Saving Marilee Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  Other Books

  Dedication

  A Note from the Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Blank Page

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you, readers.

  Copyright © 2015 Annette K. Larsen

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used without the express written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, situations and incidents are a product of the author's imagination.

  Cover photo by Jen Fauset at Fausetphotography.com

  Also by Annette K. Larsen

  Just Ella

  Missing Lily

  For all those who have suffered in silence, no matter the hardship.

  Everyone deserves a voice.

  A Note from the Author

  I didn't set out to write a story about recovering from abuse. It's a subject that I would have never presumed to take on intentionally, but it was the story that Marilee had to tell. Please know that my intent is not to trivialize anyone's experience, or to suggest that there is a right way or a wrong way to heal from those events. Everyone's experience will be different. We each react to traumatic events according to our individual circumstances and personalities.

  Chapter One

  I STOOD AT my husband's bedside, gazing down at his lifeless body and trying desperately to feel something. Anything. I wished I could feel relief, maybe a sense of freedom. I would even have settled for sadness, though that was certainly the least likely.

  I stared at his face, misshapen as it was by the beating he had taken, hoping the sight of it would provoke me, shock me, disgust me. But it didn't. And I continued to feel what I'd been feeling for the last several months. Apathy. Numbness. I'd been burying every other emotion for so long that perhaps I no longer could feel.

  How strange that all of my mental declarations that I wouldn't care if he fell off a cliff ended up being entirely true. I didn't care.

  Good glory, I wished I could care—that a spark of something might be ignited by Damian's demise.

  "Lady Mary?"

  I sucked in a breath as the condescending, weaselly voice of Damian's manservant reached my ears.

  As the strength that had felt lost to me only moments ago filled my being, I turned on him. My voice was quiet, but it vibrated with barely suppressed fury. "Get out. Now."

  "Now, now, my lady," Vincent patronized. "I know you find it difficult—"

  I picked up the vase sitting on the bedside table and threw it at his head, shocked that my aim was true enough that he had to duck to avoid it, disappointed that it hadn't met its target. "No more, Vincent!" My shriek reverberated off the walls of the cold chamber as Vincent stared at me, wide-eyed, before turning to gape at the shattered vase behind him. "No more." My chest quivered and my skin burned as fury coursed through me. "If you think for one second that I will allow anyone else to take on the role of manipulator that my husband has just vacated, then you are sadly mistaken. Now, get out."

  He was glaring and red-faced, clearly unable to reconcile my behavior with the creature my husband had created. Some of the staff viewed me as an irrational, simple-minded ninny. Others believed I was out of my head—crazed, even. I couldn't blame them for the assumption. After all, I had been nearly comatose for the past months, preferring to live deep inside my head to avoid any and all awareness of my husband, no matter the situation.

  But now he was dead, and I was very much awake.

  Vincent stood tall, his oily hair reflecting the lamplight, probably waiting for me to retreat back into myself. But I held his gaze until he was forced to look away. Then he huffed in derision and strode from the room.

  My breath came in gasps as an overwhelming sense of excitement took over my body. My hands shook with energy. I couldn't stand still.

  I strode down the hall, allowing myself to remember just what it felt like to stand straight and command respect. It didn't matter that my dress was a rusty brown, the neckline nearly to my chin, the hem frayed and faded. Damian was no longer here to squelch my liveliness and punish me for my opinions.

  "You," I called to the first servant I saw. "Fetch Mrs. Braithwhite. Tell her she is to come to Master Damian's study immediately."

  The servant stuttered and stumbled off to do my bidding. I continued without slowing. Reaching Damian's study, I threw the door open without a moment's hesitation, taking grave satisfaction in the sound of it slamming against the wall.

  Revulsion rose up from the pit of my stomach. I wanted to burn this room. This wretched room with its hypocritical pristine cleanliness, meant to hide the fact that my husband entertained his friends here—drinking himself into oblivion with his male friends while brazenly flirting with the women. This room filled with books I wasn't allowed to look at. As if I would ever want to read anything that Damian considered worth his time.

  I crossed to the fireplace and crouched, lighting a fire with expert hands. Warming my own room had been a skill learned out of necessity since marrying. Once the tinder was lit, I grabbed several books and ripped out their pages to feed the fire. I wouldn't need any wood; the items I planned to burn would create a roaring blaze.

  Someone cleared her throat. Mrs. Braithwhite stood in the doorway, her bun so tight that it stretched the skin of her forehead as she pursed her lips in condescending deference. "Lady Mary, was there something that you needed?"

  I pulled my shoulders back, my hands reflexively crumpling the pages I had just ripped from the book I held. "It is Princess Marilee, and from now on you will address me as such. I've had enough of that infernal nickname."

  Her nose flared as her eyes widened.

