto the porch. She approached me, her eyes full of concern, and brushed my hair back to get a better look at the bruise on my face. Her expression was worried and haggard.

"Come sit with me on the swing for a moment, child."

She led me to the porch swing, which was far enough under the awning that it was dry. I hesitated to sit, drenched as I was but she took my hand and pulled me down. I eased myself onto the cushion, wincing, and she stroked my hand in comfort.

"When did you last take some aspirin?" she whispered. "Can I get you some?"

That alone brought a sob from my throat. I was so unused to kindness, the slightest offer made me weak.

"That would be helpful… I haven't taken any," I answered shakily, wiping my cheeks and trying to steady my voice.

"Why ever not? You're obviously in pain."

"He…Charles, doesn't like it in the house. He says I need to feel my punishments."

Her eyes were wide as understanding came over her. "But can't you buy some when you're shopping and hide it?"

I shook my head. She had no idea how much control that man had over my every move. It seemed amazing that I'd sunk so low so quickly. Even my mother, who had been dominated her whole life, didn't understand my position.

"There's never enough… He knows what I'm shopping for, gives me just enough money, asks for the change. And he'd know. The shopkeeper would tell him, and then he'd…" There was no reason to finish the shameful sentence. She understood.

She stroked my hair and I willed myself not to cry again, not to sink into her touch. If I did, if I succumbed to the feeling of comfort, I might not be able to leave. And father had made it clear I couldn't stay.

"I wish I could keep you here," she started is a hoarse whisper.

"It's okay, Mama, it's not in your control."

"No," she agreed. "Not tonight, at least. I'll try to talk to him, but we need to come up with a plan for the immediate future. You stay here for a minute, okay?"

I nodded. I had no desire to go back yet anyway. Watching her go back through the door, closing it almost noiselessly behind her, I shivered violently. I wasn't sure if it was because I was drenched or alone again.

If I couldn't stay here, where else? Where else could I go? I sniffed and dried my eyes, wiling my eyes to dry. Crying didn't help. I wracked my brain, and then sat up straighter as I saw the screen door open again. Mama came out and sat back down, handing me a tin.

"Take this and hide it somewhere he won't look. Somewhere only you go."

"He goes everywhere!"

"The laundry? The kitchen? The root cellar?"

I froze. He didn't like the cellar. It was dark, cold. He thought it was beneath him.

"What's in it?" I asked quietly.

"Aspirin, and three dollars. I'm sorry that's all I could find. But look, it's so small. It will be easy to hide. And then take these."

She pushed wet sticks into my hand.

"You're giving me sticks? Do you want me to use them as switches on Charles?

"Hush! Don't be ridiculous!" Her harsh whisper cut through the darkness. "Those are willow cuttings. Plant them by the small pond behind your house. They'll grow fast, and the bark can be made into a tea that helps with the swelling. In case you run out of aspirin, and I can't get more to you right away."

I examined the cuttings. They had little roots on them. She'd had them in water, waiting for me… "Oh, Mama, you knew too?"

"I didn't hear anything until after the wedding… and I'd hoped it was wrong. I'm so sorry, Esme. We should have taken more care to find out about him, but we've known the family for ages..."

I couldn't look at her. I nodded, and the tears that had been threatening to spill again finally ran down my cheeks. "Papa?" I asked. She knew what I meant.

"I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know what he heard, or when. Go home, but take care of yourself. Try to keep him happy. Try to keep yourself safe. I'll work on Papa, and see if I can't get you things when you need them. I love you. We'll get through this. We'll figure out a way…"

"Evelyn!" Papa's voice carried down the stairs.

"I need to go inside," she said giving me a careful hug that only fed my need to be held properly. I sobbed as she pulled away. Then the door was shut, and I was alone on the dark porch. For several minutes I just stood crying, listening to the rain, and wishing that somehow all this water could drown me, or wash me away like watercolor paints…I wanted to melt, to bleed; I wanted my colors to run into the ground where they'd be protected. I wanted to be left without color or form…a gray wisp incapable of being harmed.

