Brilliance: A Story Of Romance & Fairies

Chapter II:

Heavenly Under Beauty's Embrace

June 14, 1911—Day One

"Of course it's unfair. We're women… Our choices are never easy."—Ruth Dewitt Bukater, Titanic

Isabella wandered slowly down the deck; admiring the cool waves of the ocean. It was evening, and the previous hours were hell—her daydreams being consumed with vivid, horrid mages of a brutal wedding between her and Jacob: his cruel smirk following her into her thoughts. He never once harmed her—in fact, he cared for her, that much was clear: so possessively—but it seemed as if she was testing his patience each day. She could see the visible impatience he had for her "insolence," as he once commented; her sheer ability to voice every single thought that slipped across her mind. It annoyed him greatly, but why sew her lips shut and pretend to be the little porcelain doll he imagines her to be?

"Hello, Miss Isabella."

Puzzled by the optimistic voice, she halted in her steps, and stared to her side. She nearly gasped at the sight of Edward Cullen, arms crossed; but felt a wave of assurance cross her path as she realized it was the family maid, Alice, who had spoken. When Isabella had awoken from her faint the previous hours before, she had exchanged a few brief words with the kind girl, who, surprisingly, was older—18.

"How are you this fine evening? You're not faint, right? Are you well?"

Isabella smiled sweetly. "Yes, well. And yourself?"

"Fine."

"And how about you, Mr.—"

"Fine," Edward intervened, his voice gruff. Folding her arms across her chest, she tilted her head indignantly and scowled furiously at him. "There's no need to be snappish with me." His eyes hardened as he turned his eyes onto her; never tearing them away. She held firm—her white gown gleaming in the bright sun, while he lingered under the shade. Alice stepped away, watching them cautiously.

"How am I being snappish?"

"By your cold tone—"

"Maybe this is my normal tone," Edward lashed out tauntingly.

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "And how am I supposed to know that you're normally a moody, foul man?"

"You're not," he responded dryly, "You merely judge upon sight, Isabella. I know." He took a step closer, forcing her to stumble back. "You only see wealth and class, but never personality." Her mouth fell open and her eyes widened drastically.

"No I—"

"Why else would you marry the equally foul Jacob Black?"

She gritted her teeth, eyes murderous. "You know nothing of what my situation is."

"Of how you'll be poor so you have to force yourself onto a rich man?" Edward smiled smugly; something far worse than Jacob's. "Isabella, it's been a pleasure, but I must speak with humans I care for." Reeling around on his heel, he stormed away. Isabella's back leaned against the railing as her chest heaved with the pressure of anger swelling in her chest. Alice chewed on her lip and gazed all around, as though wishing for some help.

"Are you—"

"I'll be fine," Isabella snapped childishly.

"I'm terribly sorry about his accusations," Alice hastily proclaimed, "He's always been a snappy man."

"That doesn't give him right to judge people so harshly."

"… I know. I'm sorry."

Isabella pressed a tentative hand on her own heart, willing its irate pace to cool. "Don't be, Alice."

"But I've seen you, also," Alice continued, her words a bit reluctant, "How you look upon everyone, particularly high class people, with disdain and prejudice. I can not blame you because of the way people typically act, but you must know, Isabella… Not everyone can be judged simply by comparing their wealth and status." She smoothed her fingers through her tight curls. "I know that Jasper is not like most."

Isabella, frowning, began sauntering slowly toward the entrance to the lounge room, contemplating Alice's words, just as the maid trailed closely behind, as if worried that her words ignited even more of Isabella's passionate temper. As they strolled down the open hallway, a group of girls leaned into one another and whispered harshly, their eyes directed toward Isabella and Alice.

"They don't like me being so close to you. I don't belong with people such as yourself," Alice murmured.

Isabella waved her hand dismissively. "Let them gossip and whisper—let see if I give a damn."

"Language," Alice muttered coldly.

