1895: The Duchess's Soul Returns

Chapter 9 ·Isabella·

Almost the moment Lady Peggy finished introducing tonight's guests to the Duke of Marlborough, the lean old butler reentered the drawing room, signaling to his mistress that dinner was ready—his timing impeccable. Mrs. Page's guests rose and followed their hostess to the dining room. Leading the way, Mrs. Page walked arm-in-arm with the Duke of Marlborough, while her husband accompanied Miss Catherine behind them. Isabella, still wearing her composed smile, walked beside Lord Elliot, though no one could know the silent battle raging within her heart.

　　“You're in love?” Consuelo, floating beside Isabella as they walked forward, asked repeatedly in a tone of utter disbelief. “You've fallen for the Duke of Marlborough?”

“Well, that might be a slight exaggeration,” Isabella had to admit truthfully to Consuelo. But I do... I don't know... I've never felt this way about any other boy—or man, for that matter. I think I am in love. All right, I am in love.

You never have? But all those TV shows and movies you've told me about—your friends—the future American mainstream values you've described—they don't say that. Consuelo stared at Isabella, a rare flicker of shock visible in her eyes. She didn't even notice she'd walked straight through the large vase placed along the hallway wall—a habit she'd always instinctively avoided, one she hadn't even been aware of.

　　Um... Isabella's gaze shifted nervously, tinged with guilt. After all, in 2018 America, this was the kind of thing classmates would mock you for throughout high school, only to taunt you again at the ten-year reunion. What can I say? I was raised by two extremely typical—more stereotypical than the stereotypes themselves—Chinese parents. They adhered to a very old-school traditional Chinese mindset, strongly opposed to me dating before adulthood and disbelieving in premarital s*x. Add to that the fact that I spent most of my life in hospitals, so I...

So you fell for him? Consuelo said, walking right through another marble statue without noticing.

　　No—so I have no experience with romance. Maybe I just felt a flutter, but I can't tell. Isabella protested. I can't say for sure either. It was just a feeling, you know, Consuelo? The moment he took my hand, this intense premonition hit me. A voice told me he was the one, my soulmate.

　　Could it be that the voice sounded a bit like—I don't know—William Vanderbilt's? Consuelo asked sarcastically.

Listen, Consuelo, I know this plays right into your parents' hands, but wouldn't it be better? If I fall in love with him, we won't have to look for a chance to run away. Isabella said.

　　“If you don't mind that the only thing he wants to marry is the Vanderbilt fortune,” Consuelo retorted. “From what I've heard, the Duke of Marlborough isn't seeking a suitable wife, but a suitable purse. And he...”

“And he what?” Isabella wondered inwardly as she settled into the seat marked with her name card. Long before this dinner, she had been informed she would be seated beside the Duke of Marlborough—a move that, in a sense, laid bare the Vanderbilts' ambition. Yet when Isabella actually saw the Duke sitting upright beside her, she couldn't help but hold her breath, trying to steady the heartbeat that threatened to burst free from her tight corset.

　　And he already had an engaged mistress, Louisa. Consuelo's calm voice echoed in Isabella's mind.

After dropping this bombshell, Consuelo fell silent, drifting away to a corner invisible to Isabella, where she concealed herself.

　　According to the etiquette Consuelo had taught Isabella, at an English aristocratic dinner, when the first course was served, the hostess would converse first with the guest seated to her right—the most distinguished guest present—and all others should follow suit. Thus, when the first course—a dish served in shallow bowls that Consuelo had specifically informed her was called cream of oyster soup—was brought to the table, Isabella turned to Lord Elliot at her right. Had he been born a century later in America, Isabella thought, his broad, sturdy frame would likely have made him a fine football quarterback. She spoke softly.

　　“Lord Elliot, would you be willing to tell me about the matter between the Duke of Marlborough and Miss Louisa?” Out of caution, Isabella had prefixed Louisa's name with “Lady.” Judging by Lord Elliot's slightly startled expression, she had miscalculated; he clearly understood she knew nothing about the affair.

　　“It should be Miss Louisa,” Lord Elliot said, setting down the spoon he had just picked up. “I would rather not discuss this subject, Miss Consuelo.”

　　“You know full well why the Duke of Marlborough is here, and you know full well why Lady Peggy has placed me in His Grace's company. If I am to marry him with my family's fortune, should I not learn more about him?” Isabella pressed. She knew full well that if Consuelo's words were true—regardless of how regrettable it might be, regardless of whether the Duke of Marlborough, handsome as Mr. Darcy stepping off the pages of Jane Austen's novels, stirred feelings in her that were love—she would not marry him.

“I would rather not discuss this matter, Miss Consuelo,” Lord Elliot replied impassively.

　　“Even if you do not tell me, other lords will reveal the nature of His Grace's relationship with Miss Louisa. Yet if you withhold it, this conversation will drag on indefinitely. Why not save us both the trouble?” Isabella pressed, feeling the image of British accents symbolizing sensuality within her mind swiftly being replaced by one of “symbolizing bastards.”

　　"With all due respect, Miss Consuelo, you come from America and may not fully grasp the British way of doing things. But I assure you, no one—lord or otherwise—will discuss any matter concerning His Grace the Duke with you. What you ought to be saving is your own precious time.“ Lord Elliot wiped his mouth with his napkin, concealing the cold smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and shot Isabella a subtle, warning glance. ”If you don't mind, I should like to enjoy my meal. I would appreciate your silence."

