1895: The Duchess's Soul Returns

Chapter 4 ·Consuelo·

“So that's how you died?” Dr. Wilson had barely left when Isabella, who had immediately pulled back the covers, locked eyes with Consuelo standing on the other side of the room. In this world, she was now the only one who could see Consuelo and speak to her. “You drank a cup of tea and just died like that?”

　　Consuelo nodded silently. It was hard to imagine that just hours ago, she had sat upright on the terrace, alive without awareness; gloves nearly reaching her shoulders covered the arm holding her teacup. Wind blowing through New York's Central Park, mingled with the neighing of horses and the shouts of pavers, lingered at the hem of her skirt. Yet none of this belonged to her anymore.

　　“Um... I don't mean to be rude, but were you murdered, or—”

“Suicide.” Consuelo finished her sentence. “Yes, I killed myself.”

　　“But—why?” Isabella stared at her in confusion. “Your mother stormed in just now and said something that must be related, right? For heaven's sake, she seemed completely unaware you'd killed yourself—I don't understand. Was this kind of twisted mother-daughter relationship considered normal in 1895?”

　　“I don't know how to define the distinction between normal and abnormal according to your standards,” Consuelo drifted slowly over, settling beside Isabella. She was utterly unaccustomed to someone shouting at her from across the room. “But what does any of this matter to me now? I'm dead. I have no connection to her anymore.”

　　“Then what do you intend to do now?” Isabella sat cross-legged on the bed in a posture Consuelo found utterly unseemly, lifting her head to regard her with curiosity. “Do you wish to return to your own body and continue your life?”

　　Consuelo shook her head. “I want to leave,” she said. “There must be somewhere I can go. Otherwise, this world is far too crowded.” Perhaps James would be waiting there for her, Consuelo thought bitterly.

　　“So this involves a man named James?” Isabella said. Consuelo froze, forgetting again that the other could hear her thoughts. "Or a woman? I'm not judging you—actually, I think it's wonderful. A lesbian in 1895 committing suicide because society and family wouldn't accept her? I completely understand. It's just—uh—I don't think many parents would name their daughter James back then—"

“James is a man.” Consuelo couldn't bear Isabella's nonsense any longer and interrupted.

“Oh, sorry.” " Isabella mumbled sheepishly, like a lost fawn.

For a moment, the room fell silent.

“So, do you want to leave?” After several awkward, strange seconds, Isabella asked cautiously, “I mean, just float right out the door without any plan?”

　　“What do you think I should do, Isabella?” Consuelo gave a bitter smile. “Right now, I'm just a shadow you can see. Beyond that, I can't be touched, I can't be heard—it's worse than being dead.”

" Or maybe this is God giving you a second chance,“ Isabella raised her voice, ”to live in a different way—just like He gave me a second chance. Of course, I'd be more grateful if He'd dumped me into another girl who died in 2018—at least that era had the internet and air conditioning, and I could visit my family. Sorry, I'm rambling, and you don't even know what the internet or air conditioning are. "

Isabella gave an awkward chuckle, while Consvelu listened impassively as the other began rattling off incomprehensible words like a typewriter clacking endlessly. She even felt she was starting to get used to it.

"What I mean is, you and I are both people who died and came back to this world. I doubt many people experience this—otherwise we’d already know the ending of A Song of Ice and Fire. But back to the point: I think we should cherish this chance. After all, countless souls must yearn for a fresh start, or even just another glimpse of this world. So I believe God has His reasons for this arrangement, though we may not understand them yet."

　　“You believe in God?” Consuelo asked, somewhat surprised. She had assumed that over a century later, some technology would surely prove the existence or non-existence of divinity, thereby determining people's faith. It seemed she was mistaken. However, Isabella didn't seem to hear her thoughts.

"I believe in a power beyond all imagination and science. In my mother's words, it's called Buddha. In my friends' words, it's called God. To me, they are one and the same.“ Isabella answered earnestly. ”So, do you have any unfinished business, Consuelo? Perhaps a dream, some grand life goal?"

“I'm afraid my answer will disappoint you,” Consuelo replied after careful consideration. She keenly noticed Isabella seemed unable to hear her inner thoughts.

　　“Even so, you still wish to live, don't you?” Isabella asked urgently.

Consuelo met Isabella's gaze. She knew she couldn't lie. Some of her emotions and thoughts might evade Isabella's perception, yet the peculiar telepathy between them still meant she couldn't conceal her true thoughts.

　　—Yes, she wanted to live.

When she learned that James, to preserve his honor, had left a note claiming he couldn't repay the enormous gambling debt he'd incurred overnight, then ended his life with a gun in a cheap inn, she knew there was nothing left in this world worth continuing to live for. Her life was like yesterday's newspaper, every future event already printed in black and white with no room for alteration—she would never love anyone again, her mother would marry her off to some British nobleman, she would bear an heir, then spend the rest of her loveless, lonely life at a dining table so long she could never see the other end, facing a husband who resembled nothing more than a piece of furniture.

　　The candle of her life had been extinguished the moment James died, yet within its charred wick, a faint, warm ember still smoldered—like a single raindrop in the night, a speck of green amidst a snowy field.

　　Yes, she wanted to live. She longed to sail across the Atlantic once more, to pass countless fortresses and cities along the Mediterranean, to watch the sun sink behind Constantinople, and to experience Paris in spring—oh, how beautiful Paris is in spring! Though these were but insignificant, trivial thoughts, unable to stop her from drinking that sweet, cloying tea, they still existed. Consuelo could not deny it.

