ISABELLA

     It had been precisely one month (or thirty days, or 720 hours, or 43,200 minutes, depending on one's preference for measuring time) since I last saw Lewis, my dark-haired, somewhat enigmatic scientist. 

     At least, I thought he was still someone I could claim as my own. Ten minutes had passed since I dispatched my handmaid to check for mail.

     I smothered my face in my satin-covered pillow, weeping silently for the misfortunes of the past month. 

     My family's calamitous loss at sea and the heartbreak from a certain gentleman's neglect had me confined to my room, languishing on my creaky bed, and contemplating the tragic prospect of becoming an impoverished spinster.

     The sound of my door opening interrupted my self-pitying thoughts. I lifted my head, hoping for news from Lewis. "I'm sorry, my lady, no letters today," Betty said, her face almost as morose as mine. Almost. "Urgh!" I howled in frustration, diving back into my maroon pillows.

     "Off to the kitchen, Betty. I'll handle it from here," Aunt Lydia said, dismissing my maid. I felt the bed sag as my aunt perched her ample posterior on its edge.

     Aunt Lydia was not only the loveliest woman in the Netherlands, but she also appeared to have a knack for staying young. Her obsidian hair, reminiscent of my dear Lewis, framed her beautiful face, and her light grey eyes seemed bottomless. If I were half as beautiful, perhaps I'd have a chance of finding a suitor despite my newfound poverty. 

     But now, even a working-class scientist might turn up his nose at me.

     I caught a glimpse of pity in my aunt's silver gaze and hastily hid my face beneath the covers. "Lady Brouwer," she called, but I remained silent.

     "Isabella!" she said again, her tone sharpening.

     Impatience flared, but I clung to the comforting darkness of my fabric fortress. My aunt, however, had other ideas. She yanked the duvet away, exposing me to the cold, hard world. "Come on, my dear girl, this has got to stop," she scolded.

     "Isabella, I understand your recent trials have taken a toll on your spirits, but you must tend to what's left of your father's estate."

     "What's left?" I spat, anguished. "Father gambled everything away, including my dowry, on one foolish expedition, and now it's gone. I've lost everything, Aunt Lydia… everything," I lamented, my words heavy with the grief of a broken heart.

     "That's unfair to your father, bless his soul," she chastised. Softening her tone, she continued, "Your father loved you dearly. Mr Braithwaite, the company manager, told me your father was dying. He risked everything to provide for you and your dowry. He never would have wagered so much if he had known the danger."

     I regretted my outburst against my late father. After my mother's passing, he had been my rock. I silently asked for his forgiveness and placed my hand on Aunt Lydia's. "I'm sorry, Aunt Lydia," I choked. "I didn't mean to speak ill of my father."

     Aunt Lydia patted my hand reassuringly. "It's alright, dear. But you can't continue like this. You have a ball to attend tonight."

     I groaned and tried to retreat under the sheets, but my seemingly ageless aunt stopped me. "Ah ah ah… not so fast," she said knowingly.

     She whisked the covers off my body and tossed them onto the pink suede armchair beside my bed.

     Aunt Lydia strode to the large bay window in my room. With her back to me, she drew the drapes apart, allowing light to flood in.

     She didn't burst into flames, which effectively debunked my vampire theory. Aunt Lydia's voice pulled me back from my preposterous daydreams.

     "Now, let's get you ready for the ball. You never know, you might encounter a gentleman so smitten with you that he wouldn't even care about the size of your chest," she said as she turned to face me. I snorted at her ambiguous words, cracking a smile for the first time in a while.

     "I mean your chest of gold, of course," Aunt Lydia clarified with a grin.