Isabelle’s shock stole any reply from her.
He continued. “Hospital has benefits this home cannot match. ’Round-the-clock care. Large staff. Significant experience. Machinery. Medicines.” His voice lowered, gentled. “Not to mention reducing the concern you need take.”
Isabelle would stay silent no longer.
“Alexander, please.” She knelt at his side and pulled his hand to her heart. “Do not leave me. Please do not.”
Eyes closed, Alexander gave a small, sad smile. “That is the first time you’ve called me by my name,” he said.
“It isn’t.”
He looked at her once more. “I’ve been waiting to hear my name from your lips. I believe I’d recall,” he said, a whisper of the self-possessed composure for which he had previously been known apparent again.
She shook her head. “That day. That frightening, horrible day, I knelt in the field beside your still and sleeping body, and I called to you. I thought if you could hear me speaking, calling you home, pleading with you to not leave me, that you could be well.”
Within the parlor, all sounds of the city seemed far away as she looked at him, eyes shining with unshed tears.
“And now, I kneel again. Alexander, please. I beg you. I beseech you not to go away. Please. Do not leave me.”
Isabelle bowed her head and kissed the hand she held.
“Stay with me.”
Alexander’s warm fingers curled around her hand, returning pressure for pressure.
The compromise the couple agreed upon suited Alexander more than it suited Isabelle, but she realized that any inconvenience in housing Nurse Margaret was surely worth having Alexander stay.
Over the next several weeks, Alexander and Isabelle spent morning hours together. As they continued Doctor Kelley’s regimen of exercises, Alexander would sometimes speak of the sparks of energy he felt bouncing along his muscles.
Isabelle understood this to mean he was feeling sharp, stabbing pains in his arms and his legs, but he spoke of these pains with such hope, such gladness, that she put aside her fear. At some point each day, Isabelle would take his hands in hers and watch for the miracle of his fingers curling about her own.
One morning, Isabelle broached a subject about which she had thus far remained silent.
“Christmas is next month,” she said, her voice shaking with uncertainty. “I realize this is perhaps a conversation we ought to have had previously,” she said, looking at Alexander’s hand as she moved his arm up and down, “but have you any interest in exchanging gifts?”
When he did not respond, Isabelle felt the foolishness of such a childish request. She moved to the other side of him, hoping that by moving out of his sightline she could hide her blush of shame. “Of course, it is a trivial tradition, but one we celebrated in my parents’ home.” Her voice receded to no more than a whisper.
“Would it please you?” Alexander asked.
His tender words seemed to release the tension from Isabelle’s limbs, and only with renewed effort could she maintain her grasp on his hand as she lifted his arm.
“You must think me very silly,” she said, “but indeed it would please me.”
“Then we shall.”
His simple response brought a tear to Isabelle’s eye. She kept it hidden, as she’d grown accustomed to doing, even though this tear was one of gladness. When she could trust her voice, she asked, “Did you exchange gifts in your childhood home?”
He met her eye. “Simple ones, always something we made ourselves.”
“Oh, how lovely. Let’s do that, can we?” Isabelle realized that she must sound as giddy as a small child.
“Fine,” he said.
Isabelle was sure from his tone that he did, indeed, find this a silly request, but she felt the delight of his acquiescence. At the return of Nurse Margaret, Isabelle fled to find Mrs. Burns.
“I shall need cottons from Mr. Osgood’s mill,” Isabelle said. At the look of surprise on Mrs. Burns’s face, she explained. “We have agreed to exchange Christmas gifts, and I should like to make Mr. Osgood a blanket from cloths he milled.”
“Should you like to make an order at the mill for the workers to make a custom piece?” Mrs. Burns asked.
“I rather want to make it myself, if that doesn’t seem a waste of cloth,” Isabelle said.
A genuine smile overspread Mrs. Burns’s face. “What a lovely idea,” she said. “I have many a folded scrap and sample among the sewing things. Shall we go through them today?”
