Clementine passes away six months later.
Esme is bequeathed all of the elder woman's material assets, and the remainder of her estate.
Esme's grandmother died quietly in her sleep during a windy afternoon in September. Clementine declined being hospitalized at the height of her illness during her final few months; she did not want to spend her last moments in a white sterile room surrounded by strangers. She'd much prefer her own home. So instead of staying in the hospice, a private nurse was hired for her. She was as stubborn as a man, and as valiant as a soldier.
But unfortunately her health began to rapidly dwindle. The cancer was taking its course throughout her body; shriveling a once vital human being into a weak and empty shell. Until such a time came when she had become bed ridden. Her strength was leaving her, and it had gotten so awful that even the simple act of standing for a few minutes exhausted her. Her body aged far more greatly than it ever could, and in such a short amount of time.
Esme could still remember that afternoon. Perhaps even more clearly than that of her own childhood. She was sitting there at her grandmother's bedside, she was holding the old woman's hand as silent tears poured from her eyes. Clementine laid in her bed, her hair more Grey than it was blonde, her eyes were closed, the wrinkles that traced her face seemed much deeper that day. There was not much either of them could say, yet their hearts were filled with words they could never speak. The anxiety of fear, and loss stiffening their tongues. The whole house was hushed into a hollow silence. Her grandmother's nurse was standing close by, checking her pulse every 30 minutes as a last dose of Morphine was administered.
Carlisle was the attending physician. He stood outside the door, waiting patiently for when he would be needed. He could hear Esme's quiet sobs out in the hallway, and just as the clock was about to strike twelve sharp, Carlisle heard it.
He felt it, long before it even happened.
He listened closely. In spite of the bedroom being closed before him, he could hear Clementine's breathing was slowly shifting; shallow at first, till it began to grow fainter and fainter. Then - it stopped.
Clementine was dead.
After that, very little else mattered to Esme.
She was once again alone, for the third time in a row.
In spite of what Esme said; regarding her understanding of such things, being face to face with death once again has rendered her broken and torn. And during her period of grief, the rumors, the whispers of war proved to be prophetic.
Mr. Eugene O' Hara was the one to oversee the funeral arrangements but each day, the threat of war grew larger and the grimness it brought was unbridled.
The rest of the household servants were very understanding in Esme's grief when the old mistress of the house passed on, but as the last few days of the funeral rolled by, concern was rapidly replacing compassion. The fact that Esme was barely participating in her grandmother's funeral was somewhat of a shock to the household. Esme wished to not see anyone at all, and so she retreated within herself, keeping herself inside her room to keep the prodding world at bay. And Mr. O' Hara could do very little else to convince Esme to come out of her hiding place.
Due to the copious amount of news that were slowly arising in the morning papers regarding German zeppelins, the anxiety of the people also grew. The air grew tense, and every single day England was secretly holding its breath. Waiting for any sign of what was to come. Because of the epidemic of fear that was spreading from the city to the countryside, very few friends and relatives were able to pay their last respects.
However, the final preparations of the funeral had been made. And so Clementine was buried four days later, in a private mausoleum in one of London's more austere and private cemeteries. The entire household staff were in full attendance headed by Eugene O' Hara. Esme was there too, but even then she still had not uttered a word since the afternoon her grandmother died.
Several more days followed, and Esme still remained in a proverbial state of mourning that teetered between oblivion and depression.
Mr. O' Hara thought it wise for an intervention.
Mourning the loss of a loved one was very reasonable indeed, and is part of the natural healing process of the human grief. But Esme took it far beyond what reason could comprehend.
It was an inordinately still evening later that night, a week later. There was no breeze to disturb the dead autumn leaves that had gathered at the beat, no moon to illuminate the black stillness of the firmament.
Mr. Eugene O' Hara was busy in the dining room. He gave the cook instructions earlier to prepare Esme's favorite soup for supper that evening.
While it was still being prepared, the old butler was diligently arranging the dinner placements. He even placed a modest amount, but lovely bouquet of pink roses as a center piece; they were Clementine's favorite after all. And he hoped its scent would be one way of lightening Esme's catharsis enough for her to grow an appetite. Once he was satisfied with how everything looked, he called for Judith.
She appeared a few moments later.
"Mr. O' Hara," Said the petite maid as she entered the dining room.
"Has she taken any tea?" Asked Mr. O' Hara as he neatly tucked one hand behind his back in anticipation of her answer.
She looked momentarily ashamed as she shook her head in response, "No Sir."
"Perhaps a little more persuasion is in order Miss Judith?"
"I've tried that sir. I even went as far as pouring her a cup and handing it to her. I thought I had succeeded, until I got near enough for her to strike the cup from my grasp and onto the floor!"
"Oh, dear." Said Mr. O' Hara gravely.
