Isabelle and Alexander

by Rebecca Anderson

Mrs. Burns came to the door of the sitting room, not doing a particularly good job of hiding her pity. “Good morning, Mrs. Burns,” Isabelle said, arranging her face into a polite smile.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Osgood,” Mrs. Burns replied. “It’s a lovely day.” They both looked out the window to see that, in fact, it was not. A misty rain dripped off the ends of rooflines and lampposts. Isabelle allowed herself a bemused look at the housekeeper, who, she understood, was only doing her best.

  Isabelle tugged at the edge of the small table beside her.

  “Are you ready to speak about new fittings and furnishings, ma’am?” The housekeeper had broached the subject several times, but Isabelle had felt unequal to making decisions about purchases without Alexander’s input. As he did not appear interested in discussing furniture any more than speaking of anything else, Isabelle continued to evade. The dark hangings, paintings of hunting scenes, and heavy wooden furniture reflected nothing of herself.

  “Perhaps a lighter and smaller set of tables and chairs in the drawing room,” Isabelle said, knowing that Mrs. Burns was attempting to help her find her place in the house.

  The housekeeper nodded in appreciation and promised to look out for some prospects.

  “I feel sure Mr. Osgood will be delighted with any changes you’d like to make,” she said. Since their return from Wellsgate, Mrs. Burns had continued to mention, subtly and not so subtly, that she was certain Mr. Osgood was glad to have Isabelle here. Perhaps it would go better if Mrs. Burns told Mr. Osgood himself.

  But Isabelle understood that Mrs. Burns’s relationship with Alexander was a delicate balance. Suggesting the use of certain rooms for certain occasions was within the housekeeper’s purview. Telling him how to treat his wife was not.

  “Post’s come, and here’s a letter for you, ma’am.” Mrs. Burns handed Isabelle an envelope.

  When she saw Edwin’s handwriting, she clasped it between her palms and allowed herself a smile of relief.

  “Thank you,” Isabelle said, feeling like she’d been saved from drowning. She took the first full breath in what felt like weeks. Her thanks hadn’t felt like enough. “Thank you,” she said again.

  Although Isabelle well recognized the look of compassion on Mrs. Burns’s face, the housekeeper continued to behave with propriety.

  If, in the course of her duties of the next hour, Mrs. Burns passed the sitting room and saw her mistress alternating between laughter and tears, she made no mention of it to Isabelle.

  Reading her cousin’s letters once was never enough. Isabelle knew that Edwin’s style—galloping over news and gossip—would both make her lonesome and somehow connected to all that was happening at the Lakes. What she did not expect was this line, placed in the midst of a report about the weather and their favorite horse’s colt: “Dearest, you remember I told you about Charlotte Owen, don’t you?”

  Isabelle remembered no such name, but she knew this was another part of Ed’s style. He was preparing her for something. The next line clarified.

  “I’ve decided I simply can’t live without the both of you, and since I can no longer have you here with me, now that you’ve been carried off to the steel jungles of Manchester, I’ve asked her to marry me.”

  Isabelle gasped aloud. Past the pounding of her heart in her ears, she heard Mrs. Burns enter the room.

  “I am fine,” she tried to say, but a sob broke through the words. She stood from the chair, clutched the letter in her fingers, paced to the window, looked out at the damp, chilly city, and reread the words. I’ve asked her to marry me.

  Marry.

  Isabelle did not know how long she stood at the window, clutching the letter in her hands while Mrs. Burns stood at a polite and proper distance, but when she could stand there no longer, she wiped her eyes and moved back toward the couch.

  “I hope all is well,” the housekeeper said.

  “Very well, thank you.” She knew her voice sounded anything but well. Oh, what Isabelle would give to have a friend who understood this cruel mix of betrayal and devastation she was experiencing! Come to think of it, Isabelle would be very happy to know exactly why she felt so heartbroken.

  Perhaps because Edwin was still quite young, only having come into his majority last year. This news was a bit of a shock.

  Perhaps because she never imagined he would survive without her. Of course, whatever he felt for Miss Charlotte Owen was vastly different from the familial relationship he and Isabelle had fostered. But would Charlotte replace Isabelle in Edwin’s heart? If Isabelle was no longer to be Edwin’s dearest, who then would she be?