  "And what I need," I continued with feigned calm, "is for you to inform every servant, aside from Beatrice, Emeline, Cecily, and Mr. Tennsworth, that their services are no longer required. They may all pack their things and depart."

  The only change in her expression was the subtle lifting of one corner of her mouth. I knew she would love this assignment, which was why I had chosen her. "And what of the guards, Lad—Princess Marilee?"

  "They are excused as well."

  She gave a nod and marched off to do her work.

  I returned to purging the room I was in.

  I fisted my hands in the drapes and tore them down, then seriously considered tossing them into the fire as well. However, I had the presence of mind to realize that would likely set the entire house aflame. Instead I piled them on top of the settee, which sat against the far wall where I planned to pile all of the furniture that I would burn in the yard later on. Every piece of furniture in this room had been gifted to him by me. I had chosen it with painstaking care, blinded by love and devotion. And he had sullied each and every piece. I approached the desk, wishing I could burn all of its contents, but knowing that many of the papers it contained would need to be
kept. I pulled open every drawer, making quick work of sorting their contents. All of Damian's quills, smoking pipes, seals and ink wells I tossed into the fire. All of the documents and ledgers were set outside the door where I wouldn't accidentally destroy them.

  I yanked open the last drawer. A single item dislodged from the back and slid forward. For just a moment my anger receded as I gazed at the gift I had given Damian at our engagement. My sister Lorraina had agreed to paint a miniature portrait of me. In all my vanity, I had thought there could be no better gift than one of my own likeness. The frame was ornate, but small, fitting into the palm of my hand. There was a door on the back and when I opened it, I found that the lock of my blonde hair remained just as I had placed it before giving it to him. When I had loved him—or had at least thought I loved him. It was hard to know what had been real and what hadn't.

  ***

  It was a perfect day. Damian had proposed that morning, just as I had suspected he would. Everything he did spoke of devotion and adoration. He called me his vibrant beauty. And I was vibrant. I was carefree and I quite simply loved life. I loved being a princess, being adored and fawned over. Some of my sisters found it tedious, but I thrived on the attention.

  I suggested strolling through the gardens, and he was quick to agree. He held my hand, helping me balance as I walked along a little wall surrounding a pond.

  "You're not going to let me fall, are you?"

  "I wouldn't dare." He wrapped his arm around my waist and twirled me once before setting me back on the ledge.

  Keeping my arms around his neck, I admired his sloped nose and angled chin before admitting, "I believe I've already fallen."

  He leaned forward, murmuring in my ear, "I know I have. But," he pulled back, "you already know that because I declared as much this morning." He swung me to the ground.

  I laughed and grabbed his hand, pulling him after me as I ran into the maze, determined to have a moment without any observers.

  ***

  I turned the miniature over in my hands. Should I burn it? It had belonged to him, after all. But he had never treasured it, and it was one of only a few things that I had from home. I reclaimed it, setting it outside the study where it would be safe.

  I was just finishing with the desk when Mrs. Braithwhite returned. She looked about, turning up her nose at the mess.

  "Is it finished?" I asked.

  Her chin lifted. "Of course, Princess."

  "Were there any problems?"

  "No. There was no reason for anyone to cause trouble if their services were no longer needed."

  "Good. Then you may take yourself off as well. Your services are no longer required."

  Her nostrils flared, her eyes blazing. "Very well, my Lady," she snarled, then turned her back on me and departed.

  Good riddance. How she thought I would keep her on after she had been responsible for locking me in my own room half the time was beyond me. In addition to believing Damian's lies about my sanity, she must have also thought I had no sense whatsoever.

  I didn't tarry over her departure, but moved to Damian's sideboard, the top loaded with crystal decanters, only half of which glittered with golden, amber, or red liquids. I picked one up, being sure the stopper was secure, and stepped back from the fire. Then I wrapped my fingers around the slender neck, drew my arm back, and hurled it at the flames.

  A fireball burst into the room far enough to heat my face for a split second. Saints, that felt good.

  "You keep doin' that and people'll really believe you're a madwoman." Mr. Tennsworth leaned against the doorframe, wearing his usual layer of dirt. This stooped groundskeeper was the only man on the premises that I trusted.

  His comment tempted me to smile, but my mouth didn't remember how. "That will be nothing new."

  He tossed his head toward the pile of furniture. "What's that for?"

  "A bonfire in the yard."

  "Well, then." He pushed away from the frame and took a couple steps inside. "Best not waste the rest of that liquor."

  I glowered at him, bristling at being told what to do.

  He shrugged. "Might be satisfying for you to douse the furniture and light it yourself."

  My frown left. It was an excellent idea.

  I walked over and fingered the other decanters, choosing an empty one. I weighed it in my hands. "No reason to delay taking care of the empty ones, though." I flung it at the fireplace, a swell of satisfaction rising in me at the sound of shattering glass.

