Here's another out-take, it's been written for aaages, but as there was already one about Isabella, I didn't want to post it. However, Edward's is taking ages to do, so here we are :)

The sultry summer air flooded through the open window, swirling about the canopied bed in which the small child slept restlessly. She twisted and turned in the heat, hitching up her nightgown to her knees and pushing the brocade bedding to her feet in a vain attempt to stay cool. Her usually silky brown hair was damp with sweat and coming loose from the braid her nursemaid had plaited before bed, and she squirmed from the uncomfortable nature of the moisture.

Eventually sat up, infuriated and more tired than she imagined a child of only five could be. She wanted something cool to drink, and wished that it was not too late to run to the well for cold water. Sighing in ire she slipped from her bed, and padded with bare feet to her window ledge. Her shoulders just reached the sill, and she leant against the plaster to feel the breeze upon her face as she looked to the sky above her. There were no stars to be seen, hidden beneath the oppressive cloud cover, if only it would clear, perhaps they may get some respite from the blasted heat.

A noise outside her heavy door made her frown, and she twisted inquisitively towards the sound. She was not sure what it was, but when a sudden rush of feet sounded in the hallway, heading towards her parent's room she ran as fast as her small legs would take her towards the ruckus.

No one noticed her as she slipped from her bedroom; the hallway was dark, lit only by the candles the three maids carried as they volleyed back and forth between the kitchen downstairs and the master's bedroom. There was such a noise emanating from that room, for a moment the girl was scared to venture any further. However, she had always been a fearless tyke, and as such found herself treading carefully to the doorway.

How strange it is, that when confronted with something unknown, yet something that frightened her so, that her ears could pick up sounds she was sure she would have otherwise overlooked. There was the steady clack of her father's heels on the uneven floorboards, as he paced back and forth at the foot of the bed. Then there was the trickle of water, as one of the maids rung out a piece of filthy linen. Before finally the child heard a sound that truly sent shivers through her, it was the rasping breath and hoarse screams of her mother, labouring at something unknown to her.

Unable to take the not knowing any longer, she stepped swiftly into the room, only afterwards wishing that she hadn't. Upon blood stained bed clothes was her mother, pale as the once white sheets, and gritting her teeth as though in an inordinate amount of pain. Her legs were bent to her chest and spread, had the girl not been so small she knew her mother would have been entirely exposed to her.

Her father looked barely better than her mother. His eyes were frantic, looking for something to do, something to help with, as he paced and manically murmured beneath his breath. Neither noticed her in her spot beside the door.

The maids all rushed around her, chattering and muttering beneath their breath, the child couldn't make out a word, and so focused all her attention upon her mother. She had never seen the woman so dishevelled; Catherine Swan prided herself on her poise and grace. She was the epitome of society, her pale complexion was natural and rivalled by none except her own daughter. Catherine held herself with such gravitas, the child was so jealous of her mother.

Some would say she was cold, for in polite company she treat her daughter as anyone else would. The girl had a wet nurse, and nurse maid, someone to tutor her and take for her turns about their gardens. She was watched constantly, though hardly ever by her own parents. However, this was not such a true reflection on life in the Swan household, Catherine and Charles were the best of parents, and doted upon their daughter like no one else. The child wondered where her mother's soft tones had gone amidst the grunts and screams that filled the room.

Suddenly, her mother slumped to the bed, and her father rushed towards it, only to be pushed back by one of the maids. The girl had no problems hearing her father's raised voice as he shouted, "She's my wife, damnit, let me through."

In fear, the nurse did just that.

She watched as her father fell at her mother's bed side, holding tight to her limp hand and kissing it roughly. He was whispering something she couldn't hear, and she clung tight to her cotton shift in fear of what was occurring, though she was far too curious to turn back to her hot room.

Her father managed to coax her mother up, and he shifted to sit behind her for what the child knew was to be the final laborious action. There was a heaviness to the air, a sense of lethargy that permeated all; were she not so anxious she was sure she would have been overcome by it.

All moved fast then, as she watched her mother tense and grit her teeth in obvious pain. However, she did no scream, as she had been, there was no noise as everyone stood still, all silently waiting though for what she had no clue. When all of a sudden there was a cry, a sound which she recognised though she had had no first hand knowledge of the subject, it was a child, a baby, and he was screaming as though the world was caving in.

The girl was so caught up in the sight of this child, arriving from God knows where and covered in all sorts of filth, that she did not at first notice how her mother had stilled. She watched instead as one of the maids wrapped the baby, a boy, in cloth and took him to a prepared pale to be cleaned. It was her father's cries to her mother than finally rowsed her.

He was shaking her, as tears fell from his eyes. The girl was shocked, she had never seen her father cry, and to see it then was most disturbing. Tentatively she took a step towards the bed, creaking a floorboard and causing the second maid to startle towards her.

