“He will,” Caleb said. “You watch.”
Ignoring his son, George turned to Isabelle.
“I hope they did not alarm you, too.”
“No. Not me.”
“Good, good. What do you think of the farm?”
“I don’t know, George,” she said. “It’s impressive.”
Satisfied with this, he thanked her and raised his hoe, brought it down again.
“For what it’s worth, I believe Ted is wrong. You show these plants some love, feed them properly, they will grow in just fine.”
He did not seem to notice he was the only one working. The rest of them stood quietly in place, as though frozen by what had transpired.
*
Was it bravery George had shown? Or just his typical na?veté? Isabelle did not have the answer, which in itself provided yet another glimpse at one of the greater questions of her life: whether she knew the workings of her husband at all. Consciously or not, in front of his family he had stood up to those men without even the slightest show of fear or hesitation, his voice as confident as when he described a recipe to her, or shared one of his favorite jokes. He had not been impassioned, but it was the closest she’d seen him approach the concept, and it fascinated her.
She twiddled a gilt button on her dress. She was wearing her Sunday best, although it was Wednesday, and had recruited Caleb to escort her to the Beddenfelds’ home by carriage. Mildred had passed along an invitation to an evening gathering, a celebration of Sarah’s daughter Natasha, who was to be wed to August Webler. This would be her first social occasion since before she and George had thought Caleb dead, the first appearance in town where she would have to pretend at cheerfulness and play nice.
It was not by chance the invitation had reached her. Back during the height of the war, the Beddenfelds had housed a Confederate general, one of Sarah’s relatives, and his presence at their dinner table demanded some show of luxury. The Beddenfelds, it turned out, had sold their finest silverware, the price of maintaining appearances otherwise. And who better than Isabelle—off in the woods, removed from polite society, a woman of little gossip and littler interest in spreading it—to borrow china from? She had obliged the Beddenfelds, and since then, as though in some effort at a fair transaction, Sarah wished to include Isabelle in every event that took place at her home, including this one.
“You look nervous,” Caleb said.
He was holding the reins, his gaze trained not on her but on the road. They’d been together much less since he’d joined his father in the field, and she cherished their moments together all the more. She still often remembered the letters he would send her during his time in the war. Small notes, really. I am well—Caleb. Or, Still at it—your son. This was like him, to perform his duties as her child but with minimum effort. She had relished the letters, though, kept them in her dresser and read them whenever the pang of his absence struck. Now, with him back, each conversation felt like one of those cards, to be cherished and stored away within her. Even their most trivial exchange brought her happiness.
“Hardly,” she told him. “It’s all old hat by now.”
“The clucking hens,” he said. This was her term for the pedigreed women in town, and he’d adopted it as well from an early age.
“Yes, squawking about in the henhouse, pecking at one another.”
He smiled and continued to look ahead rather than at her.
“Father speaks of you often, you know. When we’re in the field.”
“I get on just fine, as you’ve seen.”
“It’s the same as with the books he reads—he overthinks every last word with you, finding symbols where there are none.”
“As is his nature.”
“Precisely. He thought you were disturbed by Ted.”
“Ted still holds your father to task for not being his friend. The man would bow at his feet if he would only give him the slightest show of respect. He should be more worried for Prentiss. He looked ready to flee.”
“I worry he had reason to. I’ve never seen that sort of anger crop up in Ted.”
“There was something desperate about him,” Isabelle agreed.
They were approaching Old Ox. She stiffened, preparing herself for what lay in wait at the party. Lee had surrendered only a week earlier, and the timing could not have been worse for a celebration; and yet if the hens were skilled at anything it was turning a blind eye to reality, existing in a collective reverie where weddings and romance were the only things worthy of discussion. Virginia was a world away, and why should General Lee’s decision hold up Natasha’s special day?