"I am afraid to show you who I really am, because if I show you who I really am, you might not like it--and that's all I got." Sabrina Ward Harrison

                                                                               ***

Autumn 1839 

Running tired fingers along her face, Annabelle sighed wishing in earnest the released breath would untangle the tense and knotted matters that were her throbbing muscles. The past days had been the busiest of her life and certainly not the most pleasant as it never was easy preparing for special guests. Mrs. Melbourne, the mistress of the house, made it a point to be painfully overbearing and even more disagreeable than normal. Since the rather spontaneous visitant was the man rumored to be offering her daughter marriage, Annabelle felt her to be excruciatingly unbearable.

It was no secret that Mrs. Melbourne was but a mere farmer’s daughter when she married Mr. Melbourne, a man born to a more respectable family.  Well on her way to spinsterhood, the right opportunity arose for the horrid woman to marry when she found herself with child. It seemed, however, that fortune smiled on Mrs. Melbourne too late as all her years of loneliness had already taken their toll.  The woman never smiled and bitterness saturated her every word. Words of which were directed toward Annabelle more often than not.

Rubbing balled fists against her lower back while aching desperately for the little comfort offered by her bed, Annabelle groaned in accepting its blatant impossibility. Having spent the entire morning washing and rewashing the floor to rafters, there were still rooms to tend to, not to mention any other commands demanded of her on a whim.

"Martha!" the arched voice of the looming betrothed seeped through the door, increasing Annabelle's desires to remain hidden in the library. Who in the devils would ever agree to marry such a beast, she wondered in repulsed suspicion when considering the girl who while as equally disagreeable as her mother, too had the great misfortune of not being the least bit handsome. Her masculine brow and seedy eyes coupled with her atrocious behavior but blared of the sham that was to be her lawful troth. But then again, weren't all marriages amongst those of status but political arrangements, love being but a mask in the scheme?

"Martha!"

And could they not have chosen a better name, Annabelle added to her growing list of mental queries; never able to understand why the Melbourne family insisted on calling her Martha. They should have known better than most what her real name was. Weren't they her mother's cousins after all? While objection was clearly the expected reaction, Annabelle learned quickly the rule did not apply to her as such protests were deemed inexcusable, especially by Mr. Melbourne. Whenever she dared voice said opinion, reprimand was swift as it was severe until Martha became her unwilling name and the scars on her back and a reminder that it was to stay as such. And indeed it had; Martha being the only name bestowed upon her for the past seven years.

Annabelle closed the library door quietly. Remaining by the door, she held her hands tightly at her back, fearing her raging nerves would render her clumsier than usual, causing her to break something worth more than her life. A life which over the past sennight, had become a waking nightmare.

“Well come along then, child. I can’t very well address you properly from across the room,” Mr. Melbourne spoke from behind his newspaper, his voice unbetraying of any emotion. The image of the Mr. Melbourne blurred in Annabelle’s eyes as fear clenched a tight fist around her heart. It was her first time being near the man in the week she had lived at the Melbourne House, ever since he’d come for her in the dead of night after her mother’s passing. Annabelle swallowed back the knot that tightened in her throat. Heavens how she missed her mother.

Eyes downcast, Annabelle treaded softly along the crimson carpet. Like a learning babe, her sights remained at her feet as if by looking up she might lose her balance and tumble. Reaching the grand desk, she allowed herself a slight breath.

Slowly, Mr. Melbourne lowered his newspaper. For a long time he stared at her, his eyes void of all expression. His lips then drawing to a tight line, he settled back into his chair. He said, “I take it you are frightened of me, are you child?”

Words failing her, Annabelle nodded. It wasn’t that she was frightened of him, but at barely thirteen and without a family and a home, Annabelle feared a wrong answer might leave her on the street as well. It was common knowledge what happened to girls left to the mercy of the life. Annabelle suppressed a shiver. No, she couldn’t afford to be tossed out. She’d already lost her mother, her home…Nathaniel. She couldn’t very well lose her virtue.

Mr. Melbourne stroked his chin pensively. “Smart girl then. I will make no attempts to make light of things. You ought to be frightened as you ought to be grateful that I have welcomed you into my home. Though your mother was indeed my cousin, our relationship was not a good one at all. I suppose she never even mentioned me did she?”

Once more, Annabelle relied on gestures rather than her weak voice.

Mr. Melbourne said, “As I thought. Well,” he rose to his feet. Walking around the desk, he set his round frame back, leaning on the edge of the desk before Annabelle. His presence entirely too close, Annabelle stiffened but refused to waver. She couldn’t afford to.

