1895: The Duchess's Soul Returns

Chapter 10 ·Isabella·

Just as Isabella was about to savor her creamy oyster soup, Mrs. Peggy set down her spoon, leaving her to watch helplessly as the footman carried away her untouched meal.

What a pity. Isabella lamented inwardly to Consuelo. Why could the other young ladies sip their soup while conversing effortlessly with the gentlemen beside them?

Probably because they don't have to keep a gentleman's hand pressed against their thigh, Consuelo remarked.

Ha, very funny, Consuelo. Isabella retorted. But at least we now know the Duke of Marlborough has parted ways with that Miss Louise.

It doesn't change the fact he's still a fortune hunter. Consuelo remarked. If you truly become Duchess of Marlborough someday, Consuelo Vanderbilt's life remains unchanged—whether she's Consuelo or Isabella.

　　If this marriage were built on love, it would be entirely different. Isabella retorted defiantly.

That would be your decision, Isabella. Consuelo said, and Isabella heard her sigh softly.

　　The second course arrived. Isabella glanced at the French menu before her—though with her current poor command of the language, it looked little better than a jumble of letters. Still, this was the meal she would discuss with the Duke of Marlborough, and she didn't want to be clueless about what she was eating.

　　“Consuelo, what is a vol-au-vent?” Isabella asked, staring at the dish before her. It resembled the garlic bread rolls unique to Red Lobster seafood restaurants, only topped with a rich sauce and adorned with translucent shrimp.

　　“Simply put, it's a shrimp puff pastry,” Consuelo explained. “But trust me, discussing this dish in English before the Duke of Marlborough would be the last thing you'd want to do in this world. Oh, and don't even try French.”

“Why couldn't people in the 19th century speak Chinese?” Isabella grumbled indignantly, but the moment the Duke of Marlborough turned his gaze toward her, her slight irritation vanished instantly, replaced by a bashful smile that blossomed across her face.

“I see you've been engaged in a most pleasant conversation with Lord Elliot,” the Duke of Marlborough began, his voice bearing a certain resemblance to Benedict Cumberbatch's—deep, with a pleasing, magnetic huskiness that seemed to come from the depths of his throat, and an enchanting London accent. The British accent that had been so diminished in Isabella's estimation because of Lord Elliot now soared back to its former status. "That is rare. “Socializing is not Lord Elliot's forte,” he murmured, taking a light sip from his glass. Isabella recognized only that a different white wine had been served, knowing nothing of its name or vintage. “Especially... when conversing with a lovely young lady.”

　　“Believe me, I know this all too well,” Isabella replied with a quiet laugh. A hint of amusement flickered in the Duke of Marlborough's eyes as he tilted his head, his gaze lingering on her. She couldn't help but feel tense, her heart pounding wildly within the confines of her tightly laced bodice, searching for an escape. She averted her gaze from his deep, sapphire eyes, instead resting her eyes on his right hand resting on his thigh—only to find herself even more captivated. Long, pale, strong, with well-defined knuckles, his little finger adorned a ring set with a large emerald... Isabella couldn't help but take a deep breath.

　　“You're not seriously considering grabbing His Grace's hand, are you?” Consuelo's voice suddenly echoed in Isabella's mind, startling her so much she nearly dropped her fork.

“Of course not!” she retorted immediately.

“Calm down, Isabella,” Consuelo's voice sounded icy. “You're acting like a sixteen-year-old Spanish convent girl who's never laid eyes on a man.”

　　“I was sixteen when I died, and I've never liked a single boy. I'm probably worse off than a Spanish convent girl,” Isabella retorted. “At least when they blush and stammer in confusion, they have God by their side. I only have a sarcastic ghost.”

　　“If you don't mind my asking, Miss Consuelo, what exactly did you and Lord Elliot discuss?” the Duke of Marlborough inquired again. Still reeling from her exchange with Consuelo, Isabella replied instinctively, “Nothing much. Just matters concerning you and Miss Louisa.”

　　The Duke of Marlborough's hand, poised to reach for his wine glass, froze.

