Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
ISABELLE
“Beautifully healthy.”
The doctor’s head popped up from behind the white paper laid over my lap, as if the small strip of tissue offered any decency for these types of exams.
Especially when the doctor remained south of the modesty barrier with a lamp brighter than the sun illuminating my most intimate parts.
Every three months I was required to visit a doctor, for internal and external health checks, blood tests and fertility level monitoring.
Four times more frequently than the policies required of a fertile woman.
Per the directives of my family, as if it was a way to remind me of my correct future path while I distracted myself with my education.
I’d had these for years, and the doctors our family frequented were all polite enough. But, nonetheless, it still felt like a violation, every, single, time.
“You can dress now.” The snap of latex gloves being removed accompanied me snapping my legs closed. “The results will be passed to your guardian within the week.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” I didn’t mean it.
“Ms Fairchild, sorry, my mistake, these will go to your husband.” She turned to look at me.
“I’m not Ms Fairchild, not yet. The results go to my father until the wedding, which is over a week away,” I corrected her.
The doctor slid the curtain closed and began scrolling and clicking on her computer while I began to dress.
“Yes, I can see your name has not yet changed on the system, my apologies.”
I sighed in relief.
“However,” she went on. “We received a call from your fiancé requesting reports be transferred to him immediately, and upon confirming with your guardian, he authorised the transfer.”
I spun, jaw dropping, speechless, and pushed through the curtain.
The doctor, looking uncomfortable, continued slowly. “So, Mr Fairchild will have these before the big day, you must be very excited?”
Excited wasn’t the word for it.
What the hell was Teddy playing at? And Father? How dare he.
“Thank you, Doctor.” I offered the pleasantry, at a loss for real words. I slammed my feet into my boots and grabbed my jacket, rushing from the clinic before she could say anything more.
“Father O’Neill will run a beautiful service, do you not think, Isabelle?” Mother tittered as I tried to ignore her, my attention on the paving ahead of me.
In the hours since my clinic appointment, Mother had endlessly walked me through the wedding plans at our family church, its enormity illustrating the scale of the event.
Mother had taken time explaining each detail, from the service arrangements to seating by row, the guest list and coordination of the most influential attendees to be seated at the front, even to the detriment of family.
“Of course, Mother.” I tried to cover the disinterest in my voice, but the ability to mask it was slipping.
In the days since returning to the family home, I had attended the outrageous birthday party, then tasting events with caterers, meetings with florists, planners, and now the family priest.
“Honestly, Isabelle!” It seemed that Mother had reached the end of her patience. “Anyone would think you weren’t pleased about your match.”
“Would they, indeed.” It was an observation not a question, I was humouring her at this point.
“Isabelle, I don’t know what to do with you, I am exhausted.
” Her voice was beginning to rise, something she largely condemned as unbecoming of a lady.
“This has been years in the making and you could try to appear even remotely pleased. Theodore Fairchild is a fantastic match; he will make an upstanding husband and a good father.”
“I’m sure he will.” I didn’t even turn to look at her.
She drew to a stop in the middle of the pavement and I slowed with her.
It was extremely cold and winter was in full force. We were both wrapped in enormous winter coats, scarves and gloves.
The wind bit at my nose, I had lost feeling in my cheeks, although thinking about it, I couldn’t quite remember if I ever had feeling in my cheeks. Perhaps if I pinched them? But not on their own.
The expectant stare of my mother broke through my thoughts. Despite the burning cold, it would seem that Mother was going to hash this out here.
In retrospect I should have accepted the priest’s offer to visit the house, but I had thought I would benefit from the fresh air. This was a mistake.
“Isabelle!” She was now screeching, well beyond unbecoming.
“Mother. I am engaged. I am to marry. What exactly is it you need from me?”
“Some gratitude, perhaps?” She sounded deeply put out, unappreciated. As though she had some hand in arranging my nuptials. As if she had any influence in any decision aside from the wedding planning.
All the same, her words landed like a slap, I could feel the response, the anger and resentment surging inside me, like a wave.
