@dante: Thank you! Had I chosen a name for each chapter, then "Tragically Beautiful" would have definitely been it for Chapter Five.
Hermes: Thank you! As Tiago said, Uncle Augustus is Augustus Finch and Esme's uncle on her mother's side. I remember this detail being mentioned very early on in
The Esme Diaries.MrLachrymose: Thank you! And yes, I'd say Esme's and Holden's personalities are quite similar.
@tiago: Thank you for answering Hermes' question in my absance. ^^
~
Chapter Six
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Carlo[/i] and Jerome were lounging at the bottom of the second spiral staircase as Esmé completed her descent. She had spent the last twenty minutes crying in the bathroom following her conversation with her mother. She had spent another five drying her tears and washing her face, not wanting anyone to know that she might not be as strong as she let on.
“Where were you?” asked Jerome, rising.
“I was just checking on my mother,” Esmé said.
“How is she?”
“Fine. She was tired, though, so we didn’t talk long.”
“We thought you might have gotten sick,” interjected Carlo, who was leaning against the banister with his hands buried in the pockets of his blazer. “That punch your stepmother laid out tasted a little off to me.”
“Yeah,” Jerome agreed. “I had some, too. It tasted like acid going down.”
Carlo smiled secretively at the two younger children. “Don’t tell anyone, but I gave mine to one of those fake plants in the dining room.”
Esmé, however, was not listening. Her mind was an endless series of thoughts pertaining to her own fate if she were caught out of her hiding place and the seriousness of her mother’s condition. She was in the process of heading back to the room beneath the stairs, when Carlo called to her.
“Hey, where are you going? Don’t tell us you’re gonna go hide again in that dusty old closet.”
Esmé was only a few steps away from the little door, when she glanced back over her shoulder at her two charming gentlemen companions. As unbelievable as it sounded, Carlo Casanova and Jerome Squalor were the first friends Esmé Salinger had made in all her seven years. Both she and Beatrice received their education from private tutors, which left them with little time to make friends. While Beatrice had a significant amount of friends she’d met through her parents’ parties and country club, Esmé had no one but her sister. Esmé longed to go to parties and have her father introduce her as his ‘eldest daughter’ to all of his friends and business associates. Because of Carlo’s and Jerome’s kindness toward her, Esmé assumed that whatever it was that forced the townspeople to treat her and her mother reproachfully was foreign to the outsiders of Ophelia.
If Esmé intended to spend the remainder of the evening with Carlo and Jerome, then she had to be heedful. One wrong move was sure to alert Holden or—and here she felt the hairs on the back of her neck bristle with trepidation—Estelle. Esmé would spend the next year upstairs, locked in her room, while Holden would be banished to the couch for life.
To her surprise, it was shy little Jerome who helped Esmé reach a decision as to how she would spend the remainder of the evening. With a small smile molded to his round face, he came slowly away from the stairs and linked his arm through hers. His cheeks were pink as he met her eyes. For Esmé, looking into Jerome’s face was almost like looking into a mirror. For the flushes in their cheeks were identical to one another.
As if he feared he might be outdone by the younger, meeker boy, Carlo strode over and linked Esmé’s other arm through his. He did so without anger or force, but the look he gave her as he did so was so desperate that she would feel guilty for refusing his advances. Besides, she was perfectly willing to take on not one but two such fine young gentlemen as her escorts for the evening. Even if the three of them ended up having to spend it in the little alcove underneath the stairs. Esmé was just about to explain the significance of this to Carlo and Jerome, when she felt herself as she was ruthlessly shoved from behind.
She would have plummeted face first to the ground were it not for the combined efforts of both boys, who managed to hoist her back into a standing position. Even before she had recovered from her near fall, she heard the angry voice of Carlo Casanova shouting at someone.
Furious and prepared to fight the person whose identity she could all but guess, Esmé pivoted on her high heels. Standing before her and her two compatriots was Carlotta Casanova. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her expression one of pure egotism. Such an expression made Esmé want to slap Carlotta clear across the face, but instead Esmé stood her ground. She had to remind herself not to do anything that had even the slightest potential of drawing anyone else’s attention.
Carlotta, on the other hand, was less concerned. “Well, you’ve got some nerve, don’t you? First you steal my boyfriend, and now you go after my brother, too!” She paused briefly to glare at Carlo. “And you lied, Carlo. There
weren’t any strawberry tarts. I asked, so thanks for making me look stupid. And just who do you think
you are?” she demanded of Esmé. “The Queen of Hearts?”
Esmé felt relief surge through her as Carlo stepped forward to address his sister. “I don’t think the question here is who Esmé thinks
she is, but who you think
you are, Carlotta.”
Esmé would have handed over her entire wardrobe for just one Polaroid of Carlotta Casanova’s face at that moment. Apparently, being contradicted by her elder brother was a first for Carlotta, or else she would not have appeared so ready to burst into tears. Esmé stole a quick glimpse of Jerome, who looked as shocked as Carlotta but not so ready to cry. In fact, Jerome seemed to be in a frantic dispute with his mouth as he struggled hard not to smile.
