June 2011

Twenty-One / Twenty-Four

Five days before Edward's birthday, Rosalie casually mentioned that Isabella was taking piano lessons. Edward had lit up so beautifully that Isabella had no choice but to play her horrible beginner's rendition of When The Saints Go Marching In. It had been excruciatingly embarrassing. Like his mother, Edward could play advanced pieces beautifully – Chopin, Debussy, Mozart – and Bella was playing songs at a six-year-old's level.

Despite that, Isabella pushed back her vulnerability. Once upon a time, when they were teenagers, Edward had been vulnerable for her. Lizzie Masen had passed just a year earlier, and the wound was still freshly excruciating. Bella had prodded gently – and he had been snappish and even rude – but he had played. A handful of months later, Carlisle and Isabella had attended a piano recital where Edward had played The Tempest by Beethoven. "But don't tell anyone," Edward had growled. "Just you and my Dad. It's fucking embarrassing."

You're the reason I play piano, Edward had said just minutes earlier, and he had sealed her fate completely.

Even after all this time, Bella was hopelessly, excruciatingly, stupidly in love.

After Bella's humiliating attempt, Edward had played for her. He had even tried to teach, despite how hopeless Bella was at playing. It was obvious he had been raised by a trained concert pianist. Music was in his bones. "One more," Bella begged softly.

"Alright, but that'll be the last one, Bella. I'm getting tired," Edward said grumpily. Feeling besotted, in the heat of the moment, Isabella hugged his arm, resting her head on his shoulder. "Thank you."

"Which one do you want?"

Smiling so widely she was sure her skin would snap, Bella picked Super Trouper on the ABBA book.

"Christ, Bella, you have horrible taste," he grumbled, making her laugh. Sighing tiredly, like he had just run a marathon, he snatched the sheet music away and squinted at it. Bella was awestruck with fascination, watching him read page after page of sheet music, the way anyone else might read a novel.

"Super Trouper has one has a 4-4 time signature," Edward explained kindly. "All the other nonsense you like… Beauty and the Beast and the Pinocchio song have a 3-4 time signature." He clapped in illustration, and Bella tried to follow the beat, but she was atrocious. This was one of the areas of life where her CP was disabling, because it so affected her coordination. Edward was looking at her tenderly, a hint of pain swirling in his eyes, but Bella was unfazed.

"You know the theory so well," she glowed admiringly.

Edward snorted. "I took a bunch of music classes at Harvard, remember?" he snorted. "Those classes carried my GPA my freshman year."

"Anyway. Super Trouper is actually quite simple," he said after a minute, sounding faintly aggravated. "The chord progression is C major, G major, and a C suspended 4th. That just means you play the C-D-G." Nimbly, he pressed down each chord in illustration. Then his voice softened impossibly. "Do you want to try, love?"

Shyly, Bella lifted a trembling hand. The more she approached the keys, the worse her trembling. It was ham-handed, and awkward, but she managed to play the three chords.

Sighing, Bella stopped. She lifted it to touch his cheek. Bella touched his cheek again, stroked it, and felt the roughened stubble under her fingers. She loved him so much. "You're wonderful," she said blushingly. "But I'll never be great at playing. The CP just acts up."

Edward's entire face contorted with pain. "Sweetheart," he began.

Bella stopped him with a hand to his lips. She didn't want him to start feeling morose, not when she was floating. She rested her chin on his shoulder again, raising her eyebrows playfully. "Fortunately, I have a concert pianist to play for me," Bella said playfully. "Chop, chop. Play, play, play."

Grumbling, Edward did just that. Enraptured, Bella watched his hands. Edward had always had the most beautiful hands. Watching him play was more beautiful than the melody coming out of the instrument.

Over the past week, meals had been forced, excruciatingly awkward affairs. They were a group of people that hated each other. Rosalie hated Edward and Jane –"Edward's a fuckboy and Jane is a bitch." Emmett hated Jane, and according to Rosalie, Edward did not either.

