Alright, I MUST apologise, I'm very, very sorry for the ginormous delay. You guys really don't want to know the details- lets just say exams and temporary depletion of the imagination content in my brain served to be the causes for this delay. I'm back on track now, and I promise I shall update sooner next.

I honestly struggled with this chapter, I just didn't know what to write. I'm sorry if it sounds rambling or monotonous, I promise my next chapters will have much more substance in them! Enjoy!

P.S.: I also didn't know much about the official procedures in the military during and before WWI. Most stories I've heard are about WWII. So please forgive me for any inconsistencies or mistakes with regard to that part of the story.

Pause

The day Charles left was one of the most emotionally overwhelming days I'd had since weeks. I felt like there was a balloon swelling up in my chest, making me nearly giddy with joy. However, there was a rather sick feeling in my gut- a combination of guilt for rejoicing in my husband's departure and fear for the certainty of his return. This left me rather weak and jittery and for most of the first day I remained sleeping. The second day, however, found me in cheerful spirits, and it got me more excited than ever. I hummed to myself as I filled the vases with some early blooms and dusted the mantelpiece.

"Stop that abominable noise at once!"-my mother-in-law snapped from the study, which effectively shut me up.

True, old Mrs. Evenson was… a handful. Still, she was old, and couldn't move around much. So I learnt to bear with and ignore her effectively and managed to live with some peace.

For about two months, an easy, simple routine was established at the Evenson home. I helped my mother-in-law around, but she mostly stayed in bed, as her condition seemed to worsen. Meanwhile, I kept the house clean and tidy, hating the old-fashioned decorations with appropriate fervour.

Then, exactly nine weeks after Charles' departure, my mother-in-law had a stroke. I had to rush her to the hospital immediately, bringing back many unpleasant memories to me, but I steeled myself to stop them from overwhelming me. It half-worked, and I somehow managed to concentrate on my rapidly deteriorating mother-in-law.

Back in those days, a stroke was pretty much fatal. It still is today, but we somehow seem to have bought some time to keep some hopes of recovering. My mother-in-law had no such chances. She died four hours after she was moved to the hospital, an hour before her daughter could reach her.

Amelia was distraught. There had never been any soft, humane feelings between them, nevertheless, Mrs. Evenson was still her mother. She cried on my shoulder a little, wandered in every room of the house like a silent ghost, and read through her letters. We barely talked, both of us still very uncomfortable, she was also too bereaved.

Most of Columbus' surviving old folks came to my mother-in-law's funeral. Amelia had listlessly given me free hand, so I arranged it myself. I was satisfied with my efforts and I knew that if old Mrs. Evenson were alive, she'd have hated it. Too less flowers, for one thing, and a scandalously short service. She wouldn't have understood anything about economical expenditure during the war.

Amelia merely mumbled a few impersonal words about the "wonderful, energetic woman" that she had been, and I said my due. My parents had come, duly dressed in respectable black, my mother's face familiar in its frozenness. I had immediately and obediently sent off a telegram to Charles' HC, but I got a short reply from his superiors:

Condolences to family. Evenson posted in France. Will be notified.

I tried not to dwell too much on the relief I felt after knowing he wouldn't come back until and unless the war got over, or in the case of some grievous injury.

For about two weeks after Mrs. Evenson's death, Amelia stayed with me. She explained that she somehow felt guilty if she left the house she grew up in so soon. I didn't challenge her thoughts; after all, she had every right to stay back, though her mother would not have thought so. So for two weeks, Amelia and I lived together in uncomfortable monotony. We rarely talked- actually, I rarely talked. Amelia often made efforts to chat with me like in the good old days, but I never took the bait. Otherwise she had to satisfy her need for conversation with some of the well-wishing mourners that dropped in for some time almost everyday.

The simmering discomfort and discontent in the atmosphere finally came to the fore two weeks after the funeral. We were having a silent, subdued dinner, as usual, when Amelia asked in a rather timid tone, "Poor Charles. I rather wish he were here. You do too, don't you?"

