Chapter Seven

Albert's father steppeddown onto the street in front of Izzy and Albert's home, his posture as rigid as the high collar of his shirt. With an air of authority, he surveyed the property with a critical eye. His mother followed suit, descending from the carriage with grace, her expression neutral.

Izzy watched from the porch, the fabric of the dress she wore scratching against her skin like a relentless reminder of her place in this arrangement. She clasped her hands in front of her, the chiffon sleeves too tight around her arms, as if they were trying to squeeze out the last drops of her independence.

Albert approached his parents, his gait mimicking the stiff propriety of his father's. "Father, Mother, may I introduce you to Mrs. Isabelle Thoreau," he said.

"Mrs. Thoreau," his father acknowledged with a curt nod, his gaze appraising her as though she were a possession rather than a bride.

"Mrs. Thoreau," echoed his mother in a tone that was devoid of emotion. Her eyes, a mirrored version of Albert's unforgiving gray, scrutinized Izzy as if searching for flaws.

"Mr. Thoreau, Mrs. Thoreau," Izzy replied, her throat tight as she forced the words past the lump of anxiety. She offered a tentative smile, one which neither parent felt compelled to return.

"Your attire is quite...elaborate for the afternoon," Mrs. Thoreau commented.

"Thank you, ma'am," Izzy managed to say, her cheeks burning with the knowledge that Albert had insisted on her wearing the ostentatious gown. "Albert chose it for me."

"Come inside," Albert interjected, steering the conversation away from Izzy's discomfort. "We have much to discuss."

As the family moved into the house, Izzy trailed behind. Her two weeks of torture was just beginning.

Albert guided his father toward his private sanctuary. As the study door clicked shut, a silence descended upon the foyer.

"Mrs. Thoreau," Izzy began, "would you care for some tea?"

"Lead the way, my dear," Mrs. Thoreau replied, her voice suddenly excited and enthusiastic.

Martha greeted Mrs. Thoreau with unexpected tenderness, wrapping her in an embrace that seemed to dissolve the formidable fa?ade she shared with her son.

"Martha, you remember Mrs. Thoreau?" Izzy said as though introducing strangers, yet the women's laughter mingled like that of old friends reunited.

"Of course, child. Sit, sit," Martha insisted, guiding them to the table where steam rose from a porcelain teapot and cookies lay temptingly on a plate.

As they settled into the chairs, Izzy felt a strange sense of camaraderie. The china clinked against saucers, and golden crumbs fell like confetti.

"Albert tells me you've seen his paintings," Mrs. Thoreau remarked.

Izzy hesitated, caught off guard. "Yes, once. They're...quite good," she answered, her confusion seeping through. Albert had unveiled his artistry but once.

"Ah, my husband never did approve," Mrs. Thoreau sighed, the weight of her words pressing down upon the room. "He thought it a frivolous pursuit for a man of business. But our son has been caged by the world for too long. If painting frees him, who are we to bar the door?"

Izzy listened, the revelation surprising her. The image of Albert, brush in hand, lost in the hues of his creation—was it a vision of the man he could have been? The man he still might become, if not for the chains of legacy and duty that bound him?

"Is that so?" Izzy murmured, her heart aching with newfound understanding. Mrs. Thoreau nodded, her eyes reflecting a sorrow that knew the pain of dreams deferred and spirits broken.

In that kitchen, a bond was forged. Izzy glimpsed the humanity within Mrs. Thoreau, a kindred spirit cloaked in the trappings of high society—a woman, much like herself. She'd expected his mother to be as cold as Albert could be, but it simply wasn't the case.

Izzy shifted in her seat. She met Mrs. Thoreau's gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. The air was thick with the scent of steeping tea and the sweet tang of citrus from the cookies.

"I...I agree with you," Izzy ventured, her words tentative yet earnest. "Art shouldn't be stifled. Albert's work, it's quite remarkable."

Mrs. Thoreau's lips curved into a wistful smile, a mere whisper of rebellion. "Yes. But my husband has his notions of what is proper for men of our standing. For Albert."

"Surely," Izzy pressed, hands clasped around her cup as if to draw strength from its warmth, "you don't always share those notions?"

A calculated gleam flickered in Mrs. Thoreau's eyes, the blue depths holding untold stories of battles waged in silence. "My dear," she began, voice low and conspiratorial, "the art of marriage, especially in our circles, is much like a public performance. One must always appear in agreement with one's spouse."

"Even if you disagree?" Izzy's voice cracked.

"Especially then." Mrs. Thoreau leaned closer, and their shared breath mingled in the space between them. "In public, unity is paramount. But in private," she glanced toward the door, "in private, a wife may speak her mind."

Izzy wondered if it would work for her and Albert. She hoped that she, like Mrs. Thoreau, could learn to keep her husband happy, but not lose herself.

"Thank you," Izzy murmured.

"Remember, my dear," Mrs. Thoreau said as she stood, "strength can be found even within the confines of our roles. We just have to know where to look for it."

Izzy led Mrs. Thoreau through a narrow corridor, the floorboards creaking underfoot, betraying their passage to the studio where Albert's secrets lay in colors and strokes on canvas.

"Albert rarely lets anyone in here," she confessed, as if the very walls were listening.

Mrs. Thoreau's gaze swept the room, lingering on the half-finished canvases, the riot of colors that spoke of a spirit longing to soar beyond the confines of societal dictates. "It's...quite something," she said, her words hanging heavy with unspoken thoughts.

