Perhaps he could see how close to tears she had come, because he began to echo her style of playful chatter.
“Yeardley practiced pushing me about the room,” he said. “He’s rather good at maintaining decorous speeds. Very appropriate. I was quite pleased. When I demanded he increase the pace, he proved he is less tractable than a good horse.”
It was as if the physical atmosphere in the room shifted. The smile instantly dropped from Alexander’s face. With the offhand mention of a horse, the stark reminder of how Alexander’s life, and therefore her own, had gone so wrong, Isabelle’s tears would no longer be held in check.
“Forgive me,” she said, rising from her seat, unable to hide her tears. “I need a moment.” She ran from the room, nearly upending Mrs. Burns’s tray.
“Mrs. Osgood?” Mrs. Burns said, and Isabelle could not reply. She simply shook her head as tears blurred her vision.
“Never you mind,” Mrs. Burns said. “I’ll manage his dinner.”
Nodding in gratitude, she slipped up the stairs and fell onto the bed.
How unfair, she thought. How perfectly, awfully unfair that a casual comment could render her so undone.
A few minutes passed, and there was a knock at the bedroom door. Isabelle hurried to make herself presentable before she realized that it was certainly not Alexander. And Yeardley would never come to her bedroom. She wiped at her eyes and went to the door, tearstained and rumpled and mostly resigned to that fact.
Mae stood at the door, tray in hand. “Mrs. Burns said you’re unwell. I thought you might care for a bite.”
Isabelle thanked her and took the tray. Mae nodded and stepped away, closing the door. Isabelle was certain she couldn’t eat a thing, but when she uncovered the tray, the simple meal of white fish and potatoes smelled so delicious she decided to taste a mouthful. As if her body remembered the strain of the day, she became ravenous at that first taste and ate every morsel.
A small dish with a silver cover held a tiny, perfect portion of the loveliest raspberry cream pudding. She dipped her spoon into the creamy custard and held the bite in her mouth, savoring the sensation of rich, sweet comfort.
This was a simple offering. But at the same time, her receipt of it felt as though it were a great reward.
Could she do that? She wondered. Was it within her power to proffer simple gifts and see great rewards grow from them?
Dear Mother,
I thank you for your solicitous notes. We arrived back in the city. Yes, I’ve eaten. Thank you.
Honestly, Mother, Isabelle thought (but did not write), is there nothing else you could ask about? Nothing that matters more than me being fed? When will you take even one casual glance about and see that every needful thing is more critical, more urgent, more important? Isabelle used the back end of the pen to scratch an itch near her elbow. Smiling at the horror her mother would have expressed at this act of mannerlessness, she continued her letter.
Alexander has purchased a wheeled chair. Sitting up in it allows him an easing of the breath. According to doctors both in the country and the city, breathing will continue to be a struggle until some more of his muscles regain their strength. It seems a great joy for him to wheel about.
Great joy. Indeed. Until he made a flippant comment about it, and instead of laughing, she burst into tears and fled the room. When would she regain composure enough to avoid ruining meals? And would you like to know, Mother, Isabelle thought, that he can neither scratch his head nor grasp a spoon? Alexander had made it clear that he was uninterested in anyone knowing the breadth of his injuries who did not absolutely need to be told. Isabelle’s mother had made a few offers to come, to help, but Isabelle knew Alexander would feel mortified at the bustling presence of his mother-in-law.
We thank you for your gracious offer to come and stay for the holidays. However, just now it’s important for Alexander to rest in as quiet a setting as we can manage.
She pictured her mother, at least two indispensable maids in tow, bustling into the house and rearranging all of Alexander’s staff, schedule, furniture, and menus. It would be anything but quiet. And she’d be alarmed, Isabelle was certain, at how little of Isabelle herself was visible in the house. It looked, but for the necessary changes to the parlor-turned-convalescent-room, exactly as it must have when Alexander lived alone here as a bachelor. Perhaps there was something she could do about that.
