Chapter 2: Come Back
“You insolent little wench, ignoring my words now? Do you really think Lady Isolde will save you?” A cold, sharp voice echoed faintly. Moments later, the sharp crack of a slap rang out, followed by the muffled sobbing of a young girl. Isolde awoke with a start, drenched in a cold sweat. Her back felt sticky, and the chilling memory of Mary's voice lingered. Looking around her old bedroom at the Duke’s estate, she realized she was back before her marriage. Was she dead? Or had it all been a nightmare? No, it couldn't have been a dream; the searing pain remained vividly etched in her memory. But what was happening?
Slowly, she rose, wrapped herself in a cloak, and opened the door. The estate was exactly as she remembered it from her return years ago from the countryside manor. Mary looked up, impatient. “My lady, a woman must endure such things. What good is this drama? Making peace with Eleanor will secure your position in the Marquis’s estate.” The words struck a familiar chord. Isolde recalled her stepmother, Matilda, demanding she accept Eleanor, pregnant with William's child. Isolde had vehemently refused, crying her heart out. Yet, here was Mary repeating those very words. A chilling realization dawned: Had she traveled through time? Back to before her marriage?
She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. The bloodshed and betrayal of her past life flooded back, making her teeth clench and her body tremble. Helena, her face marked with clear finger prints, stood beside her, tears welling in her eyes, utterly aggrieved. Before the time travel, Helena had warned Isolde against Eleanor, calling her scheming and dangerous. Isolde sat down, her gaze icy as it swept over Mary. “So, Mary, you suggest I accept Eleanor as a concubine?”
Mary’s face darkened. “Lady Blackwell is a Marshal’s daughter. Treating her as a wife would show your grace.” “Same?” Isolde laughed coldly. “It's still the title of concubine.” Mary blinked, startled. Isolde had always been obedient; this was a different person. After her mother's death, Isolde had been sent to a countryside manor, returning to the estate only at thirteen. Matilda placed Mary in charge, and Isolde's naiveté allowed Mary to grow arrogant and overbearing.
Mary straightened. “Then she should be the official wife, and you a concubine. Miss Blackwell is pregnant; it’s only right she joins the household first.” This differed from her past life; Matilda had initially suggested Eleanor as a concubine. Mary, mistaking Isolde’s silence for compliance, continued, “Lord William and Lady Eleanor will arrive shortly, along with Lady Felton. Freshen up, my lady. This must be settled before the Marquis Eldermere returns from the front.” Lady Felton—William's vicious sister, the source of the curse rumors. Time travel had delivered them all to her doorstep.
“Why are you gawking? Dress the lady!” Mary snapped at Helena, raising her hand to strike. Isolde caught her wrist. “Mary, you’re dismissed. Leave.” Mary froze, staring in disbelief. The timid girl was gone.
Isolde released Mary's wrist and turned to Helena. “Help me with my hair.” Helena hesitated, surprised. Isolde, before the dressing table, saw her face caked in garish makeup, making her look far older. In the countryside, sword fighting had been her passion. Upon her return, Matilda had assigned Mary to “assist” her, resulting in this daily, vulgar presentation. “Wash this off,” Isolde said, “and find me something simple.”
Helena’s face lit up. “My Lady, those gaudy dresses are awful! And this makeup…no proper young lady would wear it!” As Helena removed the makeup, revealing a fresh face, Isolde touched her brow—there was no scar. In her past life, she'd taken a blade for William, only to have him call the resulting scar hideous.
She shaped her brows, applied lip balm. Her youth was beautiful enough. “Aren’t you afraid of offending Mary, my lady?” Helena asked. Isolde slipped into a simple gown, loose strands of hair framing her face. She looked as captivating as Eleanor. “What’s there to fear?” she smiled wryly. “Helena, you answer to me. Ignore everyone else.” “That's quite vulgar,” Helena chided gently, smiling. Isolde laughed. “I grew up in the countryside. Vulgarity comes naturally.” Pretending to be a noble lady had been her greatest folly. Never again.
“Miss, Lady Felton and Lord Valen are here. Lady Matilda requests your presence,” Mary announced, her tone smug. Isolde ignored her, rising gracefully and leaving with Helena. Mary's face darkened. That little wretch was getting too bold. She would ensure Matilda brought her back in line.