The moment the tall woman in an exquisite black gown, her neck draped with several strands of pearl necklaces, stepped into the room, Isabella didn't quite catch what she said. The first thing she felt was—
Heat.
The instant Consuelo entered, Isabella drifted to the farthest corner of the room. In that split second, the cool comfort she had felt vanished, replaced by waves of suffocating heat rising like steam from a boiling kettle placed directly beneath the room. Only now did Isabella belatedly realize that the August she had experienced in New York—a city where every air-conditioned space felt cold enough to make one want to don a down jacket—was a completely different existence from the August Consuelo had known.
The joy of embracing a new life was instantly washed away by the sweat beading on the back of Isabella's neck—this was an era without air conditioning, likely without electric fans either. Most crucially, in a tightly sealed room of this era, Consuelo Vanderbilt's body was clad in long-sleeved pajamas.
Consuelo, come here quickly, Consuelo. Isabella thought anxiously, hoping against hope that Consuelo could hear her thoughts just as she had heard hers.
I'm sorry, Isabella. Consuelo's voice did indeed echo in her mind as she had prayed. I am dead. You are Consuelo Vanderbilt now. You must face my mother, Eva, on your own.
Mother?
Only then did Isabella turn her gaze toward the tall woman entering the room. She looked extremely formidable—that was Isabella's first impression. She seemed naturally suited to play the role of an arrogant and cruel stepmother in one of those ABC soap operas brimming with family drama. Perhaps noticing her daughter staring blankly at her, Eva repeated what she had said upon entering.
"Pourquoi tu n'es pas au lit?"
Isabella guessed the words were French. She'd chosen Chinese as her second language in ninth grade—a bilingual advantage she'd be foolish not to leverage—but damn it! What was she saying?
"She's asking why you're not in bed resting," Consuelo's cool voice echoed in her mind.
How am I supposed to answer her? Isabella panicked inwardly. I don't speak a word of French.
You don't have to speak French to her, Consuelo's voice remained eerily calm. She's American. She speaks English.
When did Americans start speaking French to each other? Isabella nearly roared inwardly. When did Americans become so unpatriotic?
That's what people did in 1895. Consuelo said, and then Isabella could no longer hear her voice.
"I—uh—I—" Without Consuelo's support, Eva's sharp, hawk-like pale blue eyes bore into her with crushing pressure. Isabella felt her nightgown soak through her back. In desperation, she suddenly began feigning a loud cough, one hand pounding her chest while the other trembled toward Eva.
She had expected Eva to rush over with concern, take her daughter's hand, and ask if she was all right. Instead, Eva merely frowned at the doorway, not moving a finger. "Pour Miss Consuelo a cup of tea," she heard Eva instruct a young girl behind her, followed by the click of the door closing.
Still bent over, Isabella strained to feign a cough. Spotting a pair of low-heeled lace-up ankle boots peeking from beneath black lace trim move toward the chaise lounge, she coughed even louder. Just then, an icy voice rang out above her.
"What did I tell you, Consuelo?" This time, she switched to English.
Isabella looked up blankly, coughing twice for good measure.
Consuelo, give me a hint, she silently pleaded, but Consuelo offered no response.
"What exactly—what did I tell you?"
Brush your teeth properly? Never let anyone touch where your underwear covers? Choose a boy with nice teeth for your first kiss? Isabella recalled countless warnings her mother had once given her. Yet none of them seemed like something a nineteenth-century mother would say to her child. As she was still lost in thought, Eva suddenly barked, "Stand up, Consuelo!"
Isabella jolted upright from the chaise longue, but this seemed insufficient to satisfy Eva. The next moment, fury erupted from her sharp nose like a volcano, and crimson lava seemed to flood her proud, angular face as she scolded Isabella furiously, "Look at yourself! It's as if all the discipline I instilled in you as a child was wasted. Even a country girl from Louisiana could stand straighter than you—"
Straighten your spine. Consuelo suddenly interjected.
Isabella immediately complied.
"...Do you want me to summon someone to fit you with corrective braces right now?"
Straighter. Consuelo commanded again.
So Isabella straightened her back as stiff as a board.
"...I suppose I'll have to treat you like you're still a child..."
Lift your neck, open your shoulders, tighten your stomach. Do as I say, unless you want a taste of the riding crop. Consuelo's voice carried a hint of urgency this time. Isabella strained every muscle to obey, forcing her body into perfect alignment.
She had never pushed her muscles to such limits before. Soon, exhaustion washed over her—not physical fatigue, but the mental strain of maintaining such intense control. But Consuelo merely snapped, "Hold it," before falling silent again. Fortunately, the young maid who had left earlier returned carrying a cup of tea. From the moment she heard the maid's footsteps, Eva ceased scolding Isabella, granting her a few seconds of respite.
"Thank you," Isabella accepted the tea the girl offered, responding with reflexive politeness. The moment the words left her lips, she heard Consuelo sigh softly. Eva's expression darkened further, and the girl flashed a brief look of surprise before quickly lowering her face. Isabella instantly realized she had made another mistake.
So in this era, not only can mothers whip their children with riding crops, but you also don't thank others? she inquired of Consuelo.
We need not thank servants. Consuelo replied, her tone suggesting it was a matter of course.
"Miss Consuelo is not yet fully recovered. She doesn't know what she's doing," Eva said to the girl with her head bowed. "You may go, Anna."
As the wooden door closed behind Anna, Eva turned back to Isabella, her face once more contorted with fury, her high-rising chest heaving violently. Isabella guessed Eva's momentary silence stemmed from selecting which of her recent mistakes to confront. Finally, Eva seemed to settle on the reason she'd entered the room in the first place, repeating her initial words.