In fact, Bella was a little worried because Jane was being excluded. Emmett and Jane overtly despised each other. Isabella had the nagging – but implausible notion – that Edward almost didn't like Jane. "Edward's a fuckboy," Rose had explained to Bella, who had been taken aback at hearing it so bluntly. "I even feel bad for her. Edward's doing her dirty. Fucking her for two years without committing. That's such a fuckboy move, to use somebody like that."

"I don't like him for you," Rosalie added.

"Are you sure?" Bella had asked uncertainly, feeling crushed by a boulder of disappointment. That was always the challenge for her – reconciling her sweet boy with the prick with a million-dollar trust fund.

"Emmett told me that Edward's never committed," Rose sniffed, "which is such a fuckboy thing to say." Bella hated herself for it, but that statement alone had lessened Bella's aching jealousy, replacing it with sympathy.

Despite the webs of hate tangling them together, they were making polite attempts at spending time together.

Nobody spoke as Emmett distributed pizza slices. Emmett had run out to get lunch for the five of them. "I'll fucking pay, man," Emmett had assured Edward. There was a hint of offense in his eyes. He had bought three New York Style pizzas from a local pizzeria.

"This is very carb-heavy," Jane said to Emmett in a sweet voice. "Lunch meats are terrible for your health."

"Then don't eat it," Emmett had said rudely, and Rosalie had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

Another heavy silence befell the table. Looking closely at Jane, Bella felt a hint of pity. Jane's eyes were blood-shoot and swollen, as if from a recent cry.

"Isabella?" Jane asked. "Could I ask you a question?"

Next to Bella, Edward stiffened.

Jane's face was the picture of genuine concern. "What exactly is your, eh, your condition?"

Taken aback, Bella blinked. She felt an eerie sense of deja vu: she had endured this line of questioning before. Edward dropped his fork: Bella could feel his growing rage pulsating next to her. Underneath the table, she placed her hand gently on his thigh.

"You don't have to answer, Bella," Rose said sharply, glaring at Jane.

"No, it's OK," Bella said politely, wanting to avoid conflict.

"I have cerebral palsy," she said gracefully, turning to Jane. Bella was no idiot. Jane had taken a shot, but Bella wanted to pretend it hadn't gutted her.

"Oh," Jane said, pouting. "And if I may, that's – how does that happen? Is it contagious?"

Edward sucked air through his teeth. Out of instinct, Bella grabbed his wrist and twinned their fingers, as if soothing a skittish horse.

It worked.

Frostily and clinically, Edward answered for Bella. "The immediate cause is an injury to the brain – typically due to gestational or prenatal hypoxia," he said blandly, as if answering an exam question. "There are contributing and risk factors to that injury like infection, preeclampsia, toxoplasmosis."

Dazed by the medicalese, Bella looked at Edward admiringly, then turned back to Jane.

"And there's different types," Bella added blushingly. "Mine is mixed. Most of the symptoms are like spastic CP, mostly affecting the legs, but I also have symptoms of uh..."

"Ataxic cerebral palsy," Edward supplied quietly. His voice was even. "Ataxic is caused by injuries to the cerebellum and spastic is caused by damage to the pyramidal motor cortex."

Bella turned to look at Edward, mouth agape. "You're really are becoming a doctor," she marveled softly, like a moron. Though she tried to avoid it as much as possible, she touched Edward's cheek almost reverently. "I didn't know any of that."

"It's not common knowledge, Button, even for doctors," Emmett interjected, mumbling his words. He was stress-eating and had scarfed down half a pizza.

"Oh. Did you cover it this year?" Bella asked. She tried to keep up with the details of Edward's medical education. Her brow wrinkled. "Have you done your neurology rotation?"

Uncharacteristically, Edward's neck flamed with blush. He seemed intent on studying the tears in his ripped jeans. "No. My senior thesis was a comparative study of the impact of prenatal neurological injury on musculoskeletal development and physiology," he mumbled shyly.