I thank you again for your kind words and news. It is a delight to hear stories of the neighborhood and of your plans. I look forward to a visit when Alexander is well. Perhaps at the new year.
When Alexander is well. The words came easily out of her pen, but before the ink dried, she stopped writing and stared at the simple phrase that so glibly assumed what was in no way certain. No more certain than what mood Alexander would be entertaining when she saw him next. His anger and frustration stabbed at her when she considered that there were times she seemed able to make him happy, even peaceful. Surely if she carried the capacity to bring him happiness, she was also responsible for his despair. If seeing her looking fresh and lovely made him smile, perhaps it was her bland or disappointing appearance that brought him down. If an occasional witticism entertained him, her dullness at other times must be the catalyst for his despondency.
The logic of such a thought was inescapable. She could even simplify it further—Alexander had appeared a satisfied, fulfilled man before their marriage. To hear anyone tell it, Alexander Osgood had been a contented bachelor with a successful business and an adoring public. Now, as a married man, he was gloomy. Brooding. Solitary.
A small part of Isabelle’s mind knew that it was not so simple, that the circumstances of his injury were too large to merely add to a list of marital inconveniences; however, that small part of her mind was overtaken by the significant evidence before her. Wives were, as she had been told all her life, responsible for the care and happiness of their husbands. Everyone knew this. And Isabelle was, as anyone could see, failing as a wife.
The thought brought Isabelle down until it was all she could do to sign the letter.
Composing herself to once again face Alexander, and not knowing which husband she would encounter in the parlor, the tender or the despondent, Isabelle squared her shoulders and prepared to descend the staircase.
As she arrived at the landing, she heard voices in the parlor. Her first fear was that it was that terrible Doctor Fredericks. But upon hearing a laugh, she knew that could not be. Doctor Fredericks, she had decided upon knowing him for only a few minutes, was a man incapable of laughter.
After a moment, she recognized Mr. Kenworthy’s cheerful voice. As much as she would like to say hello, she knew it would be best if she waited for an invitation into the room. She halted in the foyer. Such an invitation did not seem to be quick in coming, particularly if the gentlemen did not know she was standing outside the room.
She would never stand at the door and listen, but she found it of great immediate importance to inspect the wood grain in the banister. If she happened to overhear any of the conversation happening a few feet away, so be it.
In a short few seconds, she heard the tone change from cheer to seriousness. Worried that something disagreeable had happened in the mill, Isabelle moved closer.
Mr. Kenworthy’s voice carried into the hallway. “The same as usual with one of her episodes. It kept on until she wore herself out, but that was far into the night, and poor Polly was exhausted.”
He must have been speaking of Glory’s illness yesterday, the one that frightened Isabelle from the doorway. Far into the night? The clamor and screaming and the sounds of crashing had apparently carried on for hours. Poor Glory. Poor Mrs. Kenworthy.
Isabelle realized that Alexander was speaking. “You know my recommendation,” he said in the tone of one who had repeated this phrase many times.
“My dear man,” Mr. Kenw
orthy responded. “I thank you for your consideration, but I cannot entertain the idea. Sending her away would break Polly’s heart.”
“Keeping her at home will break her physically,” Alexander said, his concern evident, but his tone steady and measured. “Mrs. Kenworthy is doing more than any woman is required to do. There are many choices for hospitalization. The most effective care is in London, but there are some institutions here that could provide sufficient care.”
Isabelle’s listening became unsubtle as she leaned toward the door. She worried that her husband was no longer talking about Glory. That somehow Alexander’s suggestion included himself.
“I do appreciate your concern; I hope you know that.” Mr. Kenworthy sounded as if he’d like to end the conversation.
Alexander’s voice came louder now. “You’re stretching yourself too thin. You can’t do the work I need from you and then go home and care for your wife and daughter.”
A short pause preceded Mr. Kenworthy’s reply. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its jolliness. “Is my work not meeting your expectations, sir? Have I left necessary business undone?”
