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Chapter 5

It's a drizzly morning, and if I don't look around, I can almost pretend I'm still in Seattle. The clouds hang low, just like back in Washington, but the air lacks that clean, fresh scent that makes the rainy weather tolerable. This air is a miasma.

Maggie and I slowly walk along the main path of the cemetery, trying to step on the irregular patches of gravel rather than directly in the mud. It took us only a short 15-minute carriage ride to get here, so I presume the cemetery is right in the middle of London.

It's my first time being outside in broad daylight since I woke up at the Opera. I don't know what I expected. Maybe I thought that if I encountered some of London's famous landmarks, I might feel more like a normal tourist–just with a time travel quirk. However, no sightseeing happened on our way to the cemetery. All I could see through the mottled window of the carriage were endless rows of townhouses. I think I caught a glimpse of the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral in the distance, but I really can't be sure.

Two maids, Jessica and another girl in her late 20s, follow us from a distance. Maggie clutches my arm, probably afraid that I'll bolt at the last moment. I put my right hand on top of hers and give her a reassuring squeeze.

Cemeteries are often described as "peaceful" and "serene", but what I feel here is anything but. As we pass the endless lines of gravestones, I can't help but think of how short the human lifespan is at this time. A quick look at the numbers on the stones confirms that.

If I can't get back home soon, what's going to happen to me? What if I contract some infectious disease, or even just get sick with something trivial like bronchitis and need antibiotics? Maybe I should keep the window open at night. I remember reading about the toxic smoke produced by old chimneys, and how it used to kill people.

Then again, I chuckle darkly, as someone who lives in a city without a sewer system, I probably shouldn't worry about the air quality too much.

After a few minutes, Maggie stops at a relatively small, rough-looking gravestone. I briefly close my eyes, give myself a mental kick, and look at it.

It says, "In Memory of James Francis Dwyer, Who Died on the 15th Day of May 1832, Aged 28 Years."

Relief washes over me. James is not my son.

There aren't too many options left regarding how I'm related to him.

Maggie hands me the flowers that she had delivered to the house this morning–three yellow roses–and I place them on the grave. We stand in silence for several long minutes.

28 years… so young. Poor Isabella. Did she love him? Whether it was a marriage of convenience or a match made in heaven, her early widowhood must have been difficult. Hopefully, he was a good husband to her… Although I'm not sure if that would make her grieving easier or harder.

Would it be easier for me if James–my James–just died instead? Am I a horrible person for even thinking about it? I imagine that we were married and that it's him lying in the grave in front of me.

For the first time, the thought of him doesn't immediately bring pain, only regret and frustration. What was the point? Was it him breaking my heart and me trying to be worthy of him, only to abandon everything I hoped to be, forever?

Such a waste.

A few yards away, Jessica and the other girl whisper agitatedly, and Maggie gives them a scolding look.

I briefly touch the stone, take a deep breath, and turn to her. "Thank you for bringing me here. I'm ready to go home."

She just nods, tears sparkling in her eyes. I wonder if they're for James, for me, or both.

As we walk back to the carriage, something keeps nagging in the back of my mind. The text on the gravestone, which is significantly smaller than most of its neighbors, is too short. And not even a word about the "loving wife". If I'm related to the Buchans, then it's safe to assume that I'm not too poor to afford a stone that's a little more presentable and with an engraving a little more elaborate.

I take a ragged breath, touch Maggie's shoulder, and stop. She stops, too, and we wait for Jessica and the other maid to pass forward and get out of hearing range.

"Aunt Maggie… I need to ask you something." I clear my throat, but my next sentence still comes out raspy. "Do you believe that James was a good husband to me?"

Maggie gasps, her eyes wide and… angry? Then, slowly, her features relax, apparently a result of a conscious effort, and a familiar sad smile appears on her lips. She takes a deep breath as if readying herself for something, and says, "Oh, my darling, of course, he was not. But you loved him. You gave him a piece of your heart." Her face now looks red and blotchy, and she makes no attempt to hide it. "Yet, although he took that part with him, you can still find it in you to be whole again. To forgive him and live… I want you to live, Isabella." Tears streaming down her face, she briefly cups my cheek. "That is the sole reason I persisted in bringing you here."

"Oh." It's all I can manage to say.

Maggie blows her nose with a large starched handkerchief, slips her hand through the crook of my arm, and tugs at me. "Come along, let us return home."

In the carriage, we sit silently for a while. I mull Maggie's words over and over in my head. So, James wasn't a good husband after all. He was an asshole and then he died. Clearly, his death was traumatic for everybody. And what did he do to deserve Maggie's anger, even posthumously? Did he cheat, like "my" James? Physically abuse her? Acquire massive debts and that's why she has to live with her relatives?

I don't know half of the story, but somehow, I'm now annoyed with this Isabella Dwyer.

Why is she still grieving her jerk of a husband?!

And making Maggie miserable in the process?!

I can't ignore the irony of my accusations, of course. I'm the one struggling to move on with my life, yet irrationally, this only makes me even more upset with her.

