Chapter Six

Izzy stood motionlessin the center of her bedroom, surrounded by an ocean of tulle and satin that cascaded from boxes the dressmaker had sent over. Each gown seemed to taunt her with silk fabrics and intricate beadwork. She lifted a hand-embroidered bodice, knowing she wouldn't feel like herself in the gown.

"Miss Izzy," Martha called from the doorway, "I'm going to start on supper if we're to be ready for your guests."

"Of course," Izzy replied as she let the fabric slip from her grasp back into the box. These dresses weren't hers; they were costumes, designed for a role she never auditioned for—a display piece to adorn Albert's world. She couldn't help but think of the man she'd spent the day with on Sunday and wonder how that man—the artist—felt about his wife wearing costumes for the world to see.

In the kitchen, the aroma of roasting meat and fresh bread filled the air, yet Izzy's mind was elsewhere, ensnared by the gowns' suffocating grandeur. She moved mechanically, chopping vegetables to help Martha with the grand dinner she was preparing. The knife's rhythmic thud against the cutting board was a stark reminder of the monotonous reality she could not escape.

"Careful there," Martha cautioned, noting the distant look in Izzy's eyes. "Wouldn't want to serve a finger with the meat."

A hollow laugh escaped Izzy's lips, her gaze flickering up to meet Martha's concerned eyes. "Seems it might be the least of my worries tonight."

"Those dresses got you all ruffled?" Martha asked, her hands deftly kneading dough.

"Ruffled and then some," Izzy admitted, setting down the knife. "They're...they're just so much, Martha. I feel like I'm drowning in someone else's dream."

"Mr. Albert expects a lot," Martha said, her tone carefully neutral, yet hinting at understanding beyond her station. "But maybe try to find a bit of yourself in the dresses. There's no harm in looking fine, even if the finery doesn't feel like it fits."

"Looking fine for him, you mean," Izzy said. "I reckon I'll always be playing dress-up for Albert's sake."

"Perhaps," Martha conceded, "but tonight, it's about more than dress-up. It's about showing them you can hold your own. You're stronger than you think, Miss Izzy."

"Strength doesn't come from silk and lace," Izzy murmured, but something in Martha's words made her determined to show everyone that she could be just what Albert wanted—a doll on the shelf for him to take down when he was ready.

"Maybe not," Martha agreed, "but sometimes, it's the armor we wear ‘til we find the strength inside. Now, let's get this table set right, and show everyone what you're made of."

*****

WITH A RELUCTANT SIGH, Izzy slipped into the deep green dress she had selected earlier. It wasn't quite as fancy as the other dresses, but she felt it suited her well. She turned before the mirror, the reflection of a woman she scarcely recognized staring back at her with hollow eyes. The door creaked open, and Albert entered the room, his expression tightening as he surveyed her appearance.

"That looks like a day dress, Isabelle," he said with a disapproving frown. Without waiting for her response, he strode over to the wardrobe and riffled through the other gowns until his fingers closed around a pale blue silk dress. Holding it up to the light, he nodded to himself. "This one. It will complement your eyes. Change into it before our guests arrive."

Izzy bit back the retort that threatened to surface and took the dress from him, her movements mechanical. When she emerged, Albert appraised her with a nod that seemed more transactional than appreciative.

"Much better," he declared.

A short while later, their guests arrived, and they sat in the dining room, the chandelier's lights all glowing over them. Izzy was glad the chandelier was rarely used because she felt as if she was on a stage beneath the lights. The dinner party unfolded under the heavy chandelier's glow, with Jonathan, Samuel, and their wives engaging in boring conversation about the weather, crops, and distant politics. There was laughter, but it felt out of place to Izzy as if there was something wrong with it. As the meal drew to a close, the men retired to the study with glasses of brandy in hand, leaving the women to gather in the drawing room.

"Your dress, Mrs. Thoreau, it's simply beautiful," commented Samuel's wife, her voice a soft trill that barely rose above the sound of the crackling fireplace.