Within the hour, the two women stood, heads together, sorting through piles of cloth. Knowing she had only a month of afternoons, Isabelle chose to connect a few larger pieces rather than many small patches. Fetching her needlework basket, she got directly to work.
Afternoon hours that month found Isabelle bent over a large patch of the softest cotton, stitching decorations into the cloth. When one patch was finished, Mrs. Burns took the piece and stitched it to the next, and the women worked in quiet companionship as a fire crackled beside them. After several weeks, the decorating and piecing were finished, and Mrs. Burns sat beside Isabelle as the two of them spread carded cotton against the back of the fabric, attached a larger sheet of cloth to that, and sewed the stacks together.
“I remember my mother and grandmother sewing a blanket in just such a way,” Mrs. Burns said, a gentle smile on her face.
Isabelle recognized the sweetness of such a memory but suddenly worried if this felt backward, to hand-make something Alexander had built a business of mass-producing. “Will he find this frivolous?” she asked, turning to Mrs. Burns for a measure of reassurance.
The housekeeper shook her head as she pulled thread through the layers. “There are some things that are meant to be done by hand and at home,” she said. “But are we not grateful for Mr. Osgood’s manufacturing of such fine cloth for us to work with?”
Isabelle felt her heart swell with gratitude for this good woman and her hours of additional work and sacrifice. In addition to the time she spent with Isabelle working on the blanket, she had also begun to arrange pine boughs and holly berries upon tables throughout the house, adding an air of festivity to the place.
Christmas morning dawned blustery and gray, much like every other day in December. Isabelle put on a morning dress of rich red with a frill at her neck and carried the paper-wrapped package down the stairs and into the parlor, where she found Alexander seated in his wheeled chair.
The mantelpiece held a bright-green pine bough set through with tall wax candles and twisted with holly leaves and ivy sprigs.
“Happy Christmas,” she said, noticing the wrapped package sitting on his knee. At the sight of it, Isabelle realized Alexander could not have placed it there. Yeardley must have awakened early to dress and groom Alexander, place him in the chair, and lay the gift upon his lap.
And now that she thought of it, she realized Alexander could no more have made a simple gift for her than ridden in a balloon across the ocean. And she had kept Mrs. Burns busy during every waking hour helping her to complete Alexander’s gift. How could she have given so little thought to the immensity of work required of him? Yet another realization of her own selfishness. Thoughtlessness. Immaturity.
Before she could whisper an apology, she looked at Alexander’s face and stopped. He sat tall and regal in his chair with a grin of delight on his face.
“Happy Christmas. Come and get your gift,” he said.
She stepped across the parlor and stopped beside his chair.
“There,” he said, pointing with his gaze to the seat beside him. “Do take a seat.” He smiled. “But first, if I may be so bold, I believe a traditional Christmas kiss is in order.”
Startled, she gave a small laugh, then placed her hand upon his shoulder and kissed his cheek gently.
“Every day should begin this way.
” His voice sounded stronger than it ever had since his accident. “With a kiss and a gift.”
“Perhaps it could be arranged,” Isabelle said, feeling a blush cover her cheeks. She sat in the chair Alexander had offered her and asked, “Would you like to open yours first?” She held the package toward him.
“I can hardly wait,” he said, smiling. “But you’ll have to do the opening for me.”
How was it possible for him to speak so cheerfully about his inability to move today, when other days they had to avoid saying anything at all for fear of adding to the gloom? Perhaps there was some magic in the air.
Isabelle untied the ribbon from the paper and slid the blanket out of its packaging. As she unfolded it, she held it out to him and pointed out its features. “It’s made of Osgood cotton because you deserve the very best,” she said, noticing the smile that still shone on his face. “Here, I’ve stitched our names and our wedding date, and here is a poor rendition of Wellsgate.” She continued to show him the words and pictures she’d stitched into each panel and then offered to cover his legs with it.
“I shall never take it off,” he said.
