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.”