"Oh," Bella said dumbly, at a loss for words.

"It was a hella good thesis, too," Emmett commented, looking at Edward knowingly. On many levels, Emmett was brilliant and pretended he was not. He seemed to be steering the conversation, deliberately, into murkier territory that none of the girls would follow. "Ed did some original advanced research with Boston's Children on muscle morphology and structure – sarcomeres, extracellular matrix, that kind of thing. He even published it in a medical academic journal."

Brow wrinkled with intense concentration. Rosalie looked like she was trying to understand. Jane's eyes were glazing with boredom and irritation. This was not the conversation Jane wanted to have.

A silence befell the table. Undeterred, Jane reached to touch Bella's hand. Bella turned away. "You're very inspirational, Bella. The handicap is so severe – your whole body is affected. Your speech, your walking," Jane cooed. "I can't imagine how difficult it must be. Do you think you'll ever be able to walk properly? Without crutches?"

Edward was furious. Bella's shoulders slumped. She felt like a building crumbling under the weight of a bomb. "It's very unlikely," she answered weakly. "It's a brain injury, and there's really no cure."

Edward stood. His chair made a horrible screeching sound as it scratched the imported mosaic flagstone that made up the terrace. "Jane," he said, and the ice in his voice made the hair on Bella's neck stand on end. "Could I have a word?"

Plainly, Edward was furious.

Jane blanched. The cooing expression on her face dissolved into a grimace of dreadful realization. "Certainly," she croaked, and stood.

Blatantly and unashamedly, Edward bent at the waist. Though he was throbbing with rage, he kissed Bella's temple with painstaking tenderness. "I'll be back in a minute, my love," he murmured, and Bella's body heated all over. Edward called her many lovely things – angel, love, darling, sweetheart. He had only called her my love once before – before he left for England, for Oxford, three years earlier.

Jane's mask slipped completely. She glared at Isabella with such virulent dislike that a shot of fear ran up Isabella's spine. Isabella didn't have time to dwell on it, though. Calculatedly, Edward walked towards Jane, steering her away with a gentle tug of her elbow.

Rose seethed, shaking her head after them. "That cunt," Rosalie snarled, and Bella flinched at the crudeness of the insult.

Bella shook her head. "She had some good questions," she said. "She didn't say anything that wasn't true."

"For fuck's sake, Bella," Rosalie snapped. "That was a backhanded attack."

Emmett sighed for what felt like a minute, looking drained. "Rose," he said consolingly. He patted her arm.

"I've lost my appetite," Rose said acidly. "I'm going for a walk."

Bella and Emmett were left alone. "This is really good pizza," Bella said casually, trying to lessen the lingering tension, trying to change the topic. "Did you get it from The Doughy Deal?"

Emmett looked at her knowingly. "Yeah," he said, and he took a bite.

Breaching etiquette, Bella sighed like a morose basset hound. She rested her elbows on the table and rested her chin on on her folded hands.

"Bella, Jane is just jealous. You know that, right?" Emmett said, his expression somber. "She's just so jealous she can't even think straight."

Bella snorted. Jane was a professional model for Abercrombie & Fitch who had competed in national tennis tournaments. Bella couldn't even stand unsupported. Jane had slept with Edward for over two years. Bella had been pining pathetically for over half a decade, subsisting on stolen moments.

"Em?" she asked quietly.

"What's up, buttercup?"

"What was Edward's thesis about? Like, in English. Not with the medical jargon."

Emmett sighed deeply. Hesitant, he seemed to deliberate.

"It was about cerebral palsy, Bella," he said softly. "Edward spent an entire year completely immersed in the science of condition."

The next day dawned stormy and foggy. As if with the fog came an awkward, lingering silence that seemed to crawl up the wall and saturate the air.

