Chapter Five

In their bedroom, Albertand Izzy were entwined with an unexpected familiarity. Izzy marveled at how comfortable she felt with Albert when they were in bed together, but not at any other time. She wanted them to be close always, but she had a feeling that wouldn't happen.

But within the confines of their shared warmth, reality seemed to fade away. Izzy, her senses heightened, felt the world narrow down to the touch of Albert's hands, the pressure of his lips, and the steady beat of his heart against her chest.

And then, a sensation unlike any she had known before swept over her. A crescendo of pleasure that shattered the silence of the night, leaving her breathless. She clung to Albert, her voice a whisper lost in the shadows. "It's magic," she gasped, the word strange and new, yet fitting perfectly in the moment of their quiet revelation.

How could she feel such magic with a man who didn't seem to care for her during the day? It was so confusing!

The following morning, Izzy ventured out into Hope Springs. She walked slowly, deliberately, her mind still on what had transpired between her and Albert the night before.

Her fingertips grazed the delicate petals of wildflowers along the streets, much like how Albert had traced the contours of her skin.

Izzy's walk was a solitary act of reclaiming herself, step by step, from the powerlessness that marriage entailed for women. Here, she found a semblance of peace—a break from the unspoken rules and regulations that governed her life.

It was in these small moments, alone with the burgeoning day, that Izzy allowed herself to dream—dreams not of grandeur or escape, but of understanding and belonging in a place where she was more than just a mail-order bride, more than an appendage to a man of wealth and influence.

Albert Thoreau remained a mystery. There was a depth to him, hinted at in the night's embrace, that suggested more than the facade of power and control. She wished she knew the real Albert, but there was no way of knowing whether he was truly the strong, rich man who she'd married, or the tender lover, who was with her at night.

She definitely preferred the man who came out at night, but most people only saw the man he was during the day. It was hard to know.

"Mrs. Thoreau," a voice called out.

It took her a moment to realize that she was Mrs. Thoreau. She turned, her heart hitching slightly at the sight of Albert striding toward her, his presence like a boulder in the river of her thoughts—unyielding, demanding attention. Two men flanked him.

"Good day, Albert," Izzy greeted. She would love to be able to bury her face against his chest in an embrace that would never end, but instead, she was formal, as he was.

"Jonathan, Samuel, this is my wife, Isabelle," Albert introduced with a smile.

"Ma'am," they both nodded, hats briefly lifted in recognition.

"They will be dining with us on Monday night. Be sure to have Martha prepare something suitable for company," Albert said, a statement rather than an invitation as if penciling in another appointment in his ledger of ownership.

"Of course," Izzy replied, her smile practiced.

As the trio departed, Izzy turned her attention back to the street before her, eager to slip from under the weight of Albert's gaze.

The bookstore beckoned like a haven, its wooden sign creaking gently in the breeze. She stepped over the threshold, the bell above the door announcing her escape from the sun's scrutiny. The dim interior was lined with shelves, each groaning under the weight of stories and knowledge—a contrast to the stifling expectations that loomed outside.

"Can I help you find anything?" The shopkeeper, a young woman with sharp eyes, appeared from between two bookcases.

"Thank you, but I'm just browsing," Izzy responded, fingers tracing the spines of novels as she walked along the aisle.

"Ah, I see you've found our classics section," the shopkeeper commented, joining her. "Do you have a favorite author?"

"Charlotte Bront?," Izzy admitted, her touch lingering on a well-worn copy of ‘Jane Eyre.' The tale of a woman's resilience against the confines of society resonated deep within her.

"An excellent choice," the woman smiled, pulling out a novel by Mary Shelley. "For me, it's ‘Frankenstein.' The story of creation and the consequences that follow feels...pertinent."

They went on to discuss strong female characters and the difficulties they faced—realities not too different from their own. In the shared space between the pages of fiction, Izzy felt a kindred spirit, a subtle rebellion against the roles they were expected to fill.

"Thank you," Izzy murmured as she left the store, a new book tucked under her arm like a shield. "For the company."

"Anytime, Mrs. Thoreau," the shopkeeper said, nodding with understanding.

The town square of Hope Springs was transformed into a celebration. Albert Thoreau, with his bride Izzy at his side, eased through the throng of townsfolk gathered for the Sunday affair. The air carried the twang of banjo strings and the rhythmic clap of spoons. A man with a fiddle hurried to join the band.

"Look at this," Albert said, gesturing toward an array of tables crowned with local treats—pies, jams, and breads. Izzy's gaze lingered on the spread, her fingers grazing the edge of a table before she selected a small pastry.

"Delicious," she commented.

"Come," Albert said, guiding her past the musicians. They arrived at a space cleared for games, where the clang of metal meeting metal signified another round of horseshoes.