I hate to be forced to admit our similarities. How we're both trapped–in my case, in more ways than one. How we're unhappy, clinging to the past, and wasting our lives. Instead of living, as Maggie said.

Ugh, I hate being like this!

Angry, hysterical sobs take me by surprise. After a feeble attempt to curb them, I give in to their force, and they quickly become a flood. I cry and cry, unable to stop, wheezing and wailing as the stress, exhaustion, and loneliness of the last three days pour out of me. Maggie holds me tightly in her arms, rocking me gently like a baby. I think she's crying, too.

The carriage arrives home yet we sit inside for a long time until the dull ache in my chest gradually subsides, and I feel nothing.

XXX

The next few days are very much like the previous ones, the only improvement being finally able to read books. With Alistair's consent, I'm now in temporary possession of Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus, and a small volume of poems by Edgar Allan Poe. It's kind of mind-blowing to hold these treasures, clearly first editions, in my bare hands. I'm greedy and keep them close all day.

As an alternative, Maggie offers to continue my embroidery (a rather intricate design comprised of lilies, roses, and chamomiles), but since I'm known for hardly being able to hold a needle without poking myself, or worse, leaving it on the couch and then spending a day looking for it, I politely decline.

As Maggie perceptively noticed, I'm restless. I can't just get out of the house and run to the Opera, right? I don't even have a map. Perpetual thinking of Alice and Charlie, not to mention my whole "situation", gives me so much anxiety that I can't sit still. So, when Alistair mentions that there's a piano recital at the Hanover Square Rooms this coming Friday, I make sure to be included. Maggie is cautiously excited about my willingness to break the routine, and we spend half a day discussing our outfits. Or rather she talks, and I nod–the usual. Maggie's like the older, wiser sister that I never knew I needed, and the mother I knew I needed, but… well. Hopefully, when I leave (see: my plan to get back home), the real Isabella Dwyer won't break her heart of gold.

We arrive at the concert hall when most of the audience is already there. It's a surprisingly large venue with a sizeable pipe organ. Just like the Opera, it's beautifully decorated from floor to ceiling, the latter being at least four stories high. Several enormous Delft blue chandeliers hang from above, and I just hope that our seats aren't directly underneath one of them.

As we walk across the hall, Maggie and Alistair continue to nod and wave left and right. I have the vague sense that people are staring at me, and I can only hope it's just because I haven't been seen much recently. With effort, I arrange my features into what I can only pray resembles a gracious and affable expression, but there's no telling if I succeed.

The seating arrangement in this room is somewhat unusual. The chairs in the middle section face the stage, but three rows on each side face the aisle, like at fashion shows. Maggie hands me a cute little program saying that the pianist, Mr. Edward Masen, will be playing mostly his own compositions. I recall that this was a common practice at the time: pianists were all composers who either played their own music or took a popular tune and improvised.

"I hear that Mr. Masen is somewhat of a musical sensation. And a mystery," Maggie tells me in a conspiratory whisper. "No one knows where he was born or where he studied. He seldom attends parties or balls, but those who have heard him play declare his skill to be phenomenal."

She has that dreamy expression on her face, like when she reads romance novels during our evenings in the living room.

"So, you have not heard him before?" I whisper back.

"Unfortunately, not. However, Mrs. Egerton happened to be in Paris when there was a competition between him and Maestro Liszt, and she has been wild ever since. Liszt himself publicly admitted that Mr. Masen's performance was nothing short of celestial," she says begrudgingly, clearly annoyed by having to rely on Mrs. Egerton for this intelligence. "I cannot imagine what it must be like to witness two such prodigiously talented and exquisitely handsome men on stage in one evening…"

I've never seen Maggie in such high spirits, and it's hilarious. She quickly looks around, lowers her head, forcing me and Alistair to move closer, and with a mischievous twinkle, whispers "I heard that some ladies attempted to ambush Mr. Masen after the concert, and he was forced to flee through a window!"

Behind her, I see Alistair's eyes widen. His mouth opens in an exaggerated expression of shock, and I have to cover my face to stifle my giggles.

That must have been a hell of a concert indeed. I don't know anything about this Mr. Masen, but Franz Liszt was rightfully considered the heartthrob of the century. I've seen a few portraits of him. He had a very aristocratic face: huge expressive eyes, well-defined puffy lips, and an impressive jawline. His nose was a bit on the long side, but I bet nobody even noticed that, being as enthralled by his talent and personality as they were. He was the kind of man who made beautiful and powerful women forget their titles and families and run away with him.

I wonder how old Liszt is now, in 1833… Dates have never been my forte, but he's probably in his early twenties. I sigh. Whoever this Mrs. Egerton is, I envy her. A lot.

Suddenly, the room erupts in applause, and someone appears from the side door. The lady in front of me is wearing such a high headpiece–with feathers, no less–that it mercilessly obstructs most of the view, so I have to reposition myself a little to the right, closer to Maggie.

Then I look up and I gasp out loud.

Right before me, my boss, Mr. Edward Cullen, sits at the grand piano, about to start playing.