1895: The Duchess's Soul Returns

Chapter 5 ·Isabella·

If Isabella had the chance to write an autobiography about her experiences in the 19th century, she would surely warn all readers in bold, enlarged letters on the title page: Never believe the romanticized tales presented in time-travel dramas or films. The reality is that if anyone could lie in an air-conditioned room, happily watching Netflix on an iPad, that would be the most splendid life humanity has enjoyed since first walking upright on Earth.

This was Isabella’s heartfelt truth on the third day after waking in 1895, when she still instinctively reached beneath her pillow searching for her phone.

　　“You're awake.” Consuelo, barely managing to sit on the other half of the bed, gave her an expressionless glance. “I must say, you have terrible sleep habits.”

　　After three days together, Isabella had grown accustomed to Consuelo’s seemingly cold demeanor. She understood it stemmed from Consuelo—a soul-like entity—having lost most of the emotions and feelings she once possessed in life. Even if Consuelo wanted to greet Isabella warmly now, she likely couldn’t manage it.

“I can’t even kick you.” “ Isabella muttered as she rose and headed toward the bathroom. Even on this third morning, she felt immense relief upon pulling open the wooden door to find this era's America had already adopted flush toilets and bathtubs. Though the comfort was merely adequate, she had learned to refrain from nitpicking this world over a century old. ”At worst, I'd only kick my future husband out of bed."

　　“To be precise, your future husband is fortunate enough to avoid such violent encounters,” Consuelo said, following Isabella into the bathroom. “It's an unspoken rule among respectable couples that the husband sleeps in the dressing room.”

　　Isabella turned on the bathtub faucet, then slipped out of her lace nightgown. Before the tub filled completely, she stepped before the enormous floor-to-ceiling mirror and began preening, admiring Consuelo's exquisite figure. This was almost always her ritual before bathing, while the soul inhabiting this body seemed somewhat resigned to the spectacle unfolding before her.

　　“If I had your figure and face,” Isabella lamented, gazing at Consuelo, “I'd run away from home to become a Hollywood movie star—like Marilyn Monroe or Elizabeth Taylor.”

　　Seeing the confusion on the other's face, Isabella realized this was an era without movies—perhaps not even silent films. Truthfully, Isabella was terrible at history. She knew nothing of the major events that unfolded in America, Europe, or even China during the late 19th century, let alone the exact era when the things she took for granted in her life had been invented.

　　But that didn't mean Isabella was an uneducated child.

Her fragile heart prevented her from attending school consistently, leaving her limited historical knowledge as nothing more than disjointed fragments. When Consuelo, certain that Isabella must be well-versed in the unfolding world, asked her questions like: What consequences followed the assassination of Alexander II? Did the uneasy alliance between France and Russia ignite future wars? Did Britain and the Ottoman Empire reach an agreement over Egyptian territory? Isabella's ignorance left her utterly disappointed. This was the moment Isabella realized her grasp of European history fell far short of Consuelo's. The only thing that made her feel more inadequate was discovering Consuelo had actually been admitted to Harvard University.

“You desperately need to improve your speech,” Consuelo said. First, you must speak like a Vanderbilt heiress, not a cowgirl from the sticks. Second, you can't blab about these futuristic terms in public—people will think you're mad. Trust me, you'd rather marry a bald, short, leprous boor than be locked up in an asylum."

　　“Fine, fine,” Isabella surrendered, raising her hands. She stepped cautiously into the bathtub—this era lacked non-slip mats with yellow rubber ducks, and she didn't want to break her neck in a slip. "I'm already getting used to the awkward English of 19th-century Americans. It seems you prefer moving the end of the sentence to the beginning rather than speaking like normal people. Instead of using words like ‘happy,’ 'joyful,‘ or 'cheerful’ to describe happiness, you favor a term that will be used a century later to describe homosexuals. Not to mention all those tongue-twisting words no one uses anymore. Good heavens, listening to you speak is harder to understand than Southerners speaking English. "

“Same to you,” Consuelo said, and Isabella felt the disdainful sarcasm in her tone. “You'd better hurry, Isabella. You're such a sleepyhead. In a few minutes, Anna will be bringing your breakfast.”