Like he always did, Edward had lovingly kissed her temple in greeting. They had eaten their Lucky charms in a quiet, morose silence. Both were too drained to talk, for the same reason. Bella's attempt at napping had failed. Jane and Edward had fought viciously. Jane had forgotten one thing: the walls of the mansion were thin, and Isabella had heard – everybody had heard – tidbits of their parting fight. Isabella had never heard that kind of shrill yelling.

Then Bella's day got significantly worse.

The sounds in the marble foyer of the mansion echoed. "Carlisle, I took the liberty of hiring a chef for June and July. The bill will be sent to you shortly. I want to throw a little dinner party for Janie. And – "

Victoria's monologue came to an abrupt, screeching halt.

"What is that?" Victoria could be heard shrieking from the foyer.

With dread, Isabella came to a crushing realization. Bella couldn't see what was happening, but she felt it in her bones. Victoria had noticed a prominent new addition: a wheelchair lift – a motorized, metal platform that was attached to the banister. Edward had spent hours installing it with Mr. Liam Maynard, the elderly caretaker and handyman.

Carlisle already sounded exasperated to distraction. "It's a wheelchair lift, Mother," he said impatiently.

"That winged staircase is an archeological gem," Victoria snarled. "I refuse to see it defaced, scratched, and ruined over a single summer."

"Unless my memory fails me, Mother, the property is in my name," Carlisle said crisply, oddly cheerfully. "You have no say."

"It's for that crippled little girl, isn't it?" Victoria sniffed defeatedly.

"Don't use that word," Carlisle snapped, while Bella's paled with mortification. In the kitchen, Edward flinched and then clenched his jaw.

Groaning, Edward violently rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He stood and stomped out of the kitchen.

At the sight of Edward, Victoria almost swooned. "There you are," Victoria Cullen almost wept in a shrill voice that carried, gushingly. Nervously, Isabella followed, peeking at the scene from the kitchen doorway.

Victoria noticed his lack of enthusiasm, and her face fell as if her world were crumbling. Lovingly, she cupped his face with both hands. "Is something wrong? Is my little prince upset at me?"

Edward had taken a step back. "Stop bitching about the staircase," Edward snapped, aggravated, without greeting. "You're being ridiculous."

"But, darling," Victoria whined pleadingly. "That iron-wrought railing is 130 years old and the marble is Italian white statuario," she shrieked nastily. "I refurbished the banister myself 30 years ago. It's imported Carpathian elm."

"So?" Edward spat. "Isabella needs it."

"And mother," Carlisle piled on, oddly merry. "If you use the C-word again in this house, I will have to ask you to leave."

After breakfast, Isabella went looking for Carlisle.

"Um, uh, Uncle Carlisle?" Bella squeaked, knocking on the two French doors to the study. She pushed the door open. The door opened inwards, and Isabella was able to roll through with little difficulty.

To the right of the room, there was a spacious base window that overlooked the tennis court. To the left of the room, there were several handsome wood bookcases. Hanging proudly behind Carlisle's desk was the Winslow Homer painting, in an old-fashioned, baroque gilded frame.

"Oh. Hi, sweetheart," he said kindly. He kicked away from his computer.

"Are you busy? I can – I can come back later," Bella said shyly.

"No, no. Come in," Carlisle said, standing.

"I won't take up a lot of time," Bella said quickly. She rolled forward, but the caster wheels on her chair caught on the Persian rug.

"I'm not busy, darling," Carlisle repeated. Noticing Isabella's caster wheels were caught, he frowned. He walked around his desk to take a seat on one of the leather chairs and then angled it towards Bella. "What do you need?"

Bella looked up at him earnestly, her doe eyes filled with apology. Her words came out in a well-practiced in a rush of shame. "I'm so sorry about the lift, and the banister," she started sputtering. "If there's damage to the staircase, my Dad can cover it. I appreciate it so much, but I don't want to inconvenience you."

