Chapter Four
Shortly after breakfastthe following morning a knock echoed through the quiet house, signaling the arrival of the modiste. Izzy descended the staircase with deliberate steps.
“Mrs. Thoreau,” the modiste greeted with a practiced smile, unfurling an array of sketches onto the dining table like a deck of possibilities fanned out in front of her. The scent of fresh ink and parchment mingled with the musty air, and Izzy’s fingers trembled slightly as she reached out to touch the first sketch.
“Good morning,” Izzy replied. She studied each drawing with a critical eye, noting the fine lines that depicted silhouettes more suited for high society than the rugged edges of the frontier. Swaths of fabric in rich colors and sumptuous textures were laid before her, each one promising transformation.
For hours, Izzy went through the motions, selecting trims and buttons, lace and ribbons, while the modiste watched with a keen gaze. The six dresses she chose—one for each day of the week, save Sunday—were a study in modest elegance. A dove gray for Monday, a gentle blue for Tuesday, all the way to a soft green for Saturday. Each one was chosen not only for its appearance but for its ability to please Albert.
“Mr. Thoreau will be most satisfied with your choices, Mrs. Thoreau. These are practical and becoming,” the modiste remarked.
“Thank you,” Izzy murmured, folding her hands in her lap to still their quivering. It was more than just dresses she was choosing—it was a uniform to display her husband’s wealth and status. Yet beneath the layers of impending silk and satin, a quiet rebellion simmered within her.
“Mrs. Thoreau,” the dressmaker began, her voice carrying an edge of obligation, “your husband has instructed me to create fifteen dresses for you.”
The number echoed in Izzy’s ears, amplifying until it filled the room with its absurdity. Fifteen dresses was a ridiculous number. She had never had more than two at a time in her life!
“Surely, there’s been some mistake,” Izzy replied. Her gaze dropped to the sketches, now a clutter of excess and expectation. “Six should suffice. One for each day of the week when you include the one I’m wearing.”
“Mr. Thoreau was explicit.” The dressmaker met Izzy’s eyes. “He desires his wife to be a reflection of his prosperity. Fifteen dresses, no less. And you’ll need some that are much grander than those you’ve chosen. Those are suitable for every day, but you’ll need evening gowns and dresses to wear when entertaining.”
Izzy felt the weight of them. She drew a breath. “It’s too much,” she said. “I cannot...”
But the protest withered under the dressmaker’s scrutiny. Izzy knew it was not a question of can or cannot, but a matter of will or will not.
The dressmaker’s fingers paused over the unfolded bolt of silk, her question slicing through the silence. “Shall I select the remaining gowns, Mrs. Thoreau?”
Izzy’s hands lay still in her lap, the swatches of fabric beneath them a riot of colors she couldn’t bring herself to care for.
“Mrs. Thoreau?” The dressmaker prompted again.
“Very well,” Izzy conceded, her voice barely a murmur as she acquiesced to the unspoken command behind the request. Each word felt like it was leading her somewhere she didn’t want to go.
As the dressmaker flipped through the sketches with renewed vigor, Izzy watched the parade of potential dresses. A frill here, a ribbon there—all garnishes on a life that was being served to her by someone else’s hand. With each selection, she felt taunted by the frivolity of it all. What would her sisters think?
“Perhaps this one,” the dressmaker proposed, holding up a drawing of a gown with intricate beading along the bodice.
Izzy nodded, the motion. What did it matter if she wore six dresses or sixteen? They were all costumes in a play where she had no say in the script.
“Or this, with the lace overlay,” the dressmaker continued, oblivious to the struggle that played out across Izzy’s features.
“Fine,” Izzy agreed again, each affirmation sticking in her throat. She was constructing her own cage with these ridiculous garments. Why had she thought she wanted to marry a wealthy man?
The dressmaker beamed, content with the progress, while Izzy’s smile was empty. She rose, her movements stiff and robotic. She had no doubt the dressmaker would follow her husbands instructions, and it didn’t really matter what she said and wanted.
*****
IZZY SAT ACROSS FROMAlbert at the lunch table, her hands folded neatly in her lap atop the fine linen tablecloth. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting a warm glow on the elaborate spread of dishes that Martha had prepared. The aroma of roasted chicken mingled with the fresh scent of baked bread, but the richness of the feast did nothing to ease the tightness in Izzy’s chest.
“Everything is delicious, Martha outdid herself again,” Albert remarked, his voice carrying an air of casual satisfaction as he sampled a forkful of greens.
“Yes,” Izzy murmured, her own food untouched. Guilt gnawed at her. She should have been by Martha’s side, contributing to the household, instead of drowning in a sea of silk and taffeta.
“Is everything to your liking, Izzy?” Albert’s gaze was sharp, like a hawk surveying its domain.
“Of course,” she lied, pushing around the glazed carrots on her plate. “I spent the morning choosing dresses and gowns. I think fifteen new dresses is too many.”
Albert frowned. “It’s important for my wife to present herself well.”