He went on. “There are a few things that will be required of you if you are to be under my care. Firstly, you are to work for your keep. I have a daughter and am in no need for another. Family or not, you will make yourself of value. The other maids will show you what will be expected of you. My darling Madeline is also in need of a lady in wait. You seem capable enough. You will listen to my dear girl or by God you will regret it.” Snatching her face into his hands, Mr. Melbourne growled, “Have I made myself clear?”

Unknowing how to react, Annabelle kept to her silence. Baffled, she bore her stare unwaveringly into his frigid eyes. Never had anyone laid a hand on her before and surely never had anyone threatened her. It was beyond all bounds!

Drawing her closer, Mr. Melbourne chuckled. It was a dry, contemptuous chuckle that sent tremors the course of Annabelle’s already quavering frame. “Furthermore, from this point forward I never again want to hear the name Annabelle. Your name shall be Martha. Any talk of Annabelle Frost will be dealt with instantly,” he pulled her face closer, “and severely. I will not have anyone knowing of my relations to you.” Of a sudden, he released Annabelle to the ground.

Eyes wide, Annabelle stared at the vile figure of the man she was to call Uncle. Slowly he moved, slithering away from her. Fury searing her within and days of mourning leaving her without her senses, Annabelle found her voice, what little of it remained. “I have lost my mother, my belongings, my home…I refuse to lose my name.”

Mid step, Mr. Melbourne stopped. Though holding to her anger, Annabelle’s pulsed quickened, the air growing thick with anticipation. Resisting the overwhelming urge to tear from the room, Annabelle could only watch as Mr. Melbourne stood there. He didn’t turn at first, instead holding his gaze fixed upon the hourglass at his desk. As if on a cruel cue, as the last of the sands emptied, he turned. Blue eyes black, he took one step toward her, then another until in one swift swipe, he ripped her from the floor.

Before a word, Annabelle crashed against the floor again, warmth seeping from her tingling cheek. Gasping for air, she lifted her eyes to the monster towering over her. “Seems you will need some convincing, Martha.”

Cradling his knees, he bent over her. “What is your name again?” Fully aware that the battle was already lost, Annabelle straightened her spine, holding his fiery glare.

Bracing, she took a slow breath and said, “Annabelle Frost.”

As the last syllable stole from her lips, the world succumbed to smears of color and flashing light before falling into a pit of darkness.

"Martha!" Madeline's voice carried through the house once more like an annoying melody, cutting through Annabelle's dispiriting reverie. Blowing a strand of hair tickling her forehead, Annabelle rushed to the grand staircase to meet her calling mistress. Curtsying, she lowered her gaze.

"Oh Martha!" Madeline sighed with her usual theatrics. “What am I to do? The dresses simply won't fit! That blasted modiste must have measured me wrong!" she cried. Chuckling inwardly, Annabelle offered a sympathetic nod hoping to mask her amusement thinking the seamstress played no part in Madeline's confectionary demands every night.

Madeline ranted on, "Take the dresses back to the seamstress and tell her I want them altered to my measurements at no charge or so help her!"

"But she might need to measure you again ma'am." Annabelle's hands flinched to her lips. Surely Madeline would have her skin for freely voicing her opinion. After a torturous pause in which Annabelle stiffened in preparation for swift reprimand as was the normal consequence, Madeline surprisingly whimpered.

Waving off Annabelle's words with an exasperated sigh she said "Does it look like I have time to stand and be fitted? I've a husband to prepare for!"

Annabelle exhaled; unaware she had been holding her breath in wait of punishment that never came. Pressing a dainty hand to her chest, Madeline settled back into her stand sizing Annabelle through narrowed eyes.

“But you are right.” The corners of her mouth drew upwards, a gleam glinting in her seedy eyes. "You're the same size as me, are you not?" she nodded in mute resolution. "Yes, yes. Have her use you in my stead."

Annabelle blanched. While at one time that would have been a possibility, it was no longer. Malnourishment having prevailed upon Annabelle's once fuller form, it had long reduced her to a frail shadow of her former self.

Taking liberties with her words once more, Annabelle offered with genuine concern, "I beg your pardon ma'am," she stammered, "but I don't think—"

The smile dropped from Madeline’s face. With the lift of a brow, Madeline regarded Annabelle carefully, in a low, harsh whisper. "Might I suggest that you not forget your place in this house?" 

Annabelle's throat swelled with anger, but she kept to her silence.

"Now run along!" Madeline sighed despairingly, "I need the blue chiffon gown by this evening. The carriage is being brought round forth. Edward will take you there and back so there should be no delay!" Turning haughtily to undoubtedly inflict her torment on another poor servant, Madeline stopped.

