Page 4 of Save You

“Have you ever seen a picture of Rosalie Bennett?”

Oliver shakes his head with a bored expression. Oliver likes a pretty girl and has conjured up all sorts of horrible visions of his potential bride inside of his head. However, he has reasoned it would only take a few attempts to produce an heir, and then he could take on as many lovers as he liked and leave the girl to her own devices. Meanwhile, Samuel retrieves something he has been searching for in his drawer and slides it over the desk toward his son.

Oliver studies the old photograph for a moment or two, tracing the outline of the woman stood beside a much younger-looking Carl Steel, who wasn’t unattractive himself. The girl, a more fitting word for his bride, is dressed in old-fashioned clothes, befitting of the time, and looks beyond sad, but otherwise, has one of the most naturally beautiful faces he has ever laid eyes upon. He studies her for nearly five minutes without saying anything. Then, he slowly looks up at his father where they both share an insidious-looking smile. Oliver likes what he sees, and it only strengthens his resolve to find the girl who will ensure he reaches the very top.

“How does it feel, Oliver?” Samuel asks him rather cryptically. “To betray the one person who you once really cared about?”

Oliver says nothing as he thinks of the woman who he once considered more important than his own mother. He hasn’t yet decided how he feels about using her for his own gain but decides not to think too deeply about it; he doesn’t want to. What’s done is done. Besides, he has much bigger things to be worrying about, such as how he is going to execute his plans to become the next president of Mayfield.

Chapter 1

Southampton, England, 1972

Rosalie

My first sight of England is too dark for me to make any real judgment of the island before me, except to say it’s cold and pouring with rain. I believe the phrase they like to use here is, ‘pissing it down’, though I only know that because I had overheard one of the crew saying so. I tried to make as little eye contact as possible when on board, and now that I’m back on dry land, if you can really call it that, I’m still more comfortable with keeping my face firmly facing toward the ground. I’ve already noticed the perplexed expressions on people’s faces when they notice that I have nothing more than a paper carrier bag of essentials, and some sorry-looking clothes hanging from my tiny frame. I’m just thankful my coat more than covers the growing bump underneath, together with the small black tattoo that marks my wrist. The weather before me looks more than dismal, but I am so relieved to be here, safe, wet, and free!

Once I step off the cargo ship, the one Anthony had managed to bargain for me to have safe passage on, I look around for a few moments, scanning the nearly deserted port before finding a bus shelter. Taking in a deep breath, I run over through the torrential rain and unforgiving gusts of wind, thanking my lucky stars I had managed to get hold of some flats instead of having to wear the ridiculous heels I normally have to parade around in. I haven’t worn flat shoes in over two years; it is not becoming of a woman of my stature to be seen out and about in such cheap footwear. However, I love them more than any of the horribly expensive heels lining my closet back in the States. These are the shoes that got me away, the shoes that saved my life, the shoes that gave me and my baby our freedom.

As the rain runs down my nose, with the tip turning to ice underneath the English night’s sky, I question myself, as I have done many times over the last few nights since I ran. Guilt. Do I feel guilty for running? For taking away a man’s child? For denying that child of his father before it has even had the chance to take its first breath?

Do you, Rosalie? Do you feel like a monster for using your body to separate a father and his child?

No! I tell myself with the grace of a smile taking over my face, if only for a fraction of a second. This child will be loved, nurtured, and brought up in happiness, fun, and a healthy set of morals beyond anything Mayfield will ever offer him or her. When I look back on my own childhood, the brainwashing has always been there, even the subtle nuances of my parents’ supposed affection have all been in the name of Mayfield. I don’t remember when I stopped believing in all of their warped ideals, but I guess I have always felt like none of it was real. That all the evil they committed in the name of their organization was wrong…so, so wrong.

I think my doubts began to bubble at the surface when my mother threatened to have me ‘sold’ if I didn’t comply with my parents’ wishes to have me married to my husband, Carl Steele. They had approached me a few weeks before my sixteenth birthday, full of smiles and excitement. When they told me that the male heir of Mayfield’s president, an ancestor of one of its founding members, wanted to marry me, my heart sank like a cold lump of ice inside of my stomach.

My reaction of screaming and begging them to not make me do it was not met with such enthusiasm. Father had struck me across the face, which donned a large, diamond-encrusted signet ring; his very own makeshift knuckleduster if you will. The result of which is a small scar that sits plainly in view on my left temple. It’s not noticeable enough for people to see when they look upon me for the first few times, but it’s there, always looking back at me in the mirror each morning. Mother had initially worried about it being something to put off my betrothed, however, when she saw for herself that it was small enough to go unnoticed unless one was really looking for it, she let out a breath of relief. She then watched me sink to the floor in a huddle of tears and hopelessness before spitting on me.

