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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on May 21, 2009 15:02:41 GMT -5
“Jerome,” Esmé said, and slowly ran the backs of her fingers over his cheek. “Odds are that I’ll be asleep before you even reach the drugstore, and so you won’t have any reason to worry about me.” “That isn’t the point, darling,” Jerome said. “The point is if something happens, then I won’t be here to protect you.” “Then if it will ease your concern, why don’t you ask Emma to stay with me until you return?” “I was actually thinking of asking Klaus Baudelaire. I don’t mean to sound chauvinistic, but he is a man. So if something does happen to occur, then he’ll be able to protect you and Emma.” Esmé thought this over, and then nodded her approval. “If it will make you feel better,” she said, “then by all means ask him.” *** By the time Emma had returned to the dining room, the table was set and everyone was just sitting down to dinner. In the center of the table were the two pizzas that Emma had helped Violet and Klaus prepare. “What did your parents say?” Beatrice asked her friend. “They’re going to be taking dinner in their room again,” Emma explained. “I don’t think Mother can stomach pizza, so I thought I’d take her a bowl of soup instead.” “Sunny,” Violet said, and turned to her younger sister who was sitting beside her. “Why don’t you take Emma into the kitchen and show her how to use the stove?” “Oh, that’s O.K.,” Emma assured Violet. “Carmelita taught me everything I know about the kitchen, including stoves.” “Well, in that case,” Violet said, “then go right ahead and make the soup. When you’re finished, I’ll give you a cart to take the food up to your parents.” “How is your mother feeling now?” Kit asked Emma. “Still not well,” replied Emma. “I just hope she feels well enough to travel tomorrow.” “Well, if she isn’t, then you and your family are more than welcome to stay an extra night.” “Or a week,” Beatrice chimed in. “We can ride the bus to school together.” The proposal pleased Emma, whose mouth turned up into an elated smile. “I’d better go get started on that soup,” she said. “Sunny, go with her,” Violet advised. “You can show her where the soup pot is.” “O.K.,” said Sunny, and got up to follow Emma into the kitchen. “I’ll go, too,” Beatrice offered, and started to rise. “No,” Kit said. “There’s no reason for more than a few of you to go into the kitchen. Besides, you haven’t even started on your dinner yet.” “But Mother—” “Sit.” Pouting, Beatrice did as she was told. Faust, who was sitting next to her, gave the older girl a sympathetic smile.
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Post by Jenny on May 22, 2009 9:35:43 GMT -5
Without talkative, pleasant Beatrice around, a conversation flowing between Emma and Sunny was a little more diffiuclt to attain. Sunny reached up to one of the many kitchen cabinets and retrieved a can of soup and a pot and then placed them on the stove.
Emma then remembered something. "Hey," she said. "Are you the person who really likes to cook?"
Sunny's slightly round face brightened. "Yes," she answered happily. Emma couldn't help but be a little sorry for her--Sunny was overshadowed by her clever, pretty sisters, and it was all too clear that this hadn't helped the girl who was so nervous about opening her mouth to speak. Emma couldn't honeslty say she'd ever been much jealous of Carmelita, and so she couldn't really identify with how Sunny must have felt, but she felt happy knowing that being recognized for her own talents had made the fifteen-year-old so happy.
"I love to cook," she said. "And in future I'd love to own my own restaurant. You haven't tasted any of my cooking this weekend, but I cook quite a lot and I think I'm quite good, even if I'm not exactly chef material yet--" having realized that those were the most words she'd ever spoken to Emma consecutively ever before, Sunny quickly blushed and quietened down. She reminded Emma so much of Carmelita then that she happily grinned.
"Sorry," Sunny muttered, and turned on the stove. Emma had been planning on making the soup herself, but it seemed Sunny was all too eager to do it for her.
"Next time my family comes over," Emma said, and then wondered at her parent's eagerness to repeat the experience. "I'll try and make it so that my sister drops by. That way maybe you could go and have a look at the kitchens in Café Salmonella one day, if you wanted."