　　“Oh, dear...” Isabella groaned in agony, recalling the sticky oatmeal Anna had served these past mornings. The Vanderbilt cook, hailing from France, was undoubtedly skilled, yet the fare prepared for the “bedridden” young lady was so bland and coarse it was nearly inedible.

　　Isabella never imagined she'd miss her mother's cooking this much—longing for the millet porridge, steamed buns, mantou, soy milk, or a small bowl of steaming noodles she'd once scorned. She used to find those foods cloying, preferring a bowl of cold milk with Fruit Loops instead. Now, knowing she'd never taste those familiar flavors again, she felt a pang of sadness.

　　“At least you don't have to get up early now, put on a corset, and go down to the dining room for breakfast,” " Isabella said. Though barely perceptible, as she hurriedly climbed out of the bathtub and slipped on her lace nightgown, she detected a complex emotion emanating from Consuelo—a mix of sympathy and schadenfreude, as if Consuelo now had someone else to share in the misery of her own wretched life.

“I'll try to look forward to that day,” " Isabella said, settling back onto the bed. She had barely pulled the covers over herself when three knocks sounded at the door.

“Come in, Anna.” Isabella called out. After Consuelo's guidance, she had grown adept at mastering the measured tone befitting a wealthy young lady of this era and was gradually learning how to interact with servants. Thankfully, American slaves had already been emancipated by this time, Isabella reflected as she studied with Consuelo. Otherwise, she would surely have become that historical figure—the first to incite Black people to rise against their fate, sacrificing her entire fortune without complaint.

The door opened. Entering with a tray was not Anna, but a tall, refined gentleman. What immediately captivated Isabella were his piercingly perceptive eyes, set within delicate, oval-shaped cheeks. This gave the gently smiling man an air of childlike innocence, as if untouched by the world. Such a strange and unexpectedly handsome combination, Isabella had only seen in one other person: Consuelo. This man was undoubtedly the father Consuelo had once mentioned: William Vanderbilt.

“Good morning, my beautiful daughter.” William smiled as he gazed at Consuelo, setting a tray laden with food on the small round table beside the bed. It held sliced yellow peaches, a bunch of grapes, a glass of orange juice, a boiled egg, and several slices of snow-white toast. Beside it sat a block of butter stamped with the Vanderbilt name and a full jar of blueberry jam. “I've chosen some of your favorite foods. I hope you enjoy them.” Isabella resisted the urge to reach for the bread, its sweet aroma beckoning, because Consuelo had warned her not to.

“You mustn't be rude to your father, even when he seems in a good mood and speaks kindly,” Consuelo had said.

　　My dad is the classic stern, quiet, somewhat strict Chinese father—always looking like he's untouchable to his own kids. But I still tease him all the time, Isabella said discontentedly, yet she straightened her back and flashed a perfectly composed smile, just as Consuelo had corrected in front of the mirror. Where is your father? she asked Consuelo again, noting his apparent indifference toward his daughter who had been “bedridden” for days.

My father has been vacationing in the Caribbean, Consuelo informed Isabella. Aside from sailing his beloved yacht with beautiful women, he cares about almost nothing else.

Including you? Isabella inquired.

Yes. Consuelo said he fulfilled his duties as a father, but his love for me and my two brothers probably didn't even match his affection for the foals born to his racehorses.

　　Isabella immediately shot William a furious glare.

“Darling, I have some news to share with you,” William said, clasping his hands together as he sat down beside Isabella's bed. His face bore the solemn, sorrowful expression of a doctor about to deliver a death sentence to his patient, ignoring the angry glare Isabella directed at him. "You see, my sweetheart, I know I promised to let you finish your studies at Harvard, but under the current circumstances, that promise is unrealistic. Keeping it would do your future more harm than good. Your mother and I both agree it's time for you to marry—"

　　“But I'm only eighteen!” Isabella blurted out, casting aside Consuelo's earlier instructions on how to behave. Strangely, Consuelo didn't even mentally prompt her. “I should be in school.”

　　“Yes, dear, you're right,” William said, his tone soothing, though a quiet indifference began to gather in his eyes. "But my child, you must face this truth: hardly any girl of your age and standing is sent by her parents to university—I'd wager not a single one. They're all across the Atlantic, wearing hand-tailored evening gowns from Paris, dazzling at glamorous balls. Don't you want to be one of them, my daughter? You'd shine brightly."