“For what? Trading me like cattle? And to gain what exactly, social standing? Tell me, Mother, is there a need to elevate our social position?” I spat.
“Isabelle! Ungrateful child!” She gripped my coat, catching the skin of my arm between her fingers and palm and tugged me down the street towards the house.
Her volume lowered dangerously, the venom infusing into her next words. “After all your father has done for you, you will not embarrass our family. When you marry Teddy, you will. Fall. In. Line.”
Words now eluded me, and I fell silent, the cold dread in my stomach matching the freezing air swirling around us.
“What’s more, I will have your sister speak to you this weekend about appropriate conduct for a high-society wife. I’ll have no more of this.”
We arrived at the front of the family home and I stumbled as she shoved me, catching my foot on the bottom step, I collapsed forwards. Before I had managed to correct myself, my knee hit the step above and pain shot through the joint.
Straightening myself slowly, I turned to her, inhaling a deep breath, swallowing the pain and disappointment.
“Goodnight, Mother.”
Her nude painted lips pulled into a small snarl so I picked up the pace, racing up the steps and through the front door, towards the back of the property where the stairs rose to my flat.
By the time I reached the door to my rooms the sounds of her screeching at Father below were all but faded.
Fumbling with the handle I pushed inside, slamming it closed and locking myself in the solitude, the sound of my blood racing in my ears from both the race up the stairs and the frustration of the time spent with Mother.
What the fuck am I going to do? My brain buzzed, reaching, searching for a quick solution. Failing.
In my frustration I hooked my fingers under a tray of paperwork and launched it off the sideboard with a small scream, the relief short-lived as the papers scattered across the room.
I slipped to my knees on the hardwood floor to start swiping the letters and paperwork up, ignoring the haphazard manner they came together, the irrelevance of them and my previous life rankling with each rustle of paper on paper.
Not even the letters relating to my doctorate defence and ultimate outcome produced a glimmer of pleasure.
Grabbing the pile of paper and throwing it into the tray, I fisted my hands, exhaustion overcoming me.
Digging my knuckles deep into my eye sockets I tried to force the prickling tears back, as though the pressure would drive them back into the tear ducts, but a pained sob broke free before a small knock sounded on my door.
Forcing in several deep breaths to try to control the overwhelm, I settled.
“Come in.”
The door creaked open to show Father, a look of quiet concern etched into his features.
“Isabelle, can I come in?”
I forced a weak smile and nod.
“Your mother is quite upset.” Father entered the room, not closing the door in his wake.
I knew it. My fingers curled into a fist, nails digging into my skin as anger resurged.
I knew my father, ever the politician, he could read me as well as any room, so I straightened my hands, occupying them with undoing my coat and stripping my scarf, giving him no reply.
“Must we all argue?” It wasn’t really a question, more of a quiet assertion to simply stop.
“I had no argument. Mother took issue with my lack of excitement over wedding planning and caused a scene in the street.” I turned to face him. “The matter will be closed in days, then I become Theodore’s problem.”
“Oh, Isabelle, always so dramatic.” He had the audacity to sound disappointed.
“You may ask me to meet the expectations laid at my door, Father, but you cannot control the manner in which I meet those expectations.”
He opened his mouth to reply but I couldn’t stomach another speech on social alliances and the obligations of a daughter, so I raised my hand to hold him.
“I will do so with respect, but I will not guarantee a smile.”
Holding back his protests, he defaulted to his standard reply, this conversation had been and gone numerous times over the years as I sought to manoeuvre my way out of a commitment to Teddy.
All of Father’s attempts at logic and bargaining were met with my logic, counter-arguing his policies and requirements, and where that failed, I would employ emotion, pleading.
And they all fell on deaf ears. Every single time.
“That will have to do,” he conceded, the happiness of my soon-to-be marriage was really of little concern.
Reputation and public persona aside he couldn’t force a happiness from me and was perceptive enough to cease in his attempts.
Strolling slowly over to the kitchenette, treading carefully as though circling a feral cat, he placed an envelope on the counter.
