Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight
Katinki graciously edited this story
Chapter 9
I find myself lying in my bed, fully dressed and propped up on a mountain of pillows. My hands and arms look like I just had a mud bath. No doubt my skirt, currently covered by a blanket, fares no better. I feel bad for whoever is going to have to deal with all this laundry.
With the help of a ridiculous looking metal stethoscope, Carlisle—or should I say, Dr. Masen—checks my vitals, or whatever they call them in this century, then gingerly pokes around my head for bruises and scratches.
Ouch!
Jessica just stands in the corner, still clutching my bonnet, eyes wide as saucers.
About half an hour ago, I regained consciousness to a throbbing headache and Jessica bending over me, begging me to wake up. Knowing her, I suspect that if I hadn't complied, she would have splashed cold water on my face or resorted to other drastic measures. She also informed me that an extremely good-looking gentleman had brought me here "in this state" and promptly left to fetch a doctor. Carlisle came almost immediately after that.
It looks like being fast and efficient is a Masen family trait… I guess I need to thank them both.
I attempt to push myself up on my elbows, but the throbbing in my head intensifies, and I groan.
"Please try not to move, madame. You are safe now." Carlisle's voice is so soothing that I lean back and close my eyes. "You were insensible for only a few minutes, and I do not observe any obvious bleeding. There should be no lasting effects from the accident. However, for now, you must remain in bed and rest."
"Thank you, Doctor," I rasp. "Where is Edward? Is he unharmed?"
In the corner, Jessica gasps, and I belatedly realize that I should probably reconsider the use of first names.
I clear my throat.
"It was truly heroic of Mr. Masen to come to my rescue… I must convey to him my eternal gratitude."
My voice cracks. Shit, if he wasn't there, I could have died. I'd never see Charlie again. My hands begin to shake slightly.
Carlisle offers me a gentle smile and gives my hand a comforting squeeze. "There is no need to hurry, dearest Mrs. Dwyer. Edward has gone to make arrangements for a message to be sent to your aunt and uncle. Rest assured, he is entirely unharmed."
I'm relieved on Edward's account but now I feel bad for Maggie and Alistair. Not only will they have to cut short their trip to Oxford, but they'll also have no way of knowing if I'm truly okay until they make it home.
I nod and ask if I can have some water. Jessica hurries out of the room while Carlisle holds my wrist and checks my pulse again.
"I am grateful that my brother was nearby," he says quietly. His expression is fatherly and somber. "London is… dangerous. You should not go out alone like that, even if in broad daylight."
I'm too exhausted to argue.
Instead, I say, "I am very grateful, too. What an incredible coincidence. If I did not know better, I might think that your brother had followed me." I chuckle, but Carlisle's face remains serious, so I add in a half-whisper, "Even if he had, well, he saved my life."
Carlisle doesn't say a word, and I bravely continue. "Dr. Masen, I need to ask you a straight question… did Edward tell you anything about me?"
I search his face for a reaction, but after little more than a flicker of surprise, it shows nothing. There's a pause that feels like an eternity, and then he finally says "Yes… yes, he did."
The way he delivers that simple statement implies that he knows everything.
I sigh.
"I just want to say that I am not one of his grou… I mean, not one of those obsessed with him. He has nothing to worry about." I briefly close my eyes. "I was under the assumption that he could help me with... some advice, but now I believe that my assumption might be incorrect. In fact, he assured me that it was incorrect, and I have no reason to doubt his integrity."
Tears begin streaming down my face. I let them, partly because my hands are so dirty and I don't want to touch my eyes, and partly because, frankly, I'm enjoying this little pity party, just a bit. It feels good.
Carlisle hands me a neatly folded handkerchief—I'm becoming a frequent user of handkerchiefs that belong to the Masen brothers, it seems—and gently squeezes my shoulder.
"Dear Isabella—may I call you so? There is no reason for you to worry. Rest for now and drink plenty of boiled and cooled water. I shall give directions to your maid accordingly and soon you shall find yourself restored to full health."
He pats my hand, locks his doctor's bag, and gets up. I just nod again, close my eyes, and try to relax.
Half a kingdom for an Advil… yeah, right.
"Doctor," I say, eyes still closed. "I've always wondered, what do physicians carry in their leather bags? A stethoscope, but what else? Saws and tweezers? Cups for drawing blood? Leeches? Please entertain my morbid curiosity." I grin and crack one eye open.
Carlisle lifts an eyebrow and grins back at me. "I can tell, madame, that you are feeling much better already. No leeches," he says, and there's a barely noticeable tone of distaste in his voice, "or bloodletting devices can be found in my bag. Rest, Isabella."
