Mr. Connor ducked his head and tugged at his collar. “Is that wise?”
Isabelle wondered if any of her decisions were wise lately. “I don’t doubt that he will be happy to see with his own eyes that his mill is flourishing, and I believe an invitation from you—a request to come and make an appearance—will be just the thing to get him here.”
Mr. Connor still looked uncomfortable, but he said, “I trust you know best.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that trust and will do my best to continue to deserve it.” Isabelle wondered if this suggestion was overstretching, but at the same time she felt so strongly how little she was able to do for Alexander, particularly on the days he refused her help with morning exercises.
“We will need to carry him to a chair. Is there an entrance other than the one from which I entered?” Isabelle pointed toward the street door.
Mr. Connor nodded. “There is a door on each end of the carding floor leading from the canal. But how do you suggest he move from one level to another?”
This had not occurred to Isabelle, though now she could easily see that it should have.
“Perhaps on the first visit we should stay on a single level.” Isabelle stood. “Can you choose another strong man who can help lift and carry Mr. Osgood when the moment is needful?” So many details she had not considered crowded her mind.
“Aye, ma’am.”
His simple agreement allowed her to feel that perhaps this was not such a foolish notion after all. “Thank you, Mr. Connor. And I would like to let you know that your spinning-floor workers were very kind when they thought I was a new worker.”
Mr. Connor spluttered a horrified apology. Isabelle shook her head. “Were I in a position to secure employment, I know I couldn’t do better than Osgood Mills.”
Mr. Connor’s face relaxed into a smile. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll send a message to Mr. Osgood tonight. Good day to you,” he said, all before opening the office door and escorting her out into the crowded, noisy, wonderful mill.
The delicacy of the dance Isabelle needed to contrive in order to stay out of reach of Nurse Margaret was astonishing to her. She avoided crossing the nurse’s path at mealtimes, on the staircase, and in the entryway. When she wasn’t in the parlor attending to Alexander, Nurse Margaret stayed in Isabelle’s dressing room—now her room—or went out into the city.
Isabelle could see evidence that the treatments were working, but she hated them nonetheless. Alexander could now lift either hand a few inches and his entire right arm nearly to the level of his shoulder. The fingers on his left hand could dependably close around an object larger than an egg, but he couldn’t manage a spoon or a pen.
“Yet,” Isabelle made sure to add whenever Alexander talked about his progress, or lack thereof.
On good days, he’d repeat the qualification. And there were good days. In times of more difficulty, he reverted to his protective silence, and Isabelle attempted not to feel offended.
Isabelle had hung the painting Glory gave her in the drawing room where she could look at it regularly. One morning before Nurse Margaret made her appearance, Isabelle brought Alexander into the drawing room to see it.
“I know you’re disinterested in decorating,” Isabelle said, “but our dear Glory painted this, and I love it.” She pushed his chair up near the wall so he could examine the painting where it hung. “In case it’s unclear, this is me holding the Kenworthys’ kitchen girl’s dog.”
The subject matter had, of course, been perfectly clear to Isabelle from the moment she first saw it, but she’d also been in the room when it had been created. Perhaps the painting did not carry her likeness quite so much as she had thought.
“Of course I can tell it’s a painting of you,” Alexander said. “She’s captured your proportions and the curve of your cheek quite passably. And the light is a nice touch. I know how you enjoy sunlight coming through windows.”
Isabelle wondered if she would ever grow tired of hearing reminders like these that Alexander listened to the things she said, even if the things were silly prattle. And his comment about her proportions gave her a blush she wasn’t prepared to analyze.
“I have a request,” Isabelle said.
“Something you’d like to buy?” Alexander sounded excited, as if eager to hear a request he could reasonably acquiesce to: a new rug for the entryway floor or a ribbon for a bonnet.
“Yes, in a way.”
She rolled his chair next to an empty one and came to sit beside him.
“I mentioned it in passing when Mr. Kenworthy was last here. I’d very much like to hire Glory to paint us.” She hesitated before going on. “A family portrait.”
Alexander turned his head toward her. She felt her breath hitch in her throat at the miracle of the small action. Would she never grow tired of such an attention? She thought not.
“If you would like a painting done, there are many fine and capable artists both here and in London who could make a good job of it.”
He had not said no, precisely, and his tone was more calm than testy.
Isabelle nodded. “I know,” she said, “and I believe there are indeed many who could do a fine representation. But I’ve come to love her style, her bold strokes and bright colors that speak to something both childlike and powerful. Her paintings make me feel strong. I would love to offer Glory a chance to do it. And a chance to earn some money of her own.”
“Her parents give her all she needs. You know that,” Alexander said, his voice not unkind. But it was clear to Isabelle that he didn’t understand.
“I do know that,” she replied. “But when you do your work, don’t you love not only the physical activity but also the understanding that you have earned something? Glory has a talent, and I would like to honor the work she does by offering her this commission.”
“What would I have to do?” As soon as he asked, Isabelle knew it meant yes.
She smiled. “Only sit for her a few times, I imagine. Perhaps put on the same coat for a few days.”
