1895: The Duchess's Soul Returns

Chapter 7 ·Isabella·

Isabella disliked Lady Paget.

That was her first impression upon meeting the legendary green-eyed lady who held the passport to British high society.

　　At the white mansion of 35 Belgravia Square, the Vanderbilts arrived for afternoon tea. Lady Paget received Isabella, Eva, and William alone in her small drawing room.

　　The word “received” was used because Isabella always sensed that the lady felt somewhat condescending to entertain the Vanderbilts—especially since she was a regular among London's high society. As her guests entered the drawing room, which seemed to be hosting a tea table exhibition, Mrs. Peggy made no gesture. She merely dismissed the footman who had ushered them in, rose to offer William her hand briefly, then sat back down.

Just as Consuelo had described, Mrs. Peggy was indeed Becky Sharp incarnate. Her small, delicate face was framed by strands of light brown curls deliberately pulled out from beneath her hat. Perhaps because she was American and lacked an aristocratic title, her demeanor was unrestrained. She leaned back comfortably on the sofa, her ample bosom wobbling slightly from the lace-and-pearl-trimmed neckline. her long, snow-white neck adorned with a traditional-cut emerald necklace, its pavé diamonds sparkling brilliantly in the chandelier's glow.

　　“I notice your residence still lacks electric lighting,” Eva remarked politely. “Nowadays, any American household with a little disposable income is rushing to install it—it's the latest trend.”

　　“My dear Arthur dislikes electric lights, so we've never installed them. Arthur is old-fashioned—many Englishmen are like that,” Mrs. Peggy said with a smile—the perfectly arched smile trained into a lady of high birth. Her gaze, however, remained unwarmed, still fixed on Isabella with that slightly mocking, cold hardness.

　　Isabella immediately began complaining to Consuelo.

Her eyes, like glass marbles, scanned me like X-rays, as if I had some hidden flaw and she were calculating how much it would devalue my market price. She inwardly protested to Consuelo.

I understand what you mean. Consuelo said, her gaze delivering its own sharp discomfort. But now that we're in England, you mustn't let anyone notice the slightest abnormality. Smile.

As if I could smile wearing this corset, Isabella retorted. Just because I don't need to breathe when talking to you in my head doesn't mean you can ignore the miracle that I'm still drawing in this thin air.

　　It's been over twenty days since you first wore the corset. Consuelo remarked with a hint of disbelief. I thought you'd grown somewhat accustomed to it. At least now, when Anna laces you up, you don't torment me with your inner wails of agony.

When in Rome, do as the Romans do, right? Isabella sighed helplessly.

　　Ever since William unilaterally declared to Isabella that she would be traveling to England in September, Eva had effectively placed her under house arrest. No friends from Consuelo's past were permitted to visit, no relatives allowed to see her, and certainly no servants of lower rank could have any contact with her. When the time came, she was whisked away aboard the Vanderbilt family's yacht, the Eva—the very vessel that had carried Consuelo on her 1894 voyage through India, Egypt, the Mediterranean, Greece, France, and England. Now it would carry Isabella toward uncharted horizons.

　　During this period, Consuelo had been—in Isabella's words—cramming last-minute lessons into her, teaching her the essentials for navigating this era: basic social etiquette, deportment, conversation skills, poise, European history and culture, art appreciation, and rudimentary French and German conversation.

　　These subjects, which a young lady of noble birth would typically spend over a decade mastering, could not possibly be fully learned in a mere twenty days. Consuelo could only impart superficial basics, ensuring Isabella wouldn't give herself away in everyday interactions. Consuelo even attempted to teach Isabella ballroom dancing until they realized the futility of having her practice with an intangible ghost—for instance, Consuelo could not possibly feel whether Isabella had crushed her toes—assuming she had any—flat as a sheet of paper.

　　Regardless, Consuelo's efforts over the past twenty days had paid off. At least when they boarded the Vanderbilt family's luxury yacht, the Eva, and Isabella smiled and waved faintly at the reporters who had gathered at the dock upon hearing the news, she carried herself with the air of an American heiress. The photograph that appeared on page three of the New York newspapers the very next day confirmed this.

　　Now, sitting in Mrs. Page's drawing room, Isabella's posture—she was trying hard to keep her back straight—was at least much better than it had been over a month ago, when she'd slumped with shoulders hunched and no sense of proper sitting. At least, that's how she saw it.

　　“I must say, you are fortunate,” Mrs. Page cut straight to the point after brief, cool pleasantries. “Few know that the Duke of Marlborough is seeking a suitable wife for himself, having spent the entire London season at Blenheim Palace, declining all invitations...”

　　Isabella yearned to ask why, but Consuelo had warned her this was no occasion for interjections. She could only watch silently as Eva exchanged a knowing glance with Mrs. Page, as if they both understood perfectly why the Duke of Marlborough had shut himself away during the social season.

　　After seemingly confirming that Eva's understanding matched her own, Lady Page continued at a leisurely pace, “His Grace has agreed to attend the dinner I shall host shortly. You know, now that His Grace has begun making the rounds again, an invitation from me is impossible for him to refuse...”

　　So what exactly is Lady Peggy's background? Isabella asked Consuelo. I still don't quite grasp the British aristocracy. Her husband is a British captain, grandson to some marquis—though that seems rather thin to me—yet it appears sufficient to make her hold her head high.

　　“...If it weren't for my good standing with this girl's godmother, the Dowager Duchess of Manchester...”