"Thank you, Mrs. Collins," Izzy replied, smiling sweetly. She felt the weight of their gazes, the unspoken scrutiny that measured her worth in threads and seams.

"Albert has impeccable taste, does he not?" Jonathan's wife added, her words coming out as condescending.

"Yes, he does," Izzy managed to say, her hands folded neatly in her lap atop the blue silk. She wondered if they saw through the facade. One of them certainly knew that Albert had picked out her dress for her.

As the evening wore on, the women's chatter became a blurred hum to Izzy's ears. She sat there, ensconced in blue silk, feeling like a decorative piece in Albert's collection. She didn't think the other women even noticed when she stopped speaking. And when the last guest had departed and the door closed with finality behind them, Izzy stood alone in the silent house, the pale blue gown a cold comfort against the stark reality of her existence.

Izzy stood by the window, still as a statue in her pale blue silk gown. The house, once filled with the clinking of silverware and the low buzz of conversation, now echoed with emptiness.

"Isabelle," Albert's voice came from behind her, formal and controlled. She turned slowly to face him.

"Albert," she acknowledged, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit that felt like a silent plea for mercy.

He stepped closer, the sound of his footsteps on the hardwood floor measured and deliberate. "You did well tonight," he said, his eyes scanning her face. "But we must always be conscious of how you present yourself. You are a reflection of me, of my standing in this community."

Izzy nodded, though the fabric of her dress seemed to tighten around her with each word he spoke. "I understand," she whispered.

"Good." He paused, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer before he turned away. "There will always be occasions where you must show your best self."

*****

WHEN HE RETURNED FROMwork on Friday, Izzy rose to greet him.

"Isabelle," he said, his voice carrying the weariness of a man doing something he did not enjoy with his life. "My parents will be arriving in a month. They are eager to meet you and see my home. They live in New York, and this will be their first visit."

A cold dread settled in Izzy's stomach. His parents were wealthy, unlike her parents who had raised her and her sisters on their isolated farm. Her role as his wife would be under scrutiny, her every move watched and judged.

"Of course," she managed to say. "We will prepare accordingly."

"Yes," Albert said, the faintest trace of satisfaction in his tone. "They expect nothing less than perfection."

As he walked past her, Izzy felt the distance between them stretch out like the vast mountains surrounding Hope Springs. She knew, at that moment, that no matter how finely she dressed or how gracefully she entertained, it would always be his domain, and she was merely another asset within it.

*****

RAIN DRUMMED RELENTLESSLYon the roof of the Thoreau mansion amid the silence between Izzy and her husband on Sunday afternoon. She watched as droplets cascaded down the windowpane. The storm had dashed Izzy's hopes of spending the afternoon outside with Albert.

Albert sat across the room in his preferred armchair. He was a fortress of a man. With a newspaper unfolded before him, his eyes scanned over the columns of ink while Izzy wondered if they could call it spending the day together if they were merely in the same room not speaking.

"Seems there's been quite the upheaval back east," Albert's voice sliced through the stillness, devoid of warmth. His thumb brushed against the paper, causing it to crackle. "It seems that the war in Cuba is finally over. It's all anyone's talking about in New York."

"Roosevelt's Rough Riders were able to take San Juan Hill," Albert continued. "It remains to be seen who will be taking control of the country, but I do hope they follow the lead of the United States and form a democracy there."

Izzy watched him, this man who had become her husband. Albert spoke of events miles away with detached authority. And yet, here in his home, even the weather dictated what freedoms Izzy could enjoy.

"I agree," Izzy murmured, knowing he wasn't looking for any real opinions from her. Her agreement was expected in the unwritten contract of their union.

Albert folded the newspaper, setting it aside with precision. "It's a man's duty to stay informed, to protect his interests," he stated. "You would do well to remember that Izzy."

Izzy concentrated on the afghan she was making—a blanket of soft blues and muted grays that would never grace her own bed. Someday, she would meet someone who needed a blanket, and she would have this one to give them. Perhaps she could crochet an entire room full of blankets for someone. Anyone.

"Who's that for?" Albert's voice cut through the room's silence.

