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The deep discordant chime of empty beer bottles tapping against one another returned me from my beautiful, painful memory to continue my tale to Liam.
After we were…together, naturally it was difficult for two young people to find enough alone time. Five weeks past and all we had found time for were kisses and touches and innuendos that we were eager to be together again in that way. Each time we were interrupted by a parent or one of the staff in our homes. I was secretly under the suspicion that at least at my home mother was assigning one of the maids, our butler or even our mechanic to covertly act as chaperones. There was just too many times that the very room we were in required a thorough dusting or a door knob needed to be repaired.
However, as much as I was a devoted son, I was also an amorous adolescent and I began scheming on ways to get Isabella alone. Finally my chance arrived on a Saturday evening in February, but the meeting didn't go at all as planned.
I had organized another picnic for Isabella and I, and it was my intention to bring her back to the guest house at the summer home. As Geraldine the head cook helped me prepare a basket, my mother requested that I meet with her and father in his study.
Upon entering the study, I could see that something was wrong. My mother was wringing her hands. Her eyes were clouded with a range of emotions that I couldn't quite decipher, as they seemed to swing from anger, shame, anxiety and resolve. She motioned for me to sit, and I took a seat on the couch while my father and mother sat in front of me in the two wing back chairs which were normally situated in front of the fire.
It was my father who spoke first. "Edward, we called you in here today because we have been asked that you offer some assistance to Judge Dwyer and his wife."
"Assistance? What could I offer the Judge?" I had intended on following in my own father's footsteps and entering the medical field. In confusion, I motioned for him to continue and paid earnest attention.
My father sighed, and seemed to stall, and it was my mother who carried on, "This is assistance of a deeply…personal nature. We…Edward we don't know…I don't know how to ask this of you, so I request that you hold your thoughts until I am finished speaking. Can you do that?" I nodded my assent and mother continued.
"Well, as you know, Isabella has had a very hard time integrating into life in Seattle since she has arrived." I wanted to interrupt and correct her that it was Isabella's mother that had difficulty integrating, and that Isabella was handling herself quite gracefully, but I did as she asked and let my mother explain.
"What you may not know…is that Isabella isn't handling it as well as she is letting people on. She has apparently been kept a very graceful and stoic front, but Judge Dwyer and Renee had recently found that she…she has started to partake in activities that do not befit a young woman in her position as a means of coping for her habits. Naturally, we are all very concerned for Isabella and only want the best for her."
My head was swimming and I couldn't believe what I was hearing. My Isabella? "No," was all I could answer. I knew her better than anyone. I knew her thoughts and feelings and desired better than anyone – even her own mother, and certainly far better than Judge Dwyer. "This is a mistake, Isabella…she's been coping well. We talk about this all the time; how she is handling the negative attention she receives…how we handle it together. What you are saying doesn't make sense."
Mother gazed at me sympathetically and moved to sit with me on the couch. "We know you care deeply for Isabella, you may even think you love her-"
There is no thinking, mother. I know I love her."
"Very well, dear, which is all the more reason we need you to help. Judge Dwyer and Renee have been…discreet about Isabella's problems, but they have assured me that they have found a place for her in a very prestigious finishing school. They would like Isabella to attend, but she is being…difficult about the proposal. She is refusing to leave because of her relationship with you."
"Mother, it's just-" I paused and pulled my hand through my hair roughly, I wanted to tell her of the engagement, but Isabella and I had agreed to reveal it together at a later date. I planted my elbows on my knees and stared at the ground. I should keep it to myself, but my mother had to understand just how serious I was about Isabella. "I proposed to her mother. We are engaged. I am going to marry her; I can't help you send her away!"
I felt my mother stiffen and inhale sharply beside me, and I heard my father rise swiftly from his chair and pace the room.
"Liz," he implored to me my mother, there must –"
"-No. I'm sorry Edward, but this is not our decision. You may have proposed, but she is only 17 and she is not your wife. Your engagement hasn't been announced. It isn't even official until we publish the bans."
I sighed deeply, "I'm not promising you anything. But I am curious, what exactly are you asking of me?"
My mother clasped my hands in hers and leaned into me, "We are asking you to make a decision that will help Isabella – your future wife – to survive in our world easier. She's struggling. She wasn't born into the status she now carried with her. For you, and the other young men and women you school with, it is second nature. Isabella has no tools. Would you like her to marry you, only to resent you in ten years? It could happen Edward. Being the wife of a man such as your father is a huge responsibility and takes a great deal of strength and a certain type of education. Isabella has been thrown into this life with no tools. It is she that will suffer.
