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Never Destroy

"Disappointment to a noble soul is what cold water is to burning metal; it strengthens, tempers, intensifies, but never destroys it.

- Eliza Tabor

.~~.

Rosalie's POV – Friday Evening – End of May, 1932

After I get home and mother grills me civilly for over an hour, she finally gives in. She wants to know why I'm late, and why my clothes are inappropriately wrinkled and stained. She calms, and her masked-anger washes over me. It's not that I'm unaffected by her mood, it's just I know answering her will be pointless. She'll want to know everything about Edward. I won't put it past her to even higher a Private Investigator to have him researched.

I simply have nothing to say to her. I don't need her saying anything about him. And if she knows how much I've allowed my mask to fall in front of him, she'd be aghast. I think mother would like Edward, but one never knows, truly, with her. If he has no money, no connections, no ambitions and no promising future she will completely write him off and forbid me to see him.

So, perhaps that is the reason I stay silent. Although, I know inside my heart I want to keep him to myself, if even for a short while.

"This is your last chance, Rosalie," mothers voice is soft now, there is no more hostility. It scares me even more than the calmed antipathy. "You either tell me what happened to you, or I'll have to assume. You don't want me to do that, darling." She stokes my hair as she makes me stare in the mirror. "There must be a valid reason your clothes were wrinkled, somewhat torn and disheveled, hmm," she croons.

I don't have the courage to look at her. I stare at my pale features and avoid all eye contact.

"Why don't you tell me, Rosalie . . .?" her hand tightens in my fallen curls, but not enough to hurt, just warn.

Again, I say nothing; just shake my head. I'm not sure why I won't tell her about Edward, but I won't. Perhaps, it's another one of those rebellions, something that sets me free for a while and allows me to let the mask fall. Edward has seen me at my worst and the thought is almost liberating, if still not a little scary. There are many reasons filtering through my mind and refuses to set on one. It all confuses me, terribly.

"Very well, daughter. Remember, mother warned you." She leans over, kisses my forehead and pulls away. I shake in dread.

Lillian Hale isn't who is she because she sits idly by and lets things go. No . . . she has more tenacious determination than even my father.

The madam closes my bedroom door gently. I'm left to sit and think about the many possibilities she is capable of.

. .

(Saturday Afternoon)

I lay on my bed, coiled into myself. The last tear has fallen hours ago, but I can still feel the tightness on my face from where the tear tracks have dried. I wonder if they leave chalky lines on my porcelain skin. It almost feels as if lines of glue were poured under my eyes and left to dry.

If I close my eyes and allow the tears to dry over them, will it seal them shut?

I pull the blanket tightly around my shaking frame. Even though it is warm, the sheets and blanket give me an added protection. They cocoon me from the horror I faced. It may not seem like that to some, but it is to me. I feel violated.

I hear light clicks on the hardwood and start to shake as I recognize them.

My door creaks open; I burrow even further into my silk covers. The mattress sags under me as she sits on my bed. Her fingers start to thread through my golden hair.

"It needed to be done, Rosalie. I had to be sure, since you decided to stay mum about the situation." The way she says my name makes my stomach churn. Her tones and words suggest that her actions are my fault, and my fault alone. I wonder if I told her the truth about yesterday, would she have even believed?

It's not my fault you subjected me to an invasive womanly exam, my heart exclaims! Tears start to fall needlessly again. It accomplishes nothing and doesn't even relieve the pressure around my heart. I squeeze my legs together.

"Everything I ever do is for you." I want to call her out on the falsehood. I want to have the strength and fortitude to tell her to leave me be and not touch my hair. I don't want her hands anywhere near my person.

She may think what she does is for me, but it isn't entirely the truth. It may have started out wanting to make sure I had a sound future, but it seems to be more now. It's as if she relishes the control, the stronghold she has over my every action. It gives her a perverse power.

I would never submit my daughter to this, I cry within. It doesn't matter if she wasn't pure, I would never make her lay on her back for a doctor and have him probe her, making sure no man had touched her. It is beyond degrading and mortifying.

It is done and over with, Rose," I console myself. Take these lessons and never apply them to your little ones. My heart beats a little less painfully as I think about them and the joy they will bring to my life.

I lose myself in their sweet beauty and never hear the madam leave my room.

. . .

