Chapter Four

Charlie Swan

There was a thin veil of smoke clouding the area, cloaking the flimsy houses in a thin gray puff of mist, which hid the rays of sunlight. The bars were hidden inside the mud brick homes; the air and the pungent odor were insufferable as I waddled across the streets, my coarse vest damp with sweat, borne of deep rooted anxiety.

However, I ducked across the dirty threshold, ignoring the squeaks of rats as they scrambled across the streets and the cries of men as they fell on the nearest stools by the bar. Hoarse with fatigue, I asked for a beer. Truly, there was no better beer than the ones I got here, in the damp, inhumane conditions on the back of an alley. Here, beer was made for its purpose—to leave all your troubles behind.

These days, I only dropped by bars for heavy dosages of beer, back where the bear('beer') was strong. I finished my pungent, stale drink idly in just a few swallows, as if hoping the alcohol would send the pictures in my mind away. She was going mad as a hatter, and as everybody else would agree. Like her mother, Bella would never think things through thoroughly enough.

I didn't blame her for her choices, but I had never encouraged them. I tossed a few pennies into the nearest tin can and left the bar without a second thought.

If anything, I wanted to forget Bella existed, just as she had urged me to, but it was difficult. I walked out of the cramped streets, into an area where the smells were bearable and nowhere near as potent.

It wasn't like those streets where Bella used to live, where the ladies wore large hats and the sidewalks were wide and clean, and the houses as polished as gold. And yet, it wasn't like out the alley I had just come from, where factories, smoke and death were still a reality.

It was a relief to know that at least Bella wasn't a scullery maid, or constantly risking burning or tearing her fingers. Going to work back when Bella had been a little younger had been a hellish ordeal. It seemed a little paranoid to be fretting over a fifteen year old, but I still believed nothing good could come from living with Renee Dwyer for more than three years.

In fact, the factory fire of 1901 had killed many young girls from ages six through fifteen, and now having those rare letters informing me of my daughter's whereabouts was an even a bigger relief. I was getting better at reading, and by now I wasn't mediocre at what I did.

I was a clerk, and a smart, practical man as far as I was concerned, but maybe too caught up in what had been the 1890s. Trying my best(Make this the beginning of a new sentence: "I tried my best…") not to get caught up with the world I had glimpsed sixteen years ago was difficult. I would certainly never be invited back.

So it was no surprise that my mouth fell open at the sight of a carriage sitting on the sidewalk. This wasn't something you saw often—I didn't frequent stores for the wealthy. This carriage had to be overly expensive, perhapsas expensive as a car.

I eyed it uncertainly, glancing at the coachman with even more uncertainty, even if he looked utterly nervous to be there. He was shaking, his dark, long fingers quavering as he patted the large, white horse for comfort.

I didn't make any other sound as I flung the door to the shop open. The boy helping me, Jacob, was smiling pleasantly at the visitor and shrugging at my dumbstruck expression.

The visitor was the prettiest thing I had seen in years. Even here, in this dimly lit, lower middle-class shop, Renesmee Masen was gorgeous. Her eyelashes were still thick and black, and those deep, mesmerizing brown eyes still managed to stun as she peeked through them shyly. Her hair was pinned into a pompadour on the crown of her head, with small braids crawling into the elegant mass of bronze locks. Those same auburn curls, shining in the darkness, fell to her chest elegantly, and her lips were still thick and beautifully pink. Her cheekbones were as high as that of the man I loathed most, and yet her eyes were the comforting, deep chocolate brown that I loved.

And even then, I could see her wealth. A pair of pearl earrings decorated her earlobes, and her hair was decorated with a gold butterfly brooch, which was studded with diamonds. Her dress was long, and decorated with handsome lace patterns, the buttons on her neckline made out of gold and the dress perfectly fitting right down to her tiny wrists.

She rose from her chair fluidly, even shyly, still peeking through her lashes and looking down at the floor.