XXX
The next morning, I feel infinitely better but decide to take it easy just in case.
A concussion is a concussion, right?
Not that I have anything to do, other than sit in my room and sulk. Jessica took all my books because Dr. Masen mentioned that my brain needed rest… I'll have to talk to Carlisle seriously about his methods of treatment.
Alistair and Maggie arrive at noon, and I'm immediately enveloped in their love and concern. It's so good to see them that I cry, again. In fact, we all cry as I give them the account of yesterday's events. Maggie attempts to take over Jessica's nursing duties, but there's really nothing to do, and they both eventually leave me alone.
And I need to be alone. To think.
Now that that wicked headache is gone, I can't help but replay the disjointed fragments of the accident in my mind. Some things just don't add up.
That for a moment I felt like I was flying.
That Edward's eyes suddenly turned black.
That he ran very fast, all the while carrying my 125 pounds of flesh and bones as if they were nothing more than a bag of cotton balls.
There must be a rational explanation for this. The most plausible is that it was all conjured by my concussed mind. The giant bump on my head is the only thing about any of this that feels real—and gosh, it hurts.
Speaking of injuries, did I dream about that wooden beam that he kept upright with one hand?
That wasn't some piece of Ikea furniture. No, that was solid wood, a tree trunk really... Aren't those extremely heavy? I wince. If I didn't make that up, then his hand must be badly scraped and probably strained from the exertion. And he's a pianist. His hands are his livelihood…
I make a vow to somehow make this up to him. Yes, he behaved like an ass the other night, but yesterday? He definitely redeemed himself and then some.
The opportunity, however, does not present itself for quite a while.
As time goes on, I find myself growing increasingly resigned to my situation. Probably it's simply how the human mind adapts. They say that if you're stuck with things you cannot change, you'll eventually accept your new normal. I'm beginning to believe that's true.
I don't think I can ever accept not seeing Charlie or Alice, or the strong possibility of dying in a couple of decades from some stupid disease, but life here doesn't exactly feel horrible… It never has. Yes, the lack of indoor plumbing sucks, and my anxiety doesn't coexist well with this time's sanitary norms, but my family is great, and what's important, it's always there. Nobody questions the fact that I live with my almost-parents at the age of 27. They are kind and intelligent people, who clearly love me… or Isabella Dwyer anyway.
Today we've been invited to some sort of gathering. It's not exactly a ball, but it's not far from it. That's all I can get from Maggie. I play the card of having a recent head injury and tell the Buchans that I'm not going to dance. They just seem happy with the fact that I'm not declining the invitation altogether.
The ball winds up being at the house of some count or viscount, whose name I forget immediately after being introduced.
It's not just another gorgeous house, either. I'd say it's well on its way to being called a "palace". There's gold everywhere. Large mirrors and murals hang from the walls and decorate the ceiling. Even the floors are made from some precious wood, arranged in intricate patterns and polished so well that I cling to Alistair's arm, afraid I might slip at any moment.
It's like being in one of those BBC period movies from the 90s.
Everywhere I look, I see clouds of silk and lace, fresh flowers, and elaborate headpieces (some topped with what seems like a whole bird's worth of feathers). There's dress uniforms and civil frocks. People bow and curtsy, while others laugh and gesticulate. And there's so much talking, talking, and talking…
What those BBC movies fail to convey, however, is the sensory aspects of gatherings like this one. The room is quite spacious for a house, but nowhere near spacious enough for seemingly every member of London's upper class here tonight. Myriad scents and sounds assault me so brutally that my head starts spinning, and all my layers of clothing constrict like a vise. There's simply no oxygen here…
How is everyone acting so normal without gasping or passing out?
Right now, if I were asked to rate all the achievements of the human race over the next 200 years, the invention of air conditioners would precede space travel on my list, by far.
Since it's not a formal ball but more of a soiree, the dancing doesn't begin right away. People walk around and mingle. It's a grownup party, too; I see no children or adolescents at all.
On a tiny balcony, a small group of musicians is stationed to provide musical entertainment. All five of them are men. I vaguely recall that women weren't allowed to play in mixed ensembles until well into the 20th century… Such a ridiculous rule! To my utter delight, I recognize the Trout Quintet, although they cut it short too soon and switch to a tune that I don't know. I wish I could sit closer and simply listen.
The Buchans drag me around the room, stopping every now and then to discuss the weather with yet another attendee. I'm fairly certain that I can feel every muscle on my face from all the smiling.