The week passes: both slowly and quickly; time seems like a paradox to me at times. It is a concept I think I'll never fully understand. My schedule keeps my head above water, helping me to remember Friday will be here soon, finally being able to claim my end reward. After my invasive examination, I thought mother would have been satisfied and become tolerable once again, but like many things about her, she surprises me.

"One would think after years of dedication and practice, Rosalie, my tutorials would be second nature. I can't understand the failure on your part, dear."

No matter what happens, I always seem like a failure, mother. I only get your satisfied smiles when I have the perfect decorum, when I have the perfect look, when I have the perfect associations around me, when I have the perfect outlook on my life that aligns without argument to yours. Who can sustain such perfection, I want to argue. But I remain silent. Arguing would only make the situation worse. I guess that makes me a bonafide coward.

I wonder when she became addicted to the control, the façade of the flawless family, social standing and stunning daughter. I try and understand what made mother like this and why she feels the need to press such illusions onto those she supposedly loves.

"I do try, mother," I say cordially. Sometimes I want to feel my backbone in regards to her, but know it won't happen. "I only want you proud of me. Surely, you know that," I say sweetly, obsequiously.

She regards me critically. It's as if she is looking for a lie, anything to punish me with. The sad thing is, I mean every word. I know she treats me terribly while turning around and fawning over my beauty. I've only ever wanted her complete pride in me. But that light is starting to fade.

"We shall see, Rosalie," she finally says, regally. "This week shall prove it to me, daughter."

I don't say anything in response; simply nod my head in acquiescence.

She leaves the room, and I start to mentally and emotionally prepare myself for what she has planned. As if the previous few days hadn't been horrific enough.

. .

As days pass, I do my best to make her happy, while keeping the relatively calm status-quo. It's as if I'm a child again and going through the same routine. Mother makes me sit at my vanity for hours at a time, combing my hair and learning to appreciate my beauty. She makes me watch myself as she relentlessly drills into my head the many lessons of my youth. Even though I'm seventeen and an adult to many people's consideration, she treats me differently.

"You must gird your virtue, Rosalie. What would your future husband think of a soiled wife?"

I am virtuous, mother, I think. I'm untouched as you already know and had a doctor comfirm.

"You must, must keep up appearances, Rosalie. Your previous behavior this past Friday was disastrous. Masked decorum is more important than anything, sans your innocence."

My innocence is long gone, mother. You saw to that when these lessons started.

"You shouldn't want to spoil your immense beauty, daughter. It is the very desirable quality which makes you stand above the very rest. Practiced movements and remembered etiquette can only enhance your looks, not detract."

I though you want me to retain my innocence not make it "desirable".

On and on she continues, never relenting. I wonder how she can speak so often and not have to take a drink of water.

Am I nothing but your greatest project; an undertaking, I want to ask. My mother loves me, I know she does, but sometimes it's as if she loves my beauty and what it can afford her more than anything. I always knew her to be advantageous, but never to these levels.

Along with my "lessons", my life continues as normally as possible. I talk to my father in the mornings and evenings. I keep the lessons in my head mother taught me and pull them off flawlessly. My loving father doesn't suspect anything. Many times I want to cry in his arms, ask him to make my hurt go away, but it will be for naught. I know it will only be worse if I involve him in any way.

I read the paper and take in the current events. I spend longer on the society pages, pleasing mother with my "desire" in wanting to know the societal aspect of our community.

I keep my appointments with my "friends" and allow them to divulge to me their latest potential conquests. I have a regal smile stretching my lips. Sometimes their conversations make my ears want to bleed. However, my mask never falls and mother gives me more of her pleased smiles. I find no enjoyment in them any longer, but don't let on. My smile becomes submissive as I look to her.

I attend my summer classes and take copious notes. I rejoice in learning something new and not related to our social obligations, or the latest man to show interest in my beauty. I am flattered by the attention, I can't lie about that, but perhaps they see something in me that isn't simply skin deep. I tell myself that often.

Mother accompanies me to campus, making sure I'm keeping the proper respectability. She is my constant shadow during the week, following my every step. Sometimes I feel her even watching me at night. The feeling is a little eerie, but I don't ask her to stop. I pretend to have no knowledge.

Usually, I attend classes alone, but this week is back to the fundamentals. It's as if I am a little girl again, in need of constant parental supervision. I hold my head up high and "welcome" her company when she asks to take along.

"It's been a while since I've been to the campus, Rosalie. Would you mind terribly if I came along?" she enquires. Laughter rumbles in my stomach, but I don't let it come anywhere near my throat. I find it funny that she would politely ask to accompany me, knowing full well that she is already coming.