“I was unaware that the insignificant past between Miss Louisa and myself had already reached America.” He spoke with a faint smile, yet his piercing eyes now resembled two hard, cold glass marbles. “Yes, Miss Louisa and I were once informally engaged. But we soon discovered we were unsuited for each other and parted ways. I trust you've heard of her engagement to Jefferson Field.”

　　“You speak as though you never loved her at all.” Isabella studied his expression intently, her next question slipping out before the Duke of Marlborough could finish his sentence.

Too blunt, Isabella. Consuelo's exasperated voice echoed in her mind. I'm beginning to understand why you've never taken a liking to any boy in sixteen years—perhaps the situation is precisely the opposite.

　　Shh shh shh. Isabella snapped irritably.

“Love is a very weighty word, Miss Consuelo, perhaps not entirely appropriate for discussion at such a lighthearted dinner—certainly not during the second course,” the Duke of Marlborough murmured, his gaze shifting completely away as if the vol-au-vents before him had suddenly become fascinating.

　　“Then when is the appropriate time to discuss ‘love’?” Isabella pressed.

“For the English?” The Duke of Marlborough smiled. “Never.”

“So you would never utter those words to anyone?” Isabella asked, her eyes widening slightly. She was well aware of the American stereotype of the English—conservative, traditional, stuffy, seemingly dripping with dampness from the inside out—but the 19th-century Englishman had taken that stereotype to new heights in Isabella's mind. "You don't say ‘I love you’ to your wife, you don't say ‘I love you’ to your children, you don't say ‘I love you’ to your parents. So what do you talk about every day? The weather?"

“So that's the American way? Any emotion must be expressed verbally, or it doesn't exist.” The Duke of Marlborough finally turned back to Isabella, seeming amused by her words. "Clearly, for most Englishmen, such behavior would be considered overly ostentatious and verbalism. Proving one's feelings through actions is the more widely accepted practice."

“Then how would you express your love through actions to a wife whose purse you sought to marry, not her person? By gilding the entire estate in gold?”

Oh, Isabella... Consuelo, standing beside her, sighed and drifted away, Isabella caught her out of the corner of her eye, hands pressed to her face in a nearby corner, seemingly unable to bear witness to her exchange with the Duke of Marlborough.

What is it? Isabella asked. Don't you want me to find out if the Duke of Marlborough accepted this marriage for money?

Oh, of course I want you to see that. Consuelo's muffled voice drifted over. But certainly not in this manner.

I was raised by a mother who served as vice president of the debate club at New York University and a father who was a lawyer with a 70% win rate in court. Their arguments were nothing short of spectacular, like watching a world-class debate tournament unfold. You can't expect someone raised in that environment to speak with the bland simplicity of a sixteen-year-old Spanish convent girl. Isabella defended herself.

　　“In fact, I find your reasoning quite compelling.” To Isabella's surprise, the Duke of Marlborough smiled. His face, with its classical Greek beauty, softened like moonlight spilling across a frozen blue lake after the clouds parted. Isabella stared, stunned. "Though laced with irony, it sounds like something a proper English gentleman might do. “But if you refer to yourself, Miss Consuelo, I must say any gentleman who did so would be utterly foolish. Who, having such a beautiful wife, would ever glance at his own estate?”

Consuelo, Isabella whispered to her, I think I'm going to faint.

Consuelo paid her no mind.

“Even if his purpose remained purely directed at his wife's fortune?” Isabella unconsciously adopted Consuelo's usual tone as she addressed the man leaning toward her, his eyes smiling.

“Even if his intentions were purely focused on his wife's fortune from the start, I believe he would wait until he could express his love for her in ways beyond merely gilding his entire estate before making her his wife.” The Duke of Marlborough replied with a light chuckle, effortlessly grasping Isabella's implication.

Did you hear that, Consuelo? Isabella nearly screamed inwardly, calling out to her. The Duke of Marlborough wouldn't accept a marriage solely for wealth, did you hear that?

　　I heard, and I'm happy for you, Isabella. Consuelo murmured, a complex emotion spreading from her heart into Isabella's perception. The only thing Isabella could be certain of was that Consuelo was not happy.

At that moment, Lady Peggy set down her fork.

The second course was cleared away.