It didn’t take years or even months for Isabelle to discover what life as Mrs. Alexander Osgood was to be. An undisclosed emergency at his mill precluded their scheduled visit to Wellsgate, his small home in the country, so they bypassed their wedding trip and settled into his house in the city. Not The City. Manchester, not London. Any dreams of settling on the proper side of the most elegant streets in Town had gone the way of childhood fantasies years before. When one’s family came into its wealth within the past generation or two, one ought not to imagine rising above the stigma of New Money in any kind of society.

Besides, Isabelle’s parents had made it clear that such a life was beyond their reach, and beyond the reach of anyone who would likely turn his head toward Isabelle. She was handsome enough, she was educated enough, and she was accomplished enough to look the part of a successful businessman’s wife. She’d wear the proper clothing and speak of topics unlikely to shock or offend. Following her mother’s carefully structured advice on proper wifely behavior, she could belong.

Thus far, the couple had made two forays into Manchester society for what Alexander referred to as “business dinners,” and both times, Isabelle had been in a stupor of nerves. Every woman who glanced appreciatively at Alexander seemed to give a secondary, less gracious glance at Isabelle. None seemed inclined to ask her polite questions; none made any offer of friendship or interest. Neither evening lasted long, and neither prompted any discussion between Isabelle and Alexander. Her questions, answered in monosyllables, soon dried up.

Two weeks into their marriage, Isabelle believed she understood exactly what was expected of her, and what she could expect in return. It was not what her mother had led her to suppose.

Alexander was polite, if cold, and exceedingly busy. It appeared to Isabelle that their marriage had changed his daily routine very little. In the city, he woke early and breakfasted alone before walking the four blocks to his mill, where he spent his days overseeing the workings that remained a mystery to Isabelle. When he arrived home for supper, he spoke little of his work, and Isabelle cast about for any topic of conversation they’d not scratched the days before.

Trouble was, there was very little for her to offer.

Welcome home, Mr. Osgood, she could imagine herself saying. Dinner is served as you requested. I spent the day managing your small staff of servants who are fully capable of managing themselves, waiting for visitors to appear, nodding and smiling at people who passed the parlor window, and staring at the supremely masculine decorations on the walls.

As a result, dinner was a quiet affair. Every evening.

After dinner, the couple retired upstairs. Separately. This part was far from what Isabelle’s mother had led her to anticipate. Not that she’d spoken of specifics. But Isabelle had arrived at certain ideas, and her current reality did not reflect them in the least. Isabelle knew she had nothing of which to complain, except that every day, she felt the burden of loneliness and yearned for a friend with whom to commiserate. She understood that what was missing was someone who wanted to talk with her.

Edwin, home at the Lakes, would have replaced her within a month. It was so easy for him to take anyone into his confidence. He would certainly have found a friend with whom to talk and listen and laugh.

Isabelle spent an hour each morning writing letters. She wrote to her mother, informing her of the duties she performed, the sights she saw in the city, and the food she ate. These letters spoke of dirt and fish and household management. She took care to add enough detail to create a picture of fulfillment. She wrote to Ed, reminding him of childhood escapades and telling him how she missed his laugh. She wrote to her old governess, thanking her for teaching her all she needed to know in order to fill her days with meaning. After two weeks of writing such letters, she had not yet posted one.

A gentle knock on the door prompted Isabelle to look up from yet another letter she would not send. Mrs. Burns, the housekeeper, stepped inside the drawing room and said, “Pardon, ma’am, but have you a moment?”

“Is there a problem?” Isabelle could not keep the excitement from her voice. Perhaps there had been trouble at the market and the menu would need to be remade. Or an issue with the ordering of candles. Her hands came together in anticipation of being permitted to fix something.

Mrs. Burns shook her head. “Not any problem, ma’am. You have a caller.” She handed a card to Isabelle, who felt the air rush out of her lungs.

Company. A visitor. Precisely what she had been waiting for. Why did she now dread that for which she had so long hoped?

Without even reading the name on the card, Isabelle rushed to the writing table and straightened her papers, then ran her hands down her dress to make herself unwrinkled and presentable.

When Mrs. Burns next opened the door, she ushered in a short, round, bald man dressed impeccably in a blue tailcoat. “Mr. Lester Kenworthy, ma’am.”

Isabelle rose from the chair she had taken only seconds before.

Mr. Kenworthy shook his head and blustered toward her. “Oh, please, sit. No ceremony is needed between us. I only wanted to come and meet the new Mrs. Osgood. Your Alec would have you kept a tight secret from us all, and we can’t have that, can we?” He said all this in a cheerful waterfall rush of words as he pumped her hand with both of his. “Lovely, if I may say so. Lovely.”

His words were masked in an accent so sharp that she found herself startled that she’d understood him. The proximity of Cumbria to Lancashire had given her no reason to believe there would be such a disparity in inflection. But this man’s vowels seemed utterly shuffled and remade. Delight danced through his articulation.

“I am the business manager at Osgood Mills and pleased as can be to see you. I thought if I came and made myself known to you, we could get you into a room with my wife and daughter. Fast friends, I’m sure you’ll be.”

