1895: The Duchess's Soul Returns

Chapter 24 ·Isabella·

In the blink of an eye, the day of the wedding arrived.

These past days had been an endless cycle of activities and changing clothes—from Anna rousing Isabella at dawn to helping her into nightgowns when her body ached from the strain. Breakfast—often accompanied by guests who'd stayed at the Vanderbilts' after getting hopelessly drunk the night before—changing clothes, visiting guests. Isabella had feared Eva would take her to meet the Vanderbilts' relatives; without Consuelo's help, maintaining a flawless facade during such encounters seemed impossible. Fortunately, for Eva, severing ties with William Vanderbilt meant cutting off all connections to anyone related to him by blood or aligned with his interests. Consuelo had two younger brothers who attended a prestigious boarding school for young gentlemen. Since custody had been awarded to William, Eva now barred them from visiting their sister. This was a genuine relief to Isabella.

　　Morning engagements typically involved significant social events, such as visiting the British ambassador bearing the Queen's letter delivered on a silver platter. As the most weighty congratulatory telegram for the wedding, it would be displayed atop the wedding gifts; or attending the art exhibition sponsored by Mrs. Caroline Astor—the soul of New York high society. Knowing Eva would never bring Albert to her own dinner, Mrs. Astor condescended to attend the Vanderbilts' first reception upon their return to New York, solely to be introduced to His Grace the Duke. In return, Eva brought Albert to this exhibition teeming with artists desperate for patronage. Isabella sensed Albert had become a bargaining chip for Eva, constantly used to secure greater standing in high society. Evidently, Eva sought to replace Mrs. Astor as the next queen of the upper crust.

　　Mrs. Astor possessed truly refined artistic taste. Every meticulously selected piece on display left Isabella in awe. Though she knew nothing about art, she could see that these paintings, now fetching mere hundreds at auction, would be worth millions—even tens of millions—a century hence. If she had even the slightest control over the fortune William had left her in her dowry, she would have bought them all. Alas, Isabella sighed inwardly.

“These avant-garde artworks are my daughter Consuelo's favorites,” Eva declared at the exhibition, casually snapping up the highest-bid piece and instructing her accompanying butler to add it to Isabella's trousseau list. Judging by the look of disgust Albert cast at the painting as Isabella observed, its ultimate fate would be to languish in the attic of Blenheim Palace, never to see the light of day again.

The real, living Consuelo would indeed have relished all this. But the Consuelo who longed to leave, filled with disappointment and anger, no longer appreciated any of it. Watching Consuelo now, merely following mechanically behind her, oblivious to everything, a sharp pang of pain pierced Isabella's heart.

After the morning visits concluded, it was back to the mansion to change, have a simple lunch with one or two guests, change again, join another lady's afternoon tea, then change once more for the evening dinner. By the end of such a day, Isabella lacked even the strength to lift her arms, collapsing onto her bed and falling instantly asleep. The relentless schedule left her no opportunity for meaningful conversation with Consuelo, nor any private moments with Albert. She felt like a tightly corseted doll, paraded around by Eva, her sole purpose reduced to smiling, nodding, and shaking hands.

　　Eva seemed determined to broadcast to every wealthy and powerful figure in New York that a bona fide British Duke now resided in her home. She yearned to proclaim to the world that she was the Duke of Marlborough's mother-in-law, eager for even the flounder in the Mariana Trench to hear that her daughter would soon be the future Duchess. Her ostentatiousness was so extreme that even Isabella, born in 2002, felt embarrassed. yet Eva reveled in it. No one dared mention divorce in her presence, nor dare speak of William Vanderbilt. The only one who dared spoil the mood was Isabella, who reminded Eva daily to return James's locket. But Eva, intoxicated by flattery and adulation, pretended not to hear.

Until the day of the wedding.

　　The night before, Mrs. Ford, Susie, and Anna had already laid out the day's schedule for Isabella in minute detail—she would rise at 6 a.m., breakfast at 7, begin dressing at 8, and by 9 a.m., a carriage adorned like Cinderella's carriage to the castle would arrive at the Vanderbilt mansion gates, whisking Isabella to St. Thomas Church. The ceremony would commence at 9:30 a.m.—and as Susie vividly described the cheers and flowers the crowds lining the route would shower upon her, the scene comically reminded Isabella of the royal wedding of Kate Middleton and Prince William. It seemed that no matter how many years passed, people's enthusiasm for royal weddings—or those as close to royalty as hers and Albert's—would never wane.

　　“It's all like a fairy tale, Miss,” Susie whispered softly, as if speaking to a fragile soap bubble. “By this time tomorrow, we'll be calling you Duchess.”

“Yes, it truly is like a fairy tale.”

　　Isabella agreed, though a sudden, inexplicable unease flitted through her heart.

Then, the next morning, as Isabella was having breakfast, a butler entered abruptly to inform her that Eva wished to see her in the study. It was the first time Consuelo had reacted to the outside world. She drifted in from beyond the dining room door, filled with hope, like a prisoner about to be released. For the first time in ages, Isabella heard her voice.

This must be about James's necklace.

Before Isabella could say anything, Consuelo had already fluttered eagerly toward the study, and she had no choice but to hurry after her. The study door stood ajar; she knocked softly before pushing it open.

　　The large desk that once belonged to William Vanderbilt was now occupied by Eva, its surface piled high with disorganized papers. It was unclear whether this clutter had always been present or if Eva simply hadn't yet mastered the desk's organizational system. Hearing the knock, Eva, buried in the papers before her, barely lifted her head. “Come in, Consuelo,” she called.

