“You played very well, Miss Glory,” Isabelle said softly. “I’d be so happy if you’d like to play with me again another day.”
Her soft voice seemed to continue to calm Glory. Isabelle felt a surprising pull toward this sweet young woman.
Glory clapped her hands together and nodded, rocking forward and back on her chair. “Again. I would like to play again.”
Isabelle glanced at Mrs. Kenworthy, who smiled appreciatively. “Perhaps,” the hostess said, “we could make this a weekly event.”
“Today is Tuesday,” Glory said. “Weekly means you can come each day that is a Tuesday.”
“I would be honored,” Isabelle said and was rewarded by a quick kiss on the cheek. Her face flushed, and she wondered for a moment if she should be affronted by the breach in propriety. As she reflected on her emotions, she realized she was not at all offended. She was grateful for the small act of intimacy and the generosity of spirit offered her by these women.
If only she could feel that kind of intimacy and generosity at home.
Isabelle waited eagerly for Alexander to come home that evening. She repented her decision to wait for him to begin a dialogue. For once, she had something interesting she could talk about with him. Maybe if she started a conversation about the Kenworthy family, he would have impressions to add. It had been such a lovely day, full of discourse and kindness and laughter. She could bring that to this house as well.
As he entered, she smiled and said, “Welcome home.” She held out her hand, but instead of clasping her fingers, he handed her his hat. Before she could say more, he responded with a dismissive snort.
“Home. I suppose.” He shook his head and shed his coat. “My real home is Wellsgate.” He placed his coat on a chair and walked on.
Isabelle felt her breath catch in her throat. This was not his true home. And after the omitted wedding trip, he had never offered another opportunity to visit his country home.
“This entire city is cramped. Sooty. Dark.” He wiped his hand in front of his face as if he could make the place disappear.
She eyed the closed draperies on the windows. Noted. Tomorrow she’d have them open when he arrived home. And she would have a word with the housekeeper about sootiness. Whatever that meant.
He led the way to the dining room, muttering about chill and grit. All thought of summoning the Kenworthy family’s memories into the room swept out of Isabelle’s mind. Any word she might have added would feel foreign and out of place here.
These thoughts led Isabelle into a whirlpool of dark musings. As dinner was served, she stared, dismayed, at her plate and allowed herself to sink into this blue gloom. Was this to be her daily experience? Disappointment and silence? Imagining her next letter to Edwin, she blushed from her neck to her hairline as she thought of actually putting on paper any of the thoughts currently entertained.
Alexander’s voice shocked her out of her reverie. “Is that acceptable?”
She had not the slightest notion of what he was asking her. Acceptable? Was what acceptable? And why was he asking? For permission? Unlikely. But apparently he’d been speaking to her as she was harboring—no, encouraging—thoughts of unkindness and disappointment.
“Pardon?” It was the best she could do.
“A visit to Wellsgate?” What was that look on his face? He didn’t appear angry at her inattention, although he had every right to be. Discomfort, surely. Did he think she would disapprove? Her stomach roiled, and her face continued to flame.
“A visit to Wellsgate sounds lovely,” she said, managing to keep her voice even.
He nodded. “I will make arrangements. Assuming all goes to plan, let us say Tuesday.”
Let us say Tuesday? What did that mean? “Tuesday?”
He looked at her, confusion all over his face. “Yes. We go to Wellsgate. Tuesday next.” He spoke slowly. He must have thought her simple.
Her face flamed again, both in reaction to that thought and to the inclusion in the invitation. We go, he’d said. She was expected. Invited.
“At what hour?” she asked.
“Is your schedule so full?” His mouth formed the hint of a smile, and his eyes flickered to her face, but she could not decide if he was being friendly or condescending.
Either way, she could hardly ignore a direct question. “I have a commitment Tuesday morning. I am unscheduled after tea.”
He shook his head. “No. We leave early.”
Nodding as if they had reached an accord, he turned back to his food.
She silently chided herself for her inability to speak up. After waiting so long for him to engage her in a conversation, she’d utterly failed to reciprocate. She would have to cancel what would only be her second visit with the Kenworthy family and would need to make an excuse. Her husband planned to visit Wellsgate. He planned to take her along. She was going to visit the country home he compared this house to and against which this house was always lacking. She was grateful. But was it proper to thank him? How was one to manage an invitation to travel with one’s husband?
Isabelle squeezed her hands together beneath the table and watched Alexander take another bite of fish. And now she found herself in the far-too-familiar and uncomfortable place of scanning her mind to come up with anything to say. He’d mentioned Wellsgate, and it was now her turn to make a comment. Somehow the Kenworthy family visit no longer seemed a valid discussion point. She felt silly assuming that Alexander would care about the time she’d spent with them. After all, it could not affect him.
She considered and dismissed several topics in quick succession. Nothing that entered her mind could possibly spin into a dialogue. What news had she heard that might interest him? She could think only of discussing market fish with Mrs. Burns, and now the fish was here, half consumed, and not worthy of conversation.
Once again, Isabelle sighed in defeat and ate her food in silence.
