Chapter Three
It was past dawn whenIzzy stirred from her slumber. She lay still for a moment before she pushed off the heavy quilts and slipped from the bed. The wooden floorboards were chilled against her bare feet as she padded toward the dining room where Albert was already seated at the head of the breakfast table.
“Good morning,” she murmured.
Albert glanced up from his plate, his eyes trailing over her modest attire with a hint of disapproval. “Morning, Izzy,” he said. “We’ll be attending church today. You should wear your best dress.”
Izzy’s hands smoothed out the wrinkles in the simple cotton fabric that draped her frame. She met his gaze, her voice steady even as it betrayed her vulnerability. “Thisismy best dress, Albert.”
Silence swathed them like a shroud. Albert’s expression morphed into one of shock, his brows arching high above the rim of his spectacles. For a drawn-out moment, he scrutinized her, as if seeing her for the first time, and then a curt nod broke the tension. “That’s a pity,” he said.
“I’ll make a new one as soon as I can,” she said, her gaze meeting his without flinching.
“See that you do. Anything is better than what you’re wearing.”
Later, Izzy stepped through the threshold of the church, remembering little about going to church before her father had forced them to stop. She had no idea where to sit or how to behave. Her mother had taught them to pray, and she’d even assigned them scriptures to memorize as part of their learning, but Izzy remembered nothing about being in a church beyond her recent wedding ceremony that had been anything but ceremonious.
Then, through all the people gathered there, Izzy spotted her sister. Rosie’s smile beckoned her. Izzy hurried toward her. They collided in an embrace that to observers looked as if they’d been apart for years.
“Rosie,” Izzy whispered. “It’s so good to see your face!”
“Izzy,” Rosie said. “How do you like married life?”
A shadow flitted across Izzy’s features. She glanced back at where Albert stood. “It is...as expected,” she replied. Izzy didn’t want her sisters to worry about her, and they would be concerned if they knew what a cold man Albert was.
They exchanged pleasantries. Rosie wore contentment like a second skin, speaking fondly of her husband. Yet Izzy merely nodded along, refusing to mention the chill of Albert’s indifference.
Just before the service started, Ana materialized beside them. They exchanged greetings as they embraced all together.
They met up again after the service, and along with their men, they drifted toward the modest restaurant at the edge of town.
The meal was strange to Izzy, who had never been in a restaurant before. The men exchanging tales of commerce and the happenings in Hope Springs, while the women’s voices wove a softer counterpoint. Albert’s baritone threaded through the conversation while Izzy’s contributions were but whispers. There was a symmetry to this tableau, each couple a mirror of tradition and propriety.
Izzy’s gaze lingered on the cheer in her sisters’ eyes, a contrast to the restraint in her own. Not for the first time, she pondered the value of silence.
Izzy lingered outside the restaurant. Rosie and Ana were beside her, their faces aglow with the prospect of an afternoon spent away from the watchful eyes of their husbands.
“Let’s meet at the general store,” Ana suggested, her voice tinged with a mirth that made the air around them lighter. “I’ve been itching to make a new dress. I felt underdressed at church this morning.”
“Agreed,” said Rosie. “We’ll have our very own dressmaking soiree!”
Izzy smiled. “That sounds lovely.” Her mind wandered to the bolts of fabric that awaited them, colors and textures that promised creation. Never before had any of the sisters been allowed to choose fabric for their own dress, and the idea was exciting.
“Shall we say this time tomorrow?” Ana’s words cut through the quiet that had settled between them.
“That sounds wonderful,” Izzy confirmed, the promise of sisterly companionship lifting her spirits for the first time since the vows had been spoken.
As they dispersed, each to their respective abodes, Izzy felt the weight of Albert’s wealth like a chain around her neck. She didn’t want her sisters to think she was better than them for having more money. In silence, there was equality. In pretense, there was kinship.
And so, as she walked alongside Albert, Izzy clung to the notion of simple pleasures—a spool of thread, a yard of cotton, a pattern sketched on brown paper. These were things she could share with her sisters, things that did not scream of silver, of mines, and of wealth untold.
“Are you well, my dear?” Albert asked, his voice cutting through her thoughts.
“Quite well,” she lied smoothly. “I am looking forward to tomorrow afternoon. I’m meeting my sisters, and we’re going to choose fabric for dresses.”
“Good,” he said. “You all need new dresses. I’m surprised the matchmaker let you come in such rags.”
Izzy held on to the image of the general store, to the thought of threading needles and shaping garments. With her sisters beside her, she could pretend that all was well.
