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.