As the city disappeared past the windows of the carriage, Isabelle was surprised to feel herself becoming more tense. She assumed the city’s darkness, stink, noise, and oppression had been the biggest barriers to her happiness, but as she watched the buildings grow farther apart, she felt her shoulders stiffen and her breathing grow shallow.
She glanced at Alexander now and then when she felt brave enough to run the risk of catching his eye. It never happened. He appeared asleep, except that his fingers tapped ceaselessly on his legs.
How could she stand an entire week of nothing but Alexander’s silent company? In preparation for this visit, in addition to the packing, she’d made a list of topics they could discuss. It was a short list, and not fascinating in nature, but she had been confident that, when alone together inside the carriage, they would manage to at least be interesting to each other.
She was no longer confident or even hopeful. A sigh escaped her, and she saw Alexander’s eyes flutter open. She hurried to look out the window.
“All right?” he asked. His voice sounded tired, unless that sound was annoyance.
“Fine. Thank you. Just enjoying the view.” Why had she said that? The view? The current view was dirty tracks separating squatting cottages that seemed to be sinking into the earth.
He made a single grunt that may have been a laugh. “In at least this matter, you are easy to please.”
Isabelle felt a physical jolt, and not a pleasant one. Was he, through this mocking comment, accusing her of being generally difficult? In what way had she earned this censure? She had been gracious at all times, she was certain. She had made a habit of it. She could think of three, possibly four times she’d gone out of her way to thank Alexander for something he’d provided in his house. And now he suggested she was impossible to please? Was she so cold and remote? She felt simultaneously ashamed and furious. Well, if that was what he thought of her, she’d show him how difficult she could be.
Her
righteous indignation radiated an uncomfortable heat. She fidgeted with her bonnet. Her collar seemed too tight. And why was the road so full of ruts?
The more she fumed, the more uncomfortable she became, until she realized that her brilliant plan of affronting and aggravating Alexander was only leading to her own disquiet. She ducked her head and smiled into her lap as she realized there was an infinitely better way to devil her husband.
“I am, in fact, easy to please in several ways.” Her voice came out more quietly than she’d intended, but she was sure he had heard. She forced a chattering, lilting accent, as though he’d asked a question and they were now in the midst of a casual discussion. “I am pleased by many books. I am delighted by wildflowers. I am pleased with harmonious singing, mine or someone else’s. A good hand of cards is a great pleasure. An obedient horse. A fine pianoforte. Intelligent conversation is most pleasing, mainly for being so rare.” She felt the barb of those words as they left her mouth, even through her docile smile.
“And that is not all. I am delighted when I read a well-written letter.” She swallowed away a lump of sadness at the thought that she’d been so unfaithful a correspondent lately.
Continuing on, she said, “I am pleased by the gradual return of spring. Visits please me. I enjoy a novel. On occasion, I have even been known to smile at a perfectly ripe pear. Yes, I believe there are few pleasures greater than a perfect pear.” She nodded as if to agree with herself and then looked directly at Alexander for the first time.
He was watching her, his expression unreadable. Had that not been enough? Well, then. She would fill this carriage with nonsense. There would be more words than her brooding and silent husband could stand.
“When I was a child, I was eager to be pleased. I would wander out of doors and collect all the things that interested me. I’d come home with my apron pockets filled with berries and stones and leaves and once even a frog. I’d gather flowers or fallen leaves or snowballs, depending on the season. I collected every note and letter I received in boxes in my bedroom, and on quiet evenings, I’d sit beside the fire and read messages from the past.”
If this litany of silliness was not infuriating the man, Isabelle didn’t know what would. She continued to talk, sometimes looking out the window, and sometimes daring a glance and a smile in Alexander’s direction, for what felt like ages.
Each time she looked his way, Alexander was watching her. He kept his face steady, without creased brow or squinted eye. She could not be certain how her waterfall of words was received until she told a story about sneaking out of church on a hot summer Sunday with Edwin and catching a fish in one of her mother’s stockings.
Alexander’s face broke into what could only be described as a grin. Conspiratorial, amused, and pleased.
Pleased?
She hadn’t intended to please him. Indeed, she was unsure she would ever be able to do so. Now his expression conveyed something she had unintentionally created in him, and the recognition unbalanced her.
Isabelle stopped speaking abruptly. The silence inside the carriage pressed against the windows, the roof, and the floor. She was tempted to open the door and flee, but her survival instincts outweighed her embarrassment.
Alexander’s voice slipped through the tension. “What kind of fish?”
“Brook trout,” she said, immediately wishing she’d kept her mouth closed. All day. But especially at this moment.
When she managed to raise her eyes again, she found Alexander watching her, smiling. His already handsome face was much improved with such a smile. She tried to remember the last time she’d seen a smile like that on his face. Probably at their wedding, when he was charming her mother. She was fairly certain he’d never smiled like that at her. A good smile, she noticed. Well worth the reputation. It spread wide across his jawline and added a sparkle to his sometimes-dull eyes. Not dull now, she found herself noticing. Not dull at all.