Izzy hesitated. "It's for someone who needs it more than we do," she answered, her voice soft yet carrying the weight of her convictions.

"Charity," he said. "An admirable pursuit for a woman, I suppose."

"I would think it's an admirable pursuit for anyone. Helping others is something Jesus talked about often."

"See that it doesn't interfere with your duties," Albert said simply.

"Of course," Izzy replied, her tone carefully neutral. She wanted to please him, but he didn't seem to be happy with anything she did. How she wished she could see the man who had lain beneath the stars with her the previous week.

*****

ON MONDAY AFTERNOON, she met up with her sisters at Ana's house as she did most weekday afternoons.

"Rosie, Ana," Izzy said. "Albert's parents will be here next month."

Her sisters exchanged glances, the kind filled with silent words and unspoken understandings. Anabelle, ever the firebrand, was quick to respond.

"His parents? Are you nervous?" Ana asked.

"Petrified actually." Izzy sighed. "And I fear it'll mean endless days of dressing up like some porcelain doll on display."

"Surely it won't be that bad, Izzy," Rosabelle interjected. "You've managed everything else thrown your way thus far."

"Managed?" Izzy shook her head. "I feel more akin to a puppet, Rosie. Every move orchestrated, every smile rehearsed. And now with them coming..." She hadn't told her sisters how she felt in her marriage, and she knew now was the time.

Rosie took Izzy's hand. "You've talked about how lovely it is in bed with him. Certainly, he loves and appreciates you."

Izzy laughed softly, but the sound wasn't one of amusement. "That's the only time he's truly himself. Well, and one lovely Sunday afternoon that feels as though it never happened."

"Perhaps it's just for show," Ana suggested.

"Show," Izzy echoed hollowly. "That's all we are to them, aren't we? Props in a grand play of wealth and power."

Ana shook her head. "That's not how my marriage is. William has me help him in the infirmary, and he tells me I'm doing a wonderful job quite often. I feel that we have a good marriage, though I do wish he'd tell me he loves me."

Izzy set her tea down and frowned. "It's not like that with us. Albert is always concerned about my appearance and tells me how I'm representing him."

"Let's not borrow trouble from tomorrow," Rosie said softly. "We'll face this together, as we always have."

"But you won't be there with his parents all the time. I will," Izzy said, wishing her sisters would be there. Their presence made everything easier for her.

*****

WHEN ALBERT ARRIVEDhome that afternoon, he mentioned his plans for his parents' visit. "We'll be hosting a grand party in honor of my parents' visit," he stated. "It will be an opportunity for them to see the life we've built here."

Izzy's fingers clenched tightly around the fabric of her skirt, the rough texture grounding her.

"Your sisters are to attend as well," he continued, his gaze lingering on her with an intensity that felt like scrutiny. "They must present themselves fittingly. I shall arrange for dresses to be made for each of them. Our family's image must remain impeccable."

Izzy wanted to scream at him that he could control her, but her sisters weren't his to dress and command. "I'll ask them if they'd mind attending and wearing the dresses you prefer."

"You'll need to convince them if they are unwilling," he said shortly.

"I'll do my best," she said.

*****

THE NEXT DAY, SEATEDat Ana's worn kitchen table with her sisters, Izzy relayed the news. "Albert insists you both need new dresses for the party," she said. "He's going to have the modiste that made my dresses make them for you."

"New dresses?" Rosie's brow creased with concern, but there was resignation in her posture, a silent acceptance of the role they were all forced to play.

"Does he think us dolls to be dressed up for his amusement?" Ana's voice crackled with frustration. "I'm sorry, Izzy. I shouldn't have said that. You have to live with his control every day, and I have to do it once, and I'm complaining."

"Don't worry about it," Izzy replied. "I hate it as well, but we've little choice in the matter."

"Then we'll wear the dresses," Rosie declared after a moment. "For your sake, Izzy. We stand together, always."

Ana nodded in agreement, though her lips were a tight line, betraying her inner turmoil. "Of course we will. We love you, Izzy!"

