Chapter Four

Shortly after breakfastthe following morning a knock echoed through the quiet house, signaling the arrival of the modiste. Izzy descended the staircase with deliberate steps.

"Mrs. Thoreau," the modiste greeted with a practiced smile, unfurling an array of sketches onto the dining table like a deck of possibilities fanned out in front of her. The scent of fresh ink and parchment mingled with the musty air, and Izzy's fingers trembled slightly as she reached out to touch the first sketch.

"Good morning," Izzy replied. She studied each drawing with a critical eye, noting the fine lines that depicted silhouettes more suited for high society than the rugged edges of the frontier. Swaths of fabric in rich colors and sumptuous textures were laid before her, each one promising transformation.

For hours, Izzy went through the motions, selecting trims and buttons, lace and ribbons, while the modiste watched with a keen gaze. The six dresses she chose—one for each day of the week, save Sunday—were a study in modest elegance. A dove gray for Monday, a gentle blue for Tuesday, all the way to a soft green for Saturday. Each one was chosen not only for its appearance but for its ability to please Albert.

"Mr. Thoreau will be most satisfied with your choices, Mrs. Thoreau. These are practical and becoming," the modiste remarked.

"Thank you," Izzy murmured, folding her hands in her lap to still their quivering. It was more than just dresses she was choosing—it was a uniform to display her husband's wealth and status. Yet beneath the layers of impending silk and satin, a quiet rebellion simmered within her.

"Mrs. Thoreau," the dressmaker began, her voice carrying an edge of obligation, "your husband has instructed me to create fifteen dresses for you."

The number echoed in Izzy's ears, amplifying until it filled the room with its absurdity. Fifteen dresses was a ridiculous number. She had never had more than two at a time in her life!

"Surely, there's been some mistake," Izzy replied. Her gaze dropped to the sketches, now a clutter of excess and expectation. "Six should suffice. One for each day of the week when you include the one I'm wearing."

"Mr. Thoreau was explicit." The dressmaker met Izzy's eyes. "He desires his wife to be a reflection of his prosperity. Fifteen dresses, no less. And you'll need some that are much grander than those you've chosen. Those are suitable for every day, but you'll need evening gowns and dresses to wear when entertaining."

Izzy felt the weight of them. She drew a breath. "It's too much," she said. "I cannot..."

But the protest withered under the dressmaker's scrutiny. Izzy knew it was not a question of can or cannot, but a matter of will or will not.

The dressmaker's fingers paused over the unfolded bolt of silk, her question slicing through the silence. "Shall I select the remaining gowns, Mrs. Thoreau?"

Izzy's hands lay still in her lap, the swatches of fabric beneath them a riot of colors she couldn't bring herself to care for.

"Mrs. Thoreau?" The dressmaker prompted again.

"Very well," Izzy conceded, her voice barely a murmur as she acquiesced to the unspoken command behind the request. Each word felt like it was leading her somewhere she didn't want to go.

As the dressmaker flipped through the sketches with renewed vigor, Izzy watched the parade of potential dresses. A frill here, a ribbon there—all garnishes on a life that was being served to her by someone else's hand. With each selection, she felt taunted by the frivolity of it all. What would her sisters think?

"Perhaps this one," the dressmaker proposed, holding up a drawing of a gown with intricate beading along the bodice.

Izzy nodded, the motion. What did it matter if she wore six dresses or sixteen? They were all costumes in a play where she had no say in the script.

"Or this, with the lace overlay," the dressmaker continued, oblivious to the struggle that played out across Izzy's features.

"Fine," Izzy agreed again, each affirmation sticking in her throat. She was constructing her own cage with these ridiculous garments. Why had she thought she wanted to marry a wealthy man?

The dressmaker beamed, content with the progress, while Izzy's smile was empty. She rose, her movements stiff and robotic. She had no doubt the dressmaker would follow her husbands instructions, and it didn't really matter what she said and wanted.