"And please do take off those dreadful rags and put on something proper. I will not have you soiling my carriage with your servant muck."  Finished, Madeline tilted her head back royally and resumed her ascent.

Annabelle sighed. Letting the exhaled breath ease her tension and anger, she watched the sylph like figure disappear to the upper floors. How desperately she wanted to tear into the pampered monster that was her second cousin!

But dragging in another breath, Annabelle shifted her perspective.   Was Madeline's demand really that terrible? Was she not to be measured for gowns of which otherwise she wouldn't ever feel the delicate fabrics on her skin? And she could not forget the carriage ride, no. She was to ride to town in luxury as if she were actually part of the family.  Yes, Annabelle smiled silently thanking Madeline.  For the afternoon she would enjoy a more pleasant existence, even if it were only borrowed.

**

As the carriage drew up to the seamstress’ shop, Annabelle twisted her fingers, barely able to contain the excitement. Rarely did she travel outside the confines of Melbourne house. With little time and even lesser funds, her excursions saw her to the surrounding grounds of the house, the surrounding ponds if possible.

Annabelle blinked at the sight. Bustling crowds floated about the market in a common air of need and want as if being carried by the various aromas' swirling from the different shops. Typical for some, to Annabelle the teeming market was simply magical, from the small girl selling flowers to the fashionable women twirling their parasols daintily in their gloved hands. Never the kind to wish for anything, Annabelle suddenly found silent prayers stealing from her mouth.  Just a small measure of happiness Lord, a small measure of happiness, she prayed silently.

Stepping from the carriage, a slight rumble overhead jolted Annabelle from her wishful whispers. Dreadfully gazing up at the quickly darkening sky, a slight shiver rippled through her. The seamstress sign at the storefront swung violently in the gusting wind and Annabelle was sure thunder and lightning would soon follow, elements of which sparked a panic she had yet to outgrow. Directing her steps toward the dressmaker's shop in haste, she froze. The scent of fresh baked bread and pastries engulfed her, mercilessly ravaging her nose and unruly stomach. Traveling on their scent alone, somehow, without noticing, Annabelle found herself at the door to the bakery as the trunk of dresses was being unloaded.

The baker greeted a hypnotized Annabelle with no ill considering her obvious station in life, much to Annabelle’s relief. Mystified, Annabelle’s eyes wandered over the delicacies that mocked her taste buds. Readily, her mind tortured her with memories of her mother’s berry tarts and cherry pie but the sweetness soured at the thought of her own personal funds.  Taking on the chores of other servants for minimal fee was not enough with which to pay for her indulgences.

The baker's hand swept over the display encouragingly, "Fancy trying one, Miss?"

Annabelle hesitated for a moment admiring everything her eyes beheld. She giggled. "One? I would very much like to try them all—"

The words died on her lips upon feeling a light tug at her skirt. Blinded by the alluring pastries, Annabelle had failed to notice the coming of the small boy that now stood beside her with a blank stare.  

Annabelle knelt beside him. "Well hello there." Looking around, she saw no other persons in the shop. Perhaps he was lost? Intending to ask, she was cut off by the small child who raised his arms.

"I can't see the biscuits," he said. 

Coloring, Annabelle pressed a hand to her heart. A maternal warmth arising within her, she smiled awed by his innocence. Pulling him into a slight embrace, she lifted the small child to see the ocean of delights while relishing in the wonder filling the young boy's eyes. For that moment, Annabelle forgot all about her own hunger focusing rather on the little boy in her arms. She thought him to be about six at most and found his ruby cheeks against his snow white skin breathtaking. A map of light freckles marked the way to most beautiful crystal blue eyes. Annabelle gulped, emotion instantly swelling in her throat. It had been a long time since she'd seen eyes that blue and that beautiful, memory of the last leaving her winded.

Swallowing through her tightened throat, she asked, "Sweetheart, what is your name?"

The bakery door burst open.

"Logan!"

Startled at the thunderous voice, the small child quickly squirmed free from Annabelle's arms and ran to the tall, brooding figure at the door.  Instantly, Annabelle lowered her gaze acknowledging the strangers undeniable higher status. His exquisite dark blue walking suit all but screamed of superiority and it was then Annabelle took notice that even the small child was dressed in a similar luxurious manner. Heaven help her...

He went on, "How many times have I told you not to run away from me? Then you come into this shop to bother this--this girl." Annabelle could hear the condescension in his voice, his tone alluding to her appearance. She was a servant and under normal circumstances, he would not have even noticed her.