Sunny smiled, mouth still closed, and then turned back again to the stove. The two girls just had to hope that there was going to be a 'next time'.
~
Kit helped Emma safely place the soup and the plate containing several slices of pizza and some salad (with dressing) for Jerome, and then Emma set off on her way to the elevators again. She paused outside the door to her parent's room and knocked on it again, and quickly her stepfather opened the door to let her in.
Emma grinned when she saw that his dark hair was still sticking up at all angles. "I got you some pizza," she said, and the handed over the plate that she'd personally made sure didn't look too healthy for him. She'd expected Jerome to smile his big goofy smile and immediately tuck in, but his instant reaction was to lok a little crestfallen. Of course he quickly covered it up, but Emma couldn't help but notice that he picked around at the salad where the dressing was the lightest. That was when it occured to her that it wasn't Jerome who had been upset at her attempt to get him eating something healthier, but rather it had been Esmé. She vowed to talk to her mother about that when they were left alone.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on May 22, 2009 19:33:56 GMT -5
“Thank you, darling,” Esmé said, as Emma handed her mother the steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup. “It smells delicious.” “I’ll be going out for a bit after dinner,” Jerome explained to his stepdaughter, “to pick up your mother’s prescriptions. Do you think Mr. Baudelaire will be available to stay with her until I return?” “Why do you feel the need to ask him?” Emma asked. She was a little dismayed that Jerome would acquire the assistance of a person he had only just gotten back in touch with, over the stepdaughter he’d known for the past fourteen years. “I’ll be perfectly happy to stay with Mother while you’re gone.” Jerome looked as though he was about to say something, when Esmé reached for her daughter’s hand. “Emma,” Esmé said. “Your father is only thinking of our safety. You remember the events of last year, and the toll they took on us and the Widdershins. Jerome is just concerned.” Emma nodded, and then turned to smile at her stepfather. “If that’s the case,” she said, “then I’m sure Mr. Baudelaire won’t mind. How long will you be gone for?” “Not long at all, sweetheart,” replied Jerome, who was still avoiding the dressing on his salad. Esmé frowned, and tilted her head to the side in a way that made her husband want to lunge across the bed and hug her. “Probably only about half an hour— forty-five minutes at the most. Would either of you like anything while I’m out?” Emma shook her head, but Esmé looked as though she had something to say. “Would it be too much trouble if I asked for a strawberry soda?” she inquired. “I heard from Melissa Reeves at work that it’s supposed to be very in this month.” “Never, my love,” Jerome said. “If strawberry soda is what you want, then strawberry soda is what you shall have.” “You spoil me.” “Only because I enjoy it.” As Jerome leaned across Emma to kiss his wife, the fourteen-year-old couldn’t help but roll her eyes in minor irritation. *** To Jerome’s relief, both Klaus Baudelaire and Fernald Widdershins agreed to stay with Esmé during the billionaire’s absence. Once Jerome had excused himself to go downstairs to fetch Fernald and Klaus, Emma took the opportunity to ask her mother about what had been on her mind since dinnertime. “Mother,” Emma said, after closing the door behind Jerome. “May I ask you something?” “You can ask me anything you want to, Em,” Esmé replied. “What’s on your mind?” “Jerome.” “What about Jerome?” “Well…” Lacing the fingers of both hands together, Emma swung her arms up over her head while attempting to balance on one foot. “Why does the idea of him losing weight bother you so much?” The room seemed to fall silent after that, and Emma felt a terrible, guilty feeling rip through her chest. Her eyes drifted across the room to her mother, whose eyes were now focused on the empty bowl in her hands. “Mother?” Emma asked, a little panicked as she strode forward. “Mother, have I said something?”
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Post by Jenny on May 23, 2009 6:10:36 GMT -5
Esmé sniffed, and Emma seated herself on the edge of the bed so that she could reach over and take her mother's hand. Emma had always been terribly afraid of upsetting Esmé because of how much she loved her and how much she had always wanted to protect her, but she had to admit: sometimes it was neccessary.