“Very well,” Alexander said. “If it will please you, I am pleased to support it.”
The next day, Isabelle sent a formal request to Glory in writing, and by the beginning of the following week, Glory was knocking at their front door, a leather bag over one shoulder. When Mrs. Burns showed her into the drawing room, she glanced at her mother, who had escorted her, and said, “My dear Mr. and Mrs. Osgood, it is so wonderful of you to invite me.” After she spoke, she glanced at her mother again, and Isabelle saw Mrs. Kenworthy give a small nod and a large smile. Glory had been practicing.
“We are delighted to have you come,” Isabelle said. “Would you like to sit and visit for a while, or shall we get straight to work?”
Glory looked into the corner of the room as though she were weighing important options.
“Play and sing, if you please,” Glory said.
“We have no instrument, but I should love to sing a song for you if it would please you, dear Glory,” Isabelle said.
Glory gave a serious nod, and Isabelle sang something she’d loved as a younger girl, a song about a lark and a laurel bush. Isabelle glanced around the room now and then as she sang the song. Glory’s eyes closed, and she swayed with the music. Alexander was seated so he had to turn his head to see Isabelle, and he was doing so. He had a look of satisfaction and peace about him that Isabelle wished Glory could capture. It was something she rarely saw in his face, but to Isabelle, it was the aspect that was most handsome.
At the close of the song, Isabelle leaned back against the cushion beside Alexander. He placed his hand over hers, the first time he’d reached for her outside of exercises.
Isabelle curled her fingers around his.
Glory placed herself opposite them in the room and set up her drawing materials. She had paper and pencils, and as Isabelle and Alexander spoke
to Mrs. Kenworthy, Glory made sketches. Now and then she would ask a question.
“Do you have a dog? Paintings with dogs are better.”
“Is that how you want your coat to look?”
“Do you know anyone who has a baby you could hold? This would look much more like a family painting if there was a baby.”
Isabelle answered the questions as well as she could. She was far more used to Glory’s conversational patterns than Alexander was. Even though he had known the Kenworthy family for years, he’d spent very little time with Glory. Isabelle hoped that her slightly inappropriate questions were not offensive to him.
When Glory grew tired and hungry, Isabelle requested tea.
“Glory,” she said, “I understand that sometimes artists like to do their work in small sections. If you’re eager to keep going, we can sit for another hour. But if you’d prefer, you can be finished for the day and come back tomorrow.”
“I think I’d like one cup of tea and two of those small white cakes. Then I will decide if we draw more today or go home.”
Alexander stayed mostly quiet through the whole experience, answering Mrs. Kenworthy’s questions and responding politely, but as usual, not initiating topics of conversation.
“Do you have a dog, Mr. Osgood?” Glory asked. This was the third time this visit she had brought up dogs.
“I do not,” Alexander responded again.
“Glory,” Mrs. Kenworthy said kindly, “not everyone loves a dog.”
“When I was a boy,” Alexander offered, surprising Isabelle, “I had a black furry dog as big as a bear. His name was Dumpling. He slept on the floor beside my bed.”
Glory leaned forward. “Where is he now?”
Alexander looked to Mrs. Kenworthy as if for permission. She nodded, and he said, “He died many years ago. He is buried in a field in the country.”
Glory nodded. “Animals die. People too. Sometimes when they’re old, and sometimes when they become ill. When you became ill, I prayed that you would not die. I’m glad you are still with us, Mr. Osgood.”
Isabelle wondered how he would respond to such a strange sentiment. She need not have worried. Alexander nodded and gave Glory a smile. “Thank you, Glory. I am glad too.”
Isabelle pressed Alexander’s fingers in gratitude. Sharing this small communication about his childhood showed he valued Glory, Isabelle saw.
“I am ready to work some more,” Glory said. “But I need more practice with Mr. Osgood.” She looked at him, tilted her head, and shifted in her seat so she could see him from a different angle. “Mrs. Osgood, will you please sit in that chair over there and sing another song while I draw him some more?”
Isabelle moved to where she was directed and sang for another hour, simple melodies that Glory would hum or sing along with as she sketched drawings of Alexander. She moved from her seat twice in order to work from a different view, but as she settled, she picked back up with both pencil and song.
When it was nearly time for Nurse Margaret to come downstairs to work with Alexander, Isabelle let Glory know they had another appointment.
“Mr. Osgood has a nurse who comes to help make him strong,” she said. “The nurse does not like to be kept waiting.”
Glory nodded. “May I come back tomorrow to do some more?” she asked.
Isabelle glanced at Alexander. She knew he was doing this for her, but she didn’t want to make assumptions that he’d be eager to continue.
Alexander answered Glory. “We would love to have you back tomorrow, Miss Kenworthy. Thank you for your fine work and your kind company.” Isabelle felt a flush of delight at his charming response. Something was changing. This was not the cold and distant man she had married.
Isabelle saw and appreciated the changes in Alexander, but she was not unaware that forward progress was most often coupled with hours, days, even weeks of reversals. He needed a positive experience. She knew he needed to get to the mill.
