Author's Note: Just a quick little update. I'm sorry it's so short but I'm trying to keep the different points of view as separate as possible to avoid confusion.

Warnings: The usual apply.

Chapter Ten

Esme's POV

4th January 1919

The morning sun floods into the drawing room as I walk in. I take a moment to admire the new drapes before picking up my purse ready to leave for work. The last few months have been the best of my life so far. Every few days I put in my hours at the library, adding little by little to the ever-growing savings I have put aside. It adds up to a not inconsiderable sum and soon I hope to leave Columbus and move west forever.

There is no news about Charles and lately I have been doing my best not to think about him at all. When the war ended in November I spent the ensuing few days in a state of high nervous tension, half-expecting him to stride in through the door at any moment. Sally, seeing how terrified I was, talked some sense into me.

'If he was coming back, don't you think he would have done so already? Besides,' she added dismissively, waving a hand in the air, 'there is no way a coward like him would have survived a war.'

As November turned into December and now January with still no word, I am starting to hope that she is right, terrible as it sounds. The house is a lot more relaxed without him here. I am now on friendly terms with Myrtle, the housekeeper and often, when she has finished for the day, she will join me in having a smoke.

I do not smoke a lot. I find that it makes me feel sick if I have too many. But a couple a day can be quite pleasant, particularly if the winter sun is shining and I am outside taking a visit to the park. Besides, even if I had severely disliked it, I imagine that I would have continued anyway. In some strange way it feels as though I am fighting back against Charles's oppression and that is good for my mental state if nothing else.

Work goes by quickly, as usual. I have forged a very good relationship with Mr. Scott the librarian, although I do have to pretend to be anxious and worried if ever he mentions Charles and where he might be. I must not be too bad of an actress because he hasn't questioned my reactions yet.

The afternoon air is chilly as I leave the library and I wrap my woollen coat tighter around me, feeling the biting wind nipping at my stockings and teasing out my hair from its bun so that mad curls twirl and dance around my face.

Entering the house I carefully peel off my coat and hang it up, placing my purse down on the floor underneath it. I peer into the mirror hanging on the wall and attempt to smooth down my curls before giving it up as a lost cause and proceeding down the hallway towards the kitchen.

'Myrtle?' I call out. 'Is the tea ready?' She always has a steaming cup of tea ready for me when I come home from work and I am looking forward to sinking down into the couch cushions and putting my feet up, perhaps with my sketchpad. There is a beautiful tree that I pass on my way to the library and for days I have wanted to draw it.

The door to the kitchen opens and Myrtle peers out. I open my mouth to greet her properly but the words die on my lips as I take in her horror-struck expression. 'Myrtle?' I ask, a little confused. 'What's wrong?'

Even as I ask I can hear the study door creaking open behind me and just to my left. I do not turn around, even as the cloud of smoke wafts out into the hallway, engulfing me.

'Well, Esme. Aren't you going to welcome me home?'

Sally's POV

4th January 1919

The evening air is still and cold as I walk up the path to Esme's front door. We're going to a trendy little bar this evening, somewhere my husband introduced me to. Ever since Charles left, Esme has gradually been regaining her confidence and this, spending an evening out in a bar, will be the final test of her courage.

I tap on the door and wait for a few seconds, casually running a hand through my hair as I glance absently up and down the street. After about a minute I knock again. There is still no answer and, stepping back, I peer up at the lighted windows. A frown crosses my face.

'Esme! It's Sally, come and let me in!' I call through the letterbox.

There is silence for a few seconds and then I hear hurried footsteps coming down the hall. A few moments later and the door is wrenched open.

'About ti...' I begin and then stop. Myrtle stands in the threshold, her eyes wide and fearful.

'Myrtle?' I ask mystified. 'What's going on? I'm here to pick up Esme, we're going out tonight. Is she ready?'

'Madam is... she... Mr. Evenson, he came back and...' her words die and she chokes a little. I can feel my jaw dropping in horror.

'Her husband? He's come back?' I ask harshly and urgently.

She seems unable to speak and merely nods.

'Where is she?'

Myrtle tilts her head in the direction of the upstairs bedroom and stands aside so I can enter the house. 'The master... he has gone out...' she murmurs brokenly. 'He came back this afternoon... my poor Esme...' The woman is so distraught it seems she does not even notice this lapse in etiquette. She seems near to hysteria so I place a hand on her shoulder and guide her into the drawing-room.

'Sit down and take deep breaths. I'm here now, I'll help. When do you expect Mr. Evenson back?'

She shrugs helplessly. 'I don't know, he was in a towering rage when he left, I expect he will be drinking.'

