Isabelle and Alexander

by Rebecca Anderson

  It caused her to wonder about the less-pleasant parts of her conduct. Did he notice her sighs? Her glances of disappointment? What else that she was certain he’d ignored had he actually attended to?

  She set the pear on a table. “I look forward to sharing it with you.”

  “Come, then, if you will, and meet your Destiny.” He held out his hand, and she took it, bringing to mind the evening earlier in the week, the one that prompted him to invite her here. She was once again comfortable in his grasp.

  “Meet my destiny? That sounds formidable.”

  He chuckled. “Not at all. Destiny is your horse, if she suits you.” With that small laugh, his worry and coldness seemed to peel away, and he became once more the charming Mr. Osgood she glimpsed now and then.

  As they walked to the stable, he explained that in the past, he’d boarded the horses in the town and hired a young man from the village to act as groom when he’d come to Wellsgate to stay. “If it will please you, I could arrange for someone to come care for the horses during our visit.”

  If it will please you? Isabelle felt a shiver of giddiness run up her arms. He wanted to please her.

  “As we’re staying only a short time, I’d like to tend to the horses myself.” She felt his posture change, sensing a stiffness. “If that’s not improper, of course.” The difference between her childhood and their new life together was clear when she had to ask questions like that.

  She felt his arm relax around hers. “I don’t care if it’s proper or not. If you want to brush and curry and fork hay and pour oats, I’ll not stop you.”

  She turned her head in time to see his smile.

  They stepped inside the stable, the slats in the wooden boards letting in beams of afternoon sunlight in which dust and straw filaments danced. Isabelle inhaled. She loved the scents of a stable.

  Alexander led her to a stall where an enormous stallion, eighteen hands high if he was an inch, stamped and snorted. His black eyes shone like polished stones in a stream, and he pulled his lips back to show his huge teeth.

  Isabelle attempted to be brave. “This is Destiny?” She dared not reach her hand out toward the beast for fear he might bite it off. She felt her heart race. What could she say that was both true and kind? “He’s magnificent.” She was certain Alexander could hear the terror in her voice. She hadn’t any reserves to hide it.

  Alexander shook his head. “This is Allegro. It is a friendlier name than he deserves.”

  Relieved that this was not the horse he’d chosen for her, Isabelle said, “What would be a better name?”

  “Something like Diavolo or Tempesta.”

  “Do all your horses have such descriptive names?”

  “Not all of them. Goblin is my favorite,” he said, pointing out a dappled gray. He gestured over his shoulder to a white horse in the stall behind them. “She’s Prancer. And Destiny is here.” He walked her to the stall of a beautiful chestnut.

  “She’s small,” Isabelle said, grateful for the difference in size between this horse and the first one.

  “But she’s fast and strong,” Alexander said, possibly misinterpreting her comment for complaint.

  “‘Though she be but little, she is fierce.’ My cousin used to say that about me.” Isabelle chuckled at the memory.

  “I believe it,” Alexander said. “Shakespeare. Your cousin is a scholar?”

  Isabelle shook her head. “I believe he would like to be known as a great reader, but in truth, he only studies what strikes his fancy.” She reached over the top of the stall door and opened her palm so Destiny could get used to her scent. Surprise filled her at the joy she felt as Alexander invited confidences about Edwin. “He is not anyone’s idea of a great scholar.” She remembered some of the tantrums Edwin’s tutor would throw when Ed refused to be entranced by the Greats. “He detests Latin. We shall never speak of mathematics. He completely fails to grasp any of the nuances of the astronomical sciences. But he does enjoy a good book: novel, essay, policy, religious text.

  “Sometimes I think he should write one of his own,” Isabelle mused as the horse nuzzled her hand. “He could become a writer. He does well at the initial burst of creativity. But he’d likely rather despise the mundane nature of revision.”

  “And you?” Alexander’s voice was quiet, casual. The formality was gone. “What will you become?”