"I suppose a maid scolding me is the reason for their gossip," Isabella snickered, propelling Alice to lower her eyes, seemingly insulted by the statement. Isabella, slightly remorseful, merely ignored it, and continued speaking, "Alice, if you haven't noticed, I'm not the entirely proper, typical woman. I am snide to my fiancé"—she spat out the word—"and dull gossip never touches my anger."

"Of course you're the typical first class woman," Alice snapped, her voice almost too loud.

Isabella halted in her tracks and turned around to gaze into the maid's burning eyes. "What?" Isabella hissed under her breath, as she pulled Alice away from the pathway of walking men and women; the group of girls watching excitedly from afar.

"Because you can stick up to your lover, you think you deserve a metal presented by the queen and king?" Alice mocked. "Isabella, you may not think it, but I know you lavish in the power you've been given—how much you thrive on tormenting others simply to help ease the pain of being in this society. You strut about, proud that you can curse, insult, and have more esteem than most women and men. But in the end, when you're done wearing that shiny golden crown on your head, sooner or later, all the damage will come toppling back onto you, and you'll fall into the miserable hole that everyone in this world lives in. Isabella, you are a cruel queen… your cruelty will backfire."

Isabella, somewhat numb from her words, narrowed her eyes. "Are you saying I'll be miserable forever?"

"No," Alice whispered, her tone losing its heated zeal, "First, you will hit that misery, but… something bright, like the rays of sunshine, will find your heart. You're a survivor, Isabella… You'll make it through…" Bowing her head, Alice ambled away, ignoring everyone's gaze as she disappeared behind a corner. Isabella simply remained rooted to the spot, trying to unravel the meaning behind Alice's confident words of wisdom. She was a maid, not some prophetess like the Trojan, Cassandra. No, Alice's words were meaningless…

Then why did they feel so terrible right and wonderful?

The night was tremendous, with everyone sitting in the dinner hall, engrossed in conversation and luscious meals. Isabella gazed out the window, watching the silver moon hover above the sea; reflecting its beaming light like a mirror. The waves were calm; not one ripple or rising wave. The navy sky burned with millions of stars, maybe planets. Once in awhile, the diamond prisms from the chandeliers hit Isabella's sight, forcing her to blink back the spots in her vision. A hearth, framed with gold, held a fire within in it that cast flames across the wall and emanated warmth. The murmuring throughout the room resembled the gentle humming of some instrument; a band—violins, cellos, and a grand piano—played their songs: bows flicking against the strings and fingers dancing on the keys, creating a delicate musical flow between each instrument.

"I can not wait to see the bridesmaids' gowns," Renee rambled, her eyes flickering excitedly from each member of the dinner table: Jacob Black, Billy Black, Rachel and Rebecca Black, Josephine and Jack Stanley (with their lively, sixteen-year-old daughter, Jesse), and Edna Newton, along with her son, Michael, the womanizing seventeen-year-old. Jesse and Josephine paid close attention to Renee's words, while Jack appeared seemingly lost in the fast-moving words of the women.

Josephine and Jack Stanley were a clear example of true love—Jack being a heir to a fortune and having willingly married Josephine, a Frenchwoman who had been on the streets, painting, with nothing but pennies in her pocket. Needless to say, Jack's mother—especially after the death of her husband—didn't approve of the relationship.

Edna Newton, after losing her husband, was leaving to search for a new one—one with attractive looks and a fine amount of money. Isabella shifted uncomfortably under Michael desiring eyes, while Jesse sent Isabella peeved glares. Of course, unlike Jesse, Isabella found nothing appealing about Michael, especially whenever he launched himself into his "I am a God" speech.

"The fabric is of fine, French"—Josephine's eyes brightened—"silk, and the color of pure romance—burgundy!" She clapped her hands delightfully together and Isabella wondered why she wasn't bouncing up and down in her seat yet. "Oh, I need to thank Madame Charlotte soon!"

"And when will the wedding take place?" Jesse prompted lightly.

Jacob, who had been tapping the table, answered, with complete enthusiasm, "July 10—nearly a month after we arrive in England. We'll have to travel all the way to Colne, Lancashire, where some distant relatives reside of the Black Family. They couldn't take America, apparently"—a burst of short laughter erupted—"but yes, the date is set for July 10."