"Writing has always been my refuge," Izzy found herself admitting. "In stories, I could weave realities where women need not bend."

"Would you show me some of your work?" Mrs. Thoreau asked, her eyes brightening with interest.

A cold draft whispered through the room, and Izzy wrapped her arms around herself. "My writings are but trifles," she demurred, the familiar cloak of modesty settling upon her shoulders. "Not worthy of attention."

"Trifles, perhaps," Mrs. Thoreau mused, stepping closer to peer at a painting where light battled shadow on the canvas, "but even trifles can hold power when they're born of truth."

The silence hung between them, a tapestry of unvoiced dreams and stifled creativity. Izzy's fingers brushed against the coarse grain of the wooden table, tracing patterns that mirrored the swirling chaos in her heart. She wished she could share her words with Mrs. Thoreau, but fear clamped down on her tongue like a vice. Her writing was a sanctuary, too sacred and vulnerable to be exposed another's gaze.

"Two nights from now," Mrs. Thoreau began, "we'll have that party. Albert insists it's essential for his business relations."

"Ah, yes, the party," Izzy said. She imagined the sea of faces, all expecting her to play the part of the doting wife. The thought sent a shiver down her spine.

"Are you looking forward to it?" Mrs. Thoreau inquired, a subtle tilt to her head suggesting she already knew the answer.

Izzy hesitated, then shook her head slightly. "My sisters and I used to dream about grand balls and social gatherings back home," she confessed, the memories bittersweet on her lips. "But now..."

"Your sisters?" Mrs. Thoreau prodded gently, coaxing the words from Izzy's reluctant heart.

"Triplets," Izzy said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she pictured Ana's fiery mane, Rosie's calm gaze, and her own reflection sandwiched between them. "We were inseparable. Each with our own strengths, and our own burdens."

"Sounds like a formidable trio," Mrs. Thoreau remarked.

"Indeed, we were." Izzy's smile faded, sorrow seeping into her tone. "Our mother...she passed, leaving us to fend for ourselves. I miss her guidance, her laughter."

A heavy sigh escaped Mrs. Thoreau, aged lines deepening around her eyes. "To lose one's mother is to wander adrift on an unforgiving sea," she murmured, reaching out to place a comforting hand atop Izzy's.

"Sometimes I feel I'm still searching for the shore," Izzy whispered.

"Perhaps together, we can find it," Mrs. Thoreau offered.

"Thank you," Izzy managed, wishing she trusted that such a thing could happen. "I would cherish that."

They sat in shared silence, united by a kinship born of loss and longing, their spirits tethered by invisible threads that defied the constraints of their gilded cages.

*****

AT SUPPER THAT NIGHT, Izzy nibbled at her meal, the food rich and heavy on her tongue, though her appetite had been whittled down by the day's emotional tumult.

Across from her, Mrs. Thoreau's face was softened in the candlelight, the harsh lines of society's expectations smoothed away by their earlier confidences. The woman who had entered their home with a frosty air now exuded a warmth that drew Izzy toward her as surely as a moth to flame.

"This meal is divine, my dear," Mrs. Thoreau murmured, a smile gracing her lips as she dabbed them delicately with a napkin.

"Thank you," Izzy replied. "Martha has been an absolute treasure."

As the men excused themselves from the table, Albert led his father to the study with a stiff-backed resolve that mirrored his father's rigid posture. The door closed with a soft but definitive click.

Left in the wake of their absence, Izzy turned to Mrs. Thoreau, the silence left by the men thickening the air between them. "Would you—might you care to join me tomorrow afternoon?" Izzy ventured. "I would dearly love for you to meet my sisters in a more casual situation than the party."

"Your sisters?" Mrs. Thoreau inquired. "Do they live nearby?"

"Yes, we..." Izzy hesitated, "We have plans to spend the afternoon together. They are...lively, full of stories and laughter. I think—I hope—you might enjoy their company."

A glimmer of excitement flickered in Mrs. Thoreau's eyes. "I would be honored, Isabelle," she said.

"Then it's settled," Izzy said, a tentative smile breaking through her reserve. In that simple exchange, a bond was forged, not of duty or obligation, but of mutual respect.

*****

IZZY LED MRS. THOREAUdown the path to her sister's home.

At her sister's abode, the door swung open to reveal a room alive with the clatter of needles. Her sisters, reflections of spirited defiance, greeted Mrs. Thoreau with an eagerness that bordered on audacity. Yet, beneath the laughter and chatter, there was the special closeness that comes with being a triplet.

"Mrs. Thoreau," one sister said, holding out a half-finished blanket, the colors vibrant against the drab backdrop of the room, "today we're working on making blankets for the poor."

"Please, call me Eleanor," Mrs. Thoreau corrected gently, accepting the fabric and letting her fingers trace the patterns. "This is beautiful work."

"I do so wish Albert would do more with his painting. He's made enough money to see you comfortably for years. He should work on his art."

"I wish I could convince him to do so," Izzy said, shaking her head. "He fears his father's disapproval."

"Ah," Eleanor nodded slowly. "We need to encourage him. I think we could tell him what he does is wonderful a thousand times, and he would only hear his father's criticism."

At the end of the afternoon, when it was time to leave, Eleanor looked at Ana. "Thank you for allowing me to join you today," she said. "Today, I have been reminded of the strength that lies within us all, even when the voices that would diminish it seem deafening."