Isabelle felt a shock at his words. A part of her feared she might laugh aloud.
She arranged her features into a blank expression. “Back? To Manchester?”
Moving nothing but his eyebrows and mouth, Alexander managed a flawless look of contempt. “Of course, back to Manchester,” he said. “No good will come by staying here.” He cast his gaze to the other side of the room, his only way of turning away from her.
His dismissal bit into the small comfort she had felt when he allowed her to feed him. No good? How would he know? He had been asleep for most of a week. He had no idea of the good that had been done.
She bit back a dozen replies that would have countered the doctor’s counsel to keep Alexander calm. Even though she didn’t say any of them aloud, it pleased her that the thoughts came so quickly to her mind. At least her brain hadn’t gone completely feeble in the loneliness of the past few months.
She stood. “You and I,” she said, “are neck-deep in uncharted waters. Since neither of us has any idea what to expect or what to do, we must follow the doctor’s orders.”
She smoothed her skirts with both hands. “Those orders say you need to eat, which you did, and rest, which you shall. I will remove any irritants, including myself, from the room.” She reached for the tray and swept out of the parlor before she felt the first tear fall.
Dropping the tray in the kitchen, she walked out the back door and into the field on the east side of the house. A hint of the autumn that was to come hung in the air, a softness in the breeze. Bright-red toadstools covered a patch of damp ground beneath a tree. Hedgerows dotted with purple blackberries, red rosehips, and yellow crab apples surrounded the wild garden. On another day, in a different mood, this would have enchanted Isabelle. Today, she felt her calfskin boots kick against the ground as though the turf had personally offended her.
Steps away from the house, a towering beech tree stretched laden branches to the sky. Isabelle reached up and tore a dangling switch from the lowest arm, striking it into a pile of newly fallen leaves. Attacking more piles of golden foliage, Isabelle gave voice to her frustrations.
At first in a mutter and then rising to a shout that would have shocked her mother, Isabelle gave vent to her anger. “You’re welcome, Mr. Osgood,” she said, whacking the stick into a nearby shrubbery. “It’s my pleasure,” she spat, “to sit by your side and assist you in basic survival.”
The switch came down on a hedge, scattering loose leaves and springing back. “I beg your pardon,” she shouted, “if I am less efficient than a trained doctor at caring for your injuries!”
“I am delighted,” she hit the stick against a rock again and again, “to attempt to read your mind. It’s a joy to try to decipher your mood based on whether you are angry, angrier, or most completely angry. Possibly if you’d ever spoken to me of things in your heart,” she picked up a small stone and threw it across the field, “I’d have some idea of what you’re feeling now.”
She spun around and threw the stick, bellowing to the empty field, “I did not ask for this! I could have found a way to be happy had you given me any indication that you cared for my happiness.”
She immediately felt the unfairness of her last words. There had been two times, possibly three, when Alexander had made her feel as though her satisfaction mattered to him.
Isabelle felt her anger drain out of her as she sat, exhausted, on a small stone wall. Over the course of the next few minutes, she began again to hear birdsong, which made her laugh as she realized that she’d most likely frightened the birds away for a time. She looked at her muddy shoes, her filthy stockings. As she stared down at her feet, she saw a small, ginger-colored face peer out from a hole beneath the wall. A fox, tentative but determined, put her nose, then her head, then her front legs out into the weak autumn sunshine.
“Hello,” Isabelle whispered. “Sorry if I disturbed you.” The fox, never taking her eyes from Isabelle’s face, crept out of her den and turned in a compact circle. Tucking her legs beneath her, she sat in the grass and watched Isabelle.
“You’re brave,” she whispered to the fox. “Not many people I know are as brave as you. I’ve frightened off many a creature larger than you. And today I’ve been particularly indelicate and indecorous.”
The fox continued to watch her, and she kept talking. “I am not always so badly behaved,” she said. “Generally, I do what’s expected of me. It’s been a bit of a week, to tell you the truth.”