"In the warm glow of summer?" Jesse gushed happily, "How lucky you are, Isabella." Jack shook his head amusingly at his daughter, knowing that there was no "warm glow" in the time of summer in England—more of a cool breeze, fresh and clean in the lungs.

Each pair of eyes shifted in Isabella's direction, but she made no notice that her name had been called—her pale brown orbs trained to the sea outside the window. Jacob, who sat near her, leaned to the side and muttered: "Isabella, look up and pay attention." Her heart pounded at his crisp breath brushing into her neck. Willing her chilled skin to warm, she turned her eyes to the table and plastered a charming smile to her face.

"Yes, thank you."

Jacob tipped back approvingly.

"And how will the bridal gown appear?" Edna inquired.

Renee stroked her chin thoughtfully, trying to recall the image of the gown Isabella had decided to buy (rather apathetically). "The sleeves puffed at the shoulders, and the top half was smooth, white satin. The bottom half was netted with peach-colored tulle. A decorative lace hemming lined the bottom, and it is rather fashionable, says Madame Charlotte."

"Yes, fashionable," Jesse agreed, already picturing the gown in her head; most probably on her own flimsy body rather than on Isabella.

"Oh, oh, oh!" Edna fanned her face in excitement and stood suddenly, the seat scraping back; waving her hands to someone and gesturing to the five empty seats Isabella had been musing on—late arrivals, it seemed. But her eyes, after adjusting through the bright haze of the crystal shine, hardened as Edward approached, along with the rest of his family—Carlisle Hale, Esme Cullen, Jasper and Rosalie Hale. They were extraordinary beings, each heavenly and angelic, especially in the prisms of the diamond chandeliers. "Come sit, please!"

Jacob leaned against her, whispering frostily, "Rather rude to arrive late, don't you think?"

Smiling falsely, Isabella nodded for his benefit; but she quickly went back to admiring each of the Cullen/Hale family, her eyes especially dazzled by Edward; her mind screaming at her to not fall for his attractiveness, for he was rude and malicious.

Rosalie Hale sauntered forward, clad in a crimson gown embedded with silvery sequins; the hem of her gown fixed with golden lace. A pearl necklace draped around her neck, further proving the family's wealth. Her skin was flawless, and her cheeks pinched with an attractive shade of rose red. Although it seemed unintentional, she was the more sexual of the two women (herself and Esme). The passionate color of her gown coupled with her magnificently carved figure provided to her sexual aura. No doubt that most men swooned around her; already, Jesse appeared jade with envy.

Esme sported a peach gown; the elbow-length gloves on her arms being a bright, crisp gold. A necklace dangled around her slender neck—a locket, probably holding a photo or two of value within it. Her dark, fine curls were glossy and peeled to one side; pretty earrings in her ears. An aroma of elegance seeped from her delicate frame—classy: more so than most women and men.

Carlisle, Jasper, and Edward sported shining, finely pressed suits; Jasper and Carlisle's blonde tendrils were slicked back and smooth, but apparently, Edward opted to have his bronze hair remain a mess framing his face… And Isabella felt the overwhelming pressure of infatuation consume her frail heart once realizing how much it appealed to her. Grasping the glass of champagne, she tipped back her head and took an unladylike amount—thankfully, with no one noticing, especially Jacob. The bitter, yet satisfying tinge flowed down her throat, shredding her chest apart to help make her chaotic emotions disperse for a few brief moments.

"Good evening, Carlisle," Jack greeted warmly—glad to be in the company of men (Billy rarely spoke and Isabella had a faint feeling that Jack felt unpleasant feelings toward Jacob). Carlisle sat beside Jack: Esme beside her husband, then Rosalie, then Jasper, and lastly, Edward—he never once glimpsed at her, probably not wanting to spike her anger or his own. Already, Isabella could feel the animalistic hatred triggered toward him. It was worse now that he sat so dangerously close to her; their body warmth touching.