In this situation, Clementine would have known what to do. She knew far better than any of them the extent of Esme's temperament. But She was not here, they would have to find a way, their own way, to reach out to her.
But how?
"Mr. O' Hara you do realize she has not eaten anything in the last few days? She's endangering herself in the worst possible way. And I'm afraid the latter of us here cannot condone her actions." Judith said in frustration.
"I'm well aware of the gravity of the situation Miss Judith," He replied collectively. "But perhaps we are wrong in our approach."
"How do you mean, sir?"
"We are in need of someone who is not easily fazed by such things." He turned, to Judith and said carefully, "Have Dr. Carlisle come over and have a talk with her."
"But sir, you know what he's like...Are you sure he's the right man for this circumstance?"
"Of course, he is a doctor after all."
"Yes sir. If you think it is for the best."
Several minutes later, Judith found herself exiting the house in trepidation as she stepped out into the silence of the night.
As much as her girlish excitement was stirred at the thought of seeing the bizarre, yet, handsome doctor again in spite of his reclusive reputation; she resented the task at hand as well.
Like most boorish men who live alone, they also can carry quite a temper if disturbed from their solitary peace. And Judith felt her vexation rise from her gullet as she approach his darkened front door.
She stood there for a moment as she raised her hand and banged the door-knocker four times.
She held her breath.
Nothing.
She was tempted to knock again, but was deterred when the door creaked inwardly, a sign that it was being opened. Judith cowered lightly as she found her voice,
"Dr. Cullen?"
Carlisle's towering form now fully stood in perfect alignment to the door jamb, still properly dressed in his black suit.
"Yes?" He asked, not a sign of surprise nor concern gracing his features.
"M-Mr. O' Hara requests your presence at the house, sir." Said Judith, unbiddenly taking a step backwards.
"Is something amiss that it is in need of medical assistance?"
"Not precisely, sir-"
"Not precisely, then why do you disturb me?" He asked, his voice seething with sarcasm.
"But sir, Mr. O' Hara personally asked me to come. Its regarding young Esme," Said Judith with reason, she considered his momentary silence a signal for her to continue, "I'm afraid the passing of the old mistress has rendered her ill-tempered and sullen-"
"Death can have such an affect to the living, madam." He added darkly, turning his heel and making a move to return inside his home, but Judith persisted.
"I understand sir. Believe me, but its been a week already since the old mistress has passed on, and Miss Esme has still not touched her food, and still refuses to see anyone. We all fear for her welfare sir, but she reproaches anyone who comes near. Mr. O' Hara thinks that you are the only one who can speak to her, truly speak to her. She won't last long sir, if she continues this way as well."
Carlisle stood there, and regarded the maid's words carefully.
"Very well," He says lowly, making his mind up as he faced her once more. "I shall go then, since my presence is indeed requested."
The request was highly unorthodox. After all, Carlisle was no Psychiatrist. He was a general practitioner. He could heal the body, but not the mind.
He tried not to think too much of the promise he made to Clementine as he entered the troubled young girl's home.
He was told by Judith to await in the foyer while she fetched Mr. O' Hara. Carlisle stood there alone for several minutes; glancing around the neatly decorated room that held lush carpets, and a few charming pieces of decorative paintings on the wall. He had been in the foyer several times in the past, and not once did he ever like the choice of art Clementine had, he still doesn't. It was all too cheerful and bright. In his own way, as he remembered the few times that they had spoken, he would miss her too.
"Dr. Cullen?" Mr. O' Hara's voice spoke from behind him.
Carlisle turned around and nodded in greeting. "Mr. O' Hara," He said in acknowledgement, "I believe my presence was requested?"
"Yes Doctor. It is regarding young Esme," The old man said, lightly scratching the crown of his head. A clear sign that he was at a loss.
"Yes, Miss Judith has informed me of the situation-"
Before Carlisle could finish his sentence a raucous noise could be heard upstairs.
Esme's voice echoed as her bedroom door opened. Carlisle remained quiet and unflappable as he tried to take a glimpse from below the foyer.
"Get out!" Esme's voice screeched, her voice resounding sharply across the hall.
"Oh, dear." Said Mr. O' Hara worriedly, walking quickly past Carlisle and up the stairs.
Once he had arrived at Esme's doorstep, one of the maids he had sent earlier to her room, ran quickly out the door and towards him. She was trembling.
"What has happened? I specifically said to give her tea, not antagonize her!"
Reproached Eugene.
"But sir," The maid said trepidatiously, glancing at the opened door, and looking half expectantly to see a charging bull to ram her down the stairs, "I've already tried three times! But each time she refused with violence!" Said the maid rubbing her sore elbow.
Eugene was about to make a suggestion when a tea cup, followed by its saucer, came flying out of her room followed by the sound of porcelain breaking and the door slamming shut.
Both of them stared helplessly at the broken teacup and saucer.