Isabelle nodded and gestured to a chair. Mr. Kenworthy sat, laughing and bumbling about the loveliness she added to the room. Certainly he’d been there before and could tell that nothing had changed since it was the drawing room of a bachelor.

When he stopped for a breath, Isabelle realized she’d not said a word since Mr. Kenworthy entered the room. “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir, and I’d be honored to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Kenworthy and your daughter.” Isabelle blushed to realize that she’d taken on some of the tilting vowels of his accent.

He must have heard it as well because he reached for her hand again and laughed. “We’ll make a local of you in no time, sure enough. Would your schedule permit you to take tea at our home tomorrow?”

Isabelle had only seconds to determine if accepting this unexpected invitation would be wise. What would Alexander say? In fact, she was fairly sure Alexander would say nothing, as he said nothing on practically every matter.

“Mr. Kenworthy, I am delighted to say that I have no standing appointments for tomorrow. I’d be very glad to come.”

“Lovely, lovely.” He’d repeated the same word so many times that Isabelle was certain it would forevermore sound correct only when spoken in his Lancashire accent. He stood and pumped her hand again. She wasn’t sure that hand-shaking was the proper greeting of the moment, but it felt so wonderful to have someone reaching for her that she returned the squeeze to his fingers. Her smile was genuine as she thanked him for his visit.

When Alexander returned from the mill that evening, Isabelle met him in the foyer. “Did you have a nice day?” she asked, knowing even before his eyebrows came together in confusion that it was a strange question. “Nice” wasn’t at all the word to express his experience running a large, busy, dirty, expensive, dangerous business.

“I mean, was it a successful day?”

He glanced away and then back at her. “Y-yes,” he finally stammered. Clearing his throat, he went on to say more words at a time than she expected. “I believe so. Thank you,” he said.

He was practically chatty. A good sign. She waited for him to return with an inquiry of his own. Now that she had opened the door to polite discussion, surely he would engage with her. Today could be the beginning of more familiar verbal interaction.

He said nothing.

“Were you able to get outdoors while the sun shone?”

He shook his head. So much for a domestic discussion.

She sighed. “Would you care for a drink before dinner, then?”

“I think not.”

She felt her face flush with annoyance. Would she have to continue making all the conversation?

Fine, she thought. If he didn’t want to speak, they could await dinner in silence.

They stepped into the parlor. She sat and picked up a book that lay on the small table. It did not take her many seconds to decide that this was not a book that would interest her even in the best of moods, which this was not. Why would he not speak with her? Had she not been inviting? What more did he expect her to do?

She thought the housekeeper would never come to call them to dine, but when she did, Isabelle stood and walked to the dining room without waiting for Alexander to offer his arm.

As they were served their meal, she noticed many things about which he could comment. The soup was warm and delicious, the meal satisfactory. Could he not mention it? Isabelle found herself stabbing her lamb with more force than was entirely necessary. After pudding, she pushed herself away from the table and said, “I’ll be going up to my room now. Good night, Mr. Osgood.”

He had the grace to look ashamed. At least she assumed that was what that look conveyed. He stood quickly and swallowed his mouthful. “Good night,” he said.

As an afterthought, she said from the doorway, “I had a visit from Mr. Kenworthy today, and I’ll be looking in on his family tomorrow.” She didn’t wait for a reply that surely wouldn’t come, certain she neither needed nor desired his permission. She turned and walked out of the room, hiding the tears that threatened to fall.

Pulling the pins from her hair in her room, she wondered why she hadn’t mentioned the visit from Mr. Kenworthy before her exit. She could have spoken about it at dinner. But she understood that she’d expected Alexander to mention it. Of course, Mr. Kenworthy had asked and received permission to pay her a call. Naturally Alexander knew of the visit. But he didn’t say a word. What could she understand from that but that he didn’t care? It was, of course, the obvious and the only conclusion she could come to.

Mrs. Burns knocked lightly.

“Anything you need, ma’am?” she asked.

Isabelle sighed. “Kind of you, at least, to care,” she said.

“Everyone in the household wishes the best of comforts for you, ma’am.”

Isabelle let out a short humph of disbelief.

Mrs. Burns stepped farther inside the room. “Has something met with your disapproval?” Her tone was perfectly formal, with only a hint of surprise. “I shall report it to Mr. Osgood immediately.”

She could not help it. Isabelle smiled. “And shall his behavior change at your report?”

Understanding dawned on the kind woman’s face. “Beg pardon, ma’am. I have no wish to overstep.”

Isabelle shook her head. “Not at all. Perhaps Mr. Osgood simply does not find my company interesting.”

“Oh, no, ma’am. I assure you not. He must be tired after a long day, that is all. Give him some time to grow comfortable in this new situation.” She gestured around the room in a vague circle of inclusion.

“Indeed, thank you. Good night, Mrs. Burns.”

“Good night, ma’am.”

As she drew the brush through her hair, Isabelle determined that she was finished trying to force warmth into Alexander’s chilly demeanor. He was capable of involving himself in discussion if he wished it. And he might wish it in a month, or a year, or a decade. Perhaps that was what Mrs. Burns meant by giving him time.

If he was satisfied to live as relative strangers, she could be as well.