Hartwell turned to Isabella. “Dine with me tonight. Eight o’clock. I want to know who you are.”
“As you wish,” she replied, but her eyes carried that same quiet promise that had chilled him at the inn.
Dinner was served in the formal dining room for the first time in years. Candles were lit. Silver was polished. The act felt like resurrection performed by hands that weren’t sure they believed in it.
Isabella ate with careful grace, using utensils as if she had spent her life doing so. Hartwell poured wine and watched her, uncertain whether he was looking at a miracle or a trap.
“Dupré said you can read,” he began. “Write. How did that happen?”
Isabella set down her fork. “My mother worked for a lawyer in New Orleans,” she said. “He was a man who believed education was a kind of virtue, even when he denied humanity to the people