  Where could she turn to sort through her feelings?

  There was only one place she’d felt sure clarity since coming to Manchester.

  “Mrs. Burns, I am going to visit Mrs. Kenworthy for a short time. I shall be home before anyone misses me.” For who, indeed, would miss her? She felt the truth of those words as surely as she knew an hour in the Kenworthy parlor would shake loose the pieces of her heart that were stabbing at her.

  “Shall I call the carriage?” Mrs. Burns’s voice held the sympathy she could not, within the bounds of propriety, give words to.

  Isabelle wiped her eyes again, grateful for the lace handkerchief tucked into her sleeve. “Thank you, no. I should enjoy the walk.”

  The walk to the Kenworthy home, though wet and dirty, went by in a blink. Her feet seemed to lead her there with no need for her mind to plan the next steps.

  When the Kenworthys’ housekeeper opened the door, she startled Isabelle by saying, “Law, Mrs. Osgood. You’re wet through.”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon. Mrs. Kenworthy is not expecting me.”

  “I daresay not on foot in weather such as this,” she responded. Her smile removed all possible judgment from her words. “Please, come into the parlor, and I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  When Isabelle realized how damp she’d gotten, she refused to sit on any of the furniture, standing at the window and watching the rain. Feeling her skin chill, she began to question the advisability of her choice to walk when Glory came into the room at a bound.

  “Mrs. Osgood, how nice of you to come for a visit,” she said, the proper words accompanied by flapping hands and a loud laugh.

  Isabelle felt herself begin to warm immediately. She reached for Glory’s hands and pressed her fingers. “Thank you, Miss Glory. I was so eager to see you that I couldn’t wait for our usual Tuesday.”

  Glory nodded. “Instead of Tuesday, you’re here on a painting day. Would you like to watch me make a painting?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” Isabelle said, surprised to find she meant it. Her heart lightened at the thought of taking her mind away from Edwin’s upcoming marriage by watching Glory work. “What will you paint today?”

  Glory’s grin grew, if it were possible, larger. “Abbie in the kitchen brought a puppy.” Her hands flapped at her sides, and Isabelle could see Glory’s mounting excitement. “Today I paint a picture of the puppy.”

  Mrs. Kenworthy stepped into the parlor and welcomed Isabelle. “Our dear Abbie has agreed to let Glory try to paint her family’s new dog.”

  Glory shook her head. “Not paint the dog. Paint a picture.”

  Her mother smiled. “Of course you’re right, darling. That’s exactly right.” As Glory led the way to her drawing room, Mrs. Kenworthy took Isabelle by the arm. “You may have surmised,” she whispered, “that we have, in the past, needed to make a distinction about what it means to paint a subject.”

  Isabelle smiled, and the women followed Glory up the staircase. In a small but warm corner room, Glory settled herself on a stool in front of an easel holding a board. After a short time, the kitchen maid appeared in the doorway. “Beg pardon, ma’am. I’ve brought you Jip.”

  “Thank you, Abbie,” Mrs. Kenworthy said.

  The maid nodded
and placed the sleeping pup into Glory’s outstretched arms. “If you don’t mind, ma’am, I should get back to the kitchen. Will he be all right here with you ladies?”

  Glory had snuggled the dog into her arms and was nuzzling his tiny head with her cheek. “Good boy,” she chattered at him. “Such a good boy.” Isabelle and Mrs. Kenworthy watched her pure joy with pleased smiles.

  “Mama, I don’t want to put him down. But if I don’t, how can I paint his picture?”

  Isabelle thought a great deal of grown-up decisions came down to just such a choice.

  Mrs. Kenworthy picked up a small basket with a tea towel inside it. “What if you put him in this and paint him for a while, and then, when he’s ready to go back to Abbie, you can carry him down to the kitchen?”

  Glory nodded and snuggled the pup in the basket. She placed it on a small table near the window and resettled on her stool.