I know little myself; my last visit to England was a year ago. At that time, Lady Page introduced me to the Marquis of Langston—a man of genuine promise, handsome, with a bright future in British diplomacy, and one of London's most sought-after bachelors during the social season.

　　Consuelo explained, while Isabella listened intently to the words echoing in her mind, completely oblivious to what Lady Peggy was saying.

This alone showed Lady Peggy wielded considerable influence. According to Anna, she seemed to have an unusual connection with the Prince of Wales, which was likely why such a prominent position had been reserved for her in high society.

　　Consuelo's words abruptly ended there. She too sat on the same dark green velvet sofa as Isabella, adopting a more natural and graceful posture that Isabella was desperately trying to imitate—though the latter suspected it was simply because Consuelo's soul wasn't encased in a tight-laced bodice.

　　“...If I am to introduce this girl into London society again,” Mrs. Peggy continued, though Isabella had long since lost track of the conversation, "she must possess some measure of competitiveness. Clothing, for instance. There are simply too many girls in London prettier than her." She added the last sentence with a hint of disdain.

Too many? Isabella almost wanted to flip off this pretentious woman right there. In her eyes, Consuelo's beauty held its own even against Anne Hathaway—Isabella believed the two shared a certain resemblance—let alone her elegant, refined grace and a figure far more curvaceous than Mrs. Page's.

Thanks. Hearing her thoughts, Consuelo couldn't help but chuckle softly. Though I've no idea who Anne... Hathaway is, thank you anyway. However, Isabella, I think it's time you adjusted your perspective. This is your face and your body now, remember?

　　You're welcome. Isabella thought to herself. She hadn't fully adjusted to the fact that she now inhabited this beautiful body. Subconsciously, she still saw herself as an unremarkable Chinese girl, merely standing up for her pretty friend.

“Whatever you say,” William interjected, acting like a devoted father deeply invested in his daughter's marriage. Yet the thought that his support for marrying his daughter to some British duke stemmed solely from the endless business advantages it would bring him—and the assurance that Eva wouldn't take more of the estate with her—filled Isabella with utter disgust.

“I've already ordered a new wardrobe for Consuelo in Paris. His Grace the Duke will be captivated by her.” Eva said with a hint of flattery. Yet this was another source of Isabella's fury. She had no say in her husband's choice—that she could tolerate—but the truth was she didn't even have the right to choose her own clothes. Over the past twenty days, she had fully experienced just how intensely controlling a mother Eva was. She had once resented her own mother, Chen Wanqing, for disciplining her more strictly than other American parents, denying her the same freedoms as other American children. Now, in hindsight, the difference between her mother and Consuelo's mother was like comparing a sleepy cowherd to a harsh prison warden.

“Very well,” Mrs. Peggy nodded. We certainly wouldn't want another incident like the Marquis of Langston's, would we?"

“Of course not, Mrs. Peggy,” William replied with a smile. “This time, I won't indulge my daughter.”

“I should expect nothing less,” Mrs. Peggy said, rising and ringing the bell on her desk—sufficient, given the size of her room, to summon a butler. “Would you kindly see Mr. Vanderbilt, Mrs. Vanderbilt, and Miss Vanderbilt out?” she instructed the boy who answered the call.

Minutes later, as Isabella climbed into the carriage, the coachman brought specially from France hadn't even cracked his whip at the horses before Eva blurted out impatiently.

　　“She didn't even ask if we'd stay for tea, let alone dinner!” Her shrill voice echoed inside the carriage. William frowned deeply. “The nerve! She must have forgotten where she came from—if not for that disgraceful affair with the Prince of Wales, what door in London's high society would ever open for her?”

　　“Watch your tone, woman,” William said darkly.

“You have no right to speak to me like that, Willy. If you hadn't insisted on sending Consuelo back to America for her education, she'd be Lady Lansdowne by now—or better yet, Princess of Battenberg!”

　　Eva's voice rose another octave. Consuelo, who had been seated beside Isabella, simply floated outside the carriage—she and Isabella had tested it; she could drift no more than ten meters away before a strange, tearing sensation overtook her. Isabella's yearning gaze followed her, though right now she craved a pair of noise-canceling headphones more than anything, which would have solved many similar troubles once and for all.

“At least we now have a better option, Duke of Marlborough,” William's voice sounded as if it were being squeezed through clenched teeth, clearly suppressing his anger. “Consuelo clearly cannot become Duchess of Marlborough. If you were to rush her into marriage like that, wouldn't she?”

　　At a loss for words, Eva redirected her fire toward Isabella. “I hope you understand, Consuelo, that nothing can go wrong at Lady Peggy's dinner. Everything must be flawless. You must at least make a good impression on His Grace the Duke.”

　　“Yes, Mother,” Isabella replied resignedly. Ever since she'd been in New York, Isabella had been relentlessly searching for any chance to escape. Yet even when she found one or two opportunities, they were always interrupted by Anna or Eva suddenly appearing. It seemed meeting the Duke of Marlborough was inevitable.

　　“You are not to eat anything these next few days,” Eva's anger remained undimmed by Isabella's compliance. “I cannot possibly take a girl with a waist over 17 inches to meet the Duke of Marlborough.”

　　“Yes, Mother,” Isabella replied mechanically, her hand drifting to her stomach—or more accurately, to the rigid bodice. Her belly had long since been compressed into numbness.

Besides, judging by the gossip she'd heard in both her lifetimes, she hadn't missed out on any delicacies. Isabella consoled herself. Everyone knew British food was utterly dreadful.