1895: The Duchess's Soul Returns

Chapter 11 ·Isabella·

“Please tell me you didn’t place the Duke of Marlborough’s hand upon your thigh as well.”

These were Lord Elliot’s first words when Isabella turned to him once more.

“Or was that the reason you two managed to have such a seemingly pleasant conversation?” Lord Elliot added.

　　“My dear Lord Elliot, that was a one-time accident that won't happen again,” Isabella replied curtly. “In fact, the Duke of Marlborough was quite surprised that I could have a ‘seemingly pleasant’ conversation with you. Clearly, socializing isn't your strong suit.”

　　“Oh, my innocent American girl, what an awkward moment,” Lord Elliot said, covering his suppressed laughter with his napkin. "The Duke of Marlborough has known me for a long time. He understands me well. Believe me, what he truly meant was that he never imagined a vulgar, shallow, and vain American girl could sustain a conversation with an English lord, let alone one that ‘seemed pleasant.’"

　　Isabella was about to retort that she was not a “vulgar, shallow, and vain” American girl, but the memory of her “accident” with Lord Elliot during the first course made her swallow the words.

　　The footman bearing the third course approached Isabella. Before she could discern what filled his platter, he had already placed a piece resembling a chicken wing onto her plate. He then moved to Lord Elliot, lowering the platter at an angle. Only then did Isabella glimpse its contents: A creature resembling a roasted chicken lay flat on the plate, adorned with long, vibrantly colored tail feathers. Unlike typical roast chicken presentations, Lord Elliot selected a piece resembling chicken breast for his own plate.

Isabella was dumbfounded. She hurriedly glanced at the menu.

“Le faisan?” she asked Consuelo.

“Pheasant,” Consuelo explained. The wings are traditionally reserved for the ladies. Typically, this dish requires the use of a knife and fork.

What sort of monster would force a woman to use cutlery on such a delicious part? Isabella lamented to Consuelo, feeling like crying. The only proper utensil for eating chicken wings should be one's own fingers.

　　“Consuelo, are you all right?” Lady Peggy suddenly spoke up. She and the Duke of Marlborough turned to look at Isabella and her untouched plate. “Is the dinner not to your liking? Shall I have the kitchen prepare something else for you?”

　　“Perhaps Miss Consuelo is trying to maintain her figure. Shouldn't we all be doing that?” Miss Catherine, seated to Lord Elliot's right, smiled and remarked. Her face was sweet and charming, adorned with an air of innocent charm, but the look she shot Isabella—for reasons Isabella couldn't quite pinpoint—seemed decidedly unfriendly. And—however she managed it—her plate, which had also been served a partridge wing, now held only a few bare bones.

　　“I believe Miss Consuelo is already quite slender,” Edna, seated to William's left, joined the conversation. “I wish I could have her figure.”

“Naturally,” Miss Catherine continued smiling as she lifted her glass for a sip. Her voice, though soft, carried clearly to every ear at the table. “By American standards.”

　　“In fact, Miss Consuelo and I were just discussing this matter—it seems she is feeling somewhat unwell today. While not so ill that she requires bed rest, she likely has little appetite to enjoy the delicious dinner Mrs. Peggy has so carefully prepared. She did not wish to disturb the other guests' dining experience with this inconvenience, so she did not inform you. We hope you will forgive her.” Lord Elliot cleared his throat before speaking. Isabella hadn't expected him to step in on her behalf and stared at him in surprise. As the butler poured his wine, he leaned toward her and whispered in her ear, “I told you, ‘socializing’ isn't exactly my forte.”

　　“Is that so, Miss Consuelo?” Mrs. Peggy appeared equally surprised, though Isabella couldn't discern the reason for her astonishment.

“Yes.” Isabella nodded to Mrs. Peggy, her hand drifting sadly to her rumbling stomach.

“Shall I have the kitchen prepare something light for you?”

　　“No need to trouble yourself, I'm feeling much better already.” Isabella quickly flashed a bright smile. Consuelo coughed inwardly, and she promptly toned down her grin.

“That's good to hear.” Mrs. Page's eyebrows lifted slightly. “Should you require anything, simply mention it to the footman.”

　　"Perhaps that is precisely what Miss Consuelo needs—a taste of home. I doubt British cuisine suits American tastes." Lord Lucas looked up at Isabella. His face could be considered handsome, but those cold gray eyes, lined with wrinkles like knife-carved furrows, marred his features. His lips were thin—so thin they gave anyone meeting him for the first time the impression of callous indifference. If Simpson had a face like that, Isabella mused, the entire jury would have been convinced beyond doubt that he was the murderer of his own wife.

　　I agree with you, Consuelo concurred. Isabella had spent three evenings meticulously recounting this sensational case to her.

“We must all agree that America possesses many novelty items Britain lacks,” Miss Catherine smiled, picking up her brother's thread. “Take divorce, for instance.”

　　William and Eva's expressions changed instantly, yet the other aristocrats remained seated with impassive composure, as if Miss Catherine had merely remarked, “The weather is pleasant.” The Duke of Marlborough rested his hands on his hips, idly twirling the ring on his little finger, while Lord Elliot leisurely sipped the last of his white wine. Only the hosts' faces betrayed a flicker of discomfort. Lady Peggy gave an awkward chuckle and hastily interjected, “Of course, there are other matters—I hear Mrs. Astor recently cultivated a new rose variety in her garden, one no British greenhouse has yet managed to grow.”