I let my spoon fall into the dish with a clatter. Though she had talked about Charles before, this was the first time that she was trying to include my assumed affection for him in conversation.

"No," I said shortly, and returned to my soup.

There was a strained, embarrassed silence. I was in fact silently waiting for her outpouring of words. She had always been like that. Never knew when to stop. Never would let it be.

Sure enough, suddenly, she leaned in towards me and placed her hand on my stiff wrist. "Oh, come, Esme, what on earth happened? Why are you so distant, why have you changed like this?"

My hand froze mid-air for a moment, then I continued to drink my soup. How could she not know? How could she not atleast guess? "I don't know what you mean," I said, apparently unfazed, gently pulling my wrist away from her grasp.

"You don't love him anymore! I see it, I see it in your eyes! Why? Tell me! You're like my sister now-"

Without another word, I stood up, startling her. "I am going to bed," I said evenly. "Good night."

And that was it. That was the last real conversation, or a semblance of one, that I ever had with her. Oh, we kept meeting again, later, at informal family gatherings, in the years to come. We just never had a heart-to-heart ever again. The next morning, Amelia left, and left me in blissful solitude.

The loneliness didn't scare or worry me. I liked the personal space I got, and revelled in the fact that I was actually residing in my own home. I revelled in the feeling for a couple of days, then started to grow restless again. Slowly, I adjusted myself to a new social schedule, the freedom of which relieved me after months of being forcibly cooped up in the house with that cantankerous old woman.

I kept going to dinners hosted by other young women of considerable social standing; participated in the little events, raffles and meetings the other "left-behind wives" organised diligently. No one guessed the deep loathing and fear I had towards my husband. No one could tell I was actually relieved that my husband had gone to war.

I went to dinner at my parents' once every week. I generally didn't look forward to those evenings- my parents had become pretty dull, and we were now surreally formal to each other.

After two more months of such a schedule, I found myself already bored and tired of this new life. This trait of mine to quickly tire of things probably helped me in my second life, but at that moment, life had never seemed more dull to me.

It was one beautiful July morning, with me itching to go outside. It irked me to no extent that married women had very limited pastimes, and they almost all included accompanying the husband. Had I been unmarried, I could have gambolled in the fields and mooned around without anyone ever commenting on it. Now, as Mrs. Evenson, I could only step outside with a purpose in mind- no mindless wanderings in the countryside were allowed for me. It wasn't exactly prohibited as such, but, as I had already learnt, people talked.

With such thoughts running in my head, I collapsed into a spindly high-backed chair with a frustrated sigh. And then, it happened. With a sudden loud snap, two of the chair's legs broke then and there and I fell to the floor with an almighty crash.

For a moment, I just sat in the debris, stunned. Then there was the sound of running feet, and the daily help, a young girl of about fourteen, came running to the room. "Oh, madam, are you all right?"-she gasped, seeing me on the floor. She hurried forward to help me, but I waved her away impatiently. "No, no, Leeds, go finish the dishes. I'm fine." With an uncertain look, she obliged.

I had really shocked her with my demeanour once I turned lady of the house. While at first I was silent- melancholy when Charles was there, and withdrawn when not- I had really shocked her with the force of my character after old Mrs. Evenson's death. Not that I was as irritating as my mother-in-law, but I was firm and had a discerning eye, and Amy Leeds had to admit to herself that I could, in fact, run a house very well.

How did I know all this? Well, I overheard her telling her mother(the butcher's wife). With a life as boring as mine, even the domestics' banal conversations interested me.

Presently, I gathered myself up, rubbing my backside furiously, scowling like a ten year old. "Stupid chair," I muttered, kicking aside a piece of wood and hobbling over to another sofa, into which I sank thankfully. I sat there and stared at the broken chair, my mind working furiously.

I needed to get rid of all the old junk. Most of the furniture was decades old, the upholstery was simply ghastly. Little knick-knacks and bric-á-bracs were stuffed and stored everywhere. Numerous spindly intricately carved tables were spread across the house, adorned with more porcelain trash.