"Hey, Charlie," Jacob crowed, making me want to break his miserable nose into pieces. "This is Renesmee Masen! Masen, as in Masen and Co, as in the law firm! The law firm. In your shop! Can you believe it? She's telling me all these wonderful—"

He stopped at my glare and then grinned. I doubted the 10 Plagues of Egypt could wipe that grin off of his face. I grunted, wiped my hands on my trousers, and then gawked at the girl. My fears were confirmed as my gaze fell on her shaking chaperone. She peeked shyly at her feet.

"Good day, Mr. Swan," she mumbled, and then her eyes rose quickly, peeking into mine with the shelter of those thick, fluttering eyelashes.

"Good day to you, Miss Masen," I muttered, dumbstruck, as I walked slowly to the counter. The only sounds were the squeal of the leather rubbing against the worn wooden floors and my somehow accelerated breathing.

My eyes founds her for a second, the innocent, beautifully naïve pools of brown telling me what wouldn't come out of her rosebud mouth. At least, not for a few hours. She nodded nearly imperceptibly, tilting her heart-shaped face towards Jacob so discreetly the idiot wouldn't have noticed.

"Jacob, could you please go to the post office, fetch a package for me?"

The truth was, there was no package, but I had to talk to her. Jacob grumbled, got up from his seat, and then grabbed his hat from the stand near the entrance. He tipped it towards her with a peevish grin, and she giggled. The sound was delicious, elegant, ladylike—a fluttering of wind chimes as she clasped a thin, delicate hand to her mouth.

"How can I help you, Miss Masen?" I asked after a second, sweat breaking out across my forehead. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat but didn't necessarily indicate that she had a plan. Did her father know she was here?

"I was wondering," she said finally, after a second of hesitation, throwing the power of her chocolate eyes at me like she knew of the wonders she could do with them. Deep and brown, unlike anything in the world, they seemed to work their way through mine, "if you could provide me with information on this?"

Out of nowhere, she drew a small, crinkled piece of paper, and then walked towards the counter. Under the flicker of the lamp, I could see the yellow in her lids, like they'd been bruised. That didn't draw my attention away from the object in her delicately feminine hands, however. She unfolded it, revealing a black and white photograph that was yellow and crinkled with age, creased on the edges and clearly worn.

Bella and I were there, in the background of her husband's summer house, her stomach bloated with pregnancy. The both of us stiff with the awkwardness of the situation. She had opened up to Edward then, who had been more affectionate than was imaginable, stroking her belly with his thumb and kissing exposed flesh in an inappropriate manner, making me ridiculously uncomfortable with the whole situation. I was there though, looking younger than I had in ages.

She flipped the photo over delicately and then pointed at the messy handwriting of my daughter on the back.

Isabella Masen and Charles Swan, July 22, 1902.

"You see, Mr. Swan, that would be my late mother, Isabella Masen and that would be me," her voice quavered slightly as she traced the shape of my 'late' daughter with her fingertip. Is that what she'd been told? I froze as she brought her fingertip to my own disgruntled shape. "And according to the back of the picture, you would be the man to her left—I was wondering if you could tell me why that is?"

She spoke gently, while she waited for me to sort through a jumble of incoherent thoughts and ideas, all swarming and waiting to reconcile.

No, I can't tell you a thing. Something might slip.

Your father broke my daughter's heart.

I can't even think about how you've grown up under his unthinkable ways.

What have you been told?

I'm not even sure if I you know I'm your grandfather.

You're beautiful.

"How about a cup of tea?"

I led her up into the tiny room above the shop, which was, in most circumstances, less than ideal. The fireplace was ashen and often home to critters, the sitting room and kitchen cramped together tightly. The only furniture was a small table with two chairs, a stove, and a mattress for Jacob to sleep on. Next to the stove was a small chest of drawers, which held a copper kettle and enough plates and silverware for a decent meal. A tiny, worn and moldy door led to my room, which was no more than a mattress, a heater and a few suitcases, which housed a scarce amount of cheap clothes.