Esmé was not on the verge of tears, even if that was what Emma thought it looked like. Esmé was, in fact, trying desperately to find a way to explain her behaviour to her daughter and to herself. It didn't make any logical sense that her own selfishness would prevent her from being able to allow her husband to lose weight if that was really and truly whathe wanted. Though Esmé could be selfish and could be a little too controlling, she knew well enough in her own heart that she had never stopped anyone from following their heart and doing what they wanted to do. But she just couldn't bring herself to let her husband do this of all things, this that would not change their relationship, that would not change anything but possibly his likelihood of having a heart attack in twenty years time.
Well, tehre was one logical reason behind the fog, but Esmé could hardly tel her daughter that one. Even though she preferred her husband the way he was now, she knew deep down that she'd still think him the handsomest man on Earth if he was practically skeletal.
But there was something in theback of her mind. There was something about the prospect of him losing weight and maybe going back to the way he had been fourteen years ago or even thinner than that that was somehow vaguely threatening.
And she could never tell her daughter why that feeling had come about. Damn Olaf still ruined everything, even a year after his death.
"You know me, Em," she said, and balled the duvet up in her fist. "You know I'm hopeless over Jerome. Your stepfather can do whatever he likes. I just don't want him to be unhappy."
Before Emma could ask why, then, Jerome had left most of what she'd been forced to bring him up, the door creaked open again to reveal Jerome, Fernald Widdershins and Klaus Baudelaire standing in the doorway.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on May 23, 2009 15:22:29 GMT -5
“I’m just about to head downtown,” Jerome said as he stepped into the room. “I just wanted to say goodbye before I left.” Esmé extended her long, goosebump-covered arms, and her husband leaned across the bed to hug and kiss his wife. He hugged Emma next, making sure to kiss her in the center of the eyebrow as her mother had done earlier. “I’ll be back before you know it,” Jerome promised, his eyes never leaving his wife’s as he said it. “Drive carefully,” Esmé advised, and her husband nodded. Every time he went out alone, his wife never let him leave before reminding him to be vigilant of the road. “I will, darling.” As Jerome headed back across the room to the door, Esmé blew him a kiss and Emma waved to him. Jerome never liked being separated from his wife and daughter, even though they would be in good company while he was away. He made a mental note to pick something up for Emma while he was out, to reward her for being such a great help during a time she should have been having fun with her friends. *** “Why, Mommy? Why can’t I go upstairs with Daddy and Mr. Baudelaire? It isn’t fair that they get to see Emma and I have to stay here.”Colette Widdershins sighed as she ran the brush through Faust’s limp, slightly frizzy curls. “Mrs. Squalor is ill,” Colette reminded her daughter. “The last thing she needs right now are people crowding up her room.” “That’s dumb,” Faust replied in between biting off the nail of her right index finger. “If Daddy is up there, and then Emma and Mr. Baudelaire, that makes three extra people.” “Your father and Mr. Baudelaire are there because Mr. Squalor asked them to be. And Emma’s reason is because Mrs. Squalor is her mother.” Faust was just about to start on the nail of her thumb when Colette reached for her hand. Holding it underneath the light coming from the lamp on the nightstand, the contortionist frowned. “Honestly, Faust,” Colette said. “If you keep this up, then you won’t have any nails left.”
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Post by Jenny on May 23, 2009 15:45:16 GMT -5
Faust smiled guiltily, and the took back her hand and lay it flat across her knees, vowing silently not to bite her nails anymore. Her mother was quite right--if she carried on biting them, she would never have long nails like Emma and Mrs Squalor did. Colette's own nails were only short, but they were well kept and practical. Faust's were short and ugly and uneven.
"I know you can't help it," Colette said, and ran the brush another couple of times through her daughter's hair. Not many people commented on it, but Colette did think that one day little Faustine was going to grow up to be very pretty indeed--her little face with it's fragile features showed her that, and she didn't think it was just because she was her mother that she thought her pretty. Faust had never cared very much whetehr she was pretty or not, but now that it seemed that Emma Squalor was just going to become more and more like her mother as she got older, Faust had expressed a little interest in becoming pretty like Emma was going to be. "But a pretty girl has to have pretty hands."