Carlisle was rarely angry. The sight of his jaw clenching created a jolt of fear in Bella's stomach. Carlisle's eyes flashed with anger, his entire expression distorting with frustration. He took a deep, calming breath.

"Sweetheart, I hate that you feel like you have to apologize," Carlisle said, clenching his jaw. He took another deep breath, gathering his thoughts.

"First of all, this house is entirely my property," he said harshly. "It's not my mother's. My mother has no say whatsoever. My father did not leave her much in his will, let alone this house."

Bella's mouth fell open in shock. "You don't have to explain," Bella said quickly. "I don't need to know."

Carlisle smiled wryly. "I'm telling you because I empathize with the nasty divorce," he said, chuckling darkly. "My mother and father were similar people, you know, but they hated each other towards the end. They wouldn't get divorced to avoid a scandal, even though it would have been better for all our sakes."

"Besides, she's become my dependent. I've been supporting it for three years. She deposited what was left of her inheritance in the Arnie Maddox Ponzi," he said, shaking his head ruefully.

"Oh," Bella said awkwardly, unsure of how to respond. Despite that, she felt a little pang of pleasure at what that implied about Victoria Cullen.

"Second of all," Carlisle said, and at this, he winked at her. "To use your words, I give zero shits about the wood on the banister or the paneling or the staircase or whatever the concern was."

Bella felt a pang of love, an upsurge of affection for Carlisle. He tapped her nose playfully, like he would when Isabella was younger and he would get her nose. "Most importantly," he finished. "You're my favorite niece, and this is your home."

Bella felt almost speechless. "Thank you."

"Thank you," Carlisle snorted. "Edward is less insufferable when you're around, you know."

At 5:00 PM sharp that evening, Rosalie slammed Isabella's door open. "Swan," Rose insisted forcefully. "Let's get you ready for dinner."

Bella, who had been watching Netflix in bed, sat up. "Oh, uh. Is that what you're wearing?"

"Em and I aren't invited. The old bat made some bullshit excuse about a dinner with Jane and family," Rose seethed. "Em and I are heading out to a bar. But you need to go, and you need to look stunning."

"Oh," Bella said weakly. "I uh – I don't know if that's meant to include me."

Rose was fuming with intensity. "Bella, I refuse to let that little gold digger enjoy that dinner as planned. That's why she came. To charm Carlisle and the old bat. And I'm not going to give her the satisfaction," she swore fiercely.

Bella felt a piercing sadness that hurt physically. "I can't do anything about it." she said glumly. "We should just let her. I mean – she's – she's Edward's –"

"- whore."

"Rose," Bella said.

Rosalie sighed. "Sorry. Sorry. I hate slut-shaming. And I'm all about empowering sex workers," she agreed sheepishly. "But I just – ugh. The way she hurt you."

"She's Edward's partner," Bella finished glumly. "And I'm - I don't know what I am to Edward."

"Edward loves you."

Bella shook her head immediately, hit by feelings of inadequacy and disbelief.

"Swan, he's so in love with you. It's so obvious. He's more in love with you than you are with him."

It was the strangest feeling. Somebody had finally acknowledged what Bella knew at a bone-deep level. What Bella had known all along.

"And, so help me God, you're going to ruin that dinner for Jane and the old bat."

"Rose, you sound insane," Bella mumbled grumpily, falling back into bed. "I don't think it's that involved."

Like a military general, Rosalie barked out a command. "You're going to go that ridiculous catered dinner in that stupid fancy dining room with all those snobs, and Edward is going to eat his heart out."

"Rose…" Bella whined.

Rose helped Isabella sit up. "What are you wearing?"

"I – eh. I don't know."

Aggravatedly, Rose spun on her heel and tugged Bella's dresser drawer open. Looking like a cartoon, she finished through Isabella's clothing. "Christ, Swan It's like a Baby Gap flash sale," she muttered. With the effectiveness of a general at war, she lifted her suitcase and dumped out its contents on the bed.