"That would be delightful, mother," I say, playing along to her music. It's not as if there was even a choice. I know after her speculations are met and her suspicions are satisfied, she will back off, and I will regain some of my independence. Refusing her will only prolong the inquisition into my life and routine.

After class ends and we start to go back home, she allows me to start in on my take-home assignment. I give her my gracious thank you(s). She smiles as if she allows me to cure world hunger.

I stare out the window the entire way home. Clarence catches my gaze briefly. I can see the sadness and compassion in his dark grey orbs. I give him a quick, half-smile. I make sure mother isn't looking. It would be complete madness if she saw me smiling at the hired-help. My friend may not know the intimate details of what my mother entails is my "education", but he can still see the effects it has on me.

His kindness reminds me so much of my father's. Without Clar knowing, his kind gesture gives me the last bit of strength I need to endure the remainder of the week. I could kiss his beefy cheeks in gratitude.

There is more to me than can been seen in my outward appearance?

I remind myself why I endure all of this. I take all these lessons mother gives and hold them in my mind. It is everything different I will do with my children.

My future children, I sigh. It is what I was made for.

. . .

(One week after meeting Edward)

Friday is finally upon me and I wake up with my heart fluttering. It seems like it is the first time I feel my heart alive this past week. It seems as if I had no self-awareness this week, with me trying to "relearn" (but more importantly, retain) my lessons and appease the madam.

I wake up, sprint out of bed and start my routine. I make sure to keep the smile that wants to bloom on my lips far at bay. I cannot raise her suspicion.

Meeting with Edward shouldn't be clandestine or secretive, but it has to be. I can only imagine the lengths the madam would go to if she found him ill-qualified to be my acquaintance.

He is something only for me to know about. This is one area in my life she can have no control over. It is part of the little rebellion in me that won't die down. I like to believe it is part of my soul, giving me the will to be myself; if even for a little time each week.

I sit at my vanity and stare though myself. I pick up my silver hand brush and start to count. I'm not sure if I'm counting the strokes or to the time when I will be free of her. I think of my brothers and I'm happy they aren't here. Even though I miss them endlessly, I would never want this for them.

Expectedly, mother comes in and makes sure I'm awake. She observes me with a very pleased smile on her face. I take the time to look back at her, wondering if she truly enjoyed this week, or was it as trying for her as it was for me.

She only has a content smile on her face. Her eyes are blank and they give nothing away. I am in awe of her mask; it is completely flawless.

"Did you sleep well, mother?" I ask politely. I hate the still, stifling silence she brings to my room.

"Yes, thank you, Rosalie," she replies, never breaking decorum. Even when she is angry at me, she is frightening polite.

After my hair is brushed and skin lotions applied, I look over my shoulder, waiting for her tutorial to begin.

She looks at me and says nothing. Her hair is styled wonderfully and a shade lighter than mine. Her diamond earrings sparkle in the weak sunlight. I usually love the mornings in Rochester during summer. The sunny mornings usually gives way to clouds and afternoon rain showers.

Mother's blue eyes take in my appearance. Did she look like me when younger? Was she ever not jaded in her beliefs? Did she ever love my father as he deserves to be loved? Were they happily over the moon for each other? Am I that much of a disappointment?

"I'll need your assistance this afternoon, Rosalie," mother informs me. I instantly know what she means. I shan't be having my free time. My heart sinks, but I make sure (more than ever before), not to let the mask fall. It's as if this is the ultimate test. I can feel the confirmation deep in my bones.

"Of course, mother. Anything you require," the devoted daughter charms. Her gaze becomes more intense, as if she is trying to peer into my soul. I hide nothing from her but my recent "interaction" with Edward. My mind never tires of hearing his name whispered softly; as if she can hear my thoughts.

She looks away for a while and smiles coyly, thinking she's somehow won. Mother may not know this little test is a contest, but it is to that small, little rebellious part of my heart.

"Word has gotten to me that the Cullen's will be in attendance at tomorrow's dinner party," she starts to fill me in on the musing of her mind. The ever-greased wheels are turning in her head, and I sing internally at my car metaphor.

Unexpected excitement fills me. My interaction with Mrs. Cullen had been short, yet I feel happy at the thought of seeing her again. I keep all this to myself.

