Author's Note: Thanks to Oceanmina101, Ame Warashi, Deliriously Withdrawn, XboredX16, SockShopping, NellieGURL, Alia DeBel, azvamplover, DarlingKittystar, cakeaddict61 (twice!), IceGoddess92, miss.dramatikkkk, Fallen Roses 07 (also twice!)and Twilighter for reviewing! You guys are awesome! Thanks for waiting so long for an update. First off, I had to merrily procrastinate my way through Eclipse, and then I got both of my hands sliced open at work, making typing a tiny bit difficult. Anyway, a cherry pie to Fallen Roses 07, and a German chocolate cake to cakeaddict61, because she dropped her pie. :-)

Disclaimer: Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse (AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!), Esme Evenson, and Charles Evenson all belong to the brilliant-beyond-brilliant Stephenie Meyer. Franklin and Susannah (I finally named her - albeit sort of last minute) Platt, Frank, Margaret, and Isabella Bennington, Miriam Platt, Theodore Bloom, and that minister all belong to me.

Chapter 12. Confessions

The weather suited the day perfectly. Cold rain drizzled miserably down from a steel gray sky onto all of the spectators, leaving a plethora of tiny droplets on the hats, coats, and hair of everyone present. I stood on Margaret's right side, holding her hand tightly, and Frank was on her other side, his arm around her shoulders. We were both resolutely looking in other directions than her face. We both avoided her eyes, repressing the urge to observe her features and gauge her appearance. Incidentally, Margaret was most likely grateful for the rain, resenting as she did anyone who saw her cry. With her face already speckled with moisture, she would be free to let her tears flow without notice.

The minister's voice was a low hum in the background of Margaret and Uncle Franklin's misery, which seemed to deafen me the longer I stood near them. Uncle Franklin didn't cry. He stood straight as a rod, his face a mask of self-control. However, if one looked closely enough, one might notice the muscle contorting in his jaw, or the way the light in his eyes appeared to dull when the minister finished speaking, and it was time to cast flowers and soil upon the coffin that held his wife.

When her father stepped forward and let his fistful of dirt fall into the grave, Margaret suddenly began to shake violently. I cast a panicked look in Frank's direction, silently asking him what to do. However, Margaret made that decision for me when she shrugged out of Frank's hold but kept a firm grip on my hand when she walked to the grave. Charles briefly grabbed me by my elbow, but then let go when Frank sent a death glare his way.

I looked down on the polished mahogany coffin that was glistening from an accumulation of rain. Margaret hesitated for only a moment before holding her hand over the hole and letting the fingers of her left hand unclench. A shower of dirt sprinkled from her fingers, getting momentarily caught in the wind before settling onto the wood. I felt my breath catch, but I waited for Margaret to make the next move. I shot a glance in her direction and was startled to see that she was looking into my eyes. It was torture to see the devastation in them, but I held her gaze determinedly.

After a moment, she quickly stooped and grabbed something off the ground. She held her hand out to me and I opened the fingers of my free hand underneath hers. She opened her fingers once again and another handful of dirt fell into my hand.

"You're practically my sister anyway," Margaret whispered.

I nodded, unable to speak. I turned and quickly let my handful fall. Then I met her eyes once more and put my hand around her shoulders. She clung to me as we stepped back with our husbands. I saw Charles watching the two of us with something like resentment in his eyes. I looked over Margaret's head and saw Frank gazing at us as well. However, he gave me a small smile and mouthed, "Thank you."

Margaret regained her composure and stood straight like her father while her mother's body was buried. After the ceremony was finished, we all headed back to my parents' house, where there were sandwiches and cookies, coffee and wine, all provided by my mother.

Once inside, Margaret was stopped several times by supportive neighbors, and I was shuffled away from her side. Very suddenly, I was whipped around.

Charles had wrapped his arm around my shoulders and was talking with a few men. One man, who appeared to be the center of attention, was dressed in an army uniform and spoke to the men in a grave voice.

"Yes, England and France are in dire straits right now, and they're taking all the help they can get. Actually, I've heard talk of Congress lowering the draft age to eighteen. I myself ship out this evening for Germany."

"Is the situation really as bad as they're making it out to be, Teddy?" one of the men asked anxiously.

The soldier named Teddy nodded gravely. "Yes, I'm afraid to say it is." He looked around and spotted me standing timidly, clamped to Charles' side. Teddy jumped theatrically with surprise. "Well, hello there!" The men around me laughed, Charles included.

