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.