The fox’s head dipped toward the ground and Isabelle laughed. “Do you know,” she said, “I believe you’re listening to me.”
The fox tilted her head without looking away.
“Of course, you aren’t actually, but neither is anyone else, so if it’s all the same to you, I’ll continue to sit here on this wall and pretend we’re dear friends.”
The fox did not appear to object.
“Oh, how kind of you to ask,” Isabelle said. “We’ve been married for two months now, but it doesn’t seem a day over a thousand years.”
She paused and tugged at the shoulder of her shawl, which had slipped down around her elbow. Resettling her hands, she continued her one-sided conversation with the fox. “No, no, not unkind. Simply disinterested. If I am being generous, I’ll call it ‘busy’ and smile graciously.” She demonstrated such a smile. The fox continued to watch her.
She nodded as though in response to a question. “Oh, yes. Very handsome. Perhaps you’ve seen him. Rides these fields on a horse named Goblin. Until very recently.” Isabelle surprised herself; she hadn’t thought it would be so easy to talk about Alexander’s condition, even obliquely.
“He’s chilly, perhaps some would say, but the right woman will melt his heart. I thought I could be that woman, fox. Is that not the height of arrogance?”
She gave the animal a chance to answer. It did not oblige.
“I am not terrible to look at either, fox. I don’t know if you’re aware, but the standards of human feminine beauty throw a wide enough net to include even me.” She looked at her filthy legs dangling a few inches from the ground. “Perhaps you’ll have to trust me on this. But Alexander—yes, his name is Alexander—is perfectly nice to look at. Lovely blue eyes and fashionable hair. Very symmetrical in his features, you know. As one should be.”
She thought of the times he’d gazed at her, his face relaxed into a gentle smile, moments precious in that they were so rare. “He has a nice smile when he chooses to uncage it. His charm, though, might be one of those traits one uncovers as one knows a husband for a very long time.”
Looking at the fox, she said, “Well, I’ll tell you. Although I am his wife, it seems he’s married to his mill. He owns a mill, have I told you that? Yes, thank you. It’s a charming enterprise, as far as I’ve heard, but I’ve never been invited inside. Apparently, it is full of cotton dust and ancient, creaky looms. He produces quality cloth and blankets and oversees every element of production himself.”
She shook her head. “No, he has a business manager who could do that. Mr. Kenworthy. He’s a gentle and lovely man. He also has a manufacturing manager who I imagine paces the floors between the looms all day until he arrives at our house at dinnertime nearly every evening.”
This was, Isabelle thought, a very patient fox. “Mills and cotton and looms hold very little interest for you, I imagine. But human nature, of course, is fascinating to every creature. A single descriptor? Well, I say, fox, that is an interesting question. Above all things, Mr. Osgood is careful.”
She nodded and continued. “His clothing is impeccable. Very clean for a man who works among oily machines. His public behavior likewise cannot be faulted. He presents himself flawlessly. That is not to suggest he has no personal faults. No, fox, I’m afraid he has a failing or two. For instance, he dares not laugh when I am funny, as though someone were watching to catch him out. And in case it’s not apparent, lit
tle fox, I’m often funny. Amusing. Many have said so over the years.”
Years. The thought of years made the exhaustion of the past week settle again over Isabelle. She shook her head. “Perhaps in a few years Alexander will grow into laughing. To be fair, he is more likely to smile here in the country than he is in the city.”
A thought occurred to her. “Or at least he was, until he opened his eyes after his fall and saw me. Now he is far more careful not to look at me.”
She shifted on the wall, and the fox’s ears pricked up. “He is careful with his affections, as well. One wouldn’t want to appear zealous.” Remembering the history the doctor shared with her, Isabelle thought of Alexander’s upbringing and decided to treat his unromantic nature with more patience than she had in the past. “In all, fox, Mr. Osgood is a decent, hardworking man. However, marriage may not agree with him, at least not marriage to me, and just lately he’s fallen on a difficulty.”