Faust smiled, and her mother looked down at her limp dark blonde hair again and wondered, if her curls rounded out and her hair lightened, and she finally grew into her fragility whether she was really going to be very lovely indeed. When she'd brought it up with Fernald, though, he'd stubbornly insisted that Faust was pretty in her own way, and she was never going to change, and she was never going to be any different than she was.
Fathers were so[/] overprotective. But, Colette supposed, that was why it was a good job Faust had her, too.
"I'll keep an eye out for Mr Squalor when he returns." Colette watched the dark blue Lexus pull out of the Hotel's car park and onto the road. "And then after that, you can go upstairs and see Emma if you like."
Faust nodded, and sat down to wait for Mr Squalor's return. Only Colette knew that he was going to be the best part of an hour and that Faust had never stayed still that long in her entire life.
~
Fernald Widdershins had been friends with the Squalors for over a year now--and acquainted with Esmé far longer--and so he had no trouble sitting himself in the chair Jerome had earlier occupied and asking how the two women were findhing their weekend. Klaus Baudelaire, though, looked shockingly out of place, and he shuffled his feet.
The other three occupants of the room looked up at him. Esmé sighed--how could she expect Klaus Baudelaire to sit in a room occupied by two of the most terrifying figures from his horrific childhood and not be in the least bit intimidated.
"Kl--" she took a deep breath. "Mr Baudelaire," she politely addressed, all too aware that they were not really on first-name basis. "I know Jerome asked you, but honestly. You're free to go downstairs. My husband worries far too much sometimes."
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on May 23, 2009 18:06:15 GMT -5
For a moment, Klaus Baudelaire looked as though he was torn between decisions: he took a step toward the door, then back, and then forward once more.
Fernald Widdershins cleared his throat.
Klaus smiled awkwardly, and then lowered himself into an armchair by the door.
“I made a promise to your husband,” he said, “and I intend to keep it. So if you don’t mind, Mrs. Squalor, I think I’ll stay right where I am until he returns.”
Esmé was just about to assure Klaus that would be fine, when she was interrupted by a high-pitched sneeze. A shade of redness immediately shrouded her face, and she chuckled nervously. Emma snatched a handful of tissues from the box on the nightstand and handed them to her mother.
“Excuse me,” Esmé said, taking the tissues from her daughter just seconds before squeaking again.
“Would you like me to get you some more cold medicine?” Emma offered.
“Will you? I think Jerome left the bottle in the bathroom earlier.”
Emma nodded. “I’ll go check.”
She went into the bathroom, only to return a moment later empty-handed.
“Mother,” she said, “the bottle is empty.”
“There should be some more downstairs in the kitchen,” Klaus explained. “Would you like me to go check?”
“I can do it,” Emma told him. “Like you said: you want to be sure and keep your promise to my stepfather.”
Esmé waited until her daughter had left the room, and then addressed Fernald and Klaus.
“I didn’t realize it until just now,” Esmé said. “But I do believe this is the first time that the three of us have all been in the same room together.”
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Post by Jenny on May 24, 2009 8:38:30 GMT -5
Klaus didn't mention that he'd been in the same car as the two of them once, or that technically they'd all been in the same caravan at the carnival, or that they'd all been on the same submarine and on the same mountain top. He tried his best to put that as far back in his mind as he could. The two people in front of him had been nothing but kind for the last two days, and so he didn't see any reason to believe that they were suddenly going to switch back into the volatile criminals they had once been. He cursed himself for even thinking that when over the course of the last few days they had done nothing to deserve it.
But memories didn't just disappear. He wouldn't have admitted it, but Klaus had been glad when Esmé had been too ill to come down much to talk with them all. The last thing he wanted, if he was totally honest, was to be forced to associate with the woman who had nearly chopped off his sister's head and thrown them all down an elevator shaft.
But Klaus had fond memories of Jerome Squalor, and he thought Emma was nothing but charming. And so, for their sake, Klaus managed to force himself to nod politely in response.