"Theodore, this is Esme, my wife. Esme, this is Theodore Bloom."

Theodore bowed ostentatiously to me and held out a hand for mine. "It's a pleasure, little lady," he said. The merest half of a glance in Charles' direction told me that I had to go along with this pompous farce, so I offered him my hand. Theodore Bloom grasped it and held it up to his lips before glancing down at it.

Mr. Bloom quickly jerked away from my hand with a spluttering noise. "Well, I say!" He let out a robust laugh and held my hand up to display it to the band of men. As the men began to raise eyebrows, I noticed what was the object of their bemusement. My hand was still covered in the soot from the graveside. I hadn't had the chance to wash it yet. I felt Charles freeze up at my side.

"Playing in the mud, my dear? Perhaps making a mud pie for your husband?" I felt a sharp sting of pain in my chest at the words "my dear," as the men began to chuckle condescendingly.

Charles laughed along with the men, but I wasn't fooled. "You'll have to excuse poor Esme, here." He turned to me, a smile twisting his face. "Why don't you go clean yourself off, silly woman?" I saw a flash of fury in his black eyes, so I made quick work of excusing myself from my degradation party. As I fled the scene, I heard Charles say, "Women!" to a raucous bout of wine-induced laughter.

My cheeks burned and my eyes stung from anger and humiliation. What was I supposed to do? I couldn't leave Margaret's side long enough to clean my hands off. Charles knew that perfectly well, but he had been showing off in front of his friends. I was a little less than polite as I elbowed my way through the crowd and upstairs into the washroom. Once inside, I glared at my reflection and struggled with my emotions.

I wasn't given very long.

I heard the door open and close behind me, and I knew who it was without having to turn. Charles was standing beside me, and before I even had a chance to brace myself, he had grabbed my arm, and was twisting it palm side up, looking down his nose at my hand. All feelings of anger and embarrassment drained out with the color in my face. Fear gripped my entire body, and I felt myself begin to tremble. I couldn't meet his eyes for fear of seeing the fury that I had come to know so well over the past month.

"Look at your hand, Esme." I could hear the sneer in his voice. "It's positively filthy." He threw the incriminating hand away from himself, scoffing. I quickly ducked, and therefore missed the swipe of his arm I had known was coming.

That was clearly a mistake.

In an instant, Charles had grabbed me by the shoulders and thrust me backwards until my back cracked against the windowsill. Childishly, I shut my eyes as he leaned towards my face.

"You humiliated me in front of people whom I respect, and who, until now, also respected me a great deal," he snarled at me. I forced myself to open my eyes. He was less than an inch away from me.

"What do you imagine they're thinking, now, eh, Esme? They're wondering why the hell I married such a slovenly wretch. They wonder if perhaps you and I are, in fact, birds of a feather." His voice rose a fraction, and he ground my back against the hard wood behind me. I winced, crying out softly.

Charles leaned in until his lips brushed against my cheek as he whispered. "If you ever embarrass me in front of anyone, ever again - make no mistake: it will be your last act." He pulled me away from the window and pushed me so that I stumbled to the sink. He walked to the door and then turned to look at me leaning over the sink, frozen in pain and fear.

"For God's sake – clean yourself up." He left me alone.


I emerged from the washroom a few minutes later, my hands clean and my face composed. I stepped back into the roomful of people, and I immediately caught sight of Margaret. She was a wreck. Her hair and dress were both in disarray from the rain, and when she spotted me, she gave me a look that clearly called out for help.

I quickly plunged into the crowd, more gently this time, but still in a hurry. Margaret was asking for my help, and I wasn't about to let her down. When I arrived at her side, Margaret surreptitiously took my hand.

I gave an exaggerated start of surprise.

"Why, Margaret!" I exclaimed. "Look at you! You're positively soaking from the rain. Let's both go and freshen up a little, shall we?"

Margaret's eyes were swimming in gratefulness as she managed to mutter, "You know, I do think you have an idea, there."

I turned and announced collectively to the well wishers in a voice I had picked up somewhat from my mother-in-law, "Do excuse us." And with that, I tightened my grasp on Margaret's hand and all but dragged her upstairs and into my old bedroom.

Once inside, I noticed that my mother, forever astonishing in her omniscience of all aspects, had thought to leave us dry dresses for after the out-of-doors ceremony. Margaret caught sight of them and sighed.