　　Isabella sat down across from Eva, while Consuelo fluttered excitedly behind her.

　　“I've been swamped these past few days,” Eva said, finally setting aside her papers. Isabella snorted derisively. “There are things we should have discussed before the wedding that never got addressed. Now—well—the most important thing is—” Eva leaned forward, her voice hushed. “You know—on your wedding night—well—your husband—”

　　“I know,” Isabella snapped. Everything she needed to know had been covered in middle school s*x ed. She’d been the fastest girl in class at putting condoms on bananas—though she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of regret that this era lacked similar products to showcase that skill.

　　“I shan't ask how you came to know this,” Eva said with an enigmatic smile, straightening her posture. “Back in my day, I didn't need my mother's guidance to know what was expected on a wedding night.”

　　Ask her about James' necklace, Consuelo urged.

“Anything else?” Isabella inquired.

“Of course,” Eva rummaged through the papers, pulling out a sheet that seemed nearly four feet long. “Would you like to know the value of your dowry?”

　　“Well...” Isabella hesitated for a second before firming up. “No, I can learn the details later.”

“Later might be too late,” Eva said meaningfully, though she didn't press Isabella. She simply set that paper aside. “Then there's only one thing left—”

　　Before she could finish, a knock interrupted her. The Vanderbilt coachman entered—he should have been in the backyard cleaning that legendary pumpkin carriage and grooming the horses. His grubby trousers clung to a few strands of straw, and he clutched a brown paper parcel, his expression oddly peculiar.

“Ma'am—”

　　“I'm speaking with Miss Consuelo, Tom. This had better be urgent,” Eva said impatiently.

“Not urgent, ma'am, but very strange,” Tom replied, approaching and placing the brown paper package on Eva's desk. "This parcel was just delivered through the back door from Mrs. Astor's gallery, ma'am. They said the check you sent exceeded the original price by $1,000. This is the refund, returned in cash per your request."

“Cash?” Eva stared at him in shock. “I know nothing about this, let alone requesting cash—this must be some kind of prank, Tom.”

　　“Yes, ma'am, I thought so too at first,” Tom hastened to say. "After all, you never instructed Mr. Karl to inform us about this. But this parcel truly contains $1,000 in cash, all in twenty-dollar bills. The worst part is, ma'am, Mr. Carl and Mrs. Ford have already gone to the church to make arrangements, and the other footmen and maids have gone with them. It's impossible to find even an errand boy to run to Mrs. Astor's gallery to inquire..."

“I'm afraid we'll have to wait until after the wedding to figure out what this is all about,” Eva mused for a moment before saying, “You may go now, Tom.”

　　“Yes, ma'am.” Tom replied before leaving the room. Eva then turned back to Isabella.

“Now then, where was I...”

“James's necklace,” Isabella interjected. A peculiar flutter stirred within her—part of her didn't want Eva to return the necklace, yet another part desperately wished Eva would conclude this matter swiftly.

　　“That wasn't what I intended to discuss with you just now, but very well...” Eva shot Isabella a stern look and reluctantly continued, “I want you to understand what retrieving that necklace entails, Consuelo. If His Grace the Duke discovers even the slightest trace of James still existing in your life—”

　　“I know the consequences,” Isabella replied impatiently.

“I thought you'd fallen for the Duke,” Eva began rummaging through the clutter on the desk. “You know, you're not very good at hiding your feelings, Consuelo. I don't understand why you'd want that necklace back...”

　　You're mistaken there, Isabella mused. Your daughter—your real daughter—is exceptionally skilled at concealing her emotions, especially from someone who could otherwise reach her heart.

“...This will only harm your marriage to His Grace the Duke... There! Found it, right here...”

“Mrs. Vanderbilt! Mrs. Vanderbilt!” A frantic Anna burst into the study just as Eva's hand was about to reach into a pile of what looked like securities. “Tom—it's Tom—you must go to the back yard—the carriage—he fell off the top of the carriage—”

“What!” Eva sprang to her feet. "For heaven's sake, that carriage is made of solid gold! Tom had better hope he hasn't damaged anything—oh, that clumsy, good-for-nothing fool—"

Eva's curses faded down the hallway, leaving the study door open. From here, the Vanderbilt front door could be seen ajar, perhaps left open for the gardener to bring in the bouquets for the wedding ceremony later.

　　Without a moment's hesitation, and needing no prompting from Consuelo, Isabella pounced on the desk, pushing aside the thick stack of papers. The sheets fell silently onto the expensive short-pile carpet. A circular locket, suspended from a silver chain, lay exposed on the desk. Isabella snatched it up as Consuelo squeezed beside her. With a click, the locket opened to reveal the image of a handsome, refined man.

　　“Oh, James...” Consuelo clutched her chest, her voice trembling as she cried out. She reached out, her slender fingers passing through the chain, yet she stubbornly stroked the man in the photograph with her intangible shadow, her gaze lingering with sorrow.

　　This moment felt like the instant the gun was aimed at Archduke Ferdinand, the moment the apple was about to strike Newton, the moment Adolf Hitler entered this world. Isabella suddenly realized her destiny was about to change—her gaze fell on the bundle of cash on the table, then shifted to the necklace in her hand, finally drifting to the empty hallway.

　　There would never be a better opportunity. There would never be another chance like this.

In a few hours, she would become Duchess of Marlborough.

In a few minutes, she would lose Consuelo Vanderbilt forever.

In that instant, Isabella made her decision.

　　She snatched the brown paper package and sprinted toward the half-open front door. In less than ten seconds, she vanished into the bustling Fifth Avenue traffic outside the Vanderbilt mansion.