“The arrangements are made, here are your papers authorising movement, electronic copies will be in your inbox, Natalie has sent them over.”
Father’s long-suffering executive assistant was no doubt responsible for the entire arrangement. A kind woman, in her late thirties, she was extremely successful as far as women in the workplace were able to be, and I had known her for years.
“Your mother has demanded I cancel the whole affair.”
I rolled my eyes. Of course she had.
“She has no requirement to be there, nor Ester, she threatened me with lessons from Ester on being a dutiful high-society wife.”
At the pout in my tone Father let out a small laugh. Gripping me by my shoulder, he engulfed me in his embrace, his lips landing lightly on my head.
Despite my anger at the situation, I huffed a laugh back.
“What a generous offer.” He played along. “I know you’ve long since wished to become more akin to your younger sister.”
Gently pushing back, I looked up to him, the humour falling away.
“I suppose I can’t just go with Sophie?”
I knew the answer before he gave it.
“You suppose right.” He squeezed me tenderly before stepping away. “It’ll be okay, Isabelle.”
Without waiting for a response, he strode from the room.
Slamming my belongings onto the counter, I noticed a small slip of paper peeking under the edge of the fridge. Pulling it out, I found a soft scrawl across the paper that read Removers with a long complex string of numbers and letters below.
I recognised Sophie’s gentle handwriting.
Thinking, I slipped my laptop from the shelf, curiosity getting the better of me. I opened the internet browser typing the digits slowly, carefully, into the search engine, it yielded nothing, and a slight feeling of disappointment fell over me.
Unsure what I expected, I left the page to make a cup of tea, changing my clothes, finally returning past the kitchenette and to the small lounge area.
But now the page on the screen had changed. Where previously it had been mostly blank, a simple error message on a plain background, now the screen was black, white text running over it in lines.
Sitting myself on a chair, I pulled the laptop closer.
It was a type of menu. Descriptions ranging from the full experience to person removal service, each priced differently. Some one-off costs, others listing annual charges beside them.
The schedules were comprehensive, lists of documentation, identity cards, marriage certificates, housing arrangements, telephone support, in-person visits as required, the latter listing pricing arrangements dependent upon location, guardian status and requirement for safe houses during transport.
This was the service Sophie alluded to, the one her wife’s friend had used.
The costs were inordinate, thousands for transport to tens of thousands for paperwork, the annual support costs on top of accommodation were more thousands per month.
How could anyone afford this?
I’d been careful throughout university, drawing down funds from my allowances, saving them, and there was plenty, certainly enough for the initial outlay, sufficient for rent for a few months, but not forever.
Adrenaline swelled inside me as I read and reread the service list. Could I?
My family, although ridiculously wealthy, were hardly likely to offer to fund me. They would lock me up and throw away the key if they thought I would run.
And running? Well, it didn’t end well, enforced medication, sedatives, talk of hysteria and maladjustment.
The thought of running out of funds, becoming destitute, unable to pay the ongoing charges. It was sobering, terrifying. Coming home, the fall-out from jilting Teddy. It was so much, almost too much.
Although.
Aunt Rose.
Aunt Rose had been wealthy in her own right, married before the child quota was enforced, she had no children of her own, and had always been extremely fond of me, but not my sister.
I thought to the funds she had left to me. Everything she owned, the cruelty of it being that I had no financial rights, and the funds could be drawn only by my guardian.
Father had sighed when I had asked him to assign it to me, saying I had no use for it and to discuss it with Theodore, a futile suggestion. Teddy had no interest in my financial freedom nor any other.
But as I sat, upgrading my tea for trusty vodka, fantasising about a version of me that would be bold enough to outsource my freedom, a trickle of excitement became an avalanche of hope.
It was definitely the vodka. My blood swam with it, as it swam with the thought of a different future.
Before I knew it, I was entering my contact details and situation.
Chewing my nails nervously, worry overcame excitement, regret, then fear, my musings overwhelming me. But it was all wiped when my phone rang with a withheld number.