My companion, who was then pregnant herself, was the only one to offer me comfort that day. She took me in her arms and rocked me to sleep, all the while I was wishing that she was my real mother. Alas, she was merely the ‘hired help’ as my parents preferred to call her. She was the very opposite of my mother. She was naturally nurturing, caring, and loving, and always treated me like I was her own. I knew our time was coming to an end, seeing as she would be giving birth in a matter of months, but I always believed the arrival of her baby would end her employment, not my marriage to a man I only knew through reputation.

Carl Steele is eight years my senior and already had an accusation of rape under his belt. Coincidentally, the girl who accused him was in the same year as me at school, though we had never exchanged more than a few words; our paths had never naturally crossed. When the scandal hit, Lucy mysteriously disappeared, and her rape story turned into a tale of a good girl gone bad, with boys coming out to say that she had frequently offered her body to them. They managed to creatively turn her story of being the victim, into being the town slut. Of course, those that knew her never believed their lies for a second, and neither did her parents. Lucy was shy, intelligent, and was not the least bit interested in boys. She was caring, sweet, and, unfortunately for her, extremely beautiful.

I had wept for Lucy, prayed that she was still alive and safe, but, rather selfishly, I had grieved for myself more. Carl had only wanted to sample Lucy, whereas he planned on having my whole life. The thought of being with any man at that age is terrifying enough, but to be bound to someone as ruthless and evil as Carl Steele was beyond horrifying to even think about.

He had attended my sixteenth birthday party, played the charming suitor, and made all the old ladies gush over his romantic persona. They had all cooed at him when he insisted on walking me back to my room to ensure my safe passage, while my parents looked on with pride. What they didn’t see was him taking me against my will on top of my pink, lacy, princess sheets, forever staining them with my blood and his semen. I remember it hurting so much, I cried through the whole thing, and for at least another hour afterward.

Not that my gentlemanly fiancé stuck around for long. Not once he had zipped up his pants and checked my thigh for the tell-tale sign of blood from breaking my hymen. Before he closed the door behind him, he told me, “Goodnight, Rosalie, I enjoyed that, and I am pleased you saved yourself for me. Good girl!” As soon as he had left, I had violently thrown up.

On the evening of our wedding, the men cheered and cajoled one another as Carl led me up to his room, supposedly to consummate the marriage and claim my purity. My parents offered a stellar performance of wishing me luck, pretending that my innocence was still intact, even though they knew well enough that it wasn’t. After Carl had raped me at my party, Mother had found me crying and bleeding over my party dress. I called out to her, wishing more than anything that she might turn human and reach out for me. She never did though. Instead, she tutted before muttering, “He better not back out of it. Clean yourself up, Rosalie!”

I hated them even more so when I walked past them on the stairwell, being led to hell with my new husband. My mother was weeping crocodile tears with a pretentious silk hanky in her hand, whereas my father stood beaming from ear to ear, before shaking Carl’s hand and hugging me with an alien touch. “We’re so proud of you!” both said loudly enough for their audience, even though my eyes begged for them to save me from my fate. Of course, they never did. No one ever did.

My family are descendants of the Boone family, ancestors of one of the founding fathers of Mayfield. However, he died without a male heir to take over. Marrying me was a boost to not only his name, but also to my parents, who were now being promoted to the inner circle of the council. For some reason, Carl also took a rather psychotic liking to me, frequently telling me he loved me, even when he forced himself on me and made me engage in sexual acts I would never have dreamed of before I met him. Having sex with my husband was never a pleasant experience. It was always forced and aggressive, just how Carl Steele likes it.

So, no, I will never feel guilty for escaping that man, my family, nor the insidious cult that Mayfield has turned into.

“Excuse me, Miss?” a thick Irish accent snaps me out of my sad, horrifying trip down memory lane.

When I look up to see a friendly male face looking at me from the driver’s seat of the small public bus waiting beside me, I have to do a double-take. I hadn’t even noticed that anything like a bus had pulled up, but here it is now standing still in front of me with the doors wide open. It’s so bewildering, I shake my head, then dart my eyes straight over toward the driver who is still staring at me. The poor man looks tired, confused, but unquestioningly friendly.

“Are you getting on, love?”

“Where are you going?” I ask, not that his answer would make me any the wiser.

“A Yankee?” he grins. “Welcome to Southampton, this your first time here?” I nod, feeling a little embarrassed over how green I must look before him. “Well, I’m going to the city center, then up to the hospital. Either of those take your fancy?”

Inwardly, I begin having a minor panic attack, not having thought much past getting away from America, my husband, and my family. I instantly make the decision that staying here isn’t really a good idea, not with the lashing rain, dodgy port workers, and shadowy corners. With that in mind, I cautiously get out my purse from my sorry-looking bag and take a deep breath, knowing that it’s probably not going to be enough to get me to the end of the road, let alone around a full bus route. Anthony had taken most of what I had managed to scrape together. The rest had gone on some stale bread and water. When I look back up at the driver, he smiles softly with a deep look of pity in his eyes.

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