Chapter Two

Izzy's fingers hesitatedover the dough. The kitchen, with its gleaming copper pots and well-worn wooden table, was Martha's domain, a place of savory aromas and simmering pots that Izzy now needed to navigate as part of her wifely duties. Ana had been more interested in cooking than Izzy had been, so she felt a bit inept in the kitchen.

"Albert likes his bread to have a firm crust," Martha said, her voice carrying the weight of authority as she guided Izzy's hands with her own. "He expects his meals to be on time and his house to be spotless."

The air was thick with the heat from the oven, and Izzy could feel a bead of sweat trail down her spine. She nodded, committing Martha's words to memory while kneading the dough with more conviction, trying to find some semblance of control in the situation she found herself in.

"Does he ever speak of...affection?" Izzy ventured, her heart fluttering with hope.

"Affection is a luxury," Martha replied curtly, her eyes never leaving the task at hand. "Albert Thoreau is a man of business. He respects efficiency and obedience above all else."

The room seemed to close in around Izzy. She realized that in this house, emotions were burdensome. Her role as Albert's wife was one of function, not of love or partnership. She wanted things to be different, and she would just have to bide her time. Oh, how she wished she had Rosie's ability to be patient.

"Come now," Martha said after a period of heavy silence, wiping her hands on her apron. "I'll show you to your bedroom."

They ascended the creaky staircase, each step a reminder of the permanence of Izzy's decision. When they reached the door at the end, Martha pushed it open to reveal the marital chamber.

It was a large room, dominated by a massive four-poster bed draped in heavy fabrics. The windows were draped in dark curtains, muting the sunlight, and casting a gloom over the ornate furniture.

As she looked around her, she realized that she would have preferred bright colors. She wondered how Albert would feel if she were to change things.

"Albert will expect you to be ready when he retires for the evening," Martha stated plainly, pulling back the quilt to expose the crisp white sheets beneath. "He does not tolerate tardiness or indecision."

Izzy felt the weight of expectation bearing down upon her. The room, which should have been a sanctuary, now felt like a cage. The reality of sharing this intimate space with a man she hardly knew—a man who saw her as little more than property—settled in her stomach like a stone.

"Thank you, Martha," Izzy managed to say.

"Good," Martha nodded once, approval and pity mingling in her gaze. "I'll leave you to get acquainted with your duties. Supper will be served promptly at six."

With that, Martha left. Alone in the looming shadow of the marriage bed, Izzy's resolve wavered. She would have to learn quickly, adapt to Albert's expectations, or be swallowed whole by the bleak existence that stretched out before her.

Izzy's fingers brushed over the worn fabric of her small satchel, its contents meager and unassuming. One by one, she lifted her belongings—a pair of threadbare stockings, a comb with several teeth missing, and a modest cotton dress—and nestled them into the ornate dresser that seemed to mock her simplicity.

With a sigh, she withdrew the last item, her plain white nightgown, holding it up against her frame. The material was soft from wear, comforting in its familiarity, yet as she eyed the magnificent bed, she couldn't help but feel a pang of longing for something more refined, something delicate and laced with the promise of romance. This was, after all, her wedding night, wasn't it? Yet the thought brought a bitter taste to her mouth.

"Should've had a pretty nightdress," she murmured to herself. The gown fell from her hands, folding obediently into the final drawer, an acceptance of sorts.

Drawn as if by some invisible force, Izzy approached the window, her movements slow. Her hands pulled aside the dark curtains. She peered down at the town of Hope Springs.

The roofs of buildings dotted the view, each sheltering lives and stories she might never know. Somewhere down there, perhaps, her sisters were with their new husbands and seeing their new homes. Were they gazing out of their windows too, yearning for a connection severed by distance and fate?

"Anabelle...Rosabelle..." she whispered their names, a silent prayer for their well-being. A tightness gripped her chest—a blend of worry and solitude—as she pondered their fates. Were they safe? Content? Did they, too, lay out their nightgowns with trembling hands?

A cool breeze wafted through the open pane, carrying with it the faint sounds of life outside. Life moved on, relentless and indifferent to the stillness that had settled upon Izzy's shoulders.

Her gaze lingered on the horizon, where the mountains stood. Perhaps, in their ancient wisdom, they held the answers to the questions that plagued her heart. For now, though, those answers remained as elusive as the touch of warmth she so desperately sought in this new existence.

*****

THE CLINK OF CUTLERYon fine china punctuated the silence that had fallen over the dining room. Albert sat rigidly at the head of the long mahogany table, his posture an unspoken decree of authority.

At the opposite end of the table, Izzy perched, a lone figure dwarfed by the expanse between them. She felt every inch the accessory in his perfect vision of domesticity. Martha's footsteps were soft as she moved about the room, serving up portions with deference and precision. The housekeeper's presence was the only warmth in the vast, ornate space, yet it did nothing to temper the chill of the arrangement.

Izzy lifted her fork, the weight of it unfamiliar in her hand, like so many things in this new life. Across from her, Albert's jaw worked methodically, his eyes never leaving his plate, the embodiment of detachment.

The meal concluded with mechanical finality. Albert wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, pushed his chair back, and stood. Without a word or a glance toward Izzy, he departed the room. He retreated to his office—the inner sanctum where his true passions lay.

Left in the wake of his absence, Izzy rose and gathered the dishes with quiet resignation. She carried them to the kitchen, where Martha waited with the sink filled with steaming water. The clatter of porcelain being submerged broke the oppressive stillness, the suds caressing Izzy's hands like a consoling touch.

"Let me help you," Izzy said, rolling up her sleeves despite the lingering scent of roast beef and the quiet protest of her aching muscles.