My eyes flare and I move towards the drawing room door. 'I'm going to see Mrs. Evenson now, Myrtle. We are not to be disturbed.'

She sits on the couch wringing her hands. 'I understand, Madam.'

Slowly I ascend the stairs. The upstairs rooms are silent and forbidding. I know which is Esme's and carefully I knock lightly at the door. There is no answer.

'Esme? Darling, it's me. It's Sally,' I say through the wood. 'Are you in there? Please open the door. I'm worried.'

For a few seconds there is silence still, and I am just at the point of knocking on the door again (that or breaking it down) when I hear a shuffling and then the handle turns. Slowly I step inside, barely stifling a gasp at the sight which greets me.

Esme does not look anything like the woman I saw just a few days previously. Her beautiful chestnut hair is knotty and matted with what looks suspiciously like dried blood. There is a new open wound on her temple and what I can see of her exposed flesh is littered with fresh bruises, angry and vibrant. However it is her eyes which will always haunt me. When I first knew Esme her eyes were her most attractive feature. Large and full of life and emotion. Now they are sunken and haunted.

She does not say anything merely turns and walks back to collapse on the edge of her bed, staring into space.

'Oh my dear,' I say weakly, unable to truly voice my pain at seeing her like this. 'What did he do to you?'

'Isn't it obvious?' she returns blankly. 'He reminded me.'

I can feel the blood pounding sluggishly through my veins. 'Reminded you of what?' I say, not wanting to ask but unable not to.

She does not reply for a few seconds and when she does her tone is lifeless. 'Things I had forgotten. Is that not generally the purpose of reminders?' I cannot speak. 'I think you had better leave, Sally. I appreciate you coming around but you cannot be here when he comes home.' I shift in place and then take a few faltering steps towards her.

'I think I should stay with you, if only for a little while.'

'No.' Her voice is stronger now and for the first time she meets my eyes. I feel like crying at the desolation I see in her gaze. 'You should go. Please Sally, you have to leave.'

I begin to move back to the door, hating myself even as I do so. 'When will I see you again?' I ask desperately.

'I don't know,' she responds. 'I'm sure I'll be able to work something out.'

With my hand on the doorknob I turn to look at her. 'I'm always here for you, Esme. Always. At any time, if you need anything, come to me. Do you understand?'

She nods silently. Feeling utterly useless I leave the house, my head bowed as I walk away down the street.

Esme's POV

5th January 1919

Dear Sally. It was so good of her to offer her help like that. But there is nothing she can do, there is nothing anybody can do. I was foolish to think that I was free from Charles. Nothing will stop him, it seems, not even a war. At the back of my mind, far past all the terror, pain and horror, my anger throbs and pulsates, quenched but not extinguished. Of all the men who died fighting overseas, all the good, loving husbands, sons and fathers – what God saw fit to return Charles to me? Why did all those others die and he live? Like a cockroach, I think wearily. Impossible to destroy.

Sitting down in the parlor, a half-drunk cup of tea at my side, I find my thoughts straying back to those heady, innocent days of my childhood. When my smile was unselfconscious, my laugh free and easy. Days spent running around the farm, climbing trees, joking with Will the hired hand. It feels like the life of a different person. And then, unbidden, the image of Doctor Cullen swims into my mind. A warm smile, twinkling golden eyes, their vibrancy matched only by thick blonde hair. Cool, soothing hands placed on my fevered skin.

Where does it hurt?

'Oh God, it hurts everywhere,' I moan aloud sinking my head into my hands. 'It hurts,' I whisper again to myself.

'Madam? Are you alright?' Myrtle stands at the door, her expression concerned. I attempt to school my features into something resembling normalcy.

'Just fine thank you, Myrtle,' I respond. She doesn't look convinced but refrains from commenting.

'Shall I bring you another cup of tea?' she asks, picking up the cold cup by my side.

'Yes please,' I murmur.

I hear her pattering around in the kitchen and allow my thoughts to drift off once again. Why should I remember this Doctor Cullen so vividly? There are times when I find it hard to recollect images of my own family and yet the picture of this man I met eight years ago is still vivid in my mind, undimmed by the passage of time. It is somehow comforting as well as unutterably sad. No matter how much pain is inflicted on me mentally and physically by Charles it is good to know that there is always this one constant. A reminder that there is good in the world. On the other hand I know that at best this remembrance is a single memento of a time long since gone. Unable to be reclaimed.

Wherever Doctor Cullen is right now, I think as Myrtle re-enters the parlor to hand me my tea, I hope his life is happier than mine. Inexplicable as it is, if I can convince myself that somewhere in the world he is smiling then that is enough for me.