suspected, altogether approve of her being married to a missionary, sent to some strange and hostile land, most likely to live out her days in difficulty and grief, bury her children as they sickened from some dreadful, foreign disease—
What was she thinking, really, to do such a thing? Terror clutched at her, and she pushed it away, determined to see this through. Anything, even danger or grief, was better than this wasting of her days, the last of her youth, here in Boston.
“Isobel,” her mother murmured reprovingly. “You are fidgeting. It is not ladylike.”
Isobel flushed. There was no greater sin in her mother’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. She stared blindly down at her book. “I have quite a lot on my mind,” she continued, her words coming out in no more than a whisper.
Arabella raised her eyebrows. “I did not realize you were so preoccupied.” She completed several neat stitches before raising her gaze to Isobel once more. “That school takes too much of your time. I have always thought so. Perhaps it is time to consider other pursuits.”
Isobel knew her mother didn’t like her spending so much time at the First School. A bit of charity met with approbation, but eight hours a day, in her mother’s mind, smacked of being a bluestocking or worse, a reformer.
“It is not the school that preoccupies me,” she said. “But it is just as well you have mentioned a change of pursuits.” Both her parents must have heard some of the stridency in her tone for her mother simply waited, her embroidery forgotten, her lips slightly parted, and her father looked up from his paper, rustling its pages as a signal that he was not entirely pleased by this interruption. Isobel took a deep breath. “I have made a decision regarding the rest of my life.”
Arabella’s eyebrows arched once more. “There is no need to be melodramatic, surely.”
Stephen tried for a smile as he laid his paper down on his lap. “What is this all about, sweetheart?”
Isobel took another breath. She felt almost dizzy with nerves. “I spoke to Mr. Rufus Anderson of the Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions—”
“Missions,” Arabella interjected, her tone scandalized. “You cannot be considering becoming a missionary!”
“No,” Isobel replied evenly, “I am not. Single women are not allowed to become missionaries.”
“And rightly so,” Stephen said. “It is a far too dangerous for a lady.”
“Missionaries,” Isobel continued, staring straight ahead, her hands clenched around her book in her lap, “need to be married.” This was met with a profound silence.
“I cannot,” Arabella finally said quietly, “conceive what you are thinking to propose.” She sounded genuinely mystified, which made it all the more difficult for Isobel to explain just what her intention was.
“Mr. Anderson told me of a—a list,” Isobel said. She continued to clutch the book in her lap tightly, her knuckles turning white. “A list of—of suitable women, women who might wish to...” She stopped, took another breath, her fingers aching now. “Who might wish to marry a missionary,” she finished, her voice dropping to an apologetic whisper. The silence that followed this information was, Isobel thought numbly, quite deafening. It rang in her ears.
“Izzy,” Stephen said, using her pet name, “I’m confused. What does such a list have to do with you?”
“I can quite see where this is going,” Arabella told him frostily. She shook her head slowly, her stony gaze trained on Isobel. “Our daughter thinks to put her name on this list.”
Stephen stared at her in mute appeal, clearly expecting her to deny such an allegation. Isobel forced herself to let go of her book and smoothed her skirt before folding her hands in her lap. “It is true, Father. I do wish to put my name on Mr. Anderson’s list. It is perfectly respectable.”
“It is not,” Arabella countered, her tone suddenly turning fierce.
What was she thinking, really, to do such a thing? Terror clutched at her, and she pushed it away, determined to see this through. Anything, even danger or grief, was better than this wasting of her days, the last of her youth, here in Boston.
“Isobel,” her mother murmured reprovingly. “You are fidgeting. It is not ladylike.”
Isobel flushed. There was no greater sin in her mother’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. She stared blindly down at her book. “I have quite a lot on my mind,” she continued, her words coming out in no more than a whisper.
Arabella raised her eyebrows. “I did not realize you were so preoccupied.” She completed several neat stitches before raising her gaze to Isobel once more. “That school takes too much of your time. I have always thought so. Perhaps it is time to consider other pursuits.”
Isobel knew her mother didn’t like her spending so much time at the First School. A bit of charity met with approbation, but eight hours a day, in her mother’s mind, smacked of being a bluestocking or worse, a reformer.
“It is not the school that preoccupies me,” she said. “But it is just as well you have mentioned a change of pursuits.” Both her parents must have heard some of the stridency in her tone for her mother simply waited, her embroidery forgotten, her lips slightly parted, and her father looked up from his paper, rustling its pages as a signal that he was not entirely pleased by this interruption. Isobel took a deep breath. “I have made a decision regarding the rest of my life.”
Arabella’s eyebrows arched once more. “There is no need to be melodramatic, surely.”
Stephen tried for a smile as he laid his paper down on his lap. “What is this all about, sweetheart?”
Isobel took another breath. She felt almost dizzy with nerves. “I spoke to Mr. Rufus Anderson of the Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions—”
“Missions,” Arabella interjected, her tone scandalized. “You cannot be considering becoming a missionary!”
“No,” Isobel replied evenly, “I am not. Single women are not allowed to become missionaries.”
“And rightly so,” Stephen said. “It is a far too dangerous for a lady.”
“Missionaries,” Isobel continued, staring straight ahead, her hands clenched around her book in her lap, “need to be married.” This was met with a profound silence.
“I cannot,” Arabella finally said quietly, “conceive what you are thinking to propose.” She sounded genuinely mystified, which made it all the more difficult for Isobel to explain just what her intention was.
“Mr. Anderson told me of a—a list,” Isobel said. She continued to clutch the book in her lap tightly, her knuckles turning white. “A list of—of suitable women, women who might wish to...” She stopped, took another breath, her fingers aching now. “Who might wish to marry a missionary,” she finished, her voice dropping to an apologetic whisper. The silence that followed this information was, Isobel thought numbly, quite deafening. It rang in her ears.
“Izzy,” Stephen said, using her pet name, “I’m confused. What does such a list have to do with you?”
“I can quite see where this is going,” Arabella told him frostily. She shook her head slowly, her stony gaze trained on Isobel. “Our daughter thinks to put her name on this list.”
Stephen stared at her in mute appeal, clearly expecting her to deny such an allegation. Isobel forced herself to let go of her book and smoothed her skirt before folding her hands in her lap. “It is true, Father. I do wish to put my name on Mr. Anderson’s list. It is perfectly respectable.”
“It is not,” Arabella countered, her tone suddenly turning fierce.
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