"Care to try your hand?" Albert asked, his voice shaded with a challenge.

"Very well," Izzy replied, accepting the heavy horseshoe. She felt its weight, a symbol of the burdens she carried silently, a reminder of the strength she mustered daily to wield her life with poise under the watchful eyes of a world that offered little room for error.

Albert explained the rules, simple yet demanding precision. Together they stood, side by side. Her first throw fell short while Albert's horseshoe arced true, encircling the stake with a triumphant clink.

"See? It's all in the wrist," he said.

Izzy nodded, her next attempt mirroring his technique. The horseshoe spun, carving through the air with defiance until it embraced the stake with a satisfying ring. A cheer erupted from the onlookers, and for a fleeting moment, Izzy tasted victory.

"Bravo, Izzy!" Albert said, his hands firm on her shoulders.

"Thank you," she said.

Together, they cheered each other on, competitors in sport but partners in the spectacle of survival.

After the game, Izzy led the way to the sanctuary of a nearby park. They chose a bench at random, sitting down together, looking out over the crowd of people there.

"Isn't it strange," Izzy said, "how we're all expected to follow paths laid out before us by others? To tread the tracks of their choosing?"

Albert, his suit no longer the armor of a businessman but the mere clothing of a man, nodded. "It's a heavy yoke, the expectations placed upon our shoulders." His eyes held a flicker of vulnerability.

"Tell me, Albert," she said, turning to face him fully, "what would you do if you weren't shackled by these...these societal chains?"

He hesitated, the question drawing a line in the sand of his carefully curated existence. "I paint," he confessed. "With oils and brushes. When I was a boy, I wanted to be an artist more than anything, but my father wanted me to go West and make my own fortune."

"Why?" Izzy asked. It wasn't that she didn't understand a parent's expectations, but it had never occurred to her that his father had pointed him to where he was now.

"Why do I paint?" he asked, deliberately misunderstanding her.

"No, why did your father not want you to paint?"

He sighed. "My father was born the eldest son of a rich man. He inherited his father's wealth. I'm the second son, and I always knew the wealth would be my brother's. Father wanted me to make my own way. He wanted to travel west himself, but my mother would never agree. So, he put the expectation on me from the time I was a small boy."

Izzy nodded. "You've never mentioned it before."

"It's not something I share," Albert admitted, his fingers tracing an absent pattern on the bench. "It's deemed...frivolous for a man to focus on the arts."

"Would you show me?" Izzy's request hung between them.

Albert looked as if he was torn by indecision. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I'll show you."

The conversation that followed would be something Izzy would look back on with a smile. He talked of what he'd once dreamed of his life to be, and she mentioned how she'd always been locked away with her sisters.

Izzy glimpsed the artist behind the entrepreneur, the dreamer within the realist. As Albert spoke of his paintings, he seemed to truly come alive before her. The same way he did in bed at night.

Albert led Izzy to his studio. It was obvious that Martha didn't know what the room was or had been told to never open the door. Or both. There were layers of dust over the cloths that covered the paintings. He pulled one cover back, unveiling a tapestry of color beneath—a silent testament to a world beyond ledgers and contracts.

Izzy's breath caught in her throat as she beheld the painting—a landscape where the wildness of nature was captured with bold strokes and impassioned hues. And in that moment, she knew her husband shouldn't have ever been a miner. What if he'd injured his hands?

"Your paintings..." Izzy whispered, "they're beautiful. I had no idea all of this was inside you!" Her husband was more than she'd seen him as. This room told her so much about him that she hadn't realized was there. She was seeing the man in a whole new light, and she was happy to know there was more to him than the boring businessman.

Albert watched her, his guarded demeanor softening. "And what of you, Isabelle? What passions lay hidden beneath your surface?"

She hesitated. Then, emboldened by their newfound kinship, Izzy divulged her own clandestine pursuit. "I write," she confessed, her voice almost a sigh. "Ridiculous little tales that make me laugh—stories of women who dare to dream within the confines of their corseted lives."

"May I...?" His inquiry trailed off, but the meaning hung clear between them.

"Perhaps, one day," she allowed. "I'm nowhere near as talented as you, and I need to get better before I show anyone."

Hand in hand, Izzy and Albert left the house and wandered to the riverbank.

"Look at the river," Izzy murmured. "So serene on the surface, yet aware of the turmoil that churns in its depths."

"Much like ourselves," Albert replied.

"Sometimes," he continued, "I wonder if we are ever truly seen for who we are, not just for the roles we're compelled to play."

"Perhaps that is why we create," Izzy mused, her eyes reflecting the twilight shimmer on the water. "To be seen, if only by the canvas or the page." She knew it was true for her. So often she'd felt invisible. Just one of a set of three. If you knew one, you knew them all.