Isabelle ached at the tone of regret in Mr. Kenworthy’s voice. She could stand outside the parlor door no longer. She shook herself and took a breath to clear her head. Allowing her feet to hit the floor with more force than necessary, she entered the parlor to find Mr. Kenworthy and Alexander sitting face-to-face, the tension in the room palpable.
“Mr. Kenworthy,” Isabelle said, surprising even herself with her calm, gentle voice. She reached both hands out to the man. “What a delight to see you. Thank you for coming to welcome Mr. Osgood home and report on work at the mill.”
She was certain she’d never before used a tone quite like this; even to her own ears she sounded like her mother: analyzing, organizing, guiding circumstances until all things felt within her control. By having carefully chosen her words, she’d created a reality she was prepared to deal with. There was something empowering and at the same time vaguely unsettling about hearing her mother’s voice come out of her mouth.
Mr. Kenworthy took both her outstretched hands in his. “My dear Mrs. Osgood. How are you?”
She beamed at him. “As you can see, I am perfectly well and delighted to be back in Manchester. I eagerly await a visit with your lovely wife and daughter. In fact,” she said, leaning a bit closer as if to encourage confidence, “I have a proposition for Glory. A commission for a painting.” She released his hands so she could clap hers together to underscore her happiness at the idea.
“Wouldn’t that be enchanting? I am sure,” he said, “that they will be charmed to receive you tomorrow.”
Isabelle understood Mr. Kenworthy’s unspoken words. She wanted to ask how Glory and Mrs. Kenworthy fared today, but she felt that too intrusive; he would have to be the one to introduce the subject. And mentioning tomorrow gave her all the information she dared not pry for.
She nodded. “And all is well at the mill?” Isabelle continued, knowing perfectly well that he’d seen her there the day before.
“All is well in hand, yes. Your husband runs a very orderly operation.”
Through this entire conversation, Isabelle had not turned to look at her husband. Now she stepped back to include Alexander in the circle. “Indeed, he does,” she said, resting a hand on his shoulder, “and I know he is very fortunate to have you there to assist him in all that must be done. You are a treasure, Mr. Kenworthy.”
Alexander said nothing, and Isabelle did not attempt to leave the room. She worried that if she did, Alexander would revert to the tone he’d been using before she entered and that he’d soon say something regrettable about Glory. Within a few moments, Mr. Kenworthy had taken his leave.
After seeing their guest to the door, Isabelle returned to the parlor. “Shall we exercise your arms and legs?” she asked.
Alexander’s eyebrows pressed low on his brow. “Do not attempt to finesse me as you did Kenworthy. I am not so easily swayed.”
She let out a bare breath of laughter. “Did that appear to you to have been easy?”
He did not laugh. Isabelle sensed Alexander’s frustration. Perhaps she could continue to behave as she believed her mother would in such a situation—gathering information, organizing solutions, and having any mess cleared away by teatime. All of which she thought she could do with a healthy dose of her own disposition. If she continued to try, surely he would respond to her efforts.
She rolled his chair next to another seat and placed herself beside him. Lifting his arm, she asked, “Did something unexpected happen at the mill?”
He dropped his eyes and muttered, “Do not concern yourself with matters about which you know nothing.”
She felt the sting of his words and realized she had a choice in her interpretation. “Not nothing, of course,” she said, speaking in a light and playful tone as she bent and straightened his arm. “I know your products. I know what I saw yesterday when I toured the facility. I do not claim to be an expert,” she said, making a show of humility as she bowed her head, “but as far as mill owners’ wives go, I believe I can hold my own.” She continued to move his arm, pretending that speaking aloud of herself as his wife had not sent a strange thrill through her.
A look of shock crossed Alexander’s face, and Isabelle refrained from laughing.