"This," she muttered. "This will do nicely. Or this."

Rose shoved a cherry red halter top dress at Isabella. The other alternative was a lace-covered tank top with a plunging neckline. Bella's entire body flamed like a furnace at the thought of wearing that top.

"The hell you can't. Go shower. You don't really need a lot of makeup, but we're going to doll you up."

Devotedly, Rose spent nearly an hour on that task. Isabella wasn't sure if she was being criticized or praised. Painstakingly, Rosalie plucked what felt like all of Isabella's facial hair – even minuscule hairs on her upper lip that Bella had never really noticed. "Look at your goddamned eyebrows," Rosalie bemoaned as she plucked them, muttering to herself. "You have your birthmother's eyebrows, and they're fucking fantastic, but do you pluck? No, you don't."

Painstakingly, Rosalie blow-dried Isabella's hair into perfect waves. "Swan, your hair is wasted on you," Rosalie bewailed. "Look at it. It's so thick and lustrous and gorgeous. Jane and I have this thin little straw hair, and you..." Then she huffed with aggravation. "But you always have it up with that stupid spider clip, and… The things we could do if you gave to shits about your hair."

Painstakingly, Rosalie applied lipstick and mascara. Isabella had a wand of her own, but no lipstick. "Your eyelashes are already insane, but…" She sighed, long-suffering, as she considered the color to use on Bella's lips. "I think the red with really pop," she said.

"Um," Bella said shyly and insisted on gloss only.

When Rosalie was done, she scrutinized Isabella without smiling – her own toughest critic. "That'll do, Swan. That'll do."

A second later, there was a knock at the door.

"Bee?" Edward called. "Bee, baby? Dinner started 10 minutes ago and my grandmother is acting like a lunatic about it."

Rosalie fell into bed defeatedly after her hour of toil, and so Isabella wheeled out alone. In the end, she had picked out the tight-fitting red dress – and she hadn't wanted to ruin it by wearing her leg braces. Even though Rosalie had done a gorgeous job, a part of Isabella felt ridiculously silly and overdone. Her heart was fluttering in her throat.

And the idea that Edward was in love with her was burning her.

"Sorry, Sorry. I'm ready now," Bella said shyly, meeting Edward on the hallway. Finally, she mustered the courage to look up. Edward's eyes had bulged infinitesimally. His mouth was slightly parted, and he was staring at her stupidly. He did a small double-take, and Bella's stomach flipped with mortification. Did she look that ridiculous?

"Sorry I'm late," Bella repeated.

"It was worth the wait," Edward managed to gulp, in an unusually throaty voice.

It was the strangest, most exhausting Victoria Cullen dinner Isabella had attended to date. As the evening wore on, Isabella realized Rose had been right. She had crashed a bizarre matchmaking celebration engineered by Edward's grandmother.

Isabella was stared at like a cockroach when she entered the room. At her appearance, Jane's eyes had boggled, and her beautiful face had contorted into frighteningly intense dislike. For her part, Isabella felt almost apologetic, because Jane looked sad. Jane's eyes were bloodshot from a recent cry.

Their dinner took place in the dining room. "I refuse to entertain guests in the kitchen," Victoria tittered at Jane. Edward helped Bella to her seat, and had nearly sat next to her but –

"Sit next to Janie, Edward," Victoria barked. Icily, Edward had followed her instructions.

It was a five-course dinner. Siobhan, who usually worked cleaning, acted as a waitress. Sweating and fidgeting profusely, she announced the courses nervously before she served them. The first course was smoked duck breast canapés with fig jam and goat cheese.

Overwhelmingly, the conversation was dominated by Victoria and Jane. Bella herself would have been bored to death, but Edward had been completely fixated on her all dinner. Their eyes kept meeting like magnets. When he winked, Bella smiled like a lovestruck idiot. Flaming with a perpetual blush, Bella grew clumsy under his stare.

