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 façade 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.