*****

IZZY SAT ACROSS FROMAlbert at the lunch table, her hands folded neatly in her lap atop the fine linen tablecloth. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting a warm glow on the elaborate spread of dishes that Martha had prepared. The aroma of roasted chicken mingled with the fresh scent of baked bread, but the richness of the feast did nothing to ease the tightness in Izzy's chest.

"Everything is delicious, Martha outdid herself again," Albert remarked, his voice carrying an air of casual satisfaction as he sampled a forkful of greens.

"Yes," Izzy murmured, her own food untouched. Guilt gnawed at her. She should have been by Martha's side, contributing to the household, instead of drowning in a sea of silk and taffeta.

"Is everything to your liking, Izzy?" Albert's gaze was sharp, like a hawk surveying its domain.

"Of course," she lied, pushing around the glazed carrots on her plate. "I spent the morning choosing dresses and gowns. I think fifteen new dresses is too many."

Albert frowned. "It's important for my wife to present herself well."

"Six would have been plenty," she said more to herself than to him.

"More is better," he replied curtly, dismissing her sentiment as though swatting away an irritating fly.

"Later today," Izzy ventured, desperate to change the subject, "I am meeting Ana and Rosie at the general store. We're to select fabrics for new dresses. We want to work on them together."

"You will enjoy that," Albert said dryly. "I do hope that you will all choose something appropriate."

"Of course," Izzy assured him.

"Make sure you return before supper," he instructed.

"Absolutely," she replied, her acquiescence automatic, the dutiful words of a woman well-versed in obedience.

As lunch concluded, Izzy excused herself, her movements stiff and deliberate. She longed for the simplicity of flour-stained aprons and the honest work of kneading dough, but she must live in her husband's world.

"Isabelle," he called, a command veiled as an invitation. She paused, turning slightly, her posture taut with anticipation. "Remember, you needn't worry about the cost at Watson's General Store. I have an account there. Charge anything that suits your fancy."

"Thank you, Albert," Izzy replied. She watched his figure retreat into the cool darkness of the house. It felt good to be able to walk around town on her own, something she'd never experienced before. Soon, she and her sisters would have time together, and she couldn't wait.

The walk to the general store was a taste of autonomy as she navigated the streets of Hope Springs. She passed women in aprons, men tipping hats, and children playing with hoops, all under the watchful eye of the mountains looming in the distance.

Upon reaching the store, Izzy found Rosie waiting, leaning against the wooden post of the awning with a patient smile.

"Ana's running late, as usual," Rosie said with a teasing lilt, her eyes crinkling at the edges.

It wasn't long before Ana hurried up to them, breathless, her cheeks flushed with exertion. "Forgive me," she panted, straightening her bonnet. "William was telling me about his morning over lunch. He went into a great deal of detail about how to stitch a wound. Soon, I'll be helping him in the infirmary."

"Sounds useful," Izzy said softly.

They entered the general store together, the bell above the door announcing their arrival with a cheerful jangle. Inside, rows of fabric bolts offered a spectrum of colors and textures. Izzy liked the idea of making a dress of her own because she could wear it when the other dresses felt too fancy for an occasion.

Izzy listened intently as her sisters chatted.

"Anything here catching your eye, Izzy?" Rosie inquired, pulling her from her reverie with a gentle nudge.

"Many things," Izzy responded. When her sisters chose a fabric that came with many patterns, she chose the same fabric in a different color. At least she would feel like she was still a part of their lives if they dressed similarly.

After their purchases were made, the three sisters walked the short distance to Ana's house to spend their afternoons together.

Soon, the scent of sugar and flour mingled in the air as Izzy helped Ana roll out dough for the cookies they decided to make. As they worked, Rosie's laughter filled the room and Izzy couldn't help but think about the laughter they had shared every day of their lives. Until now. Now they lived apart, and it was still strange to Izzy.