"Are you feeling any better than you were when the doctor called?" he asked, wondering, looking over at the woman curled up small in the bed and coughing whether she still wore those horrible stiletto heels.
Esmé sneezed again before answering, and Fernald Widdershins grasped a tissue with dificulty in his hook and handed it to her. "Not really," she answered miserably. "I suppose when Jerome comes back with my perscription that might start to help. But until then, I think I'm going to remain pretty much the same."
"Hopefully you won't be away from work too long," Fernald Widdershins commented. "Or else I'm a bit worried Colette won't go in without you."
"The doctor said I could maybe go back near the end of the week, provided I'm feeling better," Esmé told him, forgetting that the doctor had not recommended this, she had just stubbornly insisted upon it. "But if Colette ever needs any help, you can just tell her she can call me, even if she's at work. I definitely won't be busy..."
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on May 24, 2009 10:05:45 GMT -5
“I’ll be sure to give her the message,” Fernald replied. Esmé smiled contentedly, and then sneezed again into her handful of tissues. Having spent a substantial portion of the day sneezing, her nose wasn’t the only thing that was suffering. Her throat had also fallen victim to her miserable cold, and she was looking forward to the strawberry soda that Jerome had promised to bring her. “Bless you,” said Fernald, who was reminded of all the winters that Esmé had spent sniffling around Olaf’s apartment. The hook-handed man would never admit to it, but even after all these years he still thought fondly of those days… *** “What? You’re telling me that Olaf still hasn’t fixed the window?”Esmé shook her head from where she stood polishing the rickety kitchen table. “No,” she answered stuffily. “He said it—” She had to stop and sniffle loudly, before turning her face into her arm to sneeze. “It’ll build character.”
“Or a virus in your chest,” Fernald replied distastefully. “What is Olaf thinking, sacrificing your needs like this just to save a few measly dollars?”
Esmé shrugged, and went about applying another coat of polish to the table. She coughed, and then lifted her hand to wipe away some sweat from her forehead.
“Are you alright, love?” asked Fernald.
“I don’t know,” Esmé said, and closed her eyes. “I feel… sort of…”
The rest of her words trailed off, and the next thing Fernald saw were the girl’s legs giving out from underneath her. He lunged forward, catching her in his arms before she could hit the splintery wooden floor.
“Esmé!” he cried. He pressed a cool hand to her forehead and waited anxiously for her to open her eyes.
Eventually she did, and Fernald’s heart filled with relief as she stared up at him.
“What happened?” Esmé asked weakly.
“You fainted,” Fernald said, his voice having abandoned its panic-stricken state.
“Olaf will be back soon. I’ve got to finish doing my chores.”
Esmé shifted, but Fernald’s arms tightened around her.
“No, sweetheart. You’re ill. The only thing you should be doing is resting. I’ll take care of the chores.”
“You will?” Esmé asked.
“Yes,” said Fernald. “Right after I take your temperature.”*** On her way down to the kitchen, Emma crossed paths with Beatrice and Sunny in the hallway. “Emma,” Beatrice said, “how’s your mother?” “She’s fine,” Emma replied. “Well, not fine. But certainly no worse than she was this afternoon. She’s out of medicine, and I was just on my way to the kitchen to get another bottle.” “Do you know which cabinet it’s in?” Emma shook her head. “We do,” said Sunny. “Come on, we’ll show you.”
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Post by Jenny on May 24, 2009 11:10:32 GMT -5
Once Sunny and Beatrice had handed Emma the bottle she wanted, Emma made to turn back and head straight upstairs.
"I was wondering," Baetrice said before her friend could take the medicine back to her mother. "If you still wanted to take that boat out on the lake. I know you're sitting with your other, but we have to be careful it doesn't get too dark before we head out."
Emma would have liked nothing more than to go out on the lake with Beatrice, but she knew all too well that the sun had already set and by the time Jerome got back it would be too late. She knew all too well that even if Esmé was with Fernald and Klaus that if anything were to happen and she wasn't there Jerome would be less than pleased.