Logan attempted, "But Father--"

Strongly stirred to aid the young child, Annabelle rejected her better half which urged her to remain silent. "He wasn't bothering me, sir." she said.  Earnestly she hoped to spare Logan further reprimand but the scoff from the stranger spoke otherwise. Again her foolish mouth had run off with itself. Attempting to recover, she made to explain when rolling thunder gave way to a shattering crash of lightning.  Annabelle’s startled scream robbed the rest of her words.

Logan giggled. "Don't be scared. It's only lightning."

To which his father then said, "Typical for a woman to be scared."

The world galloped to a slow halt. The foreigner had murmured his words so low Annabelle could have mistaken them for vicious thoughts torturing her mind. But they weren't. The curious verse was unmistakable as was the manner in which it was uttered.

Annabelle’s knees weakened. Gripping a nearby counter for support, Annabelle clenched her chest sure her heart was but moments from shattering her breastplate. Forcing fitful breaths to steady, she turned slowly to the preoccupied man adjusting Logan's coat.

Tears welled in her eyes as she looked down on the man who was once the boy she knew, his appearance altered only by the kiss of time. The plumpness of his face was gone, replaced by high cheekbones and sunken cheeks, his nose too acquiring a more chiseled form. And in noting his eyes, Annabelle's throat swelled. Those eyes of splendid topaz that once radiated warmth and openness were much darker and colder, stained by superiority and prejudice. His demeanor too suffered the same fate, a suffocating dignity replacing his once agreeable air.

But then, after whispering something to Logan, Annabelle's world shattered when at his son, he bestowed a smile. The smile remained, the same that since that stormy summer night eleven years prior lived etched in her memory. Whenever life was unbearable and days were spent in fits of silent tears, it was the magic of those curved lips to which Annabelle would anchor her sanity. To that smile and the promise bound to it.

I will come back for you…

Awareness dawned painfully within Annabelle that he had indeed come back...just not for her. Noting her stare, Nathaniel returned a brief expressionless glance in her direction but in the same manner turned his attentions back to his son, unaffected. Annabelle froze feeling the ground disappear beneath her. Truly, he hadn’t come back for her. He hadn't even recognized her. 

Destroyed, Annabelle spun, suppressing the heaves that sought to claim her when like a soft whisper, her conscience surfaced. Painfully it asked, why should he remember?

Why should he indeed. Not only had eleven years passed since he'd last set eyes on her, years in which through natural progression and incessant hunger, Annabelle had shed her girlish face and round figure. All that remained was a frail excuse of a woman, a shadow of her former self.  Sadly, if not for being in her own body, Annabelle herself would not have recognized the phantasm she had become.

Twisting the bitter blade further, Annabelle looked down to her weathered garments. The added detail crushed her heart. Nathaniel saw nothing more than the maidservant she was, a woman who were it not for Logan would not have only been unworthy of his attention, but invisible to his eye. Wishing for death, a cold, bitter and swift death, Annabelle could only stand.  In moments he would be gone and she could fall apart, but not then. Not there. Not when she no longer had an anchor. No anchor and no promise.

A hesitant voice stammered behind her. "I beg your pardon, girl, but am I supposed to know you from somewhere?" he asked carefully. Pressing quavering fingers over her mouth, Annabelle braced. The question cut right through her. Was he supposed to know her?  The obvious answer being yes, Annabelle quickly admitted that while perhaps at some point in time that would have been acceptable, their different lives no longer held that possibility.

Such was made certain when he then added, "Perhaps I once employed you at one of my estates?"

Swayed by cowardice, Annabelle kept to her silence.  It was the only answer. While she had spent her years firmly holding onto their childhood promise like the very air she breathed, he obviously had not. Clearly having taken a wife who then bore him a child, Annabelle settled in the truth that he didn't need her. He didn't even remember her.  Shame searing her veins, Annabelle barely shook her head.

"Oh," he paused, "Then I must have been mistaken. Forgive me." The echo of his retreating footsteps swirled all around Annabelle and before she could summon the courage to turn around to look at him one last time, the bells to the bakery jingled once more.  Her knees weakened. Nathaniel was leaving. Her Nathaniel was leaving and this time, she wouldn't ever see him again.

"Good day," he said lastly, his voice echoing with painful indifference. Annabelle barely raised her hand in acknowledgement. Without another word exchanged, the door closed.

Pacing to the arched window, Annabelle stared on unable to understand what on earth had just happened. Of the countless times she'd dreamt of such a moment, no measure of dreaming could have ever prepared her for the nightmare just passed.  Numb, she stared as Nathaniel and Logan climbed into a waiting carriage. Within moments, they were gone.

"Typical for you to break my heart," Annabelle breathed as the skies opened and her tears hopelessly mimicked the falling rain. 

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