-:-

Table Arrangement

Edna…Michael…Jesse…Josephine…Jack…Carlisle

Renee………………………………………………………………… Esme

No One ………………………………………………………………….. Rosalie
Billy……………………………………………………………… Jasper

Rachel…Rebecca…Jacob…Isabella…Edward

-:-

"Good evening to you, also," Carlisle replied silkily.

Jesse's lips jutted as Michael fawned over Rosalie, who in turn, merely placed the napkin on her lap, crossed her legs, and smiled sweetly at the entire table; her eyes, however, appeared stressed. Instantly, Edna came forth, "May I introduce you to the dinner party?" She gestured to each of us, introduced our names, and leaving Jesse last—having started with Renee.

"Your name is Jesse?" Rosalie asked politely, with a bitterness in her words, "Three J's in the family?"

Jesse nodded rapidly.

"But… isn't Jesse a boy's name?"

Now, Jesse flushed red—humiliated—as she stared at the silverware on the table. However, Jack broke out into boisterous laughter as he explained humorously, "Well, my little Josephine over here thought it a pretty name, not even knowing it was meant for a man"—Josephine bashed her eyelashes adorably at her husband—"and at that time, she could barely speak a word of English! Luckily, I knew a little French."

"It was most terrible of me," Josephine giggled, her French accent lacing through her words.

Isabella, unlike the others, did not laugh. Instead, she stared at Rosalie, wondering how such a woman—living with a kind sibling and generous parents—could become such a cruel beast of a woman. Maybe it was her beauty—so superior over everyone else—that fueled her spitefulness. Not daring to settle on the thought, Isabella folded her arms over her lap and began tapping her foot on the carpet, impatient for the meal to arrive.

"Stop tapping your foot," Jacob ordered automatically.

Without a second's thought, Isabella halted the movement, leveled the slumping of her shoulders, and stared straight ahead. From the corner of her eye, she saw Edward grimace, ostensibly disgusted. Locking her jaw, Isabella (not wanting to show any sign of weakness), crossed her legs, pulled out her turquoise cigarette holder, and struck a match and held it under the cigarette. Once lit, she felt a wave of relief once seeing that nobody cared; not even Jacob, who was engrossed in a conversation that the table was paying attention to: something Josephine was saying about her poor travels in childhood with a poverty-ridden family; how her love for Jack bloomed. It was all rather tragic, but Isabella could only take in the intoxicating bitterness drying her throat and making her even more ravenous for their meal.

Edward's nostrils flared in blatant repulsion. "Must you smoke now?"

"Maybe…" Inhaling another puff of the shady smoke, she tauntingly blew it in his direction; a vindictive smirk forming on her face. He cursed under his breath and craned his neck so that he could speak quietly with Jasper, whose expression was that of boredom.

"—and I couldn't help it!" Josephine burbled energetically, still on about her childhood and early years, "Jack here was so handsome and sleek in his suit and tie that I just had to paint him. I was even more shocked when he actually agreed. Most of the time, people often looked at me with revulsion and such, but he posed perfectly for hours… all for me!"

"You were beautiful," Jack supplied soothingly; honestly. Yes, Josephine was an exotic Frenchwoman—copper, glossy flesh and luxurious black tresses that tumbled to her waist (at the moment, pulled into a curly bun held up by a butterfly pin). Her style of attire was completely French—from the colors (turquoise, black, golden yellow) to the lace and bows of her gown. However, it was her eyes that fascinated Isabella: a sea of turquoise-emerald. Not wanting to feel even more captivated, Isabella took in another smoke; scratching at her throat.

Isabella frowned with displeasure as Michael continued gazing—rather pointedly—at her chest, primarily around where the curves of her breast began forming. Gritting her teeth, she loosened her bun slightly, allowing curls to tumble free, and placed a large proportion of them in front of her chest, thus covering his view. Visibly, Michael's inane smile vanished, and he opted to stare now at Rosalie, who seemed at ease with revealing all she could; her voice melodic and seductive (Isabella could not tell if it was intentional or not).

"Rose sure is enjoying herself," Isabella heard Jasper murmur to Edward.

"She always finds a way," Edward agreed sardonically.