A sudden inspiration set onto me. Why not, why not?

I would redecorate the house. The enormity of the decision had struck me, but it didn't frighten me. Every corner of the house bore vestiges of my dear, departed mother-in-law, and I hated it. After all, this was my house now. It would be something to do, something to think about in the dull days to come.

I acted immediately. I rushed upstairs and dashed off a letter to Amelia, asking for her permission to alter the house's state. I didn't technically need it, this house wasn't hers any longer, but I didn't want the last traces of companionship between us to burn away.

Amelia took her time to answer, it was a week before her reply came.

Dear Esme,

I hope all goes well with you. Have you heard from Charles? I must admit your letter surprised me, considering our last meeting, and its contents surprised me further.

At first, your idea was, I admit, quite repellent to me. It was the house I grew in, and I hesitated to allow any of my numerous happy memories to be erased like that. Since then, however, I have been thinking about the matter, and I have come to accept the fact that it is quite a splendid and practical idea.

Of course, the furniture is dreadfully old, and you have every right to make your home as comfortable as possible, without having to seemingly live in a museum!

I place complete faith in your judgement, as I know of your good taste first hand. So, my dear Esme, you may do whatever you like to the house. I thank you very much for your thoughtful suggestion to keep my old room untouched, but I realise that it is a very unpractical idea to have an unused room in the house. I have already brought with me all the items I placed close to my heart, and so you may go ahead and redecorate my room as well without hesitation.

I hope all goes well with this new endeavour of yours. Needless to say, I assure you that I shall arrive at the doorstep to see your creativity as soon as I hear of its completion, whether you invite me or not. My warmest regards to the Platts, I hope Mrs. Platt has recovered from her terrible loss in February. I am forever, my dearest Esme,

Your humble friend,

Amelia

The letter sounded normal, but very strangely formal. I knew she was hurting from how we had drifted apart, but she still sounded resolutely cheerful. I sent her back a short thank-you letter, without mentioning Charles or her unsubtle hint about visiting me soon.

The very next day, I drove over to the town's best hardware and furniture store. Ignoring the usual stares("Doesn't she keep a chauffeur?"), I sailed into the shop and began to negotiate and place my orders.

In two days, a pack of masons arrived at the house. Within that time, I convinced Mrs. Leeds to let me borrow her younger daughter for a day to help me and Amy clear out the junk. Some of the intricately carved furniture I got placed in the attic(in case it ever came back into fashion- then it could be proudly displayed as 'authentic vintage'), and got down several pieces of delightfully sturdy and simple Georgian furniture removed from the attic. These few chairs and tables I placed in the dining room and the bedrooms, keeping aside most of the publicly accessible rooms for the beautiful new Art Nouveau style.

This new fashion in designing had completely mesmerised me. The flowing shapes, the colours, the lovely stained glasses- every aspect of it. I found myself intensely enjoying every moment of planning that I did. I quickly found the town's library woefully inadequate for books on the subject(too modern), so I had catalogues ordered from New York. Then I ordered the ones I could afford, or commissioned the local carpenter to create the ones I couldn't buy. My plans grew and grew, to the point of even structurally changing some of the rooms. My neighbours were curious and some of them even begrudging. That I should change so much in a family home was disgusting to them, but that I was doing it well made them even more sullen.

My parents mentioned the matter when I went to dinner the next time- I hadn't gone for two weeks. The conversation sounded very surreally like the ones we used to have before that dreadful happening in February.

"Well, my girl, tearing down the Evenson house, are we?"-my father asked as he carved the meat.

"I am not tearing it down," I said indignantly. "Just making some changes."

"Quite a lot of changes, from what I've heard."

I glared at him stonily. "If you really want to find out what is going to be done, you wouldn't do better than to ask me."

He burst out laughing, and Elizabeth joined in. She was also home, which was one reason why I had agreed to come to dinner.