She didn't seem repulsed as I motioned towards one of the wooden chairs with a grunt—she sat and smiled shyly, peeking from under her lashes, her smile perfect, polite and charming.

"I'm afraid I don't have a lot to offer," I mumbled, pouring some tea into one of the worn china cups Bella had given me years ago. I meant it for both, the photo and the tea. I didn't know what I could tell her, so I just settled for speaking to her about her life. Bella often wrote wistfully of how she wished to have seen her daughter, and she wouldn't have been disappointed at the delicate beauty in front of me.

I sat down behind her, watching as she sipped some of the tea and looked around shyly. She was truly gorgeous.

"So, you say your mother died?" This seemed a coy enough question. She eyed me speculatively for a second and then peeked through her eyelashes.

"She died of cholera in the spring of 1902, when I was barely a few months old." Her voice was beautiful, despite its quavering air. The teacup shook in her hands.

"Oh," I finally breathed, not wanting to give anything away as I sorted my maze of incoherent thoughts. "That must've been terrible on your father." I tried to hide my sneer without much success.

"It was, actually," she half snapped, so quiet the cynicism was unnoticeable. She seemed defensive, her eyes narrowing the slightest bit. "He never recover-ma-married."

There's a shockI thought snidely. Why didn't he marry that concubine of his, then? Was he living in sin, while raising his daughter? I didn't even want to think about it. She seemed a pretty, educated, high-class girl, obviously ignorant of her father's sinful ways. Edward Masen was like an insult for me these days. After Bella's death, he had offered me plenty of money, but had refused to even let me look at his daughter, as if I couldn't offer anything as her maternal grandfather.

"And, he's been engaged, I suppose?" Ha. This one should do it. He had probably been engaged several times. I let a triumphant smile creep over me. "Before now?"

"No, of course not!" she said, outraged, even betrayed as her eyes flew as wide as saucers. "Of course he's never beenengaged before."

So the bastard was living in sin with his concubine. Or maybe the concubine had been ruined and he had moved on to another pretty girl like his daughter, one that was half his age. I wouldn't have argued that he was still young—he married Bella at the measly age of seventeen, for god's sakes, and now he was only thirty-four, but to argue against the fact that by thirty-four he should've been respectable was inexcusable.

"But he is engaged," she added in a small voice, a whisper, her voice breaking. "Since April of this year, he's been engaged to Miss Tanya Denali, you know her, of course?"

How could I not? That woman—a maid by 34—had the reputation of a scoundrel, the beauty of a goddess, and was probably the woman responsible for everything that had gone wrong for the past sixteen years.

"Oh," I said, trying to bite back my seething, irate little snarl. "When are they marrying, then?"

She took a polite sip of her tea. The look on her face said that the idea of slaughtering hens was more appealing to her than the coming event of her father's wedding…even if the man was still married in the eyes of the Lord. She tried to give me a tight, lopsided smile.

"This winter," she finally said, biting her lip. "December 8th."

I raised an eyebrow incredulously, but as politely as possible. "Odd choice, the dead of the winter, wouldn't you think?"

She giggled softly. The sound was lovely, like wind chimes, and it made a soft smile break across my lips.

I continued gruffly, ignoring her muffled, charming little outbreak of giggles, to shuffle uncomfortably in my chair and then humph, puffing up my chest defiantly. "So your father raised you alone?"

She gave me a tiny nod, her eyes clouding incomprehensibly. "That's one way to look at it," she said softly, suggesting a longer, elaborate answer. Had my lowlife of a son in law had his daughter raised by his lovers, then? Quite a possibility if I did say so myself.

"And, I suppose he's given everything to such a lovely girl like you, Miss Masen?" I asked scornfully, sipping on my own tea while waiting for her answer.

"Of course he has." She said so as if it was obvious, her eyes fluttering innocently. "I've never lacked a thing, save for my mother."

She looked down at her lap and then her eyelids raised a little, the lavender color there simply stunning, before she lifted them again to look at me, a tear appearing on her cheek. She tilted her head towards me, her brown eyes fierce with determination.