Esmé took the second of silence that ensued as her cue to make her feelings known. She stepped forward, once more towering several inches above Carlotta. “I may not be the Queen of Hearts,” Esmé said fearlessly, making sure to keep her voice low enough for only their small group to hear. “But if I was, I certainly wouldn’t go around bullying people and acting like a spoiled brat.”
“Ooohhh! I am
not a spoiled brat! You’re just saying that because Jerome likes me better than you! Come on, Jerome—let’s leave these losers and go dance.” Carlotta thrust forward and made to grab his arm, when suddenly Esmé moved between them, fully prepared to defend Jerome. As she stood there, glaring down at Carlotta, Esmé assumed that this had to be the first time anyone had ever stood up to her. The look of utter bewilderment overshadowing Carlotta’s former arrogance proved it. “What—what do you think you’re doing?”
It was then that Esmé smiled the first of what would be a number of villainous smiles to come. “I don’t think the question here is what I think
I’m doing,” she said slowly, her words and tone mimicking those of Carlo, “but what I’m not going to allow
you to do. Ever. Again.”
“That’s gonna be pretty hard, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yeah? What makes you say that?”
“Well, nobody ever tells me what to do and gets away with it.”
“Maybe that’s only ‘cause no one’s ever tried before.”
“’Cause they know what’ll happen to them if they
do.”“Let’s get one thing straight here, Carlotta,” Esmé said, taking another step forward. This time Carlotta moved back, demonstrating the power Esmé had gained over her. “I don’t like bullies, and because you’re a bully, I don’t like you, either. And since everyone else is too afraid to stand up to you, I’ll do it myself. So listen carefully: You’re rude, bossy, annoying, and just a flat out pain in the neck. Why anyone would want to forgive you for the awful things you do I’ll never know. But I do know one thing, and that’s that beauty has nothing to do with how easily someone is forgiven. Seriously, Carlotta. How someone like you can be related to someone as nice as Carlo is as unbelievable as bikinis made of seaweed.”
In the time Esmé had taken to lecture her, Carlotta’s face had begun to flash crimson. “Is that so? Well, you obviously don’t know Carlo as good as you think. Or else you’d know he can be just as bossy as me when he wants to.”
Although she supposed this was true, Esmé was not about to let Carlotta know it. Instead, Esmé turned her back on Carlotta and said pleasantly to Carlo and Jerome, “Let’s go upstairs to my father’s study. There’s a veranda with a telescope we can use to stargaze.”
Esmé had just taken Jerome by one hand and was preparing to take Carlo by the other, when something unanticipated occurred. A sharp tug at her hair from the back sent her tumbling backward. She let out a scream of pain, just before a second yank on her right arm nearly dislocated it from the socket. She screamed again, feeling herself as she was sent spinning around and around. She didn’t have time to feel dizzy before the mean eyes of Carlotta Casanova locked with her own startled ones. Reaching forward with her free arm, Esmé grabbed a handful of Carlotta’s carefully styled hair. It unraveled and fell down into one long tress. Carlotta screamed in outrage, throwing her huge body against Esmé’s slight one. Unable to keep her balance Esmé fell backwards, hitting the fold-out refreshment stand. The table gave out beneath their weight, sending all of the food and beverages splattering in all directions. Esmé hardly noticed how she and Carlotta were now covered from head to toe in ambrosia salad, as they continued to battle it out on the floor.
“You’re gonna be sorry for this!” Carlotta snarled, her dark eyes blazing as she hovered over Esmé. “I’ll tell my father, and he’ll see to it that you get what you deserve!”
“Go ahead!” Using all of her strength, Esmé shoved Carlotta to the side and rolled over so that their positions were reversed. “Tell him whatever you want, I don’t care. If he blames me, I’ll just tell him how you shoved me and pulled my hair.”
“Ah! But you’re forgetting the part about how you stole Jerome from me! My father won’t listen to a word you say when he finds out that—”
“Esmé Gigi Genevieve Salinger! I should have known!”
The all too familiar voice was like the sound of a whip to Esmé’s ears. The fierce tug on both arms as she was hauled to her feet was reminiscent of a sharp flogging. Before she could say a word, she was spun forcibly around like a top to face the owner of the voice. Never in all her seven years had she seen her stepmother look so furious. Even with her arm locked in Estelle’s firm grip, Esmé still managed to cringe back. The very sight of Estelle in such a dangerous light was enough to make Esmé want to run away and hide for all eternity.
Just when Esmé didn’t think things could get any worse, Estelle’s left hand locked tightly around Esmé’s other arm. “Just look at the mockery you’ve made of the festivities I worked so hard to plan! Were you not
listening this afternoon when I warned you to stay the evening in your room? Or did you just assume you were clever enough to defy my orders? Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” Estelle shouted. Esmé said nothing, and instead went right on staring at her feet. Her candy apple red pumps, which she had worked so hard to keep looking like new, were now covered in chocolate mousse. She felt like crying out of sheer anger, but forced herself to remain strong. The last thing she wanted was to show weakness in front of Carlotta Casanova.