  Shocked, Isabelle could barely keep her hand on the horse. Become? She was a wife. That was her contribution. Upon marrying, she had relinquished all childish thoughts of becoming anything other than a lady of her husband’s society. Somehow, in this moment, she felt the possibility that he might believe her capable of more. Was it possible he saw something in her beyond how she appeared beside him? Before this moment, she had never supposed any such thing. Were circumstances changing? Was Alexander changing? She gathered herself and turned to him with a smile. “Perhaps one day I’ll defeat the injustice in the world. After I ride this beautiful horse.”

  Alexander placed his hand on her back as he leaned across to unlatch Destiny’s stall door. She felt the ghost of that pressure warm her as he saddled the horse and brought her out.

  The beautiful, terrifying stallion, Allegro, made no secret of his disapproval as they left him stabled.

  “Poor him,” Isabelle said.

  Alexander, astride his dappled gray, laughed. “Poor Allegro? He could throw a man from here to the city. He’s to be admired, not pitied.”

  Isabelle wanted to argue that the pity wasn’t about Allegro’s abilities but rather his confinement; however, she was enjoying the playful and encouraging tone of the conversation. She nodded and held her tongue.

  “Where shall we ride?” Isabelle asked.

  Alexander spread both arms wide, balancing gracefully on Goblin. “Lead the way, my lady.”

  My lady. Isabelle felt her breath catch. Goodness, how different her view of marriage might be if Alexander spoke to her this way in the city. How different it might still prove to be, beginning today.

  Isabelle realized that Alexander had issued an invitation to which she must respond. “I don’t know the grounds,” she said.

  Alexander brought his horse closer. He reached over and patted Destiny. “She does. Trust her.”

  When given the reins, Destiny trotted toward a path in the wood to the east. Isabelle looked over her shoulder. “Here?”

  “Certainly. Destiny knows her mind. Sometimes it takes her a bit to get where she’s going. If you’re patient with her, she’ll open up to you the most spectacular views.”

  Isabelle ducked under a low-hanging branch and wondered if he would ever make such a statement about her.

  They walked through woods and trotted across meadows. At one point, Alexander gave Goblin the reins and they galloped across an expanse of grasses and boulders. Isabelle watched the horse navigate the terrain, keeping himself in the green so he could run.

  As the sun peered through the scudding clouds, it would illuminate a hill of grasses and send a bloom of green light that made Isabelle’s heart sing. How she missed her childhood home with its fields and groves and living, growing things. This wild park brought her great joy.

  She let Destiny wander through the field, trotting, then cantering, stopping to nibble grasses or drink from the stream. She remained always in sight of Alexander, but she found it pleasing to have the opportunity to be experiencing the same enjoyment at the same time, even at a small distance. The forthcoming delight of talking over their similar but separate experiences gave her a thrill of anticipation.

  She found her eyes drifting to Alexander and his obvious strength and grace on horseback. She could see, even from across the little valley, his hair lifting and falling with each leap of his horse. He looked like joy made personal out there in the patchy sunlight.

  Once, he looked at her as she looked at him, sending a
wave across the grassy field. As she lifted her arm to wave back, a shiver of happiness moved through her.

  She wondered again if they could stay here. Mr. Kenworthy was more than capable of managing the factory in Alexander’s absence. Mr. Connor, so eager to come to the Osgoods’ home at the first sign of trouble with the equipment, was proficient in the running of the machinery. And there was no question, even in the few hours they’d spent today, that she and Alexander were better together here in the country. In the city they had none of the playfulness, none of the attentiveness she felt here with him.

  Pondering the possibility of discussing a longer stay this summer, Isabelle’s attention was jerked back to Alexander when she heard Goblin’s scream—there was no other way to describe it: a sound of terror and pain and loss of control that tore through the horse and into Isabelle’s ears like a physical wound.