"You are absolutely right. This is a painting of William Cullen III by Mary Cassat," Victoria gushed.

"Isn't that impressive, Edward, darling?"

"Mmmh."

The smile on Jane's face faded. To her credit, it was a split-second slump. Jane re-emerged from Edward's disinterest undefeated. "You will have to forgive the indiscretion," Jane said crisply. "As an auction house girl, I can't help myself. How much is the Winslow Homer worth? I assumed roughly half a million dollars."

Shocked, Bella dropped her duck canapé. It fell flatly on the floor. Mortified, Bella winced. Carlisle hadn't noticed, but Edward burst into snickers.

"I had Sterling & Stone do the painting valuation back in the 1990s," she explained fondly. "Your guess is excellent."

"Carlisle," Victoria half-barked, to elicit her son's attention. Then her tone turned to sugar again. "Janie majored in Art History at Claredon College. Now she's working at Atherton & Sloane Auction Galleries."

"How interesting," Carlisle said politely, with an expression that belied his statement.

Jane's shoulder's slumped, but Victoria made a valiant effort to lift her spirits. "I'll tell you a little secret," she gushed "The Winslow Homer alone was valued at nearly a million dollars. I don't think the Mary Cassat would fetch as much, but it wouldn't be anything to scoff at."

"I think Janie could come up and redo the valuations on the paintings," Victoria continued. "On behalf of Atherton & Sloane."

Carlisle grunted noncommittedly.

The second and third courses came next: Maine crab salad with poached asparagus, and creamy Maine lobster bisque with brandy swirl.

"The chef has gone overboard with the Maine theme, no?" Jane sniped, and Victoria laughed sparklingly.

"We're in Maine," Edward had said through gritted teeth, his only comment of the night. Jane's bubbly mood fizzed out like old champagne bubbles.

Clumsily, Bella had dropped her spoon: her lobster bisque had splattered everywhere, staining Carlisle's dress t-shirt. "Shit, sorry," Bella croaked. Edward had smiled at her indulgently, then laughed. Victoria glared, and Isabella felt like a beetle emerging freshly from the dung.

Victoria clearly steered the conversation, comfortingly placing a fine-boned hand on Jane's. "You might also be interested to know that the house also has a collection of Sevré vases, collected by my late husband's grandmother."

The fourth course was pan-seared duck breast with roasted brussels sprouts and cherry demi-glace.

"I would have designed the menu differently. It's not done, combining shellfish and duck dishes," Jane commented, in a far more muted tone. As if Jane had told the most outrageously funny of jokes, Victoria had laughed. "Duck is always quite earthy," Victoria agreed, sounding maternal. "I absolutely agree. I'll return your feedback to the chef."

Toward the end of the meal, Victoria and Jane were completely silent. In the middle of the desert course – honeycomb panna cotta with berries and pistachio brittle – Siobhan emerged sweating from the kitchen. "This is the iced champagne you asked for, madam," she said, cradling an ice bucket with champagne.

Victoria had become mournfully resigned. She lifted a flute of Dom Perignon at the end of the meal with solemn graciousness. "Janie, I was so delighted you were able to join us. You're a wonderful girl."

Bella was dazed Even for Victoria, the situation was a little absurd.

"So, if I may raise a toast - to my dear Jane Ashcroft Voltaire," Victoria said, and Bella could have sworn her eyes had grown glassy with tears as she raised her glass.

"To Jane," Bella squeaked shyly. Then she noticed she had been the only one to do so. Looking aggravated, Carlisle had half-heartedly raised his glass. Edward had merely slapped his hand to his forehead. As Bella fought an onset of giggles, her wrist spasmed. Her champagne had spilled all over.

"Whoopsie daisy," Edward blurted. "Careful, sweetheart." Noticing what he'd said, he grinned sheepishly. His neck turned red.

In peals, Bella laughed. To Edward, it was music.