Isabella, now anxious from the hunger, began toying with her silver, pearly collar necklace; the smooth texture cold against her skin. As she gazed into her champagne glass, her reflection expanded in her eyes—showing what she was groomed to be. Her attire most resembled a tea gown—loose and flexible, it was a pale, light shade of pink (a salmon color), with a silky white fabric corset-dress tucked under. The gown (particularly the color) accented well with her cream-colored skin, but did little to show the full extent of her curves (unlike the other women at the table, mainly Rosalie). Most often, she cared little about showing off for her 'fiancé', but at the moment, her body wanted nothing more than to gloat about how beautiful she could be, in front of Edward—to show that she, too, could be a dazzling being.

But her skin, although creamy, was near translucent: ivory and almost unhealthy-looking. Her lips were slightly too full and large for her face, but some people often commented that it was "lovely" and "luscious". And her hair lacked shimmer and shine, mostly more of a pale brown rather than a glistening mahogany. As these thoughts progressed, Isabella felt her air of esteem and pride sink to the floor.

"Ah, finally," Isabella heard Rebecca sigh happily, "Our dinner has arrived."

"Becky, you cow!" Rachel teased playfully in her shrill voice.

Isabella rolled her eyes, but felt suddenly gleeful as a silver plate was placed before her; then to the remainder of the table—caviar, with all its mushy, garbled black mess. Grabbing the appropriate utensil, she felt the desire to spoon it all into her mouth (after all, there was barely any of her plate), but not wanting to mortify herself or Jacob, she merely took simple, smart bites. Although not so pleasurable on her tongue, Isabella forced it into her throat; just as she's done since the first time she first tasted it.

"Oh, you ferocious cow!" Rachel cried toward her sister, who only had a thumb-sized amount.

"The lobster will come soon," Edward informed Jasper.

It was an American Delicacy and some of the English aboard the ship felt confused by this difference: mostly seafood delicacies, that is. But yes, Americans did seem to hold an affectionate spot for the sea—enough to tear away its creatures and boil them alive. Once again, the conversation ignited, further tiring Isabella greatly. Her back ached from sitting so straightly. A minor pain lingered in her head; probably from the bright lighting of the room.

"So," Jasper began, startling Isabella, for he was speaking to her, "I see that you've made friends with our maid, Alice?"

Isabella cocked her head and smiled. "Yes."

"That's good," Jasper whispered, "Good for her to have friends."

"You're friends with a maid?" Edward asked, apparently bemused.

"Yes, why wouldn't I be?" she challenged.

"I wouldn't expect it to be very classy to someone such as yourself," Edward answered with a tone of mocking. Her heart beat wildly with the anger boiling her blood. Puckering her lips angrily, Isabella turned her body away from him and continued eating; attempting to pretend that he didn't exist. This seemed to please him greatly, for he chuckled, however mirthlessly.

"What a wonderful evening," Isabella said sarcastically.

"I'm glad you're having a great time," Jacob replied, overhearing her statement and not detecting the sarcasm in her tone.

"Yes, I've been making some fantastic friends." She eyed Edward, who merely grunted in return. Beside him, Jasper sighed dramatically and shook his head at his brother, as if scolding a foolish child.

"He'll come through," Jasper assured, not caring that Edward heard.

Isabella, taking once glance at Edward, scoffed. "Yes, just when hell freezes over."

Jasper sputtered a laugh.

Isabella gripped the wooden bedpost as Petunia untied her corset, a bit roughly and impatiently. "If you didn't tie it so harshly in the first place, it'd be less of an effort to undo," she whined, pushing Petunia to unfasten the lacings even more painfully—a way of retaliation, probably, against her complaints. The corset finally unloosened, the full extent of oxygen shoved into Isabella's stomach; the pure ecstasy of release and freedom finding her body.