　　Isabella glanced back toward Consuelo, who remained standing in the corner, her back to the table, utterly indifferent to Isabella's call. Only a faint, almost imperceptible sorrow drifted slowly along the invisible thread connecting them. Words that could not harm Isabella in the slightest struck Consuelo like an earth-shattering blow. The divorce of the Vanderbilts and the death of James Rutherford were the only two things that could still stir the spirit of the woman who had become a ghost.

　　But sitting at this table now, facing this arrogant group of British aristocrats, was no longer Consuelo Vanderbilt. It was Isabella Young.

　　“Truthfully, divorce is hardly a novelty, nor was it invented by Americans.” Just as the conversation threatened to turn to roses, Isabella spoke with calm composure. Across from her, Eva's expression shifted from gloom to terror. She stared at her daughter in horror, desperately signaling with her eyes for her to stop. Isabella, however, pretended not to notice. Meanwhile, she was mentally screaming at Consuelo: Quick, tell me which other European kings divorced! You know my knowledge of European history is even worse than your knowledge of Chinese history.

　　“At least in American history, no ruler's marriage has ever become as infamous for divorce as Henry VIII's—perhaps we should thank the brevity of American history for sparing any president from having to attempt to overturn the nation's faith as a means to legitimize divorcing a woman. Believe me, it would spark another civil war.”

　　Miss Catherine froze, and she wasn't the only one at the table. William and Eva stared at Isabella as if they'd seen a cricket standing upright and delivering a speech; Edna covered the lower half of her face with her hands, eyes wide; Mrs. Peggy looked as if she might need smelling salts at any moment; The Duke of Marlborough sat up straight, turning his face to scrutinize Isabella.

　　After a second of silence, Miss Catherine cast a pleading glance at her brother. Clearly, British education for young ladies had not equipped her with sufficient knowledge to discuss this topic with Isabella. The latter gave a soft cough, her expression toward Isabella a mix of bewilderment and subtle offense.

　　“I must confess,” Lord Elliot murmured to Isabella, turning his head away, his voice tinged with a peculiar, almost malicious amusement, “this is a subject no British nobleman could ever imagine discussing with a woman at a dinner party.”

　　“Miss Consuelo, I'm not certain this is an appropriate subject for dinner conversation—discussing the late, respected King of England...” Lord Lucas managed to squeeze the words from his throat only after an uncomfortably prolonged, stifling silence hung over the table.

　　“Very well,” Isabella raised her hands and pressed them downward, only realizing a second later that the gesture was too modern—likely incomprehensible to everyone in the room except Consuelo. “Let us skip the venerable British monarchs. What of Louis VII and Eleanor of Aquitaine? Louis XII and Joan of France?” —Wow, French kings named Louis sure do love divorce—” Isabella repeated the names Consuelo had given her, unable to resist adding the remark. She thought she heard the Duke of Marlborough chuckle softly, but when she turned to look, his expression remained utterly unchanged.

　　“If these were merely examples from centuries past,” Isabella continued, meeting the panicked stares across the table, "then how should we view the two divorces of King Frederick VI of Denmark in 1837 and 1846? If even the great kings of Europe, men of such stature, had to resort to divorce to escape marriages that had become unbearable, why should ordinary people demand of themselves the willpower and endurance to sustain their own unions—willpower and endurance that surpass even those of kings?"

　　“Because God does not approve of divorce,” the Duke of Marlborough spoke, a light flickering in his blue eyes that Isabella could not fathom. “And the Lord grants us, the insignificant, the strength to keep the vows we made before His altar—until death do us part.”

　　“I believe, Your Grace,” Isabella countered immediately, “that when any person takes the hand of their future spouse, becoming husband and wife before God, they hope for decades of happiness, not a lifetime of hellish misery. If one spouse breaks that vow first, why should the other not be freed from it?”

　　“So, Miss Consuelo, you are an advocate for divorce,” the Duke of Marlborough murmured, and Isabella could not tell if his tone carried irritation at her words.

“I do not advocate divorce,” Isabella said, feeling her resolve waver before the Duke's unwavering composure, “I merely respect a person's fundamental human rights.”

　　“And we all hold that American spirit in high regard, Miss Consuelo,” Captain Page interjected, gesturing with his eyes for the silent footmen standing nearby to pour wine. “Speaking of the American spirit, Mr. Vanderbilt, why not share some stories about your father? I'd wager a self-made American businessman has plenty of fascinating tales to tell.”

　　“I hope you realize,” Lord Elliot murmured to Isabella as William Vanderbilt began speaking eloquently, "the tremendous rebuke you delivered today to the Coopers, who sought to humiliate you. From now on, every door of London's high society will slam shut before you. You won't be invited to any country parties, hunting parties, or any form of ball. You'll become a plague everyone avoids."

　　“Then I suppose my parents' plans to marry me into London society are ruined,” Isabella said, feigning lightheartedness, her gaze inevitably drifting toward the Duke of Marlborough beside her. He had turned away, listening to Lady Peggy speak, his soft, silky black hair combed immaculately at the nape of his neck, tempting one to run fingers through it and tousle it. How wonderful it would be to wake up beside such a head every morning, Isabella sighed inwardly.

“We shall see,” Lord Elliot said, smiling meaningfully.