"Your mother is so thoughtful, Esme. I feel wretched in this getup." She strolled over to the dresses and separated hers from mine. I followed her and stopped behind her, undoing her dress for her.

"Thank you," she said over her shoulder, shrugging out of her dress.

She stepped out of her damp and slightly dirty dress and into the clean, dry one while I reached for my dress.

"Here, let me do that," she offered as I reached rather awkwardly behind me to unzip. I heard the soft sound of my dress coming undone and then a sharp intake of breath. Margaret dropped her hands.

"Esme… what happened to you?!" I turned quickly as Margaret stepped away from me in horror, her hands over her mouth.

"You're – you're covered in bruises!" she cried, clutching at strands of her hair, eyes wide.

My stomach plummeted. I hadn't thought about that. At least she hasn't seen my arms, I thought.

"What happened?" Margaret repeated in a shaky voice.

I mouthed wordlessly, trying to come up with an excuse.

"I- I," I faltered. "I fell."

Margaret was suddenly still. Doubt was etched all over her face.

"You fell," she echoed.

I nodded, hoping that she wouldn't hear the tremor in my voice as I added, "Down the stairs."

She raised an eyebrow.

"You fell… down the stairs?" she asked dubiously, and there was an edge to her words that made me even more nervous.

I nodded again, unsure of how steady my voice would be if I spoke. Margaret broke eye contact with me, staring off into space.

She cleared her throat before looking at me again. "How many times?" she asked, sarcasm in every word.

"I- I… oh, Margaret!" I collapsed in a heap, my face in my hands.

I felt her gentle hands unzipping the dress the rest of the way. She gasped again as she surveyed the full extent of the damage, stroking my skin. Even the lightest pressure of her fingers made me wince. She tenderly turned my face up to meet hers.

"Oh, Esme, what has he done to you?" she whispered, her eyes shimmering with tears.

She pulled me into her arms and rocked me. I had a sudden wave of reminiscence as I thought of the day when I had gotten my cast off, almost six years ago. We had sat in this same spot and she had stroked my hair the same way, her fingers restlessly undoing the slightest knots.

I finally sat up, wiping my burning eyes on the sleeve of my already wet dress. Margaret looked at me as though I was her worst nightmare come to life.

"You," she began, and broke off. "You didn't… fall… down the stairs, did you?" she finished, her voice no more than a whisper.

I shook my head shamefully, dropping my chin.

"He pushed you." It wasn't a question, but I nodded anyway.

"Do your parents know?"

I shook my head, a few tears leaking out.

"Does anyone know?" she asked, her voice breaking at the end. I could hear the tears in her voice.

I raised my head to look at her. "You know," I whispered.

Margaret looked away. "This is all my fault," she muttered, suddenly sounding angry.

My eyes widened at the sudden virulence in her voice. "What do you mean?" I demanded.

She shook her head. "This is my fault. It's my fault you married him."

"What are you talking about? This is insane!"

"I went away," she stated simply. She still refused to look at me. "I went away and you got married. I… I urged you to marry Charles because I didn't want you to be alone. I felt guilty for leaving you and I wanted to be sure that you would be taken care of, so I told you to marry him. This is all my fault." Her voice broke again and I briefly saw the light catch a tear as it fell from the tip of her nose.

I shook my head wildly. She couldn't think those things. "No! No, Margaret, it's not your fault! Of course it's not! How could you think that? It's no one's fault. I just…" I fell silent. I just what? Needed her approval? She hadn't asked for my approval before marrying Frank. She hadn't needed to. No. She was right. I had asked her what to do, and I now wondered if, deep down, I had known this about Charles. Perhaps my subconscious had made me ask Margaret in a desperate attempt to have someone tell me not to marry him. And, if that was the case, then technically it was her fault.

No! My whole being shied away from that possibility - from any blame falling on Margaret. It wasn't her fault! It couldn't be her fault. I shook my head violently to free myself from those haunting thoughts.

"I would have married him anyway."

It was true. I would have married Charles anyway, because I had needed to get married. I had needed someone to love, and Charles had been my only option. I would have married him anyway. And yet somehow, despite the release at knowing that Margaret was innocent, I felt more trapped than ever.