"As you know, it's rare when they usually grace anyone with their presence. However, this isn't what's important."

I could hear some bitterness tingeing her voice. Mother worked hard to maintain her position, and, yet, the Cullen's were well received and hardly ever made appearances.

"It's come to my attention Carlisle has a younger brother he has recently taken in. Although his brother is nineteen, their parents' passing has left him with being a mentor to him. Not much information is known, but the ladies are salivating at the bits."

So this is what she needs, me to be paraded in front of another possible suitor.

"We shall be going to the salon later today. I need you on your best form, Rosalie. This is what I require from you." Her eyes turn stern as she waits for my redundant approval.

"I shan't disappoint," I reply importantly. She nods her head before leaving the room. I soon follow and hollowly enjoy my fruit and poached eggs. "One must keep their figure graceful, even if curves are in trend, Rosalie," mother reprimands lightly. "It's easier to maintain than to lose."

I take it all in with a manual, wooden smile.

Please, please, please don't be mad or offended, I plead in my head, and even though Edward can't hear me, I somehow hope he receives the message.

We hadn't been truly explicit on our details of meeting up again, but I wanted to be there in case he was. Now, my reward for the week is taken without her even realizing it.

. . .

Rosalie's POV – Beginning of June, 1932

Saturday evening is spent with Mary once again finalizing my hair down to the madam's every detail. When she gives her overall approval and my ensemble is spot on, I take one more look at myself before leaving my room. Am I the only one that can see me drowning? Sometimes I want to surrender and not be rescued, but who would deliver my little ones? It is the vision that keeps me from being dragged under completely.

I slip into my heels before closing my squeaky door.

. .

The dinner party is the same, as always. The only difference being we wouldn't be attending this affair if not for the Cullen's. Mother wants to get a good look at Dr. Cullen's brother. I wonder if the host and hostess know of my mother's plan and if they would even care.

Their large smiles tell me they don't. I smile at them and watch as Katherine's husband all but drools over me. I shiver a little from his obvious infatuation, and make my way into the dining room, waiting for dinner to commence.

.

The only redeeming grace has been Esme. With great providence we are seated next to each other at this assembly. However, it turns out mother's endeavors for the evening are for naught.

"Edward was unable to make it," Mrs. Cullen informs me, slipping out her brother's name.

Without realizing it, she sparks something deep and resounding in me. I want to smile and laugh foolishly at the same time, but I don't. I tune back into what she is saying and control my ludicrous reaction. Edward is a common name, I tell myself, I shouldn't react as gaily as I do when hearing it spoken. "Something unexpected came up," she finishes as I pay attention again.

I wonder if she has given the reason as to why, but I won't ask. It would show my utterly rude departure from the conversation about her brother.

I give her a sympathy smile; one I hope shows my concern for her familial wellbeing. She has a sad, almost heartbroken look etching her youthful face. Perhaps the situation is even direr than I thought, and I miss out because I am lingering on another Edward at in inappropriate time.

"Is there anything I can do, be of any assistance?" I ask, hoping to wipe the sadness from her face. It looks quite misplaced on her sweet visage.

The sadness leaves her face, momentarily, as she gives me a smile that could drop the nearest man to his knees. I am more than happy to be a lady at the moment. "It's a lovely offer, dear, and very much appreciated. I'm sure my brother will be fine with time. Matters of a personal nature will clear up, and he'll be as good as new."

Her smile turns a little fake, but unlike one I would give to my competition. It's as if she is trying to convince herself things will get better, regardless if she believes otherwise.

I remember mother telling me of their parent's passing. Perhaps their personal matters are related to that, I tell myself. It isn't something I've ever dealt with. I have no personal knowledge on the situation and can, therefore, give no assistance or sage wisdom.

"I hope that to be the case, Mrs. Cullen. Please give my regards to your brother," I say kindly, affectionately. I mean every platitude.

"Thank you, Miss. Hale, I'll be sure to do that," she assures me, a gentle smile curving her mouth.

Conversation around us picks up as we leave the depressing topic behind and chat about lighter topics. She asks me about my clothes and about the classes I'm taking. I talk to her about the volunteer organization she is involved in and the hobbies she's interested in. We talk to others around us, making sure to keep up with social norms.

Father is talking to our host and Dr. Cullen. I can't hear the topic but it looks serious. Mother seems to be holding court at someone else's table, but the hostess doesn't seem to mind. She looks beyond delighted to not only have the Hales sitting at her table, but the Cullen's as well. I stare at her for a few more seconds before turning my attention elsewhere.