A laugh escaped her unbidden as she realized what she’d said. Fallen.
“Oh, dear,” Isabelle gasped and covered her mouth. Talking nonsense to an animal was one thing, but poking fun of her husband’s injury was right out of line. She attempted to repress the giggle that bubbled in her chest. Horrified at her inability to manage herself, she let the laugh emerge and run its course. It felt uncontrolled, hysterical. Gasping for breath, she felt tears run down her cheeks. Every sense of propriety revolted at her display. As did the fox, running back into the hole beneath the wall.
Isabelle wiped her eyes, pressed a hand to her chest, and calmed her breathing.
“Sorry,” she said, as if to the fox, the field, the country itself. “I am so terribly sorry. I beg your pardon.”
She felt a strange loss now that the fox had disappeared. Her display of hysteria left her feeling uncontrolled and afraid. If she couldn’t even manage to take a walk without exploding into inappropriate conduct, how could she be the wife Alexander expected her to be?
And more than that, how could she care for his needs?
How in the world was she to do the job that was now hers?
Actions grew to habits over the next few days. Mornings, after she dressed, Isabelle would go to the kitchen, pick up the tray of food Mae had prepared, carry it to the parlor door, and stop. There, she’d take a deep, bracing breath and place a brave, calm smile on her face before she entered the room.
Depending on his ability to rest in the night, Alexander would treat her with silence, contempt, or disdain. After only a few days, she could tell before he attempted to speak how his mood would be. His female admirers had been correct. He did indeed have an expressive brow.
As Isabelle walked in, she decided that his brow was expressing a deeply masked gratitude for his long-suffering and nurturing wife.
Very deeply masked.
Isabelle smiled politely and announced breakfast. “Mae has made you a soft-boiled egg and milk toast.” She pulled the chair on which she’d sit to feed him up to the couch. “I hope you slept well,” she added, not expecting an answer.
“Have any messages come from Kenworthy?” Every day his voice seemed to get stronger, or at least Isabelle thought it did. He didn’t speak to her enough for her to form an accurate assessment.
“Yes, he’s sent a letter just this morning. And I would be delighted to read it to you after you’ve eaten.”
His scowl caused her to amend her condition. “After you’ve eaten three bites of this lovely egg.”
“Who needs three bites to finish a boiled egg?” he muttered, his hoarse, whispery voice gaining some volume.
“I suppose that depends on how large the bites are to begin with,” she said, dipping her spoon into the egg cup.
Apparently disinterested in a philosophical discussion, Alexander opened his mouth to eat. He made short work of the meal, and Isabelle refrained only with difficulty from praising his effort. Last time she’d mentioned how well he’d eaten, he’d gruffly made her to understand that swallowing food prepared as though for babies and delivered directly to his mouth was not something that deserved praise.
Noted.
But if she couldn’t praise that, what could she mention? That his voice was getting stronger? He might raise it to shout at her.
She remembered how Doctor Kelley had repeatedly mentioned that Alexander was not unkind, he was unwell. That this was not his usual temperament. Apparently, it was becoming clear to the kind doctor that Isabelle did not know her husband at all. As it happened, when it came to waiting for Alexander to regain his usual disposition, Doctor Kelley had significantly more patience than Isabelle had.
As she put aside the tray, she pulled out this morning’s letter from Mr. Kenworthy. “Would you like me to read it aloud?” she asked.
“How else am I to know what it says?” he asked, his voice curt.
“You can read it yourself,” she said. “I can hold the paper for you if there is information you’d prefer to keep private.”
He looked at her for a short moment and then said, “No, I am certain none of this is surreptitious. Heaven knows I’ve no privacy left.” It was as close as he’d come to mentioning any of the indelicate details of his affliction.
Isabelle could well imagine how, for a man who loved his moments alone, even his loss of mobility might be eclipsed by his loss of privacy.