Martha offered a small smile, lines of kindness etched into her weathered face. "You needn't trouble yourself, Mrs. Thoreau. This is my duty."

"Please," Izzy insisted, "I can't sit still. I need to do something with my hands." It was a plea for normalcy in a world where she felt utterly adrift.

Together they worked, the scrape of plates and the slosh of water filling the void left by Albert's departure. Izzy washed while Martha dried. For a fleeting moment, there was camaraderie in the task, a shared burden in a house where Izzy hoped she would one day feel at home.

"Thank you," Izzy whispered as she handed a rinsed platter to Martha.

Martha nodded, accepting the dish and the gratitude with equal grace. "We look after our own here," she said, though her eyes betrayed the knowledge that within these walls, some were more alone than others.

As they finished, the kitchen regained its order, but the silence lingered—a reminder that peace was merely an illusion in the shadow of Albert Thoreau's will.

Izzy lingered by the sink, her fingers tracing the cold edge as she gazed through the window.

"Mrs. Thoreau," Martha began. "You oughtn't be here scrubbing away. A woman of your standing should spend her evenings with needlework or a book. That's what Mr. Thoreau would expect."

"Expect?" Izzy's gaze snapped from the window to Martha. As much as she wanted to please her husband, she refused to bend her will to be what any man wanted. "I'm no porcelain doll to sit pretty and idle." Her hands clenched, the skin chafed from the dishwater.

Martha's look was one of sympathy muddled with caution. "It ain't about what we find, but what is given," she murmured, her eyes flitting to the grandfather clock in the corner of the room.

As if summoned by the ticking of time, Albert's voice cut through the air like the final toll of the hour. "Isabelle, it is time." His words were clipped, precise, devoid of warmth. "Prepare yourself for bed. I will join you shortly."

The command hung heavy in the room, an unyielding decree that brooked no opposition. Izzy felt the walls close in, her newfound defiance crumbling to resignation. She gave Martha a terse nod, her footsteps muted against the wooden floor as she retreated from the kitchen, each step a resignation to the order of her world.

Izzy's fingers fumbled with the buttons of her dress, a cascade of fabric pooling at her feet. She pulled the plain white nightgown over her head, its cotton whispering against her skin. It hung on her frame, unadorned and functional, as if to mirror the stark transaction her life had become.

She slid between the stiff sheets, the chill linen pressing against her legs. Her limbs were rigid, arranging themselves in careful symmetry, a ritual of compliance she had yet to understand but felt compelled to perform. The nightgown seemed to leech the warmth from her skin.

Footsteps echoed up the staircase, deliberate and unhurried. The door creaked open, a sliver of light slicing through the darkness before being extinguished by him.

Albert shed his clothes with the same mechanical precision that he seemed to do everything with.

The bed dipped beneath his weight, the springs protesting with a faint groan as he settled beside her. Izzy's breath hitched, a silent gasp swallowed by the void between them. His body exuded a heat that was the complete opposite of the coldness of his demeanor.

There was no word, no glance of acknowledgment as he lay there, an unbreachable distance measured in inches. Izzy's eyes traced the profile of his face, wanting to see some sort of emotion, but there was none there.

Albert shifted, his movements deliberate and sure. Izzy tensed, unsure of what his touch would bring. She knew the mechanics of what to expect, but she had no idea how it would feel to have him touch her.

She felt his hand, an unexpected warmth against the cool expanse of her skin, a contradiction to the aloofness that clung to him.

His touch was not the perfunctory gesture she had braced herself for but rather a careful exploration that kindled a flicker of something forbidden within her—a desire she could scarcely name. Izzy's breath caught as he drew nearer, the space between them collapsing into a tangle of limbs and whispered sighs.

Albert transformed beneath the veil of darkness. His lips found hers with an urgency that surprised her. He moved with a fervor that spoke of hidden depths, a passion that danced on the edge of ferocity, yet tempered by a gentleness that cradled her in its embrace.

Izzy's world, which had been painted in shades of duty and decorum, burst into vivid color at his ministrations. Her own body responded in kind, moving against him with an innate rhythm that surprised her as much as it seemed to delight him. The sensation of being truly seen left her breathless.

For those fleeting moments, as they moved together in the silent symphony of their union, Izzy forgot the cold pragmatism of their arrangement. She was no longer just the wife of Albert Thoreau, the businessman. Instead, she felt as if she was awakened by his touch, much as Sleeping Beauty had been woken by the kiss of the prince.

"Well, that was unexpectedly fun," she said, grinning at him in the darkness.

He chuckled. "I hope you always feel that way."

But as quickly as the flame had ignited, it was extinguished. Albert's breaths slowed, his energy spent, and he turned from her without a word. The warmth of his body moved from her, and he rolled to his side to sleep, facing away from her.

Izzy lay there, the echoes of pleasure still thrumming through her, as Albert's steady breathing told her he was asleep. There was a haunting solitude that crept over her. She had never slept alone, and even though she wasn't alone then, she felt as if she was. She wanted things to be as they were. She wanted to still share a bed with her two sisters.

Staring up at the ceiling, Izzy grappled with the enigma that was her husband. How could one man house two completely different personalities—the iron-fisted ruler of an empire by day, and the fervent lover by night? Was this passion merely another facet of his ownership, or did it hint at some deeper well of emotion yet untapped?

Her heart ached in the silence that followed, yearning for a sign that what passed between them had meant something more than physical satiation. But the answer, much like the man beside her, remained a mystery. And Izzy, lost in the immensity of her thoughts, awaited the dawn with a heavy sense of longing for what might never be.

But she would work toward it. She wasn't going to have a marriage like her mother's where her father reigned supreme and commanded all who were around him.