Chapter Eight
Shortly before theparty was set to begin, Izzy smiled as her sisters came to the door. When they’d had their dresses made for the party, they’d had them all made in the exact same style, but different colors. Ana’s gown shimmered green, Rosie’s was sky blue, and Izzy was enveloped in red.
“I worry Albert will be upset that we’re dressed alike,” Izzy murmured. It had seemed like a good idea when they’d all inadvertently chosen the same style, but as they got closer to the party, Izzy worried they’d made a mistake.
“Let Albert tend to his businesses and leave the dresses to us,” Ana said with a dismissive wave of her hand. Her own husband was a great deal more laid back than Albert.
“Yes,” Rosie chimed in, her smile bright. “We are triplets. He should be happy we’re not all wearing the same color.”
Izzy’s lips twitched into a brief smile, but it was fleeting, chased away by the weight of her duty as Albert’s wife and hostess of the evening’s affair. They entered the house, their gowns whispering secrets with every step.
Izzy had hired several women from town to act as maids for the party, and they all scurried about, arranging silverware with meticulous care and aligning chairs with geometric precision. Five women from town, their hands quick and nimble, were draped in plain aprons that belied the magnitude of the task ahead. It was a dinner party followed by dancing.
“Ensure the crystal sparkles,” Izzy instructed one of the maids, her voice steady though her heart thundered a wild rhythm. “And the linens must be free of any creases.”
“Of course, Mrs. Thoreau,” the maid replied, her eyes briefly meeting Izzy’s before flitting away.
“Everything will be perfect, Izzy,” Ana said, her voice soothing.
“Perfection is a costly endeavor,” Izzy replied. The gravity of her role, the need for approval from her husband and society, weighed upon her like the heavy lace train of her gown.
“Then let us bear the cost together,” Rosie added, her hand finding Izzy’s.
Izzy felt the weight of Albert’s disapproval from across the dining room. She felt the color drain from her cheeks despite the bold hue of her gown. The identical dresses her sisters wore seemed to amplify her discomfort.
“Albert,” came the stern yet tender intervention of Mrs. Thoreau, her hand resting on her son’s arm with authority. She guided him away from the gathering, her words whispered but laced with conviction. “The girls have always been as one, since birth. Izzy told me that they were always dressed identically before coming here.”
“Mother, this is not a children’s birthday celebration. This is my home,” Albert retorted.
“Perhaps, but tonight they wanted to celebrate their unity, their bond. They don’t ordinarily indulge such whims. Allow them this symbol of sisterhood,” she urged, her eyes softening at the edges with empathy—for both her son and the young woman he’d married.
“Unity...” Albert said, the word leaving a bitter taste. He glanced back at Izzy. She did look fetching in the dress.
The front door announced new arrivals with its grandiose creak, redirecting attention from the familial tete-a-tete. In strode William and Charles, both in tailored suits. Albert was happy to see his friends.
“Albert, I trust you’ve heard about Thompson?” Charles’s voice boomed, a gregarious sound that filled the room. His eyes held a glint of triumph.
“Yes I have,” Albert replied. “Caught like a rat in a trap, I hear.”
“More like a snake in a henhouse,” William chimed in, his doctor’s hands folded neatly behind his back. “But Hope Springs can breathe easier now, knowing the viper has been defanged.”
“Justice in our time,” Charles declared. “The town will recover. And your mines will stop being sabotaged.”
The wooden floor creaked beneath Izzy’s hesitant steps as she was led into the dance by Albert, his hand firm on her waist. The musicians drew their bows across violin strings in a melody that sang of tradition and grace—a language foreign to Izzy’s ears and feet. Around them, couples glided in practiced harmony, a sea of swirling gowns and tailored suits.
“Albert,” she began, “I’m sorry, I...”
“Isabelle,” he interrupted with a sigh, “you are stepping on my foot again.”
“I never learned to waltz,” she admitted, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
“Never learned?” Albert asked, his tone sharpening with incredulity. “Your upbringing continues to perplex me. What kind of life forbids a girl from dancing?”
“Mine did,” she said simply. The heat of shame crawled up her neck, branding her with the stigma of her past.
They moved awkwardly, disjointedly, until the song mercifully ended. Albert offered a curt nod before excusing himself, leaving Izzy standing alone.
“May I have this dance, Isabelle?”