I hold back a smile as I observe Mrs. Cullen grimacing over her meal. I can only see her face because of the side view I'm afforded. She hides her reactions to the food from the others behind her cloth napkin.

"The veal chop is somewhat undercooked," I tease her. Veal isn't my favorite meal either, so I can sympathize with her. "And the roasted potatoes aren't supposed to be as crunchy, I think." Mrs. Cullen thickly swallows her chewed food before laughing lightly.

I lean back over to my side and pretend to be enjoying my meal.

"The secret to pretending unsavory food is good is to hold one's breath," I educate, passing on valuable tricks I've learned. "Clear my mind and hold my breath; it's the only thing that gets me through some of these trials," I speak softly. I give the doctor's wife a small conspiratorial grin.

"I shall keep that in mind, dear." Dinner continues and we both finish our courses, pretending to the entire world it's the best food we've eaten.

It's something I've never experienced, the comradery I feel with Mrs. Cullen. We share secret smiles and useless tidbits of information, yet I feel close to her. It's something I can't explain but still enjoy. I'm sure to keep my mask in place, but inside, I delight at the budding amity (or whatever it may be).

When dinner is over and the ladies retire to a sitting room, the light chatting continues. I am sitting by mother and make sure to put in my correct opinions. I sip my after dinner beverage elegantly.

"Oh, so tragic to have lost her position in society," I coo, making sure to keep the haughtiness in my voice. It's what ladies in my situation do. Everyone around me giggles at the boorish comment.

"That dress what absolutely horrid on her, I must agree, Katherine," I facedly agree. She doesn't see beyond my well-kept armor. Mother is simply glowing beside me, as if she is proud of the production I'm putting on.

I peek at Mrs. Cullen, and even though she is also wrapped up in her own conversation, it looks as if a small frown is gracing her face. I wonder if anyone else can tell, and also if the frown is because of me.

I want to reassure her there's more to me, but I can't. It undermines the entire grueling week and years of "lessons".

No one here can compete with my beauty, I tell myself, letting the familiar pretense hold me together.

I sigh when father comes to collect us. It was wonderful to have seen Mrs. Cullen, but she takes me to extremes. I say my goodbyes, making sure to keep myself in check when saying goodbye to my friend. She lightly kisses my cheeks and tells me how much she enjoyed my company during dinner. Her words (though routine to others) strike me as completely heartfelt.

It dawns on me, perhaps she wears a mask as tightly as I do. I pull back from our appropriate embrace and stare at her. For a few seconds, her eyes are unguarded, and I see myself reflecting in them. It shakes me to the core.

My smile turns wobbly before I control my facial features once more, and Mrs. Cullen pulls the veil back over her eyes. We are more alike than I would have suspected. Or so you like to believe, I hear taunted in my head.

. .

Once in my room and out of my party clothes, I reflect on the evening. Esme, I think of her that way in the privacy of my sanctuary, is like me. We both wear different hats and may not be all that we appear publicly.

However, unlike Esme, I don't have her innate sweetness. I can see it beneath her social veneer. It runs in her veins and touches each part of her life. Granted, I am not wholly acquainted with her, but I would bet all that my father has on such a notion. That doesn't mean she is without a backbone when required.

I sit ay my vanity and stare hollowly at my reflection. Oh, oh . . . no one can deny my apparent beauty, for it is truly stunning. From my violet eyes to my delicate jaw line, my face is perfection, but inside is a different story. My shortcomings and self-flagellation I keep to myself. It would only crack my shell I've cultivated, but it's still there and I fear the day it all comes spilling out.

Several large breathes leave my unpainted lips as I stand and make my way to bed. Another day passes; another day of fake façades, bringing me ever closer to my true dream. However, I'm still really sad about not seeing Edward.

I put the sadness behind me and think of next week. I can only hope he hasn't washed his elegant hands of me.

Author's Notes: So, a very BIG thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter and the one's already posted! Goodness, you give me such inspiration and I love you for making the effort to make my day! Even though I couldn't respond to the anonymous ones, they are also very appreciated (*typing with big smile on lips*).

Anyhow, I hope everyone had a nice weekend. Please, if you have the chance . . . review. It takes only seconds, but makes me entirely happy and motivated! Much love sent to everyone!

Updated: Monday, 16 April 2012