"I know you're her father, Mr. Swan," she said obstinately, and then her fingers held on to mine with a fierceness I hadn't known in years. "I came here, looking for answers. And I know you, better than anyone else, will give me the answers I need."

We spent hours talking, or rather, she spent hours listening eagerly about the mother that . because of her father, she had never known. At some point during the conversation, we shifted the it to talking about her father.

Her smiles were wonderful; the way her eyes lit up and the way she made the charming little charismatic frowns and faces were addictive really, and I wondered who it was that had taught her to be so enchantingly polite. Probably the barracuda that was his mother, had taught her such avid social skills.

It became clear that the Edward in her head and the Edward in mine were totally different people, mine more realistic than hers. Her father—to her, at least—was a knight in shining armor that could do no wrong, which she idolized as a kind, gentle and loving figure, who was naturally her primary and most important caregiver. I got from the tenor of her description and stories about herself that she was spoiled, even if her manners left a different impression.

My son-in-law was really—even if I didn't want to break it to her—a bastard who had shamelessly broken my daughter's heart by leaving her for another woman. I didn't contradict her, even when she dreamily prattled on about her father, and how he loved her and gave her jewels, trips and clothes and the best education possible. Edward didn't smile at all. In fact, if my memory served me correctly, he never smiled. He smiled at Bella, with a look of sheer adoration, but beneath a lopsided grin, he held cruel intentions.

I told her tales about her mother, myself, and her feisty grandmother, trying to avoid as much as possible the fact that Bella was still alive. She was clearly under the cloak of her father's lies—she didn't know the truth , for which her father was certainly to blame.

At times, my rage wanted to stutter through my tales, but I held the seething back and let her keep her childish, pristine illusion of her father. When she saw the rays of lavender, like her eyelids, break through the window, she gasped and then turned to me with a smile.

"I have to say it's a lot easier talking to you, Mr. Swan, than it is talking to my paternal grandfather," she complimented with a tiny smile and a crimson pool to her cheeks. "Much less stiff, by all definition."

"Of course, sweetheart. You know I'm always open to talk to you, as your grandfather, should you wish to return." The blood rushed to my cheeks with the awkwardness of the situation as I stroked her cheek with a fingertip.

"Thank you," she murmured, finally at the door of the shop, a smile at the corner of her lips, looking oddly serene and peaceful. "That was a lovely evening."

I held her hand in mine tighter, before she left. "You're welcome, darling. Feel free to come back anytime." I smiled tightly, looking into her pretty, dark brown eyes. She kissed my cheek, then she mumbled a goodbye promising her return.

And she did return. She came back often to listen eagerly about her mother at least once a week at noon, and left sometime before sunset, promising to return. Sometimes I repeated stories for the fun of it, pitching in details to add to her imagination. They weren't all about Bella. Some were about me and my wife, some about the life I had as a factory worker in the turn of the century. Some, however, were descriptions of Bella – of her eagerness for reading and helping others. Renesmee seemed quite innocently amazed half of the time.

Somewhere nearing the end of May, she announced her father's departure to London for four months. And, as if on cue, when Edward left, Bella returned.

I was really a man of few words. Nessie had gotten, for the past few weeks, the few words that rarely came out. So, I found it utterly enjoyable when Jacob found himself free for the evening and my granddaughter had tea with her paternal grandmother. I pitied Renesmee for having to attend such ridiculous event but, finally, I was alone with my thoughts. And, thankfully, I wasn't thinking about something troublesome, like Bella, or her ex-husband.

I was just sitting, watching the dust circling like planets outside under the sun's merciless grasp, drumming my fingers on the counter while running a quill over my yellowing account book. My handwriting had gotten better over the years, and I was actually quite pleased at how nice it had become after so many years of practice.

Abruptly, there was a tinkling from the little silver bell on the threshold, so startling I jumped slightly as I jerked my head towards the door.

It was Bella.

Author's Note: Thank you so much for all the reviews! Please, please review!