Without warning, Alistair lets out a surprised "Oh!"
I turn. Before I can blink, I find myself face to face with Edward Masen.
Dr. Masen stands just behind him, and when our eyes briefly meet, he winks.
Huh?
Alistair enthusiastically shakes both men's hands while Maggie looks like she's about to fall to her knees and start kissing Edward's feet. I simply stare.
"Mr. Masen, Carlisle, I cannot express how much I appreciate what you did for our dear Isabella," Alistair half-whispers, likely trying to avoid drawing attention. That's a lost cause. People are staring and not even trying to hide it.
As Alistair, Maggie, and Carlisle dive into an animated conversation, Edward and I just stand there. Judging by the pinched expression, Edward is extremely uncomfortable, so much so that I have the sudden random thought that he may even be holding his breath.
In a clumsy attempt to ease the tension, I blurt, "Mr. Masen, would you do me a favor and walk with me? I would love to see the view from the terrace."
To my surprise, Edward wordlessly nods. When he politely offers, I tuck my arm through his, and we maneuver our way out of the room. A flurry of whispers follows us, but I ignore it, focusing on walking and on the fact that I'm touching him again.
Thankfully, the terrace is empty. I greedily gulp the fresh November air., Oddly enough, Edward appears to do the same. It's chilly here, but after the heat of the ballroom, I welcome the contrast.
We stand in silence for a moment, peering into the darkness, and then I look at him.
How can such a perfect face even exist?
Does this man's skin have pores? It's so smooth and flawless, like marble.
And once again, I'm back at square one with all my theories. Because Edward Masen still looks exactly like Edward Cullen, just in different clothes. Tonight, he's in a white linen shirt, light beige pants, and an olive-colored frock coat. A green and yellow silk scarf that compliments the unique color of his eyes (they're definitely not black tonight) loops his neck. If I hadn't seen him, or rather his astral twin, sporting Armani suits, I'd say that he was born for these clothes.
Who am I kidding, he's gorgeous by any era's standards. And talented. And mysterious.
I shake my head, trying to dispel the romantic fog, and clear my throat. "I thought you did not frequent social gatherings?"
"Viscount Howick is a friend," he says with a smirk, "and Carlisle's patient. He is also the patron of my concerts in London. Although, you are correct in assuming that this is not my usual milieu. To suggest that I am a hermit would be an exaggeration, however."
A smirking Edward Masen has a certain effect on me—not dissimilar to how a red rag affects a bull. I grit my teeth, take a deep breath, and say what I've wanted to say for many days.
"Mr. Masen, I believe I owe you my life." I look at him with a tentative smile. "Thank you for saving me."
Edward gives me a curt bow and remains silent for a moment. Then, as if reconsidering, he offers, "My pleasure. I regret that you still suffered a minor injury. There was… no time."
He sounds slightly apologetic, and I gawk at him.
"You did what most people could not do! Or would not want to. You could have died there! Please, please accept my gratitude, as well as my deepest apology for what happened… earlier."
I feel the blush spreading across my face and thank whichever deity is responsible for this terrace's dim lighting. I hear Edward inhale sharply. He takes a step back.
Maybe I shouldn't have brought up that other incident.
Edward studies me silently from his new vantage point, but thankfully, there's no hostility in his gaze, unlike that memorable night in his bedroom.
Encouraged, I continue. "What I did was unforgivable, but you must understand that, from my perspective, it was imperative that I speak with you. You said that you do not know Edward Cullen, and I believe you. I have no reason not to. The resemblance is staggering, but you might be right. Perhaps I am unwell and merely imagining things..." I feel those traitorous tears welling up again, so I hurriedly add, "At any rate, thank you for everything, particularly for the wrench."
At that, I let out an embarrassing giggle and turn away.
"Mrs. Dwyer." His voice is so gentle, so soft. It's like an Italian cashmere sweater. I want to wrap myself in it… no, I want him to be wrapped around me, so badly.
Sheesh, girl, seriously. Snap out of it. You're just cold. It's freezing here.
"You do not exhibit the disposition of a person affected by a mental sickness. Nor does Carlisle hold such an opinion," he says quietly. "I would be interested to learn more about this… Edward Cullen gentleman. Would you be willing to tell me?"
I'm so shocked by this sudden turn of events that I nod like a star-struck moron. Then I frown.
"But wait, how? Why? When do you want to talk? And where?"
The smirk comes roaring back as he replies in his usual half-arrogant, half-adorable manner. "Oh, madame, trust me. If you were able to discover my whereabouts, I can assuredly discover yours."