She laughed, hearing the tender, teasing note in his voice.
“But first,” he said, “you must take your gift.”
She saw his eyes dart to the package on his knee, which she moved to the table before covering his legs with the blanket.
Retaking her seat, she unwrapped the package and saw a beautiful wooden box with a hinged lid. Raising the lid, she saw a pile of writing paper and a beautiful pen and ink pot.
“I’ve noticed that you write a fair number of letters.” His grin was gone, but his face remained peaceful. “Though I made neither the paper nor the pen, I did make that box, many years ago, so I hope it’s an acceptable handmade gift.”
“It is truly lovely. I adore it,” she said, closing the lid and holding the box to her heart.
“There is—” he began but stopped at the entrance of Mrs. Burns.
“Good morning,” she said. “Mae has a lovely breakfast laid out for you.”
Yeardley followed Mrs. Burns into the room and pushed Alexander in his chair to the dining table, where Isabelle was delighted to see a warm and delicious feast laid before them. Soft breads and cooked fruits filled the air with scents of every wonderful Christmas memory.
“Thank you all for such a lovely morning,” Isabelle said as the household was gathered together. “Mrs. Burns, Yeardley, Mae, I am so grateful for the tireless work you do for us.” She glanced at Alexander to see if she had overstepped her bounds to speak for them both, but he continued to watch her with that peaceful smile about his fine mouth.
“A very lovely Christmas to us all,” Mrs. Burns said, and Mae murmured in reply.
“I should very much like to taste some of . . . well, all of this,” Alexander said. Yeardley reached over and filled Alexander’s plate with such delicacies as suited his recovery, and as Isabelle helped him eat, he murmured appreciation of each bite.
If all days, Isabelle thought, could only be like Christmas.
Naturally, not all days could be like Christmas, but as the weeks passed, Alexander and Isabelle shared many happy mornings. His exercises seemed to be assisting in the return of more and more feeling in his hands and arms.
“I will never tire of this,” she said, sitting knee to knee next to his chair. Straightening the handmade blanket on his legs, she stroked his hand and felt the returned pressure. “If we could sit here, in this room, every day for the rest of our lives, just this way,” she said, squeezing his fingers softly, “I promise to be very happy.”
“Do you?” The curve of one raised eyebrow showed his amused disbelief. “I own, Mrs. Osgood, that I must ask for something more.”
“You think me very simple,” she said, and her voice held no reproach, no complaint.
“I think you very beautiful,” he replied.
The flood of pleasure that flowed through her body at his compliment took her by surprise.
“I want to see you wherever you are. I shall turn my head to look at your face. I shall lift my arm to touch your hair, and then, I promise you, I shall be happy also.”
“I am happy now,” Isabelle said, interlacing her fingers with his.
Other days, those fearsome stormy looks and silences overtook Alexander. On such days, he refused to engage in Doctor Kelley’s exercises, reminding Isabelle that she was no nurse. Each time that happened, she felt herself growing smaller. Silly girl, she berated herself, frustrating an ill man. On those mornings, Isabelle felt the chill of Alexander’s cold rejection of her offered affection.
How grateful she was that those days were not every day. She soon came to realize that the peace and contentment of the best mornings could not last all day. Every afternoon, Alexander was in custody of Nurse Margaret.
At first, Isabelle stood in the parlor, watching the nurse perform her work. She asked questions, watched the procedures, listened for the changes in Alexander’s responses. She felt she was learning much, discovering much about his recovery.
The ministrations of Nurse Margaret were far more like Doctor Fredericks’s than they were like Doctor Kelley’s. In the country those first few days, Doctor Kelley had whispered encouragement and moved Alexander’s limbs gently. The city approach appeared like taking the rod to a naughty child, beating the paralysis out of him as though it had become a nasty habit.
This pattern of firm manipulation of limb was used by few doctors. A Scandinavian practice made popular in recent decades, this muscle-stimulation treatment had gained a small number of adherents on the continent and throughout England. Doctor Fredericks was one of the few Manchester physicians to find success using it on patients who had lost mobility, and his crew of nurses was in high demand throughout the city.