"Your stories," Albert said at length, "they sound like liberation."

"Like your paintings," Izzy agreed.

Albert led Izzy away from the river's edge. A path, narrow and seemingly forgotten, veered into the embrace of the wild. They followed it.

At the end of the path, they found a beautiful meadow that seemed to be untouched by man. Poppies, lupines, and goldenrods painted a picture of freedom that both Izzy and Albert knew existed only within these moments.

"Look at this," Albert whispered. With careful fingers, he selected blossoms, each one a testament to the delicate balance between strength and fragility. The bouquet he fashioned for Izzy was small, but it was something she'd never expected from him. To her, it was the most precious gift she had ever received.

"Thank you," Izzy murmured. Their petals brushed against her palm. "They're beautiful!"

He produced a picnic basket from behind a rock, and she had to wonder if he'd hidden it himself or had someone else do it. He took it and spread out a blanket for them to sit on while they feasted.

There, with a simple meal shared between them, they found solace in each other's presence. The bread was coarse, the cheese sharp, every bite a reminder of life's unadorned essence.

"Sometimes I feel as trapped as these flowers must be," Izzy admitted, "rooted in place, subject to the whims of the wind."

"Yet they thrive," Albert replied, his eyes not on the flowers, but on Izzy. "Despite it all, they find a way to stand tall, to show their colors to the world."

"Is that what we're doing now?" Izzy asked. "Standing tall?"

"Perhaps," he said. "Or perhaps we're learning to bend so we don't break."

Izzy nodded. "I think that's what we're doing. Bending to fit into our lives."

He studied her for a moment but remained silent. There wasn't much to say to her if she felt that she was anywhere close to breaking.

Izzy and Albert lay back upon the worn blanket, their picnic remains tucked away in the basket. Above them, the first stars blinked into existence.

"Look there," Albert murmured, pointing toward the heavens where constellations began to reveal their ancient stories. "That cluster of stars, they call it Cassiopeia. She was a queen...condemned to the sky for her vanity."

"An eternal punishment for a woman's pride," Izzy observed. Her eyes traced the celestial pattern, finding an odd kinship in the myth—another tale of a woman bound by forces greater than herself.

"Yet, even bound, she endures," he replied. "What about you, Izzy? Beyond these open skies, what dreams do you hold?"

She turned her head to meet his gaze. "I dream of writing," she said. "To create worlds beyond this one, characters who can escape the chains that hold them." She sighed. "I dream of children and grandchildren and my sisters beside me, each with their own families. I dream of being safe from my father and him never finding us."

"Then write," Albert said. "Craft your freedom with every word." He rolled to his side to face her. "Why are you worried about your father finding you?"

"Father is...not a pleasant man. I grew up locked away from the world, and my sisters were my only companions, our mother our only teacher. She taught us a great deal, but when she died, Father...He hurt us. We left in the dead of night and ran."

"I had no idea. Do you think he's looking for you?" Albert's brows drew together.

"We really don't know. We're just happy to have found a community where we can all be near one another and still spend time together. I have never been truly alone in my life. I shared a room with my sisters. Now, I will walk around town alone, and it feels odd to me."

It was then that Albert turned to Izzy and leaned in close. His lips met hers with a tenderness that he had not shown anywhere but their bedroom. This was a kiss born not of passion but of understanding.

Izzy's response was hesitant at first, as if unsure whether to trust the emotions that surged within her. But as the kiss deepened, a warmth spread through her. When they parted, they remained embraced.

In that embrace, Izzy found hope that they would be able to continue to have a relationship apart from the bedroom.

Later, Izzy walked alongside Albert toward their home. The blanket was folded under his arm and the picnic basket was in her hand.

"Albert," she murmured, breaking the silence that had settled over them, "today... it felt like we were the only two people in the world."

He glanced at her, the corners of his mouth lifting ever so slightly in a restrained smile. "In those hours, perhaps we were," he replied.

"Next Sunday seems like a lifetime away," she confessed, pausing on the top step and turning to face him.

"Time has a way of stretching thin when we yearn for something just out of reach," Albert said.

"Today was..." Izzy struggled to find the words, her heart dancing between joy and sorrow. "It was magic, Albert. Pure magic."

"Magic is a rare thing," he responded. "We must cherish it while we can."

"I always cherish it," she said softly. Deep down, she knew they were about to go back to the way things had been. He would be warm only in the night, and she would continue to do things the way he wanted.

But she found that in their day together, her dream had changed. Now she wanted to live a full life with him and pen her stories. Before, she'd wanted to pen her stories and forget him. She wasn't sure if she was falling for him, but she had a feeling that she was. And it frightened her.