"Isn't this just the best part? The anticipation of tasting what we've made," Ana said, her voice rich with contentment as she placed a tray into the oven.

"Yes," Izzy replied. She watched as her sisters chatted and sewed, their hands deftly threading needles and gathering fabric. They created with purpose, their every stitch an assertion of identity. As Izzy worked on her dress, she wondered how Albert would feel about her wearing it. It didn't matter though. She was sewing with her sisters, and that mattered.

"Your stitches are perfect, Izzy," Rosie commented, oblivious to the turmoil behind her sister's quiet demeanor.

"Thank you," Izzy said. But perfection in sewing felt like a paltry achievement when weighed against the silence she kept about her husband's coldness.

As the afternoon waned, Rosie glanced at the clock and sighed. "Time to head back and start supper. How quickly the day slips away."

"It really does," Izzy agreed, folding her sewing neatly. She wrapped the remaining cookies, hiding them in plain paper as if to mask the sweetness they contained.

"Shall we do this again tomorrow?" Ana asked, hopeful.

"Yes," Izzy replied, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I'll come after lunch."

"Good," Ana beamed. "It's settled then."

Rosie wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and stepped outside, leaving Ana and Izzy alone for a moment. "You're always welcome here, Izzy," Ana said.

"Thank you," Izzy murmured. With a last glance at the cozy kitchen, she followed Rosie's path out the door.

Once outside, each sister went their separate way. Izzy's mind already racing ahead to a meal she would not prepare, in a house that did not yet feel like home.

As soon as she was home, Izzy joined Martha in the kitchen.

"Come now, dear, take a seat here," Martha Kirkland said, gesturing toward a sturdy oak chair at the kitchen table. She pulled out the chair, and Izzy settled into it.

Martha filled a porcelain cup with steaming tea and set it down before Izzy. "Here we are, my love," Martha offered, her hands finding comfort in the familiar motions of service. She eased into the chair opposite Izzy, her gaze soft yet piercing.

"Tell me about your journey," Martha coaxed. "The road must have been long and weary for such delicate shoulders."

Izzy's fingers curled around the cup. "It wasn't difficult," she said. "The train did all the work. The difficulty lay between my former home and the train station."

"Ah, yes," Martha murmured, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "A chance to plant roots, to grow strong beneath the endless sky. It must have been very difficult to marry a man you'd just met."

"It was either brave or foolish," Izzy sighed. "I scarcely know which."

"Perhaps a bit of both, but mostly courageous, I'd say." Martha reached across the table, her hand hovering just shy of Izzy's own. "You've stepped into a new world, and you must get used to life in that world. Mr. Thoreau is a good man, but he's very reserved. I don't know that I've ever really seen him display emotion in the eight years I've worked for him."

"I don't know how to talk to him. Do you have any advice for me?" Izzy asked.

"About how to talk to Mr. Thoreau? No, I haven't found the secret to that yet. You'll find your stride, and with time, I think you'll come to love it here."

"Time," Izzy said. "I wish I felt like the time would pass quickly."

"Time, and a friend," Martha added quietly, her eyes locking with Izzy's. "You've got me, child. We'll weather this season together."

Izzy nodded, the first fragile roots of trust taking hold.

Martha set the teapot aside and, with a measured motion, began to knead dough on the flour-dusted counter. Her hands worked rhythmically, as if each press and fold were a silent testament to years of unwritten stories etched deep in her palms.

"Albert's father," Martha started, "was very much like Albert, rigid in his beliefs and seeming cold to others. And Albert's mother, well, she was the water that somehow softened the stone. I watched her and learned from her. She was my dearest friend back East, and when my husband died, she wrote to Albert and told him that he should hire me." She glanced up at Izzy.

Izzy listened, her hands cupping the warmth of her tea, a small barrier between herself and the weight of expectation.