"You love her, Edward. It's perfect that you are engaged, actually. Isabella won't be gone long, a year at the most. Judge Dwyer She could be back before the beginning of next school year if everything works out. We are looking to you to be a man, take responsibility for your fiancée and help her become the woman she is meant to be. We need this from you. Isabella needs this from you. Can you do this? Do you love her enough to make sure she gets what she needs, even if you are separated?"
I understood what my mother was saying. My father was being abnormally quiet during this conversation, but I took his silence as support for mother. Could I do this? Could I let Isabella leave for a few months, so that she could come back and we could marry, and she could accept the responsibilities of a society woman and wife?
I had never before considered the implications of Isabella's move from one life to the other. She grew up in a small town, the daughter of a lumber worker who, like many men, lost his livelihood at the end of the last decade. I knew that life was difficult for her family in the last four years, but Isabella had never said that she was suffering now.
Something felt off. I was almost certain that Isabella spoke with me more than anyone else – certainly more than she did to Judge Dwyer. Although she expressed gratitude for the material wealth to which she now had access, she often painted the home she left as being sparse, but full of love. She missed her father dearly, and often worried for him.
Perhaps there was truth to what my mother was telling me. She missed the love she received in her former life. No other woman I knew acknowledged their gratitude for simple things like spices and milk and bread, not to mention fine dresses and even motorcars the way that Isabella did. I guessed that this was problematic. Did others see her as weak? Would she make poor decisions among society women? I didn't want her to fail, I wanted everyone to see the strong, resilient Isabella that I knew and loved. I also didn't know enough about women's responsibilities to judge whether Isabella was capable of taking upon the task of running a household. Could she manage staff? Would she be able to chair meetings and work for causes? I just didn't know. I could only trust my mother's judgment, and she seemed to think that Isabella deserved special training to become my wife.
Looking at my mother intently, I could only answer her with the conclusion that I had come up with. "I trust you, mother. I trust you with my happiness and hers. If Isabella needs to do this, than I shall help. You know better than I."
My mom smiled warmly, and clasped her hands on either side of my cheek, "It will all work out, Edward. You'll see."
And so between the three of us, we came up with a plan for me to convince Isabella to postpone our engagement, convince her to attend Volterra Women's Finishing Academy and break both our hearts.
When met with Isabella that night, I had planned on taking her to the guest house once more, but decided against it. I thought it better we stay close to her home, so instead I asked her to go for a stroll over the grounds of the Dwyer Mansion. My emotions were on edge, and the only way I could stay composed was to place a blank mask over my face and keep my voice as even and monotone as possible.
It was too easy. I was expecting her to fight at first, to fight for us, but it was almost like she wanted to go. No, that's not true. She said she didn't, and tears stained her cheeks and she shuddered. She said that she would go if she had to, but she wanted me to come with her. When she asked me that, I could only remember my mother's words in my ear,
She needs this time alone Edward. She cannot act as a proper wife if she only learns to cling to your side.
So I said the words that sealed our fate, "I don't want to go with you."
I will never forget the look on her face as I gazed at her questioning face. Just above a whisper she asked, "You…you don't want me?"
I could have done many things at that moment. I could have corrected her, like I wanted to, and told her she misunderstood. I could have told her that I would always, always want her until the end of time. I could have listened to my heart and fallen to my knees and begged her to run away with me.
But I was a man, and I was taught to listen to my head, and that following one's feelings and heart was for women and fools.
So I looked back at her and confirmed the darkest of blasphemies, "No, Isabella, I don't want you. Not like this. You aren't…we can't marry like this. You don't belong in my world, not like this. You're...you're not good for me like this."
I wanted to die a thousand deaths for the expression that crossed over her face. She wasn't devastated, or angry, or confused. She looked at me with a blank expression; she was resigned. All the will she had in her to fight for us in that moment left when I told her I didn't want her. She looked hopeless.
"You don't want me." she stated in a dead tone. My hands trembled as they gripped Isabella's shoulders, perhaps a little too tightly. I didn't want to let her go. I couldn't let her go…I had to let her go.
My heart shattered and left a gaping hole in my chest, my throat constricted and I wasn't able to voice to her all the reassurances in my head. 'You'll be back within a year…we'll be stronger after this…I want you to be happy in my world…I don't deserve you…I'm afraid you'll resent me if I make you stay…'
She looked up at me one last time, her big brown eyes shining as tears streamed down her cheeks. Several times she looked as though she was about to say something, but each time she stopped herself by squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head quickly.I leaned close and placed a chaste kiss on her forehead, allowing myself the liberty of inhaling her scent and committing it to memory one last time.
I did everything my heart was telling me not to do. I wanted nothing more than to sweep her up in my arms, tell her I lied and why I did it, and ask her to forgive me. Instead I walked out of the yard, started my car and once I was a safe distance from her home, I allowed myself to fall apart.
