“A list! Of spinsters! You cannot think to include yourself in such a number.”
“I am a spinster, Mother,” Isobel reminded her quietly. “I shall be thirty years old this spring. Thirty .”
“You have no idea what sort of men would go fishing for a wife,” Arabella countered. “They could be the lowest, basest of creatures! And to marry a man you barely know—”
“I would come to know him,” Isobel answered. “And we are talking of missionaries, Mother, men who wish to serve God. Hardly the lowest or basest of creature.”
“Still, a stranger. A man with possibly no connections, no social standing at all—”
“I no longer care,” Isobel said, “for social standing.”
Arabella sat back in her chair, her embroidery hoop momentarily forgotten as she stared at her daughter. “I cannot believe you could seriously entertain such an idea. And if some man selects your name from the list? What then?”
“Then we would meet,” Isobel said hesitantly. In truth she did not know exactly how it would play out; Mr. Anderson had not told her such details. “We would discuss—arrangements—”
“Like a cattle gone to market, sold to the highest bidder?”
“Arabella, that is crass,” Stephen protested, although he still looked winded by Isobel’s unexpected announcement.
“It is crass,” Arabella agreed. “And yet our daughter actually thinks to offer herself in such a fashion!”
“Is it not so different from what would happen in a drawing room?” Isobel countered. She had thought as her mother did only a short time ago, but now she found herself a staunch defender of Mr. Anderson and his list. “It’s sensible, Mother, really—”
Arabella shook her head, the movement alarmingly final. “No,” she said flatly. “I cannot believe you considered it for a moment! A missionary’s wife.” She shook her head again. “No.”
“To be a missionary is a high calling,” Stephen said mildly. He looked at his daughter, clearly troubled, although Isobel was glad to see her father did not object the way her mother was. She was not surprised; Arabella had been born to wealth but Stephen was a self-made man. Her mother had more pretensions to snobbery than her father ever would.
“And to be a missionary’s wife ,” Arabella returned, “is to be subjected to all sorts of rude deprivations, to have your children succumb to all manners of dreadful disease, and then die alone in a foreign and hostile land!” Her voice rang out shrilly, and Isobel blinked in shock at the force in her mother’s voice. It occurred to her that her mother’s objection might not come from snobbery, but from concern and even fear. Fear she felt herself, for hadn’t she considered such a bleak picture already?
And yet she was still determined.
“Arabella,” Stephen murmured and with visible effort her mother controlled herself.
“I will not allow it. Your father will not allow it.”
Stephen turned to Isobel with a frown. “This is unorthodox, to say the least, Isobel.”
“It is respectable,” she insisted. “Allowed by the Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions! How can you object?”
Stephen rubbed a hand over his face. “It is not,” he said after a moment, “what we ever envisioned you.”
“And what did you envision?” Isobel asked, her voice trembling with emotion. “To live with you all of my days? To watch as friend after friend marries and has children while I wait alone, an object of pity and even scorn?”
“It is not so,” Stephen said. “You have many pleasant and worthwhile occupations—”
“They are simply ways to pass the time,” Isobel said flatly. “I want more.”
“And more is this—this plan of yours?” Arabella demanded. “Isobel, you are not thinking clearly. You are not considering all you would be sacrificing, all you would endure! And to be the wife of a stranger, a man who could be hard or harsh, who might abuse you—”
“I hope I have more
“I am a spinster, Mother,” Isobel reminded her quietly. “I shall be thirty years old this spring. Thirty .”
“You have no idea what sort of men would go fishing for a wife,” Arabella countered. “They could be the lowest, basest of creatures! And to marry a man you barely know—”
“I would come to know him,” Isobel answered. “And we are talking of missionaries, Mother, men who wish to serve God. Hardly the lowest or basest of creature.”
“Still, a stranger. A man with possibly no connections, no social standing at all—”
“I no longer care,” Isobel said, “for social standing.”
Arabella sat back in her chair, her embroidery hoop momentarily forgotten as she stared at her daughter. “I cannot believe you could seriously entertain such an idea. And if some man selects your name from the list? What then?”
“Then we would meet,” Isobel said hesitantly. In truth she did not know exactly how it would play out; Mr. Anderson had not told her such details. “We would discuss—arrangements—”
“Like a cattle gone to market, sold to the highest bidder?”
“Arabella, that is crass,” Stephen protested, although he still looked winded by Isobel’s unexpected announcement.
“It is crass,” Arabella agreed. “And yet our daughter actually thinks to offer herself in such a fashion!”
“Is it not so different from what would happen in a drawing room?” Isobel countered. She had thought as her mother did only a short time ago, but now she found herself a staunch defender of Mr. Anderson and his list. “It’s sensible, Mother, really—”
Arabella shook her head, the movement alarmingly final. “No,” she said flatly. “I cannot believe you considered it for a moment! A missionary’s wife.” She shook her head again. “No.”
“To be a missionary is a high calling,” Stephen said mildly. He looked at his daughter, clearly troubled, although Isobel was glad to see her father did not object the way her mother was. She was not surprised; Arabella had been born to wealth but Stephen was a self-made man. Her mother had more pretensions to snobbery than her father ever would.
“And to be a missionary’s wife ,” Arabella returned, “is to be subjected to all sorts of rude deprivations, to have your children succumb to all manners of dreadful disease, and then die alone in a foreign and hostile land!” Her voice rang out shrilly, and Isobel blinked in shock at the force in her mother’s voice. It occurred to her that her mother’s objection might not come from snobbery, but from concern and even fear. Fear she felt herself, for hadn’t she considered such a bleak picture already?
And yet she was still determined.
“Arabella,” Stephen murmured and with visible effort her mother controlled herself.
“I will not allow it. Your father will not allow it.”
Stephen turned to Isobel with a frown. “This is unorthodox, to say the least, Isobel.”
“It is respectable,” she insisted. “Allowed by the Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions! How can you object?”
Stephen rubbed a hand over his face. “It is not,” he said after a moment, “what we ever envisioned you.”
“And what did you envision?” Isobel asked, her voice trembling with emotion. “To live with you all of my days? To watch as friend after friend marries and has children while I wait alone, an object of pity and even scorn?”
“It is not so,” Stephen said. “You have many pleasant and worthwhile occupations—”
“They are simply ways to pass the time,” Isobel said flatly. “I want more.”
“And more is this—this plan of yours?” Arabella demanded. “Isobel, you are not thinking clearly. You are not considering all you would be sacrificing, all you would endure! And to be the wife of a stranger, a man who could be hard or harsh, who might abuse you—”
“I hope I have more
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