"Peace, peace, my child," he chortled. "You may do whatever you like, I'm sure your mother agrees. It's your home, isn't it? Just make sure you don't throw out anything Amelia or- er, Charles will want to keep."

Father didn't mention Charles much, but when he did, he did so with much embarrassment. Mother, however- my new, cold, Mother- had no such qualms. She asked me about him every time I went home for dinner, and once or twice I even I had to make up some imaginary letters to calm down Father and to avoid Mother's piercing cold gaze.

At the moment I just shrugged. "I informed Amelia and asked her if she had any conditions. She said she didn't, and as to Charles- well, I think I know my husband well enough." There was a strained silence after that. Only Elizabeth didn't know what was happening, but she guessed enough to know not to talk about it.

As a matter of fact, I had no idea how Charles would react when he came back- if he came back, I couldn't help thinking. The subject mostly filled me with fear and reduced me to the weak, submissive creature I usually became around him, so I just stopped thinking about it. I'd know when(if) he came, wouldn't I?

"And besides," I said presently, struggling to break the silence. "I was terribly bored. There's nothing to do in that old house except clean the damned old furniture." I included the expletive for Mother's benefit. Sure enough, Mother responded with a quiet, "Esme, language,"

Elizabeth laughed. "That's my Esme. She's bored so she breaks down houses and builds them again. Quite productive of her."

We all laughed at that, and Mother merely smiled. I didn't think there had been laughter in that house since the day before my wedding.

Soon after that, I sent the masons away for two days. With Elizabeth as a companion, I travelled to New York to a friend I usually stayed with when I went there. Elizabeth was thrilled with every moment of it, even though we mostly spent the time in furniture stores or curio shops, or little markets where I could haggle and bargain and buy something for my new home. I bought of shiny new kitchen utensils, selected upholstery for the living room and master bedroom. Elizabeth observed all this keenly, saving this knowledge for future use, I was sure. We went to the theatre one evening and a cinema hall the next. Both of us loved the cinema- we had no such thing back home. Whenever I came to New York, I acutely felt the feeling of being a tiny ant in a huge anthill, and that there were so many wondrous places I had never seen before. And probably never could.

In any case we enjoyed our time in New York, despite the obvious signs of wartime on the streets. Prohibition was going to start, there were suffragette rallies, and most luxury stores were closed. Nevertheless, I managed without seemingly spending too much, and all in all, I was happy with the financial side of my arrangements.

After my return to Columbus, I plunged into the work with full fervour. I watched over every single workmanship happening in my house, even went to the carpenters' every other day to see how the furniture was coming along.

And finally, after a month of work, during which I slept at my parents', it was finally done. The living room was tastefully adorned with green and scarlet- the sofa upholstery even had a lovely dark blue wave pattern. Lamps with stained glass shades sat in discreet corners. The wallpaper was a mellow light beige with sinuously dark green creeper designs here and there. The furniture was solid, but with flowing contours.

The dining room had a splendid sturdy old teak table found in the attic- quite rare, I believe. With it came graceful chairs painted to match. The kitchen had a new set of cabinets, and most of the vessels were shiny and new.

The master bedroom I decorated in green again, with more of its shades and flashes of red and blue here and there. There were three other guest rooms, each decorated in mellow shades of blue, warm beige and dull red respectively. The room in blue had been Amelia's and I had very quickly realised that it would make a perfect nursery. The thought had pained me.

One of the biggest reasons why I'd agreed to marry Charles was, of course, to have children of my own. That dream I had shared with no one, not even Charles, but I was actually looking forward to it. But then came swift disillusionment after the marriage, and now I was terrified to have a child brought up in such a household. But my bigger, selfish worry was- what if Charles did die? What if my guilty prayers were answered and he never came back? While it would offer me relief, I would never have the child I had always dreamt of having. And once I became a widow, where on earth would I get a child from? No one married widows.

The paradoxical problem never ceased to worry and pain me, so I tried not to think about it. I had found that I could hide my worries and pains well- even from myself, and that trait was turning out to be definitely useful to me. I didn't know how much more useful it would be in the years to come.