Isabelle laughed heartily and the rest of the women at the table turned their expectant gazes upon her. It was a regrettable outburst. She dabbed her mouth with her napkin and took up the mantle of conversation that had been placed before her.
“Well, Natasha is certainly lucky to have August’s hand,” she said, “but let’s not forget the qualities of Natasha herself. Caleb would be lucky to find a young woman so delightful.”
“You flatter!” Sarah said. “She can be charming, but we know how fortunate she is and couldn’t be more excited. Caleb is friends with August, no?”
“The best of friends, I’d say,” Mildred added.
Isabelle said it was true, and was backed up by August’s mother, who was quick to confirm the strength of their bond.
“Well then, I would not be surprised if he has a role as groomsman,” Sarah said. “How marvelous that would be.”
“It would be an honor for him, I’m sure,” Isabelle said.
“I can promise that you will not be far from the ceremony,” Sarah said. “So you can see your son up close as he stands beside August.”
“I’m quite sure I will be pleased wherever you seat me.”
From the corner of her eye, Isabelle caught the slightest gleam in Mildred’s expression, as if her friend recognized the act, the false notes that rang true to all but her. But this ability to reach inward and extract the spare bits of her old self that had yet to be disassembled was more dispiriting to Isabelle now than it had been in the past. Perhaps these women had the same feelings she did but were stronger at heart, able to store away the thoughts that were useless and continue on as if they did not exist. Or perhaps they were simply as hollow as they appeared to be.
An onion soup was served, a film of broth bubbling along the surface. She recognized her china immediately: the flowing willow pattern, the swirls of blue continuing onto the brim of the bowls and spilling their way onto the saucers beneath.
“And I will hope George makes an appearance as well,” Sarah said. “He is a pleasure of a…unique sort.”
Isabelle caught every glance exchanged across the table.
“For such an occasion,” she said, “I’m sure he’d put aside the time.”
“You must tell us,” Sarah said casually, “if what people say is true. Has George really started some sort of plantation of his own out there? Some means of circumvention in keeping slaves? He has always gone against the tide, it would be so like him.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard at all,” Margaret said. “Although what I’ve heard bears no repeating.”
Martha, from the corner, lost in her ignorance, seemed flummoxed.
“This is news to me. Slaves? I’m certainly no authority to speak on commodities, but such property in this climate…well, it does seem like a poor investment.”
It played as a joke, to Martha’s own confusion, and a round of giggles sounded off around the table.
Isabelle opened her mouth but her voice caught. She turned to Mildred, seeking assistance, yet her ally was busy looking out the window in a show of neutrality. Katrina would be of no help. Although they were friendly, they were not friends.
“He’s simply started farming,” Isabelle said at last.
“Is that all?” Sarah said. “I don’t see how the rumors began, then. With so much news being bandied about, I swear the oddest speculation has cropped up in this town. Most of it false. Let’s say no more of it.”
Isabelle reeled—then sat up squarely. So this was it. An unexpected reckoning. For in the passing words there had been a declaration, however fleeting, against George’s name—against her household. No matter what she thought of George, of his decisions, she would not cower before them as her husband’s character went judged.
“He has boys helping him,” she said. “Let me make that clear. Or men, I should say. Freedmen. Yes.”
It was silent enough to hear the help in the kitchen.
Then Margaret straightened her dress and put her spoon down.
“So it is true what they say. Cohabitating with them? Treating them like his own kin. My.”
One of her eyebrows lurched upward. She gathered a spoonful of soup, but the spoon paused before her lips when Isabelle stood up.
“I believe I must be excused,” Isabelle said. “My apologies, Sarah.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No. Nothing is wrong.”
Sarah stood in turn, the legs of her chair bunching up the carpet behind her.