The clank of silverware was followed by the thud of footsteps. Yet no voices. No movement. And yet, just then, the door opened a slant.
“Really?” the woman said. “His wife?”
“I’m Isabelle. Isabelle Walker.”
“And you’re not about to bring trouble into my home? Because I have a daughter. This is a place of peace.”
“I will respect your home,” Isabelle said. “You have my word.”
The woman seemed to contemplate her decision once more, then opened the door the rest of the way.
Save for its size, the home was curiously elegant, bearing almost no relation to its external trappings. Numerous lamps brought a dim luster to the place. The chairs at the dining room table were carved of mahogany, upholstered, the backs of them crest-shaped and ornate in design; the bed along the opposite side of the room was raised and well-kept, and tucked against the wall next to it was a mirrored dresser fit for royalty.
“I receive many gifts,” the woman said, as if sensing Isabelle’s surprise at the decor.
It was irrepressibly hot. Before the hearth a glazed roast was speared on a spit, jeweled droplets of fat dripping onto the pan beneath it. Isabelle could see why the woman was wearing only a nightgown, for anything more might well cause one to melt.
“Wish there was a little more space to prepare supper,” the woman said. “But we do with what we have for now.”
“It’s no bother,” Isabelle said, and turned from her inspection of the quarters to face the woman, who introduced herself as Clementine and offered a gentle handshake. “I know your name,” Isabelle said.
The many corridors of the woman’s beauty were apparent. Her cheeks registered like two well-fashioned slopes falling toward a smooth, rounded chin, and the tracing of all these points was so fine that Isabelle felt the desire to reach out the back of her hand and run her fingers down the length of her face. Her loose hair lingered upon her shoulders in a bramble, and her disregard for its provocative dishevelment made Isabelle burn with self-doubt for keeping her own confined within her bonnet.
“And this is Elsy,” Clementine said.
How had she missed the child at the woman’s feet? The girl was quiet, no more than two or three, and stared up at Isabelle with a captivating innocence, all eyes—her mother’s eyes.
“Hello, Elsy,” Isabelle said, waving.
The child looked back cautiously, holding to her mother’s leg, and said “Hi” in a small voice.
“She’s just about to nap,” Clementine said.
“I’m sorry to intrude as I have. This shouldn’t take long.”
“You’re here, now.”
They sat down at the dining-room table, and Clementine clasped her hands together, still wary.
“Mama, mama,” the child said.
Her mother grabbed a toy from the ground, handed it to the child, and led her to a space near the bed, then returned to Isabelle.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Walker?”
Of all the times to lose one’s train of thought. Yet Isabelle could not figure where to begin. Their only commonality was such a vulgar one, and her wish to be polite was so overwhelming, that she felt reluctant to mention her reason for stopping in. She sat there staring at the table, as though studying the basket of fruit she’d placed there, and was immensely relieved when Clementine spoke first.
“George talks of you,” she said. “Whenever he stops by.”
There it was. His name from her mouth. This by itself was gratifying, since to hear her say that one word was an admission. But although the honesty—the confirmation—was strangely comforting, the mention of George by someone who was so familiar with him, and yet so distant to Isabelle, unsettled her further.
“He has great respect for you,” Clementine went on. “A deep fondness.”
It did not sound ironic, but it was difficult to take it any other way.
“My husband harbors little sentiment,” Isabelle said. “But it’s nice to know he makes his love clear when he is with you, at least.”
Clementine lowered her head, the light of the lamps softening her features.
“What I said sounded wrong,” she said. “This is…new ground. I have had wives come see me before, but never have I entertained them.”
“Yet you let me in.”
“I have an affinity for George. He’s a kind man. Caring.”
Isabelle sneered. “I’m sure you say that in regard to all the men you see.”