"Isabella!" she exclaimed, as she attempted to shield the view of the bed from the girl.

Isabella ignored this and instead dove around the maid's legs towards the bed post, she vaulted with ease onto the mattress. "Mother?" She questioned, daring not to go near the greying visage of her once beautiful mother.

Catherine's red hair, which had always matched her firy disposition was in disarray, and her father wept unashamedly into it. Isabella did not understand. What had happened to make her father so dreadfully unhappy? Her brow furrowed as she attempted to work out this conundrum, her eyes finally settling on her mother's glassy brown eyes. It was then that it hit her; her mother was dead.

The child which had killed her mother was to be housed in the nursery, which was but a door away from Isabella's own room. She hated the very idea of it. The nurses had all tried to tell her, to teach her that it hadn't been Henry's fault, that he was but a babe and therefore could not be responsible for their mother's death; Isabella did not believe them. It was his coming into the world that had taken the life from their home, he had removed the sun which was her mother and replaced it which such a darkness in her father. Resentment had never burned so brightly in the heart of such a young child as it did in Isabella's.

For the first week of his life she would not be in the same room as him. Instead she took her lessons in the kitchen, with the maids. She refused to play in the nursery and though it often rained she played outside; as far from the deadly babe as she could manage it.

However, seven days since he had violently entered the world Isabella was becoming curious. It was a burning within her that threatened to scorch all if it was to be denied. So, on the eighth night, after tossing and turning fitfully in her sleep, she crept once again from her bed, and tiptoed down the hall to the door to the nursery. His cradle was in the very centre of the room, backed up against the wall. His wet nurse slept upon a rather modest bed close by, though Isabella could smell the rum on her breath and knew she would not be waking anytime soon.

Silently she crept to the tiny bed, and peered over the edge. It was the first time she had truly seen her little brother, and once she had she wondered at how she had ignored his existence for so long. He was so tiny. Henry's skin was as pale as their mother's had been, he had a small nose but a rather prominent chin. His forehead was wide, though it puckered as he slept, and Isabella found herself wondered at what he dreamt of. There was a fine smattering of hair on his round head, and even in the moonlight Isabella could see that it was slightly red, as their mother's had been. Isabella left his room that night feeling more foolish than she ever had, and she determined that the next day she would love her brother as her mother would have wanted her to.

However, fate has a way of spoiling even the best of plans. The next day Isabella woke to find the household in tatters. Her father, whom she had not seen for near to a week was pacing the hall outside her room, as she left after attempting to dress herself. Her maid had not awoken as she usually did, and so Isabella had taken it upon herself to dress. She was rather proud of her efforts, though she wore no stockings as the material was far too tricky for her small hands.

"Father?" She said, frowning at his dishevelled attire.

He turned deep brown eyes on her, and his expression softened as he looked upon her. She had always been her father's daughter, and it pained her so to see him unhappy. With a crack to his knees to bent down, so as to gaze straight into her eyes. All around him his life was falling to pieces, he was determined that Isabella would have the life he always imagined of her.

"Your little brother has taken ill," he said. He had never lied to her, and he never spoke to her like a child.

"Ill?"

"Yes, there is a man with him now, though I doubt he will have anything helpful to say."

Isabella frowned, before wrapping her small arms around her father's impressive shoulders. "They never do, father." His morose chuckle was music to her ears.

The man who exited the nursery was dressed in black, as was typical of those in the medical profession. He advised cool baths and perhaps a course of leeches to remove the rash which was steadily spreading across the babes lower limbs. Charles thanked him, paid him, and sent him on his way, having no intention to listen to any of his advice, though he did order the maids to draw a cold bath for his son.

The next four days were tense, and Isabella spent as much time as they would allow her to in the nursery, sitting beside her brother as he tossed and turned and cried. Isabella didn't know what to do, had no idea how to help him, though she wanted nothing more. On the fifth day Isabella awoke just as the dawn was breaking, and knew something was wrong. She ran like the hounds of hell were behind her into the nursery, and to her brothers bed side, though she knew what would be awaiting her.

For the first time in five days her brother was cold, colder than was natural. His skin was grey and his chest did not move. He was still.

Isabella was not naive, she never had been, she knew everyone was born and everyone died, her mother had been proof of that. However, death was something that happened to those who had lived. To people who had grown, and married, who had had children of their own and owned houses. It happened to people of lower standing who dwelled in squalor in the cities. It did not happen to two week old babes who had done nothing but deigned to be alive. Henry could have been a great man, he could have owned acres of land and had a beautiful wife.

She stood silent by her brother's bed side as the sun rose and broke, as the wet nurse screamed and called for her father. She did not speak even as her father picked her up and into his arms and carried her from the house. Her eyes had been opened, and Isabella wanted nothing but for them to remain closed.

Let me know what you think :)