A flash of lightning startled me, and jolted me away from this line of thought. I wasn't invisible yet. He'd tried, but he hadn't made me fade from myself yet. But he would, if I let him. I couldn't go back yet. There had to be someplace else. I still had time. He'd be drunk for hours still… I needed to get back early enough to hide my new treasures, but there was time for one more attempt...

In the end, there was only one other place I could think to go. I drew my shawl up over my head again and ventured back into the rain. An hour later I was knocking on the door of the pastor who had married us, who had known me since I was a young girl. I prayed for some form of asylum.

"Coming!" I heard his gruff voice through the door. As the door swung open, he was still tying his robe. His kind, familiar face was immediately comforting.

"Esme? Excuse me… Mrs. Evenson? Please come in."

Relief flooded through me as I entered his small, well-lit entry and removed my rain-soaked shawl.

He gasped. "Esme! Your face! What… oh, dear God, not again. Did Charles…" his voice trailed off as he blanched.

I froze, and ice trailed down my spine. Not again? No. It was not possible. Not the pastor, too.

"What did you know?" I whispered harshly.

He swallowed and a veil of guilt covered his eyes. "Will you come in and sit down?"

"No," I said slowly, "I don't believe I will. What did you know?"

"It is a private matter, I cannot divulge…"

"Pastor! I think it has become my business."

He looked at the ground. His hands were shaking. "Charles has often struggled in his life with violence…"

"Struggled with it?" I asked incredulously. "He doesn't struggle with it; he revels in it! You knew? You knew, and you let me marry him? Encouraged the match? Performed the ceremony?"

"He said he was better. He… he wanted my help. His spiritual life is my responsibility…"

"My spiritual life is your responsibility, too!" Was I betrayed on every side? Tears ran down my cheeks with this new revelation. I felt myself shaking. There was nowhere I could go. No one I could trust. I had been pushed into a marriage to a man I'd been indifferent to, by men I'd trusted, and they'd all betrayed me… sacrificed me for the benefit of themselves or their ideals. "I have to go," I said, putting my soaked shawl back over my hair.

"Will you not let me pray with you? We are told…"

"I do not want to be told to turn the other cheek, Pastor Ames. Mine are both already bruised."

He balked at the force of my glare, swallowed and nodded, opening the door for me.

"I'll see you on Sunday, Esme."

"No, you won't. Actions speak louder than words, Pastor. And I have no need for your words now."

I fled into the dreary night, leaving him behind. There was nowhere left to go; I could only return to my personal Hell… to that house. I refused to call it a home. I could only pray the devil was still asleep with his whiskey, and hadn't missed me as I'd discovered just how lost and alone I truly was. I had nowhere else to go… no one else to turn to. All my best hopes were dashed.

But I wasn't invisible yet. I had a choice. I could give up, and become that gray wisp of my waking dream, or I could cling tight to my colors, hide them deep, and make a plan for myself. I had a tin of aspirin, and a handful of sticks, three dollars, and a place to hide more, if I could save it. Mama was an ally, but she would never openly go against Papa. There was only so much she would do. If I were on my own, as it now seemed, I would start to act accordingly.

Men. They were monsters… all monsters.

Well, perhaps save one.

AN: This chapter ties in with some of the darkness seen in Esme's remembrances and reactions to the boys in Chapters 19-23 of 'Prelude in C'.

This was originally sent out as an Esme outtake, so if it seems familiar, you are not going crazy. It has been revised and expanded. Thanks to Coleen561 and Malianani for their helpful comments on the original outtake. The chapter is much better for their insightful comments. And thanks to StormDragonfly for betaing the new version, too.

Finally, 'Intermezzo in E-minor' has been nominated for a Sunflower Award for Best Esme. Thank you to the kind, anonymous reader who nominated it (Prelude is also nominated, but in a non-voting category). Voting is happening now, and there are many fine stories worthy of your votes (including other great Esmes). Please have a look, and vote for your favorites (remove spaces): http : / thesunflowerawards . blogspot . com / 2009 / 07 / .

Thanks so much. I'd love to hear your thoughts. The next chapter should be up soon, and then we'll get back to Prelude.