"I probably won't have time," she admitted, trying to hide her disappointment. "I'm going to be staying with my mother and Mr Widdershins and Mr Baudelaire until Jerome gets back, and by then it'll definitely be really dark. I don't know, maybe we can do it some other time?"
With that she waved to Sunny and headed off again in the direction of the staircase. Let no-one ever say she wasn't a devoted daughter.
~
Klaus had been watching the exchnage between Fernald Widdershins and Esmé Squalor with interest, and it didn't make much sense to him. Unless Hooky had been an affectionate nickname all along, he didn't recall the two of them ever really getting along very well at all, and yee now it seemed terribly obvious that they were quite close. They looked as if they'd known each other a great many number of years--which of course they had--and that they'd been the best of friends always.
Klaus couldn't help but stop and wonder whether that was all they were. Adultery wasn't a word out of the reach Esmé's vocabulary.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on May 24, 2009 20:21:05 GMT -5
“You look as though you have something on your mind, Mr. Baudelaire,” said Esmé, when it became apparent that Klaus was studying her and Fernald as if they were part of some critical research.
Klaus felt himself blush at the accusation, and then smiled. “I suppose I’m just surprised,” he said, “by the relationship the two of you share.”
“Well, we are friends,” Fernald pointed out.
Klaus was getting ready to underscore the fact that there was once a time in which Esmé and Fernald had been unable to stand one another. Or at least that was the impression Klaus and his sisters had received from Esmé all those years ago.
However, he never received the chance to form his opinion. Before he could, the door burst open and Emma Squalor arrived with her mother’s cold medicine.
“I ran into Beatrice and Sunny out in the hall,” Emma explained. “I’d completely forgotten that I’d promised Beatrice we’d take a boat out on the lake today. Will there be enough time tomorrow before we leave?”
“There should be,” Esmé replied. “Provided you make sure all of your things are packed away beforehand.”
“I’ll make sure of that, Mother.”
Esmé smiled, and then turned her attention to Klaus. “I don’t mean to sound demanding, but do you happen to keep any parsley soda in the hotel? It’s just that I find the taste of liquid cold medicine dreadful, and I’d prefer to have something to hide the taste.”
Klaus nearly made a face at the words ‘parsley’ and ‘soda’, but he stopped himself just in time. “No,” he said. “I’m sorry, but none of us are very fond of parsley soda. However, we do happen to have plenty of root beer.”
“As a matter of fact,” Esmé said, “I’m quite fond of root beer. Emma, would you—”
Though Emma’s expression was bordering on annoyance from all the running back and forth she was being asked to do, she didn’t argue.
“I’m on it,” she said, and swept past the two men and out of the room once more.
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Post by Jenny on May 25, 2009 8:09:38 GMT -5
Now that Emma had once again disappeared, Fernald and Esmé both turned back towards Klaus, who still loked as though he was mulling over something that neither of them understood. Klaus wasn't much for public speaking, and having two people of whom he'd once been so afraid stare so expectantly back at him admittedly did make him a little nervous.
"It's just quite strange," Klaus admitted. "Because it used to be quite clear that you two were far from friends fourteen years ago."
Esmé turned her face away slightly to sneeze into her shoulder, and so Fernald turned and smiled and the man who was no longer the boy they remembered. The hook-handed man looked like he was about to say something, and then he seemed to think better of it. He and Esmé exchanged a look that told Klaus that they were about to be less than honest with him, and then Esmé took over. (She always was the one that did the talking.)
Of course Esmé and Fernald were less than eager to reveal all the events that had led to them avoiding each other while they were still part of Olaf's troupe, and they wouldn't have dreamt even for a moment that Klaus could care or understand any of it.
"Oh, I don't know," she chuckled. "Maybe I was just too shallow to give poor Fernald a chance."
It was a reasonable excuse, considering that Esmé had most definitely once been shallow, but somehow Klaus still didn't believe it.
"My siblings and I always got the impression that niehter one of you were fond of the other," Klaus said. He looked to Fernald. "You can't have been too shallow not to like her, can you?"