She ducked her head again, trying to hide her own smile. Sitting across the carriage from her husband in a moment of shared amusement was not at all what she had planned.
She couldn’t deny that it felt pleasant. Perhaps more than pleasant. The word “charming” began to bounce around in her mind.
Good heavens, she thought to herself. What if I like this man?
Mrs. Burns had arrived before the carriage and had opened the country house in preparation for their arrival. When the driver pulled up to the front door, Alexander leaped out and faced the home he loved. His staff, intact and present here in the country, stood outside awaiting their arrival.
Yeardley, upright and unsmiling but somehow not fearsome, stood nearest the carriage. Mrs. Burns stood between him and Mae, the kitchen maid who provided the cooking in addition to all the other kitchen work. Jonathan, the driver, took his place in line with the others. Alexander greeted his staff with polite warmth, as though he had not seen them only that morning.
Isabelle waited what seemed quite a long time for him to remember that he’d brought her along. Finally, at a glance from the driver, Alexander turned and reached his hand to help her out. She found her legs shaky from having sat so long trying not to let their knees touch, and she gripped his hand harder than she’d have liked as she stepped down onto the gravel drive.
Isabelle looked up at the house, pleased with its aspect. An unassuming home, larger than a cottage but smaller by far than a manor, it felt familiar. Much like her parents’ home. Like her home, but smaller. More compact. Windows faced the gently sloping lawn that led away from the front of the house and down into a small wood.
“It’s perfectly charming,” she said.
She hadn’t meant to say it. She glanced at him to see if he was offended by her appraisal.
He appeared not to have heard her. His gaze hadn’t left the house, as if the view itself were his life’s breath.
“It is good to be back here,” he said. “Thank you all for your work to open the house.”
Mrs. Burns nodded and answered him. “Mr. Osgood, you made such good time that I hadn’t expected your arrival for another hour.”
Alexander smiled at Mrs. Burns. “I couldn’t wait. I told Jonathan to push on.”
Mrs. Burns turned to Isabelle. “Mrs. Osgood, welcome to Wellsgate.”
“Right. Yes,” Alexander mumbled. “Welcome.” He cleared his throat. “I hope you can be comfortable.” All signs of his smile were gone now. “I know it does not compare to your parents’ property, but it is home to me.”
They stepped inside the house, and a warm, inviting entryway filled with light seemed to welcome them inside. A staircase to the right led up into what were likely the bedrooms, and a large, window-filled room was on the left.
Alexander cleared his throat again. “Please make yourself at home,” he said, pointing to the sitting room. “I’ll have Yeardley bring in the bags, and then Mrs. Burns can show you to your rooms. I am going up to change.”
He practically ran up the stairs, leaving Isabelle standing in the foyer. Mrs. Burns breathed out what might have been a laugh. “Give him time, Mrs. Osgood. He’ll learn.”
“What will he learn?” Isabelle asked. The possibilities of what remained unmastered seemed manifold and various.
Mrs. Burns nodded in understanding. “How to make a place for you,” she said kindly. “I am sure he’s very glad you’ve come.” She bobbed her head and stepped into a hallway.
Isabelle was not so sure Alexander was glad she’d come. How could she have such assurance when he made no point of saying so?
Isabelle stepped inside the sitting room. It was warm, lovely, and comfortable. If this room was where he thought she belonged, she could be happy here. The furnishings felt simpler than the dark and heavy tables and couches in Manchester, and the few paintings, landscapes and village scenes, evoked comfort. She walked to the large bank of windows and looked outside. A view of t
he stables made her wish for an afternoon of fast riding, but she dared not suggest it. Alexander had given her no reason to think that she was welcome to make plans.
As she watched out the window, she saw Alexander jogging toward the stables. He was dressed to ride, and he looked so free, so eager to get into the saddle. She battled with the pleasure of seeing him looking relaxed against the frustration of having been left behind. Did it not occur to him to ask her to join the ride? Or was he eager to be away from her? She slipped into a chair and picked up a book from the table at her elbow. Every few seconds, her eyes slipped from the page to the stables. After several minutes, she saw Alexander ride away on a handsome stallion. She felt her posture soften. He was gone, and glad to be gone. And this was her place. Inside. Alone.
Back home. Isabelle thought if she kept referring to Manchester as her home, it might begin to feel as though it were. Her daily routine had changed so little she wondered if Alexander had even noticed they’d taken the country holiday.
He certainly hadn’t noticed her while they were at Wellsgate. Her silly antics in the carriage had brought a smile to his face for only as long as there wasn’t something better to distract him. He’d spent his days riding and his evenings poring over books and papers. Isabelle stayed at the periphery, as she’d been taught to do.
As, she had come to realize, was expected of her. Both in the country and now back in the city.
She sat in the masculine sitting room holding books she couldn’t become interested in, sketching drawings she didn’t care about, humming measures of songs she wouldn’t finish.
Her two forms of solace were Tuesday visits with the Kenworthy women and delivery of the post.
Isabelle and Alexander Page 3