“I want to live too.” Isabella rose abruptly, reaching for Consuelo's hands only to grasp at thin air. “Even though I know nothing of this era and have inexplicably lost the right to choose my own husband, I still want to live in this world. I want to see more sights, meet more people, and fall in love with someone worthy of my affection—”

　　“Those choices have no place in Consuelo Vanderbilt's life,” Consuelo's eyes flickered with a brief spark at Isabella's words before it quickly extinguished. "You heard my mother's words. They are true. You may defy her verbally, but the predetermined fate of William Vanderbilt's daughter cannot be shaken by your strength alone. The truth is, you cannot choose your future husband—even if you had a choice, it would be a very limited one. You cannot go where you wish, cannot befriend those your station forbids. Are you certain you wish to continue living such a dull, rigid existence?"

　　“If you'd be willing to stay with me,” Isabella said, smiling. It wasn't the refined smile honed by Consuelo's French governess, nor the vibrant smile American girls were often praised for. It was something more natural, more innocent, entirely unguarded. “I mean it. Without you by my side, I'd surely succumb to the heat within three days.”

　　“That's precisely why my family never spends summers in New York. At this time of year, we always retreat to our marble villa in Newport.” Consuelo sidestepped the difficult question, offering a vague explanation.

“Then why aren't you going this year?”

　　“Because my mother intends to divorce my father,” Consuelo murmured softly, though the words still stung like needles—even pain, it seemed, could be felt by a mere pearl-gray shadow. “Staying in New York allows for more direct control over matters.”

　　“No wonder she reacted so strongly when I asked about her marriage.” Isabella nodded in sudden understanding, shifting into a slightly more elegant pose as she leaned against the feather pillows. “If she herself is a victim of an unhappy marriage, why would she want to control yours? I always thought parents who'd experienced similar failures would be more open-minded about their children's choice of partner.” "

“You don't find it strange for a wife to sue her husband for divorce?” Consuelo countered, noticing Isabella's eerily calm demeanor upon hearing this news—a stark contrast to her own initial shock and anxiety.

　　“Divorce is far too common a century later. Frankly, Mrs. Liston's dog eating the newspaper at the corner is more surprising than a divorce. So, I suppose it was still quite rare in 1895?”

“At least, it was extremely rare in New York high society.” “ Consuelo lowered her eyes, knowing Isabella could hear the sigh within her. ”My mother took an enormous risk. Every door in New York society would slam shut before her. She would be utterly excluded from the entire social circle, assuming she succeeded. My marriage was her stake, Isabella—her only trump card to win in a divorce."

　　“So she plans to marry you off to some New York socialite heir—like Chuck from Gossip Girl? Sorry, I forgot you haven't seen the show. But if you'd like, I can walk you through every episode.”

Consuelo skipped over the parts she didn't understand.

　　“She intends to marry me off to some British aristocrat, a marquis at the very least. As long as she can become related to one of them, New York high society will welcome her back with open arms—even as a divorcee.”

“So you—uh—it's because of this—” Isabella scratched her head. “Then James—”

　　“James,” Conswelu took a deep breath, steadying the tremor in her voice. She silently thanked God for not granting Pearl Gray Shadow the ability to cry. “James was the love of my life.”

　　“Then he...” Isabella craned her neck to look at her, eyes brimming with unspoken curiosity.

“He's dead.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that.”

“My mother set him up to die because she discovered I planned to elope with James.”

　　“Oh... um... I'm terribly sorry to hear that too.” Consuelo heard Isabella silently confirming her assessment of Eva had been correct.

"When I took my own life, I clutched the only thing James ever left me—the locket with his portrait inside. My mother must have taken it,“ Consuelo felt that necklace might be the only lingering regret she left behind in this world, ”and that's why she..."

“That's why she suddenly flew into a rage at me,” Isabella said. “Don't worry, Consuelo, I'll get that necklace back for you.”

　　The resolve in her eyes was something Consuelo had never seen in herself in her eighteen years. In that moment, Consuelo reaffirmed a truth within her heart: from now on, the life of Consuelo Vanderbilt no longer belonged to her, but to Isabella Young. Yet, to her surprise, Consuelo found herself feeling a strange sense of relief that it was Isabella continuing her life, rather than anyone else from the future.

　　“Miss Consuelo, are you asleep?” Anna's voice sounded after three abrupt knocks. “Mrs. Vanderbilt sent me to check on you.”

Before Consuelo could warn Isabella, the latter had already slid into the bed with astonishing agility, feigning deep sleep. The movement was so practiced that Consuelo couldn't help but wonder if Isabella had done this often in her past life.

Seconds later, hearing no response, Anna tiptoed back into the room carrying an oil lamp. Only after confirming Isabella truly lay in bed did she quietly withdraw. Once Anna's footsteps faded, Consuelo slid forward, leaning over to observe Isabella. Her breathing was steady, her expression serene, and Consuelo detected no inner thoughts—she seemed genuinely asleep.

Perhaps I'll stay.

Consuelo thought silently.

　　“I heard you,” a pair of wide, round eyes suddenly opened beneath the covers, staring at Consuelo with mischief. “I heard you.”

Consuelo let out a soft chuckle, offering no reply.

It was the first smile Consuelo had shown since her death.