  Isabelle watched Glory’s pencil draw swift strokes on the wooden board, sketching the barest outline of dog, basket, and table. She was surprised how clearly she could determine Glory’s subject matter even with so few details. When she put brush to paint and then paint to board, Glory’s picture came to life first in blocks of color, then in attendant detail. Isabelle found herself relaxing and calming to the rhythm of Glory’s brushstrokes.

  Glory hummed to herself, sometimes talking about her painting, sometimes cooing to the puppy on the table. Isabelle thought this might be the most soothing hour she’d spent since her marriage. Glory would hum, and the sweet pup would sing a little whine in response. Isabelle was grateful for the fullness of sound without the pressure of making awkward conversation. That pressure was the one thing—perhaps the only thing—her evenings in her husband’s home were too full of.

  The puppy stirred and stretched, his paws reaching outside the edge of the basket. “Mrs. Osgood, can you help me?” Glory asked.

  “Of course, Miss Glory. Anything you need.” Isabelle stood from her seat.

  “Jip is restless. Can you hold him so he doesn’t get hurt?”

  Isabelle scooped the little dog into her arms. He snuffled at her hands and her dress, filling himself with the scent of her. She ducked her head toward his tiny brown nose to make it easy for the puppy to get to know her.

  “I had a dog just this color once,” Isabelle told Glory. “He was called Toast.”

  Glory shook her head. “This dog is not toast color. He is much too dark to be like toast,” she said.

  “But not at my house.” Isabelle lowered her voice to a playful whisper and shared a confidence with Glory. “Our cook always burnt the bread.”

  Glory’s laugh filled the room again, and Mrs. Kenworthy gave Isabelle a grateful smile.

  “Sit there, in the window,” Glory said, pointing with her paintbrush.

  Mrs. Kenworthy reminded Glory of her manners.

  Glory started again. “If you please, Mrs. Osgood, would you sit in the window with the puppy? He doesn’t need to be still for me to paint his colors.”

  Isabelle sat against the cushion and put the dog on her knees. She chattered about her childhood pets as Glory’s face grew still with concentration. When she ran out of words, Isabelle took a cue from Glory and hummed to the dog.

  “Have you a dog at home, Mrs. Osgood?” Mrs. Kenworthy asked.

  “My parents have several dogs, but I don’t have one of my own there.”

  Mrs. Kenworthy made a small sound of correction. “I meant to ask of your current home.”

  Of course. Isabelle felt herself unequal to talking much about her current home in any way. “There is no dog at Mr. Osgood’s home. There may be one that lives in the stable with the horses at Wellsgate, but if there is, I haven’t met him. Perhaps on my next trip into the country, I could ask Mr. Osgood to make introductions.”

  Glory laughed, so Isabelle continued. “Mr. Osgood could escort me to the stables and say, ‘Prince, old boy, might I present my wife, Mrs. Isabelle Osgood?’ and of course, the dog would be elegant and proper. He’d bow down and tell me how delighted he was to make my acquaintance.”

  Placing her paintbrush on the edge of the table, Glory clapped her hands and laughed some more.

  Isabelle loved the feeling of entertaining Glory. She continued, “Of course, I would be proper also, inviting the dog to come inside for tea. After that, we’d be fast friends.”

  Isabelle continued to speak small nonsense, keeping Glory amused as the young woman finished her painting. When Abbie, the kitchen maid, returned, Isabelle found herself sorry. It was the appropriate time for her visit to end, but she wished she could stay.

  As she handed the puppy to Abbie, the young girl smiling bashfully and bobbing her head, Isabelle thanked Glory and Mrs. Kenworthy for a lovely afternoon. “I hope my intrusion was as gladly felt as my welcome was warm. You’ve made me feel quite pleased to be here,” she said, surprised to feel tears prick her eyes.

  Mrs. Kenworthy picked up on what Isabelle tried to hide. “You are welcome here anytime and always,” she said, touching Isabelle’s elbow with a gentle hand. “We are indeed so grateful for your friendship.”

  Glory squeezed in on Isabelle’s other side and put her arm around her waist. Isabelle said her goodbyes and realized as she walked away that those two women had put out their hands and touched her more in the past three minutes than her husband had in many, many weeks.

