The Refrain

Philadelphia, May 1775

The strangest thing happens to ones world and truths when, so immersed in the pretenses your own infallibility, we ceases to consider the magnitude of the human will. The endless cycle of life continues: men make gods, gods rule men, men rebel, and men make new gods. A bit of revolution does the soul well, salve to a bruised spirit, but too much can drown the fragile system.

Previously, I'd not allowed a thought for those in revolt of the King, and perhaps I continue to shield my eyes to the disillusionment around me. I am ever a countess, a sworn subject of the Crown, and silly rebellions are little more than a buzzing fly I swat away from my face and powdered hair. Truly, I'd prefer to never think of the fighting which began less than a month ago, nor its boils and pus, infected and pouring from the wounded colonies.

Yet, it was never so very easily put aside than in times like these—my reprieve—an orchestra of peace, hiding me away in its bosom of sound.

A sudden, sharp note of the violin pierces the still air like a musket shot, and it's begun—both outside in the countryside and the hearts of the rebelling compatriots, and within this great hall. The flute and the cello join the soirée, and the streets fill with marching boots, echoing on cobblestone roads. The clarinet and piano are summoned in the midst of erupting discord just beyond the gold and cream walls, voices raised in riotous union.

I absorb it all as if the world won't crumble away beneath my feet. For if I permit myself to surrender a moment to the notion that life as I've always known it may be upheaved, I shall never resurface from the idea.

My four-and-twenty years seem but a blur in a dingy mirror of reflection as I look to the past. Wife for seven years, mother for six, I cannot remember what it was like to be alone. I've never been companionless, not in all those years, but I am very much alone now.

Renee, my elder sister, and her husband, Sir Charles Swan, took up residence in Philadelphia before I could lace my own shoes, and she is little more than an absent acquaintance to me. She breakfasts alone in her room, luncheons with friends, and though I'm at times invited, I seldom find the thought of ladies so matured in years to be enjoyable company. Dinner is the only time we spend together, my sister and I, and even then the occasion is rarer and rarer. She does not approve of the associations I keep.

None are lords and ladies, and though all are of a certain high standard of familial ranking, most are adulterers, gamblers, blasphemers, or those "terrible humanists," as they've been so aptly named by my dear sister. They're called names by Renee, and they call each other names even more so. All enjoy the imagined honor of combat—whichever side they're on–but I don't play their war games. None question me, or my status as a loyal subject of King George.

The orchestra plucks the strands of their instruments with practiced ease, gracefully pressing bows over strings until the room fills with melodies and harmonies, but it sings only for me. Harmony is the opposite of melody, yet, on its own, the sound is bitter and unruly. I, on my own, am biting and wayward. The loneliness seeps through the marrow of my bones, and nothing can be done to ease my suffering. My son was torn from my by the spirits, my daughter sent nearly as far, and I grow numb to the world pressing the steel of war into my jugular.

"Ah, Lady Carlisle," a boisterous salutation rings through a crowded hallway at the intermission. Mrs. Jane Brunholdt is a sight sillier than any I've beheld in my months in the Colonies. Attempting the fashions of the Europeans has failed her, and I'm hard pressed to still my tongue from telling her so. She rouges her cloud-pale cheeks so tremendously, I've oftentimes wondered if she isn't of the walking dead. Nevertheless, I curtsey in the slightest of acknowledgments as she and her husband, a German man of abundant wealth and as much weight padding his bulging middle, near.

"Good day, Mr. and Mrs. Brunholdt," I greet the couple. He stands like a toad on a lillypad, mouth hanging ajar and hungry for another meal, while she flutters about both of us with the temperament of a mad dragonfly. They test my patience with each passing second. "How are you enjoying the symphony?" Though society dictates I remain polite and poised, I know the quickest way free of the unwanted attentions of Felix and Jane Brunholdt is to converse lightly and excuse myself as quickly as possible.

"It's ravishing, really," Mrs. Brunholdt raves with her most favorite of words. Everything is ravishing in her own mind. "Do you not agree, Husband?"

"Indeed," he commends. "Ravishing, quite so."

I've not been in their presence but two minutes, and already I could cry of boredom and the wanting of escape. I open the ivory fan in my hand with the flick of a wrist, and flutter it about. "It's been lovely," I lie, "but I must return to my box. Good day to y—"

"Oh, but Countess," the toad-man interrupts my flight. "I meant to congratulate you on your lord husband's commission!"

Words falter on my tongue for the briefest moment before I regain my composure. We may be estranged, but I do so hate that he's permitting himself to take up arms in this ghastly war. The words aren't news to me, since I received word from my husband only yesterday—a short missive to say he's taken a post as General in His Majesty's Royal Army. It's little more than another title to decorate his ego as he dressed and decorated me before I was set aside like a doll he'd grown tired of. Anger is a bitter taste on my tongue, even now that a year has passed since I buried my child and our marriage began to degenerate.

"I'm sure the Lady Carlisle is pleased with His Lord's decisions," the voice of the dear Mr. Jefferson rescues me. "Pray excuse us." He turns me toward the grand staircase and urges me forward.

We reach my balcony box in silence, and I show no emotion until the doors and heavy velvet curtain are drawn behind us. "Oh, Thomas," I sob from a place hidden deep behind my ribs. "What is happening here?" I demand. "Why are you encouraging this bloody fiasco? I already have a dead son, and soon I may have a dead husband as well!"

"Isabella," he shushes me with a gentle hum, and lifts a hanky to my cheeks, missing one tear as it rolls down my chin and falls to my violet gown. "You haven't yet grasped the fullness of liberty, my dear. Once you've known its savor, there will be no return."

"You are a traitor to the Crown, you know, with your beliefs?" I only half meant the words. My oldest friend could never be a true traitor in my eyes. He simply had priorities in his life which I could not share.

"Only in the eyes of some, Isabella," he admits. "But I'm not here to discuss rebellion, nor your husband."

"No, no, Thomas," I say and dry my eyes. "Your precious Congress is to convene. I do hear the local gossip, you know?"

"Indeed, and I mean to petition for a semblance of peace, but, alas, this is not the reason for my presence here and now."

"Then why?" I ask.

"I've inquired into the wellness of Lady Liza—" my heart seizes as the air between us holds my daughter's name "—and I believe it possible to bring her back to you. That is," he continued, "if you'll permit me."

So full of jubilation, I laugh aloud and draw the eyes of those in the seats below. "Permit you?" I wonder. "I'd be disappointed if I didn't believe you've already begun planning her voyage!"

"He certainly has," a sure, beautiful Irish-Bostonian voice greets from the door of my box. Two months have come and gone since last I'd seen Mr. Edward Cullen, but he remains as striking as my memory recalls. And even now, there is a notable difference in his appearance: a blue coat with pewter buttons dresses his person, and an officer's sword is sheathed at his waist.

"I see you're playing their children's games," I acknowledge his uniform, and turn my eyes, though not my attention, back to Jefferson. "Has he even seen his twentieth year? A lieutenant, Thomas, really?" I question. "You men are ready to slay dragons, or yourselves be slain, I see."

Jefferson covers his mouth to hide a smile. "Young Cullen here is twenty-one already, and my personal escort to Congress. His commander has been gracious enough to allow him into my services."

I want to say something scathing; I want to dismiss the proud Patriot and my friend as traitors and the lowest forms of vermin; I want a many number of things, but as Mr. Cullen bows in gallantry before me and brushes a kiss above the emerald on my finger, I've no will to hold to those wants. Maybe later.

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Author's note: We will have regular Sunday evening updates. Thanks for reading and reviewing. Enjoy! xo Quinn