“Even if it regards you?”
“Say what is on your mind.”
Mildred held Isabelle’s hand firmly. “Some at the wedding spoke with the utmost confidence of a certain woman. A woman of the night.”
“I can assure you I hold no employment beyond the duties of my home.”
Mildred didn’t laugh.
“Another woman. One George has apparently been seeing quite often. For some time. It may be the charge is just meant to slander your family further. I couldn’t say.”
Isabelle pulled her hand from Mildred’s, almost involuntarily. She quavered, unsteady, and then recovered herself, for even this—in all its dark suggestions—could not unravel her constitution totally. She stood up and began to pace, and the sunshine felt like a spotlight on the uncertainty welling up inside her.
“I overheard it at the reception party,” Mildred said, “and thought I should tell you myself rather than risk having it passed on to you by someone who would do it out of malice.”
Isabelle paused before the vase of sunflowers. “You know who she is, then?”
“I do,” Mildred said. “In certain circles she is not a secret.”
“Then you need not say more. Just tell me where I might find her.”
*
The place was known to Isabelle; she’d walked by it before: a small sloping home of tin, not quite a shanty, not quite a house. It had taken on the color of mud and was so undistinguished that Isabelle never in her life would have paid it a second thought. Until now.
This was not the first time she’d confronted the specter of George’s infidelity. There were those long nights in his absence, and she was not na?ve. He blamed them on his evening hikes, but there was no explanation as to why the walk sometimes required his evening jacket, his finer boots. He would have told her—he did not lie to her—yet she never asked. If indeed he had sampled other fruit, then he was returning home to what he liked best. He would immediately slide into bed beside her, sighing in comfort, and with his body near her own, she felt a renewal of his devotion. Besides, the instances were rare enough—and so fleeting—that they acted to her as confirmation of their bond.
But the randomness did not correlate to the report Mildred had given her. If there was one particular woman, then what he had was a lover, no matter if he paid for her time. The thought hurt Isabelle, yes, but not for its suggestion of adultery alone; there was also a resentment that someone else had solved the only puzzle she’d laid claim to her entire adult life: the understanding of her husband’s inner workings. She wished to meet the woman who had managed the same feat.
She’d parked Ridley and the carriage in the center of town and walked the rest of the way. When she reached the home, it stood as she recalled it, tucked between two others in the poorer side of Old Ox. The roof comprised no more than rotted branches bound beside one another, and a pipe jutted out above it, coughing up smoke. She asked a man outside the neighboring home if anyone was in. He looked at her from under two thick eyebrows, grumbled something, and finally cocked his head yes. She was still carrying her fruit basket, which she lowered to knock on the door.
After a moment, it opened slightly. The eyes of the woman there were animal-like, as though she sensed a threat.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I was hoping we might speak,” Isabelle said.
“Is this about your husband?”
“How would you know—”
“Ma’am, I often get confused for another woman similar in looks. But I have no business with any men. Good day.”
“Wait,” Isabelle said, yet the door was already shut and latched.
She peered through the window, a single panel covered by a thick curtain. Then she knocked once more.
“I have no qualms with you,” she called out. “None at all. I would just like some answers.” She waited.
“I told you, you have me confused,” the woman’s voice called back. “I don’t know any man.”
“You must know some man,” Isabelle said.
“Not yours.”
The door was hardly more than a sheet that might blow away in the wind. Isabelle had the urge to push through it. She felt desperate, almost naked, lingering in the wake of this woman’s rejection.
“I swear to you,” she pleaded. “We’ll speak civilly. My husband…” She took a breath. “George Walker. That is his name. And if you do not know him, truly do not know him, I will walk away from here and not return.”