Mr. Connor, who had stopped dropping in for visits now that his working hours had changed to accommodate the loss of Alexander in the mill, had sent two messages in the time since Isabelle had visited the mill.
Alexander had not volunteered any details of Mr. Connor’s communication, which did not surprise Isabelle but for the idea she had that Alexander should have been invited to pay a visit, and he could not do that without her.
On a rainy, stormy evening, Isabelle asked Mrs. Burns to have a fire laid in the drawing room after dinner. When she’d finished helping Alexander eat his meal, she invited him to join her.
“Thank you, no.”
His response was missing all the occasional warmth of their best moments together: the moments of closeness made special by being so rare. Even though Isabelle expected these good times to come and go, their going left her saddened and self-conscious. Surely were she a better wife, she would encourage tender affection in a more consistent manner.
Nodding in recognition of yet another rejection, Isabelle said, “Very well. If you don’t care to come through to the drawing room, I suppose we must discuss your visit to the mill from here at the table.”
Alexander glanced at the connecting door to the kitchen, possibly hoping the help couldn’t hear, but more likely, Isabelle thought, wishing for rescue.
There would be no rescue this night. Yeardley was already on her side.
Isabelle adjusted her seat so she was in Alexander’s line of sight. “I understand you’ve had communication with Mr. Connor about visiting the mill. I have also been in contact with him, as well as with Mr. Kenworthy, and I believe we have a recommendation.”
She realized that she had not inhaled during that small speech, but she feared if she paused too long, she would lose her momentum. “As you know, some of the second-level machinery will be replaced at the end of the month, allowing other apparatuses to be moved and reorganized. I believe that with a small amount of restructuring, we can create paths through which your chair can travel so you can do some on-site inspections.”
If Isabelle had an idea of how Alexander would react to her involvement in mill decisions, this silence and apparent frustration was not what she’d anticipated. Was the frustration directed toward her?
Isabelle felt the enthusiasm and confidence she’d fostered over the past few days wither. “I should think you would be pleased to be able to travel through parts of the mill,” she said, her voice significantly weaker.
“Should you?” Alexander replied, his face avoiding hers. “I ought to be pleased at the possibility of rolling across the floor, looking at my materials and my employees?” He glanced at her and went on. “When I once was capable of running every part of each machine on every floor of the place?” His voice continued to grow. “It should please me, should it, to be pushed through one room on one level? To see progress from a seated position? To watch each stage of millwork and know that it carries on perfectly well without me?”
The pain in his voice was acute and palpable. Isabelle lowered her head into her hands. She wished him to stop, but she also hoped he would continue, opening his heart and expressing his feelings. It was, she thought, better to know what he was thinking than to wonder.
He did not say more, and the two of them sat in near silence for many minutes. She listened to his loud inhales and aggressive exhales and wished he would continue to speak, but she understood much better than she had an hour ago some of his frustration.
The home in which Isabelle had grown up had been run by a mother who delighted in the daily details and a father who managed all from behind a large desk, the same desk from which he administered his mine operations, which required very little on-site supervision. In fact, Mr. Rackham traveled to the mines only a few times every year. This was a completely different management style than Alexander’s. He’d spent as many hours every day in the mill as the longest-working wage earner.
Mr. Kenworthy and Mr. Connor had done all they could since Alexander’s accident to remove any concern about the mill from him. They saw to every problem, created solutions to every dispute, and finessed every snag in either process or product. All of this seemed necessary—crucial, even—to Alexander’s recovery. Now, however, Isabelle could see that every waking hour, each of those minutes she spent anxious about Alexander, he spent worried about the mill.
As much as she experienced daily and hourly defeat in her inability to comfort or cure him, he must feel the same or more without being of use at his work. She began to realize, to truly understand, that his hours spent at the mill were not an escape from her or from his home but were, in fact, a fulfillment of his desire to be involved, to be necessary.
Isabelle spoke quietly into the silent room. “I realize that Mr. Connor and Mr. Kenworthy are managing your mill in your absence, but they value your input. And I am certain your workers miss you. I know they do because some of them have told me so. I am confident that a simple visit, even though it would be less than everyone desires, would go far to securing the relief of your employees.”
She wished he would meet her eyes, but as the sound of his breathing was the only other noise in the room, she was sure he could hear her.
“I hope you will not cast aside the comfort of those who look to you as their provider.”
Isabelle could not have chosen better language to turn Alexander’s mind and his heart.
He looked up at her, the dark circles around his eyes testifying to a constant state of exhaustion. “Will you please write a letter to Connor and Kenworthy? Will you inform them that I plan to come oversee operations in the mill on Thursday morning?”
Thursday dawned drizzly and gloomy, and Isabelle could not have felt happier. Yeardley was prepared to walk beside Alexander at every step, even navigating his chair through the production floors and moving him up and down stairways, and in and out of narrow halls. The man agreed to all Isabelle’s plans without any complaint. In fact, Isabelle had rarely seen the stoic Yeardley look so nearly excited.
Isabelle and Alexander Page 17