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Authors: Elizabeth Boyce
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wrinkled. Isabelle put it on and tied her hair back with a ribbon. It still wasn’t time to go down to the parlor, so she spent the remaining time before supper hanging the few other simple dresses she’d brought along. The ice blue dress she’d repaired received special attention. That one, she hung with plenty of room around it so the skirt would not be crushed. Isabelle had no reason to suppose she’d need a fine gown again in the foreseeable future, but she couldn’t bear to allow that dress to be ruined.
Satisfied with her work, she descended to the parlor. The door stood open to the room they’d always called the French Parlor. Their mother had decorated the room with furnishings from her own girlhood home in the Loire Valley so that it resembled the interior of a Provincial cottage more than an English parlor. The walls, Isabelle had always thought, were the exact shade of sunshine, an airy yellow striped with a richer, golden tone. A rustic, round table stood in front of a large window overlooking the back gardens, with an enameled milk jug serving as a centerpiece. A stout wooden chair, painted white with a cornflower blue cushion, stood near the fireplace.
A low sofa in white and blue and two upholstered chairs completed the seating area. On a low table between the chairs was a miniature of Isabelle’s mother. She picked up the small portrait and touched her finger to the face of the woman she could scarcely remember. Her father said this was a good likeness, but Isabelle had almost no memory of her own of her mother’s face.
“Hello, little sister.”
Isabelle turned, hugging the miniature to her chest. Alexander stood at the threshold, his broad shoulders nearly filling the doorframe. At over six feet tall, he had always truly been Isabelle’s big brother. Of everyone in her acquaintance, only Marshall matched him in stature. Looking into Alexander’s face was like looking at an older, masculine version of herself. He had the same golden hair and green eyes. Their father sometimes said their mother must have sprouted them both all by herself, for all the contribution he made to their coloring.
“Hello, big brother,” she said tentatively. His expression was unreadable. She still did not know whether he was welcoming her home or banishing her forever.
He took three strides to cross the room to where she stood.
For a moment, he only stood and looked down at her. Then he plucked the miniature from Isabelle’s hands and turned it over in his own palms, looking down at the woman who had given them both life, and died along with their sibling. Isabelle folded her hands at her waist, waiting.
“You’re the very image of her,” he said quietly.
Unaccountably, a lump formed in Isabelle’s throat. “Really?” she managed. She knew well enough that she had similar coloring, but no one had ever told her she looked like the beautiful woman in the painting.
Her brother nodded. “The portraits don’t show the resemblance as well,” he declared with a wave of his hand. “But your expressions, the way you hold yourself, it’s extraordinarily similar.”
“Thank you,” Isabelle whispered, her throat tight with emotion.
Alexander returned the miniature to its place and guided her to the table.
The meal passed in companionable conversation. Alexander did a remarkable job, she noticed, of keeping their exchanges on polite matters: the weather, the state of the estate’s tenants, how their neighbors fared.
When the meal ended, Isabelle started to rise, intending to allow her brother time to enjoy his after supper drink. Alexander waved her back down.
“Don’t be silly, Isa,” he said, smiling in his lopsided way. “I’m not going to send you off while I have a glass of port all by myself.”
“I’ll call for tea, then,” she ventured.
“No.” Alexander reached for the bottle the footman had placed on the table a short time ago. “Have a drink with me.”
Isabelle blinked. “Oh.
Satisfied with her work, she descended to the parlor. The door stood open to the room they’d always called the French Parlor. Their mother had decorated the room with furnishings from her own girlhood home in the Loire Valley so that it resembled the interior of a Provincial cottage more than an English parlor. The walls, Isabelle had always thought, were the exact shade of sunshine, an airy yellow striped with a richer, golden tone. A rustic, round table stood in front of a large window overlooking the back gardens, with an enameled milk jug serving as a centerpiece. A stout wooden chair, painted white with a cornflower blue cushion, stood near the fireplace.
A low sofa in white and blue and two upholstered chairs completed the seating area. On a low table between the chairs was a miniature of Isabelle’s mother. She picked up the small portrait and touched her finger to the face of the woman she could scarcely remember. Her father said this was a good likeness, but Isabelle had almost no memory of her own of her mother’s face.
“Hello, little sister.”
Isabelle turned, hugging the miniature to her chest. Alexander stood at the threshold, his broad shoulders nearly filling the doorframe. At over six feet tall, he had always truly been Isabelle’s big brother. Of everyone in her acquaintance, only Marshall matched him in stature. Looking into Alexander’s face was like looking at an older, masculine version of herself. He had the same golden hair and green eyes. Their father sometimes said their mother must have sprouted them both all by herself, for all the contribution he made to their coloring.
“Hello, big brother,” she said tentatively. His expression was unreadable. She still did not know whether he was welcoming her home or banishing her forever.
He took three strides to cross the room to where she stood.
For a moment, he only stood and looked down at her. Then he plucked the miniature from Isabelle’s hands and turned it over in his own palms, looking down at the woman who had given them both life, and died along with their sibling. Isabelle folded her hands at her waist, waiting.
“You’re the very image of her,” he said quietly.
Unaccountably, a lump formed in Isabelle’s throat. “Really?” she managed. She knew well enough that she had similar coloring, but no one had ever told her she looked like the beautiful woman in the painting.
Her brother nodded. “The portraits don’t show the resemblance as well,” he declared with a wave of his hand. “But your expressions, the way you hold yourself, it’s extraordinarily similar.”
“Thank you,” Isabelle whispered, her throat tight with emotion.
Alexander returned the miniature to its place and guided her to the table.
The meal passed in companionable conversation. Alexander did a remarkable job, she noticed, of keeping their exchanges on polite matters: the weather, the state of the estate’s tenants, how their neighbors fared.
When the meal ended, Isabelle started to rise, intending to allow her brother time to enjoy his after supper drink. Alexander waved her back down.
“Don’t be silly, Isa,” he said, smiling in his lopsided way. “I’m not going to send you off while I have a glass of port all by myself.”
“I’ll call for tea, then,” she ventured.
“No.” Alexander reached for the bottle the footman had placed on the table a short time ago. “Have a drink with me.”
Isabelle blinked. “Oh.
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