“Fear not, Mr. Osgood,” she said in the same tone. “I have made no calls on other owners’ wives, nor do I have any plans to do so.” Her voice became more serious. “I do not plan to push in anywhere I am not welcome. If you’d prefer it, I’ll make no other acquaintance in this city than the Kenworthy family and your Mr. Connor.”
“That is not what I’d prefer,” Alexander said. “You are not a prisoner here. And no one could accuse you of pushing in.” He waited until she was looking at his face. “Any family in Manchester would be lucky to have your acquaintance.”
“Why, Mr. Osgood,” Isabelle said, her light and teasing tone returning, “I do believe you’re paying me a compliment.”
With a sigh, he said, “It appears that is a rare occurrence.” He sounded apologetic.
“But no less welcome than if it were common.” She patted his hand and placed it in his lap, stood from her seat, and resettled in the seat on the other side of him. As she picked up his other arm and began to bend it at the elbow, a look of pain crossed his face.
She dropped his arm at once. All feelings of gentle tenderness were replaced by worry at his wince.
“Have I hurt you?” she asked, feeling her heart begin to race.
“No, of course not,” he said, but his brow remained wrinkled, his lips pressed.
She shook her head and perched on the forward edge of her seat, ready to run for assistance. “But you are not well.” She did not need to ask it as a question.
When he answered, his voice was quiet. “I am well enough. Perhaps a small pain.”
She could no more repress a gasp than stop the earth from turning. Their eyes met, each alight with a desire for an outcome they were unwilling to speak aloud. A small pain? This could mean so many things. Healing among them.
She stood from her seat. “Where do you feel pain?”
“More of a pinch than a pain,” he clarified. “In the side of my neck. Above my collar.”
Isabelle stood in front of the chair and reached her hands forward, hesitation plain on her face. “May I?” she asked before placing her hands on his neck. The pillowing of the chair gave her little space to move her fingers, but she placed her hands on either side of his throat. She felt his pulse in her fingertips as she stroked his neck.
It would have been impossible for Isabelle to articulate how different it felt to touch Alexander in this way than to sit beside him and raise and lower his arm. This connection, as she stood before him and looked into his face, made her aware of her own heart beating. Her finger
s trembled.
Alexander let his eyelids close.
“Pain?” she whispered.
“None,” he answered in the same soft voice.
Hesitant to either hurt him or break the delicate connection, Isabelle remained motionless but for a finger caressing Alexander’s jawbone. She stared at him for as long as his eyes stayed closed.
A loud knock at the front door jolted her, and she pulled her hands away.
Alexander opened his eyes and looked into her face. “I think I felt . . .” he began.
Yeardley appeared in the doorway. “Doctor Fredericks, sir,” he said, and the efficient and unfeeling doctor pushed his way into the room.
Isabelle bent near Alexander’s ear. “Would you like me to stay?” she asked.
He glanced toward the doctor, who was unpacking a small bag of instruments onto a table. Looking back at Isabelle, he whispered, “No. But I would very much like you to return.”
She felt all the relief attendant to being excused while Doctor Fredericks was in the house, and of being told she was wanted back.
Leaving the room, Isabelle climbed the stairs to find Mrs. Burns straightening the bedchamber.
“How did you find Mr. Osgood today?” the housekeeper asked.
“Very handsome,” Isabelle said. A laugh of surprise burst from her. “I mean well. He is very well. The chair seems to be helping, and he is happier.”
Mrs. Burns did an insufficient job of hiding her smile. She trimmed the wick of the lamp on the dressing table and refilled the oil.
Isabelle chose not to notice her housekeeper’s response. “At least I hope he is. Doctor Fredericks is here now,” she said, making a face of displeasure.
“We all miss Doctor Kelley,” Mrs. Burns said, kindly ignoring Isabelle’s own slip into informality. “Even so, I am hopeful that the visits with Doctor Fredericks will benefit Mr. Osgood.”
Isabelle sat at the dressing table Mrs. Burns had recently dusted. “Shall I tell you what I think?” Isabelle asked.
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