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on May 25, 2009 15:57:30 GMT -5
As if he felt he needed permission, the hook-handed man turned his gaze on the financial advisor, who nodded her consent.
Fernald Widdershins had no idea where to even begin explaining the events behind his romantic involvement with Esmé Squalor. Klaus Baudelaire was most likely the person who would understand this better than any other, considering his feelings for Fernald’s sister.
“It was many years ago,” the hook-handed man began. “Back in the winter of 1971, after Count Olaf first adopted Esmé.”
“‘Adopted?’” Klaus repeated. He couldn’t believe it… he wasn’t even sure he even wanted to believe it. To think that Esmé Squalor was once a villainess was one thing, but the idea she had been an orphan all along was an entirely different matter. Even though the Baudelaires themselves had met the same fate, they had never terrorized helpless children and committed unthinkable crimes like Esmé, Olaf, Fernald, and the rest of their accomplices had done.
It was a hard pill to swallow— especially since Fernald was claiming it to be the truth after all these years. Klaus shifted uncomfortably in place, and waited for someone to speak.
“Yes,” Esmé said finally. “It’s true. Even though both of my parents were alive at the time of my adoption, in my heart I never stopped feeling as though I had been abandoned.”
“Why would your parents give you up, though?” Klaus asked. “And to Count Olaf, of all people! Didn’t they have any idea what sort of treacherous person he was?”
Esmé shook her head sadly, and then cupped her hands around her mouth momentarily to squeak. “Not back then they didn’t. As I once said, he was my acting teacher. My father had just lost his job at Lucky Smells Lumbermill, and my mother was ill with tuberculosis. I had no relatives to take me in, and Olaf had helped us many times in the past. It was only natural that he was the first person my parents thought of when they realized they could no longer care for me.
“The first time Olaf hit me, I was eleven. It was the night of my birthday party, and I’d accidentally spilled wine on a dress worn by Kit Snicket. Olaf dragged me out of the living room and into the kitchen, where he struck me across the mouth.”
While Klaus’ eyes widened behind his glasses, Esmé put her focus on Fernald.
“It was also the first time I met Fernald,” Esmé continued fondly. “He comforted me, and took care of my wound. I’d never had any siblings, and in the beginning that’s what he was to me. The big brother I’d always wanted, but was never fortunate enough to have.”
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Post by Jenny on May 26, 2009 3:57:21 GMT -5
“Olaf’s behaviour towards me steadily worsened the more convinced he became that I wasn’t going to find a way to escape him, and as his behaviour worsened, it was only Fernald that saw anything wrong with the way he was treating me. I suppose I was grateful that he’d taken me in to begin with—“ Klaus looked vaguely horrified, and Esmé could tell straight off that he was remembering the weeks he’d spent in Olaf’s care and wondering how it was possible for anyone to be grateful for that. “—Because I knew all too well that my parents simply couldn’t afford to care for me. And so I knew, in some ways, that no matter how violent and unpleasant Olaf was towards me, that I was probably better off in the long run than I had been living at home. And it was the 1960s—I wasn’t exactly the only child of my generation to have been beaten for burning a roast, and I think the rest of Olaf’s accomplices knew that.”
Fernald felt like adding that this piece of information hardly mattered: it was almost a reflex for her to talk down the abuse she’d suffered, and he’d never let her do it. But she continued before he had the chance.
“Things stayed basically the same for years after that,” she said. “Every morning Olaf would provide one way or another a list of things I was to do that day while he was out, or wherever he was, and if I did them all and they were all to his satisfaction when he returned, I’d probably get something that night to eat.”
“Unfortunately, his “standards” were almost impossible to reach,” Fernald grumbled, but again Esmé continued regardless.
“I rarely went to school, if ever,” Esmé said. “All of my time was devoted to cleaning the floors and windows and cooking dinner on time for the troupe if they were coming over. It was a mediocre and painful experience—I was constantly nervous that I’d done something wrong, and that if I misbehaved or did something wrong that Olaf might stop paying my mother’s medical bills entirely. I didn’t know at the time, of course, that it was Kit Snicket who was paying for my mother’s treatment, or that the treatment at that late stage of the illness would be ineffectual. I was only eleven, and I wasn’t exceptionally bright. If nobody had told me these things, I couldn’t have been expected to guess.