"Even the mightiest river can carve through rock," Martha continued, "not with force, but with persistence. With time." Her eyes met Izzy's. "You need to take that time to learn about Albert and let him learn about you. Albert favors hearty meals. He enjoys beef stew on Sundays, and he's partial to apple pie with a crumble top. I'll show you the recipes, the little tricks to getting the crust just so."

"Thank you," Izzy murmured. There was solace in the knowledge of these small commandments, a means to navigate the vast terrain of expectations. "Then if you want an evening off, I can cook for him."

"Patience," Martha said, dusting flour from her hands. "Patience will be your closest ally, and a pinch of sugar often sweetens more than just the pie."

Izzy clasped her hands in her lap. "Martha," she said, "I can't begin to express my gratitude for your guidance. It's...it's more than I imagined I'd find out here."

Martha looked up from her task at the basin. The corners of her mouth lifted in a smile that didn't quite chase away the shadows in her eyes.

"Child, we women have to stick together. I'll do all I can to give you guidance on being the type of wife Mr. Thoreau is needing." Her tone held the weight of unspoken stories, the kind written in the callouses of her hands and the set of her jaw.

The room filled with a comfortable silence, one that allowed Izzy's thoughts to unfurl like the quilt she'd left in her satchel, a patchwork of fear and hope stitched together.

"Did you ever regret it?" Izzy asked suddenly, her gaze catching Martha's. "Coming out here, I mean..."

"Every choice has its downside, Izzy," Martha said. "There were days I cursed the sun for rising and nights I wished the moon would forget to climb. But regrets? They're luxury. We make our choices, and we stand by them. And we find joy in everything we can."

"Joy," Izzy repeated, tasting the word as if it were new.

"Yes," Martha said. "In little things—like getting Albert's pie crust just right or seeing the first sprouts in spring. And in big things, like knowing there's someone who will stand by you, come hell or high water."

"Like you," Izzy said. "Thank you, Martha. For standing by me. I lost my mother recently, and I thought I would only have my sisters."

"Think nothing of it. Albert is a good man," Martha said, "but he's set in his ways, as men often are. You'll need patience, Izzy. Understanding, too."

Izzy met Martha's gaze, finding an unspoken kinship in the depths of her eyes. "I want to be a good wife to him, Martha. I do. But everything here is so new, so... overwhelming. I always imagined spending my days in the kitchen as my mother did. To spend a morning choosing dresses with a dressmaker is a bit of a surprise."

"Change is never easy," Martha acknowledged. "It's like breaking in a new pair of boots. At first, they pinch and rub, but given time, they form to your feet as if they were made just for you. Your marriage to Albert will be much the same. Give it time. Give yourself time."

"Is it always going to be this hard?" Izzy whispered.

"Hard?" Martha asked. "Life is difficult. But there's beauty in the struggle."

Izzy nodded, absorbing the tacit fortitude that seemed to emanate from Martha's very being. "Thank you," she murmured. "For everything you've taught me, for the kindness you've shown. I'll remember your words, Martha, and I'll try. I promise."

Martha reached across the table, her hand covering Izzy's. "You're stronger than you know, child. Remember that when the nights get cold, and the days get long."

"Strong," Izzy repeated. She almost said that the night was the only time she could be with Albert that he wasn't cold, but she knew that his housekeeper didn't need to know that about him.

"Come," Martha said, standing with a rustle of skirts. "Let's finish up here. Tomorrow's another day, and who knows what it'll bring."

Izzy wiped her hands on the apron cinched around her waist.

"Albert will be back from town soon," Martha's voice cut through Izzy's thoughts.

"Of course," Izzy replied. There were truths unspoken between them.

"Patience is a virtue hard-earned, but you'll find your way."

"Tonight," Izzy breathed to herself, "I begin anew."

She heard the front door open and hurried to remove her apron. It wouldn't please Albert to know that she'd been helping in the kitchen, so there was no reason to let him see her wearing it.

She would be the best wife to him she could possibly be. Starting now.