"What did I tell you, Consuelo?"
Fortunately, Eva didn't expect Isabella to respond this time, continuing on her own.
"You have no right to choose your future husband!"
"Why?"
Isabella blurted out. This time, without Consuelo's sigh or Eva's shocked, furious expression as if someone had flung a pile of dog shit in her face, Isabella knew she'd said the wrong thing—yet she could swear any modern American in this situation would have asked that very question. She couldn't imagine such a dialogue occurring over a century ago on American soil, founded on liberty and equality. It utterly shattered the values she'd held dear for sixteen years.
"Why? " Eva repeated, her lips trembling. She stared at Isabella as though her own daughter had suddenly become a stranger—which, in truth, she had. "Because you're just a child! You have no idea what's best for you, what's best for this family! Your head is filled with nothing but unrealistic romantic fantasies that won't bring you status or prestige, let alone a life of glory and honor!"
" How do you know I want a glorious and honorable life?" Isabella retorted, tilting her head slightly as she watched Consuelo standing at the far end of the room, looking utterly despairing and sorrowful. She was certain whatever had provoked Eva's outburst must have been the reason Consuelo had died. "What if I only want a quiet life, without status or prestige?"
"You don't know what you want!" Eva roared softly. "A lady of high society never declares her own desires. Your parents decide what you want—your husband, your marriage, your future!"
"And what about your marriage?" Isabella couldn't hold back any longer. Her mother had taught her since childhood to respect elders and never be discourteous, but in her eyes, a mother who drove her own daughter to death was utterly unworthy of any respect. "Was your marriage what you wanted?"
Eva stumbled back two steps, as if Isabella's words had struck her like two slaps across the face. "How dare you speak to your mother like that!" she hissed, her voice strained but noticeably weaker. "You—"
A knock interrupted Eva's tirade. "Dr. Wilson is here, Mrs. Vanderbilt," Anna's voice came from behind the door. "Shall I let him in?"
Eva took a deep breath to steady herself before replying, "Yes, that would be good. Please have him come up to see Miss Consuelo."
She shot Isabella a warning glance before leaving the room. Isabella exhaled in relief, and collapsed onto the chaise longue. Consuelo drifted slowly across the room. As she drew near, Isabella felt waves of chill emanating from her, dispelling the room's heat. Isabella even felt an urge to embrace Consuelo and cool off, but the thought that Consuelo could read her mind made her quickly dismiss the impulse.
"You defied my mother," Consuelo said softly, her expression easing slightly though the pain and sorrow Eva's entrance had caused her remained visible. "You are brave."
"It's nothing," Isabella waved weakly. "Any American would have done the same—though, I've never been to China, so I can't say for sure they all would, but I'm ninety-nine percent certain they would too. Still, I have to say, if my mom were here, she'd definitely shut your mom up. She was vice president of the debate club at NYU—"
"Miss Consuelo, Dr. Wilson is here." The knock sounded again.
What should I do? Isabella jumped up in alarm, having completely forgotten that Eva had left the room because a doctor was coming. She dared not speak, afraid Anna might hear, and could only silently plead with Consuelo for help.
"Stay in bed and cover yourself up," Consuelo instructed. She had already drifted to the farthest corner of the room.
In this weather, not only must I wear long-sleeved pajamas, but I must also cover myself with a blanket? Isabella thought painfully, reluctantly crawling back into bed and pulling the covers up to her shoulders before calling out to the door, "I'm ready!"
There was no response from outside.
You should have said, "Come in." Consuelo's voice echoed in her mind, tinged with a hint of resignation.
"Come in!" Isabella called again.
Your voice shouldn't be so loud, Consuelo spoke once more. It's considered very rude.
Are there other speaking techniques I should be mindful of? Isabella wondered as she conversed with Consuelo, watching a short man in an old-fashioned suit enter the room. He looked quite amiable, easing half of Isabella's anxiety.
Occasionally using French words, Consuelo advised, would make you seem more refined.
"Well, you see, when I said I don't understand French, I meant I truly don't know a single French word," Isabella protested plaintively. "But I can speak somewhat fluent Chinese—does that count?"
Consuelo fell silent again, so Isabella turned her attention to the man who had pulled up a chair beside her bed and was watching her.
"Miss Consuelo," Mr. Wilson said gently, his eyes fixed on her, "your maid mentioned you suddenly fainted after drinking a cup of tea. How are you feeling now? Any headaches, dizziness, or pain?"
Isabella shook her head. Dr. Wilson retrieved a long, monocular-like device from his bag, connected to two simple rubber earpieces—somewhat resembling the front half of a modern stethoscope. "Then, Miss Consuelo, I shall listen to your heart and lungs to ensure there are no issues." Dr. Wilson placed the rubber ends over his ears. "Please turn your body around."
Isabella complied. Dr. Wilson's movements were so gentle she barely felt him do anything before he said, "You may turn back around now, Miss Consuelo."
Can I thank him? Isabella silently asked Consuelo.
Yes, Consuelo said. Hearing those two words felt like a great weight had been lifted. Isabella flashed Dr. Wilson a sweet smile—the same one she used to give Dr. Jennifer—and said, "Thank you, Doctor."
But the thanks should go to my mother. Consuelo finished the sentence in her mind, and Isabella froze.
Dr. Wilson showed no sign of surprise.
"My pleasure, Miss Consuelo," he replied gently, tucking away his stethoscope. "You appear perfectly healthy. I found no signs of any potential health issues. Perhaps the heat simply caused your fainting spell. I'll share this good news with your mother. For now, rest in bed. That will be sufficient."