  Destiny stiffened beneath her, and she pointed the horse toward Alexander as she watched him struggle to calm Goblin. Whatever had spooked the horse had apparently not gone, for he reared again on his back legs, struggling for balance. Coming down again, Goblin leapt into the air at a strange angle. Isabelle watched helplessly from the opposite side of the valley as Alexander’s body was thrown into the air. He sailed out of the saddle like a piece of cloth, arced away from the horse, and landed against a large boulder, where he lay still.

  By the time Isabelle guided Destiny across the valley, Goblin had calmed himself and stood watch over Alexander’s still form. Isabelle slid from Destiny’s back and knelt in the grass.

  “Alexander?” She felt the strange taste of the word on her tongue; had she ever called him by his given name? She didn’t dare call out loudly for fear of startling either him or the horses, but she felt tears on her face. “Alexander?”

  He didn’t respond or even stir.

  Approaching his unmoving body, she hesitantly reached out to touch his face and pulled back quickly when he didn’t react.

  Oh, mercy. Was he dead? She sat back on her heels and then leaned forward again, only to back away in fear. What should she do?

  Isabelle felt her breath coming faster, almost a pant, and realized she could listen for his breathing. That would help her know if he was . . . alive.

  She leaned her face near his mouth, but she couldn’t hear anything over her own gasps and the pounding of blood in her ears. Her hand made its way to Alexander’s chest, and she felt a gentle rise and fall.

  “You’re breathing,” she said, aware of how foolish it was to speak aloud. He certainly wasn’t responding. But there was comfort in the words, the truth of them.

  “Alexander, you are breathing,” she repeated, “but I am not at all sure what I should do now. I am going to make a plan, and it’s going to be a good one. Yes. Quite a good plan.” She murmured these words as she kept a hand on Alexander’s chest, looking around the valley. Where she had—only moments before—seen the unspoiled glory of green lands and hills, she now saw a wilderness devoid of help or comfort.

  Should she stay? Kneel here by the unmoving form of her husband? Hope someone wandered past?

  Leave? Go find help? But where would help be? They’d ridden far from Wellsgate. She knew nothing of the homes or villages in the surrounding area.

  What could she do? None of her practiced skills seemed appropriate to the moment; however, she could talk. “Alexander,” she said, feeling her heart ease at saying his name, “this is a problem, but not an insurmountable one. With my quick wits, we’ll have you rescued in no time. If only I knew how to organize a rescue here, alone, on this hillside.”

  She rose to her feet. Her knees shook. Waves of heat and cold took turns shuddering over her body. Isabelle rooted her feet to the grass and stared at her husband’s motionless form. She scanned the valley from east to west and saw no one. The very idea of getting on her horse and leaving him here made her stomach ill. But without help, what could she do for Alexander? She tried to think of what he would want her to do, but she knew so little of his heart, it was impossible to guess what he might prefer.

  “Alexander?” Her voice came out no louder than a whisper, and a shaky one. She was afraid to touch his face, worried he might recoil from her hand and hit the stone again.

  She knelt beside his body and reached for his hand. As she picked it up, his fingers did not tighten around hers. She could see his chest moving very slowly beneath his vest.

  “Alexander.” He couldn’t hear her. She was almost sure of that. But she had to do something, and talking was the only thing of which she felt currently capable. “You have had a fall. Your horse is fine, as I am sure you’ll be glad to know.” She glanced over at Goblin, who stood munching grass and not at all concerned with the fate of his master. “You’re alive. I am glad of it, all things considered.” She imagined that, had he been able to hear her voice, this might have coaxed a smile.

  “I wonder if there is something I should be doing. Should I attempt to make you sit up?” She could see no response. “Should I force you to wake?” She wasn’t certain why it made her feel better to ask him questions she knew he wouldn’t answer, but there was that small possibility her bothersome chatter would wake him from whatever sleep he was now in.