"I'll go fetch the broom, sir." Said the maid wearily. Then promptly excused herself.
By this time Carlisle had already made his way up the stairs, and watched the scene from a reasonable amount of distance.
He walked up quietly to Eugene and said, "I'm pleased it was not filled with hot water." He mused dryly.
"Please," Remarked Eugene tiredly, "By the time she'll even have the urge to drink tea, it'll have long been cold, and probably by then it would have evaporated!" The old butler exclaimed with frustration, he then looked at Carlisle, "Please...Please talk to her..." He pleaded. Carlisle glanced at him briefly and nodded.
Carlisle entered her room quietly and closed the door. He could see Esme's form shrouded with sheets facing the window as she laid in bed.
"Who is it this time?" She asked in annoyance.
Carlisle did not reply as he walked towards the bed.
"No answer." Esme said sourly, "Good evening Dr. Cullen, isn't your silence a deafening greeting tonight." She said satirically, not even bothering to face him.
He had to admit that he was taken aback at the fact that she knew it was him.
"I do not wish to see anyone. Especially not you. Go away. I want to sleep."
"Do you not think that how you are behaving is entirely unreasonable and childish? Was it not you who told me several months earlier that in spite of what I or your grandmother thought, you wanted to understand the circumstances you are faced with?" Said Carlisle, walking towards her with calculated steps.
Esme winced inwardly. His voice taunting her with her own words, and his. "What I said to you that night does not matter anymore. Not to me. I do not want this conversation anymore, I'd like you to leave..."
She could not hear him respond. But his presence was still there.
"You seemed so sure of yourself then..." He added quietly, "So precocious in thought. And yet you break so easily, as if you were a castle made of sand, blown by the wind." In a way his voice was poignant, it almost sounded as if he were disappointed.
Esme turned to him lightly, "Are you saying I'm weak?" She said defensively.
"Yes."
"Did I not tell you to leave?" Said Esme angrily, not wanting to elaborate the subject any further.
"You're only hurting yourself."
"I'm in mourning...go away...please go away." She demanded, her voice cracking as she swallowed the dry lump that had gathered at her throat.
"You are not mourning," Said Carlisle, moving slowly towards her bedside, he stood there staring at her with those eyes that glowed like two glimmering cinders in the dark, "You are wallowing."
"How you dare say such things to me?!" She screamed, tears running down her face, she turned in the direction of his voice. "How dare you to presume to tell me what I should feel, and how I should act? Why should you care for me? Are you one of those who were paid by my dear grandmother to look after me after she has died? To look after the little orphan she left behind!" She spat out the words with hate.
Before she knew it, Esme felt the sheets being violent ripped from her grasp. Then she felt a pair of strong yet irascible hands on her shoulder.
"If it was not for the promise I made to your dying grandmother, I surely would have allowed you to waste away at your own morbid expense, instead I am here listening to the pathetic ramblings of a spoiled brat!"
Carlisle actually found himself grinding his teeth as he said those words. No one has ever aroused anger in him to a level that it seethed into his very core just as she has done now. He found her to be unbearably infuriating by the second. But as he held her fragile shoulders between his two hands, and looked into her eyes that had become dark pools of anger mixed with despondence, he could not help but feel a twinge of pity in his soul.
"Let me go!" Esme screamed with vehemence, "Let me go you pompous imbecile!"
But once again the pity he felt earlier has quickly disintegrated, his boiling ire once again blowing hot. He thrusted her back forcibly onto the bed.
"Look at you," He said abysmally and with a profound disdain, "You are still even wearing the dress you wore to the funeral."
"I loathe you..." She whispered, "Did I not say to get out!" She reached for her night stand and grabbed the first thing her hands made contact with, then within mere seconds, sent the object flying at Carlisle with the speed of light.
Esme expected to hear the sound of the object hitting him followed by it crashing into pieces on the floor. But instead she heard nothing.
Carlisle caught the porcelain figurine in his hand without flinching, and said evenly as he regained his frosty equilibrium, "You need to practice your aim. But for now, enough of that."
"You are going to have a proper dinner tonight, even if it means I hold you down and force feed the soup into a tube that leads to your stomach." He walked over to where her night stand was and returned the object deftly back to its place.
For the first time, Esme quivered as she listened to him. The idea of a tube in the stomach did not sound exactly appealing.
Esme sank deep into her bed, surprisingly quiet.
"Oh, and one more thing. I want you to change out of that dress. The funeral has passed, and it is not hygienic for one to wear the same garments for a long period of time."
Although Esme found him to be a bit frightening, now that she knew what he was like when his patience was tested, her temper was making her bold.
"And if I don't change?" She said challengingly.
Esme could hear his footsteps heading towards her door, then she heard him pause and said softly in that deep gravelly tone that hinted just the merest whisper of danger, "Either you change out of that dress, or I'll rip it off."