Petunia wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. "My, that took a lot of energy." Sniffling, she began patting the bed sheets; smoothing them down and preparing them for when Isabella would sleep. Muttering a goodnight, Petunia rushed out of the room, leaving Isabella to flop down on the bed, exhausted. Even after so long, prancing around and dressing up everyday still wore her down. Sometimes, when the moon was full and the insects singing, she found her thoughts wandering into another land. She couldn't understand. Why do women not receive the rightness they—

"Isabella?" a familiar voice whispered. Sure enough, Alice stepped cautiously into the room, smiling weakly. The light under the lampshades flicked shadows against her face, creating a shadow figure behind her tiny frame.

She slipped to her feet, befuddled. "A-Alice… what are you doing here, so late at night?" Alice quietly shut the door and sat down on the bed, patting the spot beside her. Isabella, hesitant, perched down. She was only clad in her nightgown: a thin white cloth. Shifting her feet, feeling awkward, Isabella waited for the maid to speak; to voice the reason behind this late night visit.

"I know that you are miserable," Alice explained knowingly, "I've seen it on your face."

"I suppose I can be melancholy sometimes," Isabella agreed wryly.

"Sometimes?" Alice's thin eyebrows flew up. "More like most of your waking hours! From dawn to midnight, you walk about the ship, consumed by all that somberness building in your body. For those such as myself, who are insightful, I can see the truth—"

"Like a witch," Isabella muttered.

"—and I don't want you to do anything rash or impulsive." She gingerly cupped Isabella's cold hand. "You can tell me everything you've been thinking, and I know how dreamy you are." She giggled sweetly. "What good of your opinions if nobody hears them?"

Isabella blinked, truly stunned by this petite woman. Finally, she compiled all that she wanted the world to know, and opened up with the first words that trailed across her mind. "Why is it that women are so harshly raped of their choices and rights?"

"I say," Alice began deviously, "That we go on a strike—us women—and refuse to have any sort of intercourse"—Isabella's eyes widened dramatically, her mouth dropping open in astonishment—"and see how the men survive without their precious generation of strong, sturdy men."

Isabella snickered. "Yes, but how would your dear Rosalie ever survive…?"

A flicker of confusion momentarily blinded Alice's amusement. She leaned toward Isabella, wondering: "What do you mean?"

"Well, hasn't she…?"

Finally catching on, Alice jerked back and began shaking her head quickly, back and forth, "Oh, no, no, no, no! Heaven's no!" She closed her eyes, her chest heaving as she attempted to manage a breath through the excitement in her stomach. Isabella continued to stare, perplexed as to why such a captivating siren such as Rosalie would never have… "She's still chaste," Alice summed.

"That's… nice."

"I know, with all her enticing words and such that she'd seem like a… whore…" Alice cringed. "But no, Rosalie has standards and she keeps to them. She's a moral woman searching for love, that is clear."

"Hmm… Don't we all desire love?"

Alice's hazel eyes softened. "I know that you want to love."

"I find it terrible that I can not love my fiancé," Isabella groaned, as she fell onto her back. The soft wool pressed comfortably against her rigid back. Rubbing her temples, she pressed her lips into a firm line. "In fact, Jacob is a man that I should never be forced to marry!"

"Forced to marry?" Alice blanched. "You're being forced?"

"No…" Isabella sat up and gazed at the walls. "Well, yes… by my conscious. If I marry him, then my mother won't have to slave for the remainder of her life. I don't want to be a seamstress or anything of that, but I'd feel even more remorseful if my mother was forced to become one!"

Alice sighed knowingly. "So you're pulling this façade to save your mother?"

"Yes."

"To me, that's just—"

They quieted at the sound of running footsteps pattering just outside the door. Bolting out of her bed, Isabella yanked open the door, just in time to see a girl turn the corner, blonde hair flaying about her head. Alice hissed from behind; muttering some curse words. "Damn that Laura."

"Who is Laura?"

"Another of the maids," Alice explained gruffly, "And I fear that she's just overheard our conversation." Seeing no hint of dread on Isabella's face, Alice added, "She's obsessed with gossip and scandal, and will use this information in any way she can to spite you." A reassuring smile immediately curled up Alice's lips. "But luckily, you're not one to be easily spited."

"But my mother is," Isabella whispered solemnly.