“No, Father,” Isabella replied flatly. “I'd rather return to Harvard.”

　　He won't let us go back, Consuelo said. It was the first time she had ever used “us” to refer to herself and Isabella.

　　“I know you wish to, child.” William's tone remained soothing and patient, yet his gaze pierced Isabella like stepping through a frozen puddle on a winter day. "But when I agreed to let you take the Harvard entrance exam, it was less about furthering your education and more about preventing your mother from pushing you too hard—keeping you apart from her for a while. I didn't expect you to pass Harvard's entrance exam—though I'm immensely proud of that achievement—but it's time we both agreed this game must end. After all, we both know what happens when a girl is indulged in attending university."

　　“What does this mean?” Isabella asked. Consuelo trembled slightly beside her. Isabella reached out quietly, covering Consuelo's intangible fingers, then clasped them gently. “You share some responsibility for James's death, don't you, Father?”

　　Isabella voiced the words Consuelo had silently formed in her mind.

“It means your mother and I have decided you won't be returning to Harvard. You'll be traveling to England in September. Of course, the social season is over. But Mrs. Paget believes this is for the best—it means you can attend private gatherings during the hunting season, getting to know your future husband in a more discreet and intimate manner.”

　　William still wore the gentle smile he'd had upon entering, sidestepping the question, yet his eyes held a warning glint, as if James were some cheap trinket unworthy of even being mentioned in this conversation.

　　“You will like your future husband,” he murmured.

“Then... who is he?” Isabella nearly blurted out, “Who the hell is he?” but Consuelo's timely intervention saved her.

“Albert Spencer-Churchill, the Ninth Duke of Marlborough.” William uttered this with a peculiar satisfaction, as if this marriage were not a pawn in his divorce negotiations with his wife, but rather a grand gift he had meticulously prepared for his daughter. “Enjoy your breakfast, my dearest daughter.”

William departed, yet the chill of his icy gaze lingered in the air. Isabella couldn't hear Consuelo's thoughts. Through testing, they'd discovered that only clear, deliberately directed thoughts could be received fully and distinctly. Other thoughts could only be heard in fragments, or sensed as vague emotions—at least preserving some measure of privacy. Was Consuelo feeling sorry for James right now? Or was she, too, trying to guess Isabella's thoughts? Isabella wondered if Consuelo thought she might hurl the tray to the floor, or bury her face in a pillow and scream—

“You can do that,” Consuelo suddenly spoke. “You have every right to do so.”

And though she didn't voice it, Isabella heard the unspoken words:

“I'm sorry you have to take on this life.”

　　“Are you out of your mind?” Isabella took several deep breaths, reached for the tray on the round table, placed it on her lap, and began eating the grapes with relish. “This food looks delicious. Since arriving here, I haven't had anything this decent. It almost makes me think your description of the Vanderbilts being as wealthy as a modern-day Bill Gates is just a smokescreen.”

　　“Isabella—”

“Don't worry, we'll be fine. Nothing in this world is more terrifying than death, yet we survived it.” Isabella flashed her a smile, grape skins clinging to her teeth. "We can try stealing some money and running away; if we can't run, we'll adapt; if we can't adapt, we'll endure; if we can't endure, we'll eat lots of chocolate. We'll always find a way to survive in the world of 1895. How many people get a second chance at life? We should embrace this chapter. Consuelo, don't despair. We're stronger than anyone in this world, because even when I'm alone, I'm never truly lonely."

“How can you be so optimistic?” Consuelo lowered her voice, staring at her in disbelief. “My parents just traded your future marriage as a bargaining chip during the divorce settlement. And you know full well divorce is utterly impossible in a family like theirs—”

"First, as you said, those are your parents, not mine. No matter how cruel or cold-hearted they act, it can't hurt me. “ Isabella mumbled with her mouth full of thickly jam-smeared bread. ”Second, who knows? Maybe this Duke of Marlborough is handsome."

“Or perhaps he's also a cold-hearted, despicable, ruthless British nobleman who'll never feel anything for you,” Consuelo countered.

　　“You have a point,” Isabella shrugged, juggling a few grapes like a ball. “But honestly, if he's as handsome as Dan Stevens, I'd marry him without hesitation.”