Chapter Three

It was past dawn whenIzzy stirred from her slumber. She lay still for a moment before she pushed off the heavy quilts and slipped from the bed. The wooden floorboards were chilled against her bare feet as she padded toward the dining room where Albert was already seated at the head of the breakfast table.

"Good morning," she murmured.

Albert glanced up from his plate, his eyes trailing over her modest attire with a hint of disapproval. "Morning, Izzy," he said. "We'll be attending church today. You should wear your best dress."

Izzy's hands smoothed out the wrinkles in the simple cotton fabric that draped her frame. She met his gaze, her voice steady even as it betrayed her vulnerability. "This is my best dress, Albert."

Silence swathed them like a shroud. Albert's expression morphed into one of shock, his brows arching high above the rim of his spectacles. For a drawn-out moment, he scrutinized her, as if seeing her for the first time, and then a curt nod broke the tension. "That's a pity," he said.

"I'll make a new one as soon as I can," she said, her gaze meeting his without flinching.

"See that you do. Anything is better than what you're wearing."

Later, Izzy stepped through the threshold of the church, remembering little about going to church before her father had forced them to stop. She had no idea where to sit or how to behave. Her mother had taught them to pray, and she'd even assigned them scriptures to memorize as part of their learning, but Izzy remembered nothing about being in a church beyond her recent wedding ceremony that had been anything but ceremonious.

Then, through all the people gathered there, Izzy spotted her sister. Rosie's smile beckoned her. Izzy hurried toward her. They collided in an embrace that to observers looked as if they'd been apart for years.

"Rosie," Izzy whispered. "It's so good to see your face!"

"Izzy," Rosie said. "How do you like married life?"

A shadow flitted across Izzy's features. She glanced back at where Albert stood. "It is...as expected," she replied. Izzy didn't want her sisters to worry about her, and they would be concerned if they knew what a cold man Albert was.

They exchanged pleasantries. Rosie wore contentment like a second skin, speaking fondly of her husband. Yet Izzy merely nodded along, refusing to mention the chill of Albert's indifference.

Just before the service started, Ana materialized beside them. They exchanged greetings as they embraced all together.

They met up again after the service, and along with their men, they drifted toward the modest restaurant at the edge of town.

The meal was strange to Izzy, who had never been in a restaurant before. The men exchanging tales of commerce and the happenings in Hope Springs, while the women's voices wove a softer counterpoint. Albert's baritone threaded through the conversation while Izzy's contributions were but whispers. There was a symmetry to this tableau, each couple a mirror of tradition and propriety.

Izzy's gaze lingered on the cheer in her sisters' eyes, a contrast to the restraint in her own. Not for the first time, she pondered the value of silence.

Izzy lingered outside the restaurant. Rosie and Ana were beside her, their faces aglow with the prospect of an afternoon spent away from the watchful eyes of their husbands.

"Let's meet at the general store," Ana suggested, her voice tinged with a mirth that made the air around them lighter. "I've been itching to make a new dress. I felt underdressed at church this morning."

"Agreed," said Rosie. "We'll have our very own dressmaking soiree!"

Izzy smiled. "That sounds lovely." Her mind wandered to the bolts of fabric that awaited them, colors and textures that promised creation. Never before had any of the sisters been allowed to choose fabric for their own dress, and the idea was exciting.

"Shall we say this time tomorrow?" Ana's words cut through the quiet that had settled between them.

"That sounds wonderful," Izzy confirmed, the promise of sisterly companionship lifting her spirits for the first time since the vows had been spoken.

As they dispersed, each to their respective abodes, Izzy felt the weight of Albert's wealth like a chain around her neck. She didn't want her sisters to think she was better than them for having more money. In silence, there was equality. In pretense, there was kinship.

And so, as she walked alongside Albert, Izzy clung to the notion of simple pleasures—a spool of thread, a yard of cotton, a pattern sketched on brown paper. These were things she could share with her sisters, things that did not scream of silver, of mines, and of wealth untold.

"Are you well, my dear?" Albert asked, his voice cutting through her thoughts.

"Quite well," she lied smoothly. "I am looking forward to tomorrow afternoon. I'm meeting my sisters, and we're going to choose fabric for dresses."

"Good," he said. "You all need new dresses. I'm surprised the matchmaker let you come in such rags."

Izzy held on to the image of the general store, to the thought of threading needles and shaping garments. With her sisters beside her, she could pretend that all was well.

Though she didn't like what he was saying about her dress, she knew that he was right. She did look ridiculous in her threadbare garments. She'd be happy when she was dressed in a way that pleased him.

"Isabelle," Albert began, his voice devoid of warmth, "I've decided we shall spend our Sunday afternoons together. It seems only fitting, given that my weeks are consumed by the businesses."

She turned to face him, noting the stern set of his jaw, the rigid stance of authority that he wore as comfortably as his tailored suit. "I would like that, Albert," she replied, careful not to betray the fluttering in her chest at the thought of more time spent in his presence.

"Furthermore," he continued, casting a critical eye over her modest attire, "it's high time you dress in a manner befitting my wife. You shall have new dresses made."