Clenching her hands—which were covered in the sticky pink residue of the ambrosia salad—together in order to give herself courage, Esmé raised her head. Locking eyes with her stepmother, Esmé answered defiantly, “I’m sorry I disobeyed you, Estelle. But it never would’ve happened if Carlotta had only listened to me when I told her to leave Jerome alone.”
Estelle looked over Esmé’s shoulder at Jerome, whose head was lowered in an attempt to hide his tears. Carlo stood beside him, awkwardly patting the other boy’s shoulder. Occasionally Carlo glanced around, as if comforting another boy was something to be embarrassed about.
To Esmé’s discomfort, Estelle did not appear to be quite finished with her stepdaughter. Esmé was mentally preparing herself for whatever punishment she received, when she suddenly found herself distracted. Not by a thought or a voice, or another physical assault by Carlotta, but by a person. Or is it? Esmé mused, as a tall woman whose façade was analogous to a fairy princess suddenly emerged from the crowd of shocked and curious faces. The woman’s jet black hair was parted down the middle and fell in glossy waves down her shoulders. Her dark eyes were framed by the longest, loveliest lashes Esmé had ever seen. Her full lips coated in crimson lipstick would have made her extremely fair complexion look even whiter, were it not for the long, flowing white gown she donned. Lining the bodice in the shape of an upside-down triangle were dozens of tiny, glittering silver jewels. More jewels circled the bell sleeves and bottom of the floor-length skirt. The woman was slender all except for her abdomen, which protruded outward from the fitted waistline of her gown. In her left hand she held a white silk clutch whose clasp was a sparkling red jewel in the shape of a heart.
Captivated by the woman’s beauty, and by the sheer air of tenderness surrounding her, Esmé watched the slim right hand brush delicately across the swollen belly. As she marveled at the woman’s long, red fingernails, Esmé made a vow to herself that she would stop biting her own.
If I can have anything in the world, it will be to have nails like hers when I grow up.“Oh, Estelle,” said the dark-haired woman, in a soft tone resembling that of an angel, “must you be so hard on her? She is still only a child, after all, and her intentions were never to upset you.”
Esmé glanced up at Estelle. She was glaring at Esmé as if she had just stolen and crashed a car, rather than made a spectacle of herself at a party. Quickly Esmé looked away, wishing Estelle would just dismiss her for an excuse to flee the staring eyes of almost every person in the foyer.
“My stepdaughter’s intentions have nothing to do with her actions,” Estelle replied. “She was well informed by both her father and myself that she was to stay in her room until the hour of midnight. She knew exactly what she was doing when she disobeyed us.”
“Be that as it may,” said the dark-haired woman patiently, and Esmé froze as the woman took a step closer to her, “I feel it essential to extend my apologies to you
and your stepdaughter for my own child’s role in all of this. Carlotta is spoiled—I’ll be the first to admit that—and therefore feels she is equitable in many of the things she does.” Esmé followed the woman’s eyes as they turned on Carlotta, who for the first time all evening appeared deeply ashamed. She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by what was left of the h’orderves. The top of her head was caked in ambrosia salad, the sticky pink chunks sliding down her chest and into her lap. “Although it doesn’t mean that I haven’t punished her countless times already, or that I won’t again.
“Carlotta.” The woman whose voice had been as soft a blanket of snow on the first day of winter turned to a freezing blizzard as she reprimanded her daughter. “Go into the powder room and clean yourself up. When you’ve finished, go straight outside and wait for the rest of us in the car.”
Esmé expected Carlotta to reject her mother’s orders, or at least try to argue her way out of it. Which was why Esmé was so surprised when Carlotta got obediently to her feet and began to head in the direction of the downstairs powder room.
“Do you need help finding the powder room?” Estelle called after her.
The dark-haired woman turned to smile sweetly at her son. “Carlo, you’ve been all over this place tonight. Go with your sister and show her where the powder room is.”
Carlo made a face that revealed quite plainly that he had better, more satisfying ways of spending the remainder of his evening. “Do I have to, Momma?”
Esmé had to bite down on her lower lip in order to suppress the smile that followed such an intrepid statement.
“Yes. I don’t want her making a mess of the Salingers’ hallways or their bathroom.”
As soon as Carlo and Carlotta had started for the powder room, the woman whose name Esmé had yet to learn once more consulted Estelle: “Would you permit me to have a word alone with your stepdaughter, Estelle?”
Anxiously Esmé watched Estelle’s rigid face. Esmé wasn’t sure what to expect after all the trouble she’d caused—or, more accurately, been
accused of causing. When at last Estelle did answer, Esmé was grateful to see her stepmother was smiling pleasantly. “Yes, of course. If she gives you any trouble—”
“I am positively certain that won’t be an issue.”
“Very well, then, Felicia,” Estelle said, then turned to Jerome. “Jerome, dear, your mother was asking after you just before all this commotion ensued. Why don’t you come with me and I’ll take you to her, hmm?”
Estelle offered Jerome her hand, which he seemed hesitant to take but did so without complaint. He smiled back at Esmé as Estelle escorted him into the crowd, which parted in order to let them pass. Esmé didn’t stop staring after the pair, until her view was obstructed by the mob of partygoers.