When Isabelle asked how, why, or for how long something was done, Nurse Margaret offered only curt replies, and only when she deemed Isabelle’s questions worth a response. There were hours when it seemed the city plan, as Isabelle began to think of it, was working. But each afternoon, there came a time in the treatment when Isabelle could stand no more.
It did not take many days for both Alexander and Isabelle to recognize a pattern to Nurse Margaret’s work. The work would commence with stretching, far more than Isabelle did each morning, then further muscle work that left Alexander moaning in pain. He would catch his breath and ask Isabelle to go, and she always complied. Every day, because he asked her to, she left him to suffer through the most difficult moments of his rehabilitation without her.
When Nurse Margaret left the room, and Alexander was alone, often Isabelle would enter the parlor to find him grimacing. She would ask after his pain, and instead of the gentle kindness from the good mornings, he occasionally dismissed her without much comment.
“Mrs. Burns,” Isabelle said when the housekeeper brought her a cup of tea, “I hate leaving him in there with her.”
The housekeeper patted Isabelle’s hand. “I know, ma’am, I know. But think of how it is for him. How he must hate for you to see him weak and hurting like that. Allow him his dignity.”
Isabelle understood, even though she did not like it. Retreating upstairs did not remove her far enough from the sounds of his pain. She soon found reasons to spend her afternoons away.
Visits to the Kenworthy home continued to bring her great satisfaction. Glory delighted in playing simple tunes on the pianoforte with Isabelle guiding her hands.
One afternoon, Glory herself answered Isabelle’s knock.
“Hello, Mrs. Osgood,” Glory said, bobbing a curtsy and taking both of Isabelle’s hands in her own and placing a kiss on her cheek. “I have something to show you.” She tucked Isabelle’s arm in the crook of her elbow and escorted her into the drawing room. Isabelle was welcomed by Mrs. Kenworthy, who stood as Isabelle entered. Gladly, Isabelle r
eturned her warm greeting.
“Have you been working on the song from last week?” Isabelle asked Glory.
“Yes, but that is not it. That is not the something I want to show.” Leading Isabelle to a chair, she bade her sit. “Close your eyes,” Glory said, clapping her hands and grinning.
At a small throat-clearing noise from Mrs. Kenworthy, Glory spoke again. “If you would please close your eyes,” she said.
Isabelle closed and then covered her eyes with her hands. She heard and felt some movement fluttering around her.
Glory placed her warm hand on Isabelle’s shoulder and said, “Now. Open your eyes.”
Isabelle looked and saw a painting on the table, a portrait of herself, seated in the window seat, holding the small brown dog. The light coming in the window fell across her hair, and Glory had captured the colors and textures of both Isabelle and the sweet dog’s fur.
“Oh, Glory,” Isabelle said, her intake of breath creating a completely sincere gasp of delight. “It’s so beautiful.”
Glory clapped her hands. “It is, you are right. It is so beautiful.” She sat beside Isabelle and took her hand. “This is a painting of two things that make me very happy. Small, warm puppies and you, my friend Mrs. Osgood.”
Isabelle found herself laughing with delight. Glory’s simple, light-filled painting gave Isabelle a feeling of peace and, somehow, safety.
“Where will you hang it?” Isabelle asked.
Glory shook her head. “I shall not. It is not for me. This is a gift for you.”
Isabelle reached for the painting. “Do you mean I can take it to my home and look at it every day?” She understood, but she wanted to show Glory how much it meant to her.
Glory nodded, her delight apparent. “And if I am invited to your home, I can look at it as well.”
Isabelle said, “I would love to invite you to my home. Just now we are having a small inconvenience which makes visitors uncomfortable,” Isabelle said, thinking of the afternoons of Nurse Margaret reducing Alexander to a dismal, shaking ruin.
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