Izzy felt a tightness grip her throat. The prospect of fine gowns filled her with dread, for they would become yet another wall between her and her sisters. "There's no need for finery," she said quietly.

"Need has nothing to do with it," he retorted sharply. "It is about appearance, about status. People must see you and know immediately who you belong to."

"Of course, Albert," she agreed, wishing she still felt as free as she had on the night she and her sisters had escaped their father's home.

Albert's gaze softened ever so slightly as he seemed to recall a time long past. "You know, Isabel, I haven't been down in the mines for over ten years now. Those days were dark. But it was down there I learned the value of hard work and persistence."

She listened, the bleakness of her new reality settling upon her as he spoke of his ascent from the bowels of the earth to the richest man in town.

"Hard work," she said. For all his talk of toil, he seemed oblivious to the notion that perhaps she yearned for something other than riches.

"Yes," he said, his attention already waning as he glanced toward the clock. "I must attend to some correspondence before supper. See to it that you speak with the dressmaker this week."

"Very well," she answered. "But didn't you want to spend Sunday afternoons together?"

"We'll start next week," he said, already down the hall and at the door of his office.

*****

IZZY STARED ACROSSthe dining table at Albert, surprised at the simple fare Martha had prepared. Fork in hand, she picked at her food, the roast chicken and root vegetables mere shapes on her plate.

"Tell me about your childhood," Albert said suddenly.

She swallowed hard, the memories of her youth surfacing like specters from a shadowy past. "I was raised alongside Anabelle and Rosabelle," she began, her voice steady despite the tremor she felt inside. "As triplets we were inseparable. I'm glad we aren't identical though."

Albert nodded, his eyes holding hers, urging her to continue.

"Father...Father was a man of iron will and stern convictions." Izzy hesitated. "He believed the world outside was no place for his daughters. After our fifth birthday, our home became our universe—our prison."

"Prison?"

"I don't know what else we would call it," Izzy said. "We were tutored within those walls by our mother without Father's knowledge. Cooking, housework, and needlework are all things we were taught. We knew nothing of boys or games, or the freedoms enjoyed by others."

Albert's brow furrowed as he absorbed her words, the lines etched deeply upon his face. "I see," he said after a moment.

The conversation lapsed once more into silence. Each bite Izzy took felt laborious, the food tasteless against her tongue. She wondered if Albert could sense the weight of her past.

"Your father's influence seems to have been quite...profound," Albert observed quietly, his gaze never leaving her face.

"Profound, yes," Izzy agreed, the word tasting like ash. "But not nurturing. Not kind."

Albert reached for his glass. "I understand," he said in a low voice, setting the glass down with a gentle thud.

Supper continued, each mouthful and movement deliberate, methodical. As the meal ended, Izzy couldn't help but feel that in this grand house, under the watchful eye of her husband, she was still caged. Imprisoned. She'd left one jail for another.

The remnants of supper lay abandoned on the dining table. Albert pushed his chair back, the sound jarring in the stillness, and excused himself with a curt nod. The door to his office closed with a soft click, leaving Izzy alone, the opulence suddenly suffocating.

She wandered through the corridors, her steps muted by the thick carpets, until she reached the sanctuary of the library. Books lined the shelves, their spines a mosaic of leather and gold leaf. Izzy's fingers traced the embossed titles, seeking solace in the tactile connection to worlds penned and bound. She selected a volume, its cover worn from use, and settled into an armchair by the fireplace.

The printed words danced before her eyes, tales of love and adventure that seemed alien to her existence. Reading felt indulgent—her hands idle when they should be busy with the labor of living. Yet she knew Albert preferred her this way.

Izzy allowed herself to be drawn into the narrative. For a brief moment, she escaped the confines of her gilded cage, her spirit soaring on the wings of fiction.

Time passed unnoticed until Albert appeared at the doorway. "Isabelle," he called, his voice void of the day's distance.

"Albert," she responded, marking her place with a ribbon and closing the book. She rose to meet him, the book clasped like a shield against her chest.

In the privacy of their chamber, the air shifted, charged with an intimacy that only nightfall could bring. As Albert's hands undressed her, Izzy marveled at his transformation. With each touch, each kiss, the walls he built around himself crumbled into dust.

Here, in the tangle of sheets and the mingling of breaths, they were equals. His caresses spoke louder than any words could—you are wanted, you are seen—and for a fleeting second, the powerlessness that shadowed her days receded into the darkness.

As they moved together, a rhythm as old as time itself, Izzy clung to the revelation that in the vulnerability of their union, all pretenses fell away. This was her favorite time of day, not because of passion's flame, but because here, entwined with Albert, she glimpsed the man behind the mask.

Afterward, as he lay beside her, his breathing deep and even, Izzy traced the lines of his face with her eyes, memorizing the contours softened by sleep. Even now, with his defenses laid bare, she sensed the weight of the world he carried, the expectations of a society that demanded strength and silence from its men.

Izzy turned her gaze toward the window. She sought the promise of tomorrow, a hope that maybe, just maybe, the walls between them might one day remain nothing but rubble.