Margaret broke into my thoughts with an angry sob. "No! It is my fault. My fault for going away. I should have been closer." Her voice began trembling so hard that it was difficult to understand what she was saying. "If- if I had been closer I could have helped… I could have stopped it…. I went away and now my mother is dead! She's gone and it's all my-" her voice disappeared. With a spark of intuition, I realized what this outburst was truly about, and I reached for her and pulled her against my chest just in time. Her whole body heaved with sobs. I cradled her head and rocked her gently, making soothing noises. I kissed her hair.

"I- I wasn't even here when she died! Why couldn't I have been here! M-maybe if I had stayed closer she…."

My voice shook as I spoke. "You know that's not true, Margaret. You know that she hadn't been feeling right for a long time. There was nothing you could do. All she ever wanted was your happiness, Margaret, and she's gotten it, don't you see, darling? You have Frank and Isabella, and… and you just can't blame yourself for things that aren't your fault," I finished, my throat constricting.

To my intense relief, I felt Margaret nod against me. She quieted enough to whisper, "I miss her so much."

I stayed on the floor with Margaret until she stopped crying, until my legs ached from their strange position on the floor, and until our first dresses had dried and our seconds had wrinkled. Margaret pulled away from me slightly, surveying me through red and puffy eyes.

"You know, she loved you like you were her daughter, too, Esme. She wanted your happiness, as well."

I nodded, managing a small smile.

"She would have wanted what was best for you…" she trailed off. My eyebrows came together. I wasn't quite sure of where she was taking this.

"That's why you need to tell somebody, Esme. You need to tell your parents about what Charles is doing to you."

I looked down and played with our linked fingers. I had almost forgotten about how this conversation had begun.

"I suppose I just sort of wished that it would go away on its own. Once… once we got used to each other, and I could become acclimated to being a wife. Maybe… maybe when I'm a better wife to him it'll stop." I looked into her eyes, begging her to agree with me.

Margaret shook her head. "It's not going to go away, Esme, you know that. It's going to get worse. He won't stop until he kills you. You need to tell your parents."

"But Margaret, what if he finds out? What if he overhears that I've told them? He'll be so angry!" As I spoke these words, a feeling of terror washed over me. I felt like prey, and I suddenly felt terribly foolish for letting Margaret find out. What if Charles blamed her?

"Margaret, he can't ever find out the things that I've told you, do you understand? He'd be so angry, and he could take it out on you. Margaret, he can't know!" I panicked, my voice rising shrilly now, and I clutched at Margaret's dress. Margaret wrenched my hands away, holding them tightly in her own.

"This has to stop, Esme. I've never seen you like this. This must end." She held my eyes firmly, and I gradually calmed down.

"All right," I finally assented. "I'll tell my mother about it."

"When?" Margaret demanded.

"I… I'm not sure. But I'll tell her." I added quickly at the look that Margaret gave me.

There was a soft knock on the door.

"Maggie?" I heard Frank call softly.

"In here, Frank," she answered after helping me to cover myself more properly.

Frank entered hesitantly, opening the door only enough to let himself in, and then closing it behind him. His eyes took in our strange scene suspiciously, but fortunately prudence made him look away before he could discern much about my appearance.

"Isabella is crying for you, darling, I think she needs fed."

Margaret nodded, getting to her feet. "I'm coming."

Frank gently placed a hand on her waist when she reached him, and she turned back to me at the door.

"Remember what I said, Esme," she said quietly, but with authority.

I nodded silently. Frank smiled at me before following his wife out the door.

I rose to my feet, quickly discarding my dirty dress and pulling on the new one. I looked into the full-length mirror that was still in here from my wedding and smoothed out a few of the wrinkles before buttoning the dress. New bruises caught my eyes. They were on my upper arms. I realized that they were from this afternoon, when Charles had grabbed me in the washroom. I looked down at my arms and I could see the finger marks etched into my pale skin.

"He won't stop until he kills you. This must end." Margaret's words echoed in my head.

I turned slightly, looking over my shoulder for the mirror's reflection of my back and shoulders.

"All right. I'll tell my mother about it."

My back was crisscrossed with bruises. I could see the newest one: a straight line across my shoulder blades – where I had been forced against the windowsill.

"When?"

I heard all of our words repeated back to me as I quickly twisted back around to face the mirror and finished doing up my dress, my fingers shaking.

"I… I'm not sure. But I'll tell her."

I watched as my eyes hardened with determination.

No time like the present.


So, what did you guys think? I'm really glad that you all hate Charles as much as I do! That'll make getting rid of him all the more fun. ::twists glue-on mustache between fingers, grinning slyly::