It all stayed mostly the same until I was eventually sent to the VFD training school, which once again, as I later discovered, was being payed for out of Kit Snicket’s pocket. It was the first time since I’d started living with Olaf that I’d ever been away from him for longer than one of his usual disappearances, but I found that what I missed most about being away for those two years was that I lost contact with Fernald, and that was one of the only reasons that I found myself glad to be returning to Olaf’s dingy old apartment on the outskirts of the city.”
Esmé had left out the parts she hadn’t wanted to mention, and Fernald couldn’t help but recognize it. She had left out how Olaf had absused her emotionally and how this had led to her becoming so painfully insecure about her weight. And neither had she mentioned their most recent discovery about that time of her life—that in fact she’d only been fourteen when she’d been sent off to boarding school and only a very grown-up sixteen when she returned. He didn’t know whether she’d let these details go because she was particualrly embarrassed about them, or because they showed others in a particularly bad light, but either way, Fernald knew the story wasn’t really going to all add up without them.
“While you were at boarding school I did see you,” he prompted. “I saw you when you were in hospital.”
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on May 26, 2009 13:53:04 GMT -5
His response caused the financial advisor to stiffen in her bed. Esmé dared not meet the eyes of the young man sitting in the chair by the door, for fear that his expression may or may not have changed.
“Hospital?” Klaus asked.
Esmé didn’t bother to scold Fernald for his slip— how could she? He had always been so kind to her, even when she had been less than hospitable to him. She had always treasured her memories with him, even though she now had a husband she loved more than she ever thought possible.
“Yes,” Esmé said, and forced herself to meet Klaus’ eyes. “I was hospitalized when I was fourteen for an eating disorder. That was when Fernald came to see me.” She smiled. “Along with your parents.”
The Baudelaire children had always been aware that Esmé had once been associated with Beatrice, but were less sure of Esmé’s relationship with Bertrand. Still, the three orphans had never questioned it. It was only when Klaus distinguished the sadness in the former villainess’ eyes that he realized he and his sisters had overlooked something crucial.
“I’m sure your mother must have mentioned me once or twice,” Esmé said. “Before Violet was born, Beatrice asked me to be the godmother. I was only fourteen at the time, but you must understand that your mother and I were once very close.”
As much as it pained him to do so, Klaus was forced to shake his head in protest. There wasn’t a time in which the Baudelaire parents had ever mentioned Esmé, though they had spoken fondly of Jerome on several occasions.
“No,” replied Klaus. “I’m sorry, but neither of my parents ever mentioned you. The first time we ever heard your name was when Mr. Poe escorted us to 667 Dark Avenue.”
The information stung, of course. Even after Beatrice’s betrayal, Esmé had hoped that her former best friend would have cared enough to speak fondly of her to others. Esmé had even managed to put aside the reality that she hadn’t been invited to Beatrice and Bertrand’s wedding.
Esmé sighed, and then nodded. “Oh,” she said.
“What was my mother like as a girl,” Klaus inquired. “That is, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“She was beautiful, with auburn hair and eyes the color of chestnuts. Next to my husband, Beatrice Baudelaire— or ‘Taylor’, as was her surname at the time —was the gentlest person I’d ever had the pleasure of meeting.”
“And my father? What was he like?”
The mention of Bertrand Baudelaire caused Esmé to let out a shaky little breath, as her mind drifted back to the days leading up to their ill-fated romance. She opened her mouth to speak, only to discover that all she was capable of was a tight-throated sob. She had never spoken— or been asked to speak —of Bertrand until just now, and she was amazed by just how difficult it was for her.
“He was wonderful,” Esmé managed at last. “He was kind and sweet and he— he loved me.”
Realizing what she had just said, Esmé threw her hands over her face just as Emma returned with her mother’s root beer.
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