  I grabbed a few more books, rending their pages as I spoke. "So, when can we proceed with the bonfire?"

  "Soon as I manage to get this pile out to the lawn. First though, we need to take care of that husband of yours."

  My hands stilled, a bit of the darkness I had been able to slough off returning with his words. The books dropped from my hands and I clawed at my high neckline, unable to breathe. I reached back and yanked at my collar until the buttons popped loose, freeing me from the stranglehold of my dress. I rubbed my exposed neck, feeling the scar there. The scar whose origins I still couldn't remember. I pinched my eyes shut. What had I done? I couldn't burn things. They weren't mine. "I shouldn't have done that." I sucked in a breath. "These things aren't mine. I don't have permission to touch them. I shouldn't be touching them."

  "Whoa there, Miss Marilee." Mr. Tennsworth settled a hand on my shoulder and the darkness retreated once more, chased away by the fatherly gesture and affectionate name. "You don't have to worry about a thing. You are mistress here. You can do what you want with these things. And you're only burnin' the furniture you gave him, right?"

  I nodded, locking my eyes with his, hoping to tether myself to his calm demeanor.

  "All right then. I was just sayin' this here bonfire will have to wait a piece while I fetch the cleric and clear the body out. You hear me?"

  I forced a deep breath into my lungs. "I need to sit." I cast my eyes about the study and panicked. "But not in here."

  He held on to my arm, leading me into the corridor, where I collapsed on a bench. I closed my eyes and focused on the sound of my breathing. I opened them to find Mr. Tennsworth crouched in front of me, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes clear and shimmering. "It's tough work coming back to life, I would imagine."

  Deep inside me something burst open, and out of it poured almost a year's worth of what I hadn't let myself feel. My sobs were broken and strangled. They left me heaving for breath, my skin flushed, my hands trembling as it rose up and spilled out, wave after wave of emotional sludge.

  I was more of a madwoman in that moment than ever before. Out of control, irrational, and falling to pieces, I pounded my fists into the bench beneath me as hot tears seeped between my lashes. How had I let this happen? How had I let myself become so lost, so completely trampled?

  Damian hadn't turned into a monster overnight. At first the changes had been so subtle. But I had shunted my worries aside, letting him feed me lie after lie.

  ***

  I was surprised that evening when my husband didn't join me. We had been home from our wedding trip for a week, and each day, Damian would finish with his responsibilities and then we would enjoy dinner and spend the evening together.

  Tonight I had sat at the table alone, confused when the servants had brought my dinner with no mention of my husband's absence. Something must have come up. He was likely working too hard to notice that it was time for the evening meal.

  When I finished, I went in search of Damian. Approaching his study, I was surprised by the sound of laughter on the other side of the door. I knocked and then turned the knob.

  Damian ceased his laughter and raised an eyebrow at me from where he sat behind his desk. "Did you need something, Mary?"

  I bit my cheek. I didn't particularly like the nickname, but thought it was sweet that he had a pet name for me. "You weren't at dinner. I just wondered if there was anything wrong."

  He gave me one of my favorite smiles and took a sip from his glass,
his eyes fixed on me in a way that made my stomach flutter. "I assure you everything is fine." He gestured with his glass to the man sitting across from him. "Mr. Warren and I were just finishing up our meeting."

  I glanced at Mr. Warren and found him staring at me from where he lounged in his chair. I didn't care whether my husband stood every single time I entered a room, but a stranger should have better manners. Mr. Warren's stare turned to a leer, his eyes raking over me.

  My hand fluttered to my throat as unease took root in my stomach. "Might I have a word, Damian?"

  He pushed to his feet and crossed to me, putting a hand to the small of my back to lead me from the room. He stopped halfway down the hall. "What is it, Mary?"

  "You don't usually do business in the evenings. Will you be joining me soon?"

  "When I can. You must be patient," he said as he tapped my nose.

  The corner of my mouth rose, despite my misgiving about Mr. Warren. "Who is that man? He makes me most uncomfortable."

  "I don't get to choose every person I do business with, dear. That's why I try to keep my dealings away from you. Some of the characters I meet with are quite unsavory. It would be best if you kept out of sight when I have company."

  My face fell. I had hoped that my marriage would give me more freedom, not less. Then again, I was certain his business meetings would never take up too much time. There was plenty I could do on my own. I had traded a life of being adored from afar by many, to being adored intimately by one. All in all, I found the trade to be more than worthwhile, especially being married to Damian.

  ***

  Mr. Tennsworth had walked away at some point, leaving me in the quiet wake of my grief until a tentative voice asked, "Mistress?"

  I opened my eyes, knowing I would see Beatrice. She was the only one who called me Mistress, insisting on putting me on equal footing with my husband, whom all the servants had called Master.

  Her delicately lined face was filled with concern, her curly dark hair threatening to escape its kerchief. "Can I take you to your room, Mistress?"