  “Once,” she said, settling herself next to his torso and pulling his hand onto her knees, “I fell off a horse. I didn’t do quite as effective a job as you’ve done of it. I landed hard and lost my breath and frightened the forest creatures with my crying. Edwin made me promise not to tell my father because he would have been furious. Ed ran off to find someone who could help me home. By the time he returned for me, he claims I was on my feet, lurching in circles, and muttering every forbidden word in the English language. I deny all recollection of colorful speech.”

  She glanced again at his face, his eyes. He remained still.

  “Oh, you’re not surprised, are you? Well, if I thought it would make you wake, I’d have a few of those colorful words to say to you now.” Isabelle felt a breeze cool the tears on her cheeks. Her pretense of casual silliness felt wrong, somehow, when in her heart she staggered under the fear of the unknown.

  “Alexander? Please?” She couldn’t manage to finish the sentence. She wasn’t certain exactly what she was begging for.

  Isabelle didn’t know how long she sat there, huddled over Alexander’s still form, when a man on horseback came upon them. She didn’t remember asking for help or watching other men carry Alexander away or making her way back to the house. Next thing she properly experienced was sitting at the small kitchen table at Wellsgate and drinking a very sweet cup of tea.

  Mrs. Burns sat across the table, watching the level of Isabelle’s tea, hand close to the kettle and ready to refill.

  Isabelle shook her head as though to clear away further cloudiness in her mind. “I apologize for being distracted,” she said.

  Mrs. Burns reached across the table and patted Isabelle’s hand. “Nothing of the kind, dear. You’ve had a bad shock. But the doctor is hopeful, and so must we be.”

  Isabelle barely remembered what the doctor looked like, much less what he’d said to her. She nodded. “Hopeful, indeed. Will you kindly remind me what he said?” She hoped Mrs. Burns would see her lapse in memory as evidence of her upset and not of uncaring.

  “’Tis a bad blow to the head, to be sure, but the master’s breathing is uniform, and he’s not fevered. Doctor will be back this evening and once again early in the morning.”

  All of this sounded vaguely familiar, and Isabelle nodded.

  “I think I’ll go sit with Mr. Osgood for a while. Please don’t bother with a formal meal this evening. Perhaps some cold beef and bread?”

  Mrs. Burns nodded and cleared the teacup. “Anything you need. Be off with you now, and sit with the master.”

  Her gentle cheer and thoughtful kindness gave Isabelle the courage to step into the parlor, where the doctor had
Alexander laid on a couch. One arm lay bent at the elbow, his hand upon his chest. If Alexander had been the kind of person to sleep upon a couch, he might have appeared to be resting.

  Isabelle could find no such rest. She paced the parlor from side to side, and when she grew weary of that, she paced the perimeter. She ate when Mrs. Burns reminded her to do so. She slept when she could no longer stand. Very few specific thoughts that ran through her mind stayed to become contemplations, but now and then she found herself thinking what it might be like to become a widow at three and twenty. Would she, she wondered, settle here at Wellsgate? Would she return to her parents?

  When she realized that these thoughts intruded on the storm of her mind, she hurried to push them away and replace them with fabricated certainties about Alexander’s complete recovery and immediate return to full health.

  She tried to believe in these hopeful inventions even as she watched Alexander lying motionless and unresponsive.

  For several days of what Isabelle began to think of as “preconvalescence,” Alexander lay unmoving. Surely, she thought, any day, any evening, any night now, he’ll sit up, complain of headache, and roar to be fed.

  How she wished he’d do any of these things.

  She spent days at his side, attempting to read books aloud to him only to discover that she read the same passages over and over. She picked up a set of drawing pencils from a table drawer and drew Alexander’s hands as they lay motionless on the thin blanket that covered him. She attempted needlework and discovered that her threads would tangle as quickly as her thoughts.

  One afternoon, in anticipation of the doctor’s visit, Isabelle brought in fresh linens and sleepwear for Alexander. She knelt over him and brushed his hair from his forehead. Recoiling, she cried out. His skin was far too hot.