Though she didn’t like what he was saying about her dress, she knew that he was right. She did look ridiculous in her threadbare garments. She’d be happy when she was dressed in a way that pleased him.
“Isabelle,” Albert began, his voice devoid of warmth, “I’ve decided we shall spend our Sunday afternoons together. It seems only fitting, given that my weeks are consumed by the businesses.”
She turned to face him, noting the stern set of his jaw, the rigid stance of authority that he wore as comfortably as his tailored suit. “I would like that, Albert,” she replied, careful not to betray the fluttering in her chest at the thought of more time spent in his presence.
“Furthermore,” he continued, casting a critical eye over her modest attire, “it’s high time you dress in a manner befitting my wife. You shall have new dresses made.”
Izzy felt a tightness grip her throat. The prospect of fine gowns filled her with dread, for they would become yet another wall between her and her sisters. “There’s no need for finery,” she said quietly.
“Need has nothing to do with it,” he retorted sharply. “It is about appearance, about status. People must see you and know immediately who you belong to.”
“Of course, Albert,” she agreed, wishing she still felt as free as she had on the night she and her sisters had escaped their father’s home.
Albert’s gaze softened ever so slightly as he seemed to recall a time long past. “You know, Isabel, I haven’t been down in the mines for over ten years now. Those days were dark. But it was down there I learned the value of hard work and persistence.”
She listened, the bleakness of her new reality settling upon her as he spoke of his ascent from the bowels of the earth to the richest man in town.
“Hard work,” she said. For all his talk of toil, he seemed oblivious to the notion that perhaps she yearned for something other than riches.
“Yes,” he said, his attention already waning as he glanced toward the clock. “I must attend to some correspondence before supper. See to it that you speak with the dressmaker this week.”
“Very well,” she answered. “But didn’t you want to spend Sunday afternoons together?”
“We’ll start next week,” he said, already down the hall and at the door of his office.
*****
IZZY STARED ACROSSthe dining table at Albert, surprised at the simple fare Martha had prepared. Fork in hand, she picked at her food, the roast chicken and root vegetables mere shapes on her plate.
“Tell me about your childhood,” Albert said suddenly.
She swallowed hard, the memories of her youth surfacing like specters from a shadowy past. “I was raised alongside Anabelle and Rosabelle,” she began, her voice steady despite the tremor she felt inside. “As triplets we were inseparable. I’m glad we aren’t identical though.”
Albert nodded, his eyes holding hers, urging her to continue.
“Father...Father was a man of iron will and stern convictions.” Izzy hesitated. “He believed the world outside was no place for his daughters. After our fifth birthday, our home became our universe—our prison.”
“Prison?”
“I don’t know what else we would call it,” Izzy said. “We were tutored within those walls by our mother without Father’s knowledge. Cooking, housework, and needlework are all things we were taught. We knew nothing of boys or games, or the freedoms enjoyed by others.”
Albert’s brow furrowed as he absorbed her words, the lines etched deeply upon his face. “I see,” he said after a moment.
The conversation lapsed once more into silence. Each bite Izzy took felt laborious, the food tasteless against her tongue. She wondered if Albert could sense the weight of her past.
“Your father’s influence seems to have been quite...profound,” Albert observed quietly, his gaze never leaving her face.
“Profound, yes,” Izzy agreed, the word tasting like ash. “But not nurturing. Not kind.”
Albert reached for his glass. “I understand,” he said in a low voice, setting the glass down with a gentle thud.
Supper continued, each mouthful and movement deliberate, methodical. As the meal ended, Izzy couldn’t help but feel that in this grand house, under the watchful eye of her husband, she was still caged. Imprisoned. She’d left one jail for another.
The remnants of supper lay abandoned on the dining table. Albert pushed his chair back, the sound jarring in the stillness, and excused himself with a curt nod. The door to his office closed with a soft click, leaving Izzy alone, the opulence suddenly suffocating.
She wandered through the corridors, her steps muted by the thick carpets, until she reached the sanctuary of the library. Books lined the shelves, their spines a mosaic of leather and gold leaf. Izzy’s fingers traced the embossed titles, seeking solace in the tactile connection to worlds penned and bound. She selected a volume, its cover worn from use, and settled into an armchair by the fireplace.
The printed words danced before her eyes, tales of love and adventure that seemed alien to her existence. Reading felt indulgent—her hands idle when they should be busy with the labor of living. Yet she knew Albert preferred her this way.