“May I?” she asked, gesturing to the couch on which he lay. When he didn’t reply, she sat perched on the couch near his hip. “Am I causing you pain?”
He sighed. “No pain,” he said, which would have been a good thing but for the understanding that lack of feeling likely meant lack of healing.
“Thank you for allowing me to sit here,” Isabelle said, understanding that it would surely help Alexander to feel that he had made the decision. “I don’t recall us ever sitting so near to one another before.”
Instead of engaging in a conversation about their relative closeness, Alexander exhaled dismissively. “Nothing is as it was before.”
The weighty shock with which these words fell on Isabelle’s ears and heart was as unexpected as it was painful. Nothing? Not the closeness they’d felt that prompted him to invite her to visit Wellsgate? In a wash of fear, she began to understand that if they’d not come to the country, he’d not have been injured. Perhaps he blamed her for his accident. Perhaps he was correct to do so.
This, however, was not the moment to discuss such a thing. She cracked the seal on Mr. Kenworthy’s letter and held it in front of Alexander. “Can you see it?” she managed to say, swallowing her shame and tears.
He hummed in response, which she took to mean “yes.” As he read, she watched his face, looking for any sign of pleasure or comfort he was taking from the words. Instead, she saw his brow contract.
Dare she speak? Dare she interrupt? The least she could do was to give him the honor of letting him know she had seen his reaction to the letter. “Is everything well?” she asked.
His eyes flickered to her. “Well enough.” There was another quiet moment, then he said, “Next page,” and after a few seconds, he added, “please.”
The shiver of pleasure that ran across her arms was an unexpected response to such a small word of thoughtfulness. She watched his face again, following his eyes as they moved from one side of the paper to the other.
When the corner of his mouth raised in a smile, she let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d held. He was indeed very handsome when he smiled.
As he finished reading Mr. Kenworthy’s words, Alexander said, “I need to get back to the city. Kenworthy’s fatiguing himself, staying all hours.”
Isabelle said, “Like you do?”
His response was instant. “Like I used to.”
Her heart sank at his dismal tone.
“Like you will again,” she said, her voice gentle. She again became aware of how closely she was
sitting to him. She wanted to touch his arm, his hand, but she didn’t dare disturb the tenuous peace they were experiencing.
“Now,” Alexander said, “he’s trying to do the work of two. And he’s not a young man.”
“But he is a capable one. Look at the way he cares for his family,” she said. Thoughts of the Kenworthys’ simple daily happiness gave Isabelle a rare moment of contentment.
“It’s more work than worth keeping that girl at home,” Alexander said. “Their life would be so much simpler if they’d send her away.” The toneless sentence was spoken with a cadence that suggested he had thought the words many times, even if he had not had reason or audience to state them aloud.
Hearing his statement, Isabelle felt as though she had been struck. The idea of sending Glory to an infirmary shocked and offended her.
“Surely you don’t mean that,” Isabelle said. “Glory is a joy and a delight in both her parents’ lives.”
Alexander continued in the same emotionless voice. “She’s an irritant and a drain on their resources, both personal and monetary.”
Isabelle stood. “That’s simply impossible to believe. Mr. and Mrs. Kenworthy adore Glory.” She felt heat climb from her heart up to her cheeks, and her hands fisted.
“Anyone who cannot make a contribution to family or society ought to be sent away and locked up,” Alexander said, and Isabelle realized that they were not really talking about Glory at all.
This was not about the dear girl but about Alexander’s fears of being useless. There was no easy, proper response to make to that comment, but there were many wrong ones. Isabelle chose to say nothing rather than make things worse by giving voice to any of her uncertainties.
“If there’s nothing else,” Isabelle said, “I’ll leave you to rest until Doctor Kelley arrives.” She avoided running from the room, but only just.
Isabelle busied herself with what she could only assume were routine wifely concerns for the following few hours. When Doctor Kelley arrived, she felt herself breathing easier. She met the doctor at the parlor door.
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