  Perhaps it was not all his choice, though, she thought. Perhaps she was better at inviting touch with the ladies than she was with Alexander. Simply because he’d refused to show her affection previously didn’t mean he would always. Perhaps he required a different invitation. She’d attend to that right away.

  Upon returning to the house, Isabelle asked Mrs. Burns if she’d help her repair the damage the earlier weather had done to her hair. Mrs. Burns nodded and followed Isabelle to her dressing room.

  Unpinning her hair and brushing it down her back, Isabelle apologized for adding to Mrs. Burns’s workload.

  “I know you’ve already plenty to keep you busy, and I know this kind of thing is outside your general expectations. I don’t want you to think that if I have you do it once, I’ll be assuming you’ll act like a lady’s maid every day.”

  Isabelle realized she’d been speaking in what Ed called an over-quick manner. She summoned some forced calm and met Mrs. Burns’s eye in the mirror. “I’d simply like to be presentable for Mr. Osgood when he arrives today.” A blush overtook her cheeks, and she looked down. How inappropriate of her to share such a sentiment with the housekeeper. Would Isabelle never learn to behave without making such blunders?

  She attempted to regain some proper standing. “Do you know if Mae has dinner prepared?”

  Of course Mae had dinner prepared. Every day, their capable young cook fulfilled the menu with efficiency. Isabelle felt the silliness of her question.

  Mrs. Burns stepped behind Isabelle’s chair and gently took the hairbrush out of her hand. “Here, please allow me.” The older woman drew the brush gently through Isabelle’s hair, murmuring gentle comments about its lovely color. With a few turns and twists, she’d created a clean and efficient knot, securing it with pins. “If you like the look of it, ma’am, I’d say it rather suits you.”

  “I like it very well, Mrs. Burns. Thank you.” Isabelle turned her head right and left to see the sides in her glass.

  “Now,” the housekeeper said, setting the brush on the table, “let’s get you into a dry dress for the evening.” She opened Isabelle’s armoire and lifted out a dress of rosy pink that Isabelle hadn’t worn since they’d come to the city. “This is a lovely frock,” Mrs. Burns said, holding it up for Isabelle to inspect. As if she’d not been looking at it daily, waiting for an excuse to put it on.

  “Do you think it too formal for an evening at home?” she asked, a little embarrassed that the rules of Manchester’s societ
y still eluded her.

  Mrs. Burns placed the dress on Isabelle’s chaise. “I can’t imagine an occasion more appropriate to looking your best than an evening at home with your husband.”

  Isabelle could practically hear the words Mrs. Burns wasn’t saying, and she appreciated the housekeeper’s holding back her opinions of the rather cold relationship between Isabelle and Alexander. But even more, she appreciated understanding that Mrs. Burns could see that Isabelle was trying and that she approved. As much as Mrs. Burns adored Alexander, she seemed to be finding room to appreciate Isabelle as well.

  “If I may,” Mrs. Burns began.

  Isabelle nodded and folded her hands in front of her, anticipating some carefully worded correction from her husband’s housekeeper.

  “He’s doing his best to deserve you, ma’am.”

  Isabelle barely suppressed a gasp of surprise. The shock of Mrs. Burns’s sentiment far overpowered the gentle way in which it was delivered. To deserve her?

  “I do not understand.”

  Mrs. Burns nodded. “Mr. Osgood’s father worked hard, and he found a kind of success rare to a country blacksmith. Through all his efforts, he helped raise the prospects of our own Mr. Osgood.” Isabelle was familiar with the outlines of this story.

  Mrs. Burns looked at her own folded hands. “He feels beneath you.”

  “That is not the case. My father is a man of business,” Isabelle said.

  Mrs. Burns nodded. “Indeed, but you were raised to a gentler life than Mr. Osgood has known. He is striving to become worthy of the life you must be expecting.”

  Isabelle did not know how to respond to this information, but she nodded her thanks and dismissed Mrs. Burns.

  Within the half hour, Isabelle sat in the drawing room, her eyes sliding along the same two lines of a book over and over as she waited for Alexander to arrive. She’d thought about several different ways she could welcome him home, hoping to create that feeling of comfort she was missing, all the time wishing it wasn’t such a great lot of work. Shouldn’t this, she thought, be simple? Instinctive, even?