As the conversation turned to lighter matters, Izzy's mind wandered to the party. She imagined the opulence, the laughter that would ring hollow in her ears. Yet beneath the dread, a spark of resolve took hold. For now, she would don the silk and smile through the charade.

*****

THE MODISTE'S PARLORwas a small, suffocating room embroidered with the incessant hum of the sewing machine. Heavy drapes trapped the light and the air, lacing the atmosphere with the musty scent of fabric and mothballs. Izzy stood on an ornate pedestal. Her sisters flanked her, forms draped in unfinished silk and taffeta.

She was happy they were no longer forced to always dress alike, but at that moment, the idea of presenting a united front with her triplets seemed to be the only answer. Together, they could dress alike, and maybe she could blend in with the sisters she loved so dearly.

"Keep still," the modiste chided gently as she pinned the hem of the pale blue gown, her fingers deft.

"Does it have to be so tight?" Rosie murmured, her voice muffled behind the pins held between her lips.

"Beauty knows discomfort," the modiste replied. "And these gowns must speak volumes."

Ana shifted restlessly, the rustle of her skirts a soft rebellion against the silence. "They'll talk our ears off at this rate."

Izzy caught Ana's eye in the mirror, and she felt a giggle bubbling up inside her. Oh, how she loved her sister and the sarcasm that seemed to drip from her lips when they were together.

Later, seated around the kitchen table cluttered with recipe books and scribbled notes, the Winslow sisters and Martha plotted the menus as generals might plan a siege.

It was the first time Izzy's sisters had been invited into her home, and she was embarrassed of the wealth dripping from every room.

"Albert's parents have sophisticated palates," Martha began. "We must impress without seeming to try too hard."

"Roast duck, then," Ana suggested. "A dish to dazzle yet not overshadow."

"Followed by a delicate lemon tart," Rosie added, the practicality in her voice doing little to mask the strain beneath. "Simple elegance."

"Two weeks of performances," Izzy mused aloud. "Can we sustain the masquerade that long?"

Martha placed a comforting hand atop Izzy's. "We will manage, dear. And it's more Albert's father who we must worry about. His mother and I grew up running around the streets of New York together like homeless urchins."

Their conversation continued, each dish debated and decided upon, but Izzy's thoughts strayed to the dresses that lay upstairs, symbols of a life constrained by a corset. The feast they planned was nothing more than another charade they must perform.

"Every supper will be a spectacle," Izzy said quietly as they finalized the last dessert. "Every bite a reminder that I must be perfect at all times."

*****

IZZY STOOD BEFORE THEgleaming kitchen table, her fingers tracing the grain of the wood as if seeking wisdom from its polished surface. Arrayed before her were china and silver, crystal and linen.

"Remember now, elbows off the table and speak only when spoken to," Martha advised, her words clipped yet not unkind. "His father believes in the old ways. A wife must know her place."

"Of course," Izzy murmured. The weight of expectation bore down on her shoulders.

"Compliment his mother on her attire; it's a safe topic," Martha continued. "And always defer to the father, his word is law in their eyes."

"Law..." Izzy wanted to vomit. His father sounded much like her own father, and she and her sisters were not ones to deal with criticism lightly.

"Never raise your voice, nor offer opinions too freely. They see it as impertinence. You represent Albert now. Your words, your very breath, carry his reputation."

"His reputation," Izzy repeated, the phrase catching in her throat like a thorn. Every syllable was a reminder of her confinement within invisible walls.

"Is there more?" Izzy asked.

"Only this," Martha said, laying a hand on Izzy's arm—a fleeting connection that spoke of shared burdens. "Smile, even if it pains you. In his father's world, everyone at least pretends to be happy."

"Smile," Izzy consented. A smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, a mask worn so often it threatened to become her face.

"Good," Martha approved with a nod, her expression softening ever so slightly. "Now, let's go over the dinner conversation once more."

With each instruction, Izzy felt herself receding, her identity dissolving into the role she was compelled to inhabit. She was learning more than just the art of conversation; she was learning the cost of survival in a world that demanded her silence.