　　Isabella glanced behind her. The space between her and Lord Elliot was empty. The butler holding the wine bottle now stood by the serving counter at the far end of the dining room, some distance from her seat—unlikely to see what she was about to do. Isabella swiftly lifted a corner of the napkin on her lap and, with lightning speed, seized Lord Elliot Compton's hand before he could raise it, pinning it firmly against her thigh.

　　In that instant, Consuelo's gasp echoed in Isabella's mind. Lord Elliot swayed slightly, yet even this audacious and shocking act failed to ripple his impassive expression. Isabella began to wonder if the facial muscles of these British aristocrats had atrophied from years of infrequent smiling. “Miss Conswille, what are you doing?” Lord Elliot's voice remained calm. “Have you mistaken hands? Allow me to remind you, the Duke of Marlborough sits to your left.”

Isabella, what are you doing? Conswille cried out almost simultaneously, stepping out from behind the vase by the buffet table and gliding to Isabella's side. Though her expression was equally composed—Isabella found Consuelo's detachment far more excusable than Lord Elliot's impassivity—Isabella thought she glimpsed a flicker of anxiety and concern in her eyes.

“Trust me, Consuelo,” Isabella replied.

　　“If you do not inform me about Miss Louisa—using your own stilted terminology—I shall make it known to Lady Peggy what a shameless, vulgar assault you committed upon her guest. You would be expelled from this room at once and barred from every prominent gathering in London society. Is that truly the outcome you desire?” Isabella lowered her voice.

“Who do you think they’ll believe? The son of the Marquess of Northampton, or a common American title-hunter with no standing whatsoever?” Lord Elliot’s words seemed to be ground out between clenched teeth. “You’re ruining your own prospects, Miss Consuelo.”

　　“I believe most would find a more plausible tale—say, a powerful British lord exploiting his noble position to molest a helpless young girl—far more credible than one where a well-mannered, wealthy, delicate young lady takes it upon herself to place a man's hand upon her thigh.” Why don't we see which version wins out?" Isabella smiled at Lord Elliot.

“Then everyone will see you forcing my hand onto your thigh,” Lord Elliot growled hoarsely, his tone breaking free from its usual stoic monotone for the first time, turning vicious.

　　“Or perhaps I'm stopping your hand from trying to climb higher.” Isabella maintained her sweet smile and winked at him. “Shall we try, Lord Elliot?”

　　A faint flush of pink tinged the pallor of his face. His expression remained unchanged, but his eyes—Isabella suspected that if someone had lit a cigar before him at that moment, it might have ignited from his gaze alone. After a few seconds of standoff, Lord Elliot finally relented. “Release my hand,” he said, “and I shall tell you about Miss Louisa.”

　　You may be a seasoned nobleman, unshaken by storms, but I'm a modern girl who's binged House of Cards. Isabella gloated inwardly.

“I thought House of Cards was about the American president?” Consuelo asked, puzzled.

“Oh, yes, that's right.” Isabella hastened to add, not wanting Consuelo to lose interest in the show. But there are plenty of tactics worth learning from it too.

"The Miss Louisa you wish to know is Miss Louisa Mary Fitzherbert, daughter of the 12th Baron Stafford. She was the most beautiful debutante of the 1890 London social season, reportedly receiving countless marriage proposals, even from foreign nobility. But the Baron Stafford rejected them all—clearly hoping to find his daughter a wealthy husband to sustain the expenses of Swindon Hall. Lord Elliot's voice was lowered to a near whisper as he recounted this to Isabella.

British men, Isabella mused, could be every bit as gossipy as modern high school girls when they got going. Consuelo, who had been listening nearby, murmured her agreement.

　　"It's not hard to imagine, then, that the romance that blossomed between Miss Louisa and Albert would not have been supported by Baron Stafford, nor even by the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough at the time. Yet Romeo and Juliet persevered under immense pressure for three years. It wasn't until last year, when the late Duke of Marlborough passed away and Albert ascended as the ninth Duke of Marlborough, that the lovers parted ways. Within months, news spread of Miss Louisa's engagement to Jefferson Field—a name I trust is familiar to you."

　　He's the son of Marshall Field's brother. Consuelo reminded Isabella.

As if mentioning that should make me know who Marshall Field is, Isabella muttered inwardly.

He's the billionaire who founded Marshall Field's department store. Consuelo prompted again, exasperated.

　　Oh my goodness, Marshall founded it? Isabella perked up instantly. I adore that store—you can always find such great discounted brand-name items there—

“In any case, that is what I have learned concerning Miss Louisa,” Lord Elliot continued, forcing Isabella to interrupt her conversation with Consuelo. The man held a wine glass in one hand while the other gripped a napkin, wiping his face unnecessarily—clearly to avoid being caught by Isabella again. “Even if you pressed my hand to your bosom and declared to our beloved King that I'm a shameless r****t, that's all I can tell you.”

　　With that, Lord Elliot tilted his head back and drained the white wine in one gulp.

“My dear Lord Elliot, I hadn't realized your appetite for wine was so robust tonight,” Lady Peggy remarked, having just looked up from her animated conversation with the Duke of Marlborough. She smiled at him. " “I wonder if you're enjoying this 1875 Chardonnay I specially selected for tonight?”

“Oh, it's most delicious, Lady Peggy,” Lord Elliot smiled at her. “Only the Almighty knows how much I needed the comfort of a fine wine tonight.”