At least she need not worry about Mrs. Burns creating a warm and welcoming space for them. She managed to manufacture a bright and cheerful guest room from Alexander’s dressing room. The fact that he’d used this room as his own ever since he’d bought the house made Isabelle fear it was as masculine and spare in its aspect as the entire house had been in its furnishing and fixtures. But Mrs. Burns brought in sunny and cheerful linens and drapes, added flowers in vases, and placed a gilt-framed mirror on the wall facing the window, which all led to a vast change in appearance and impression.
“It’s lovely,” Isabelle said. “I am unsurprised at your ability to make the room more inviting, but I am indeed pleased.”
Mrs. Burns said, “I am delighted to help you refinish your home,” a gentle reminder that Isabelle ought to be comfortable making changes here. Learning to believe the housekeeper increased Isabelle’s confidence in many of the aspects of home.
“Mae,” Isabelle said, taking a comfortable seat in the kitchen, “Mr. Osgood has requested that you serve duck this week. Are you comfortable attempting such a thing?”
“Oh, aye, ma’am. Simple to make but rich and delicious. Easy to cut. Easy to eat. A good sign, if I may say, that he has an appetite for new things.”
Isabelle picked a chestnut from a bowl on the table. “You may, indeed, say so. Now, if we can discuss the menu for the week that my cousin and his bride will stay with us?”
Mae set down the parsnip she was peeling and wiped her hands on a towel. Pulling a small notebook from a side table, she wrote notes and made commentary on Isabelle’s ideas for meals and puddings, suggesting alternatives for what might not be available from the market.
“Thank you, Mae,” Isabelle said, standing to leave the kitchen. “It is such a great relief to know that all our food concerns are in such capable hands.”
“Very kind of you to say so. And if I may be so bold, you are doing a fine job running the household.”
At the young woman’s unexpected praise, Isabelle choked out a small sob and covered her face with her hands.
“Oh, Mrs. Osgood, I beg your pardon,” Mae began, crossing the room to stand nearer Isabelle. She did not reach for her or say anything else, but she stood nearby and wrung her hands.
As soon as Isabelle gathered herself sufficiently that she could speak, she assured Mae she had done nothing wrong. “I simply wish so regularly, so constantly, that I could do anything correctly. I thank you for thinking I am doing well.”
“I imagine, ma’am, that we all need to be told now and then.”
Isabelle nodded, wiped at her eyes, and smiled at Mae. As she took her leave, she wondered if Alexander felt such a need. Would words of affirmation about his progress mean anything at all coming from her? She had no experience in physical recovery from a traumatic injury, either as a patient or as a witness. To suggest that his improvement was notable might sound artificial or patronizing. She remembered only too well how he had snapped at her when she complimented previous small measures, such as turning his head or closing his fingers around a pen.
But what if Mae had considered a possible poor reception and chosen not to make her own kind statement? The relief Isabelle felt, the true thrill of hearing someone, anyone, tell her she was doing well shocked her with its magnitude.
She told herself she must find a reason to tell Alexander she was pleased with how well he was progressing.
Easier decided than completed.
Isabelle entered the parlor that afternoon to find Nurse Margaret bending over Alexander’s shoulder, pressing it into a contortion that looked as painful as it did unnatural.
“Good afternoon, Nurse,” Isabelle said, attempting to sound unafraid. She knew immediately that she had failed. Every time she endeavored to speak to the fearsome woman, she quailed.
Nurse Margaret chose not to answer her.
She tried again. “Are you finding all well with Mr. Osgood today?”
The look that the nurse sent Isabelle carried with it all possible contempt. She shuddered under the withering gaze.
She knew if she turned and left now, it would be nigh impossible to ever come back in during an exercising appointment. She stepped closer to Alexander and placed her hand on his arm. He turned his gaze toward her, eyes dark with pain. She sent him what she hoped was a bolstering smile. “Are his shoulders strengthening?”
“You should hope so if you want to see him do more than sit in that chair.”
Isabelle saw Alexander’s face shift from pain to humiliation. She felt her own face flame not with shame but with anger.
But Nurse Margaret was not finished. “His small improvements will mean very little if he cannot move past them.”
Isabelle clenched her fists and turned to the nurse, indignation firing throughout her entire body.
“I am confident,” Isabelle said, more heat in her voice than had ever been there in the presence of this terrifying woman, “that every bit of progress I’ve watched Mr. Osgood make is leading to a strong future, whether in that chair or out of it. He has worked tirelessly and, unlike some, complained not at all. I am endlessly proud of his efforts.”
She spun on her heel and walked away, certain that any more time in Nurse Margaret’s presence today would bring more honest reactions to the surface, and none of them would be as positive as the one she’d just expressed.
Isabelle marched upstairs and paced the bedroom, muttering the things she knew she ought not say aloud but needed to give vent to. A gentle knock stopped her voice and her feet.
“Yes?” Isabelle said.
Mrs. Burns stood in the doorway.
“Anything I can get you, ma’am?” The woman had begun to foster a sense for Isabelle’s tempers. Not that it was unreasonable for anyone to guess that Isabelle would be angry after an encounter with Nurse Margaret.
“How does a woman like that choose to become employed caring for the ill?” Isabelle wanted to throw something, but she resisted and tugged on the corner of the bedclothes. “She clearly has no love for human beings, and with her communication skills, she could likely secure more lucrative employment on a pirate ship or repairing the railway.”
Mrs. Burns looked away but failed to hide her smile. “As long as the doctors find her assistance to be useful to the master,” she said in her gentle way, “we can attempt to welcome her.”
Isabelle held her tongue only because she did not want a dispute to create disharmony with the housekeeper. Her quarrel was not with Mrs. Burns. She nodded. “Thank you for the reminder. I have not known many nurses. This one is simply different than any I’ve met. Or heard about. Or care to know. I look forward to the day Mr. Osgood no longer requires her assistance and she returns to the institution.”
Mrs. Burns nodded in agreement. “That will be a welcome day for every reason.” She clapped her hands together once. “And now, what else can we do to make the home more comfortable for your guests?”
Gratitude filled Isabelle. “I thank you again for making their comfort your concern. You are a gem, Mrs. Burns.” Isabelle felt a bit silly, as she always did, when she tried to compliment a person like Mrs. Burns, who was so well suited to her work, particularly because Isabelle felt off balance and out of place as lady of the house.
But the housekeeper smiled across her whole face. “As are you, dear. Those of us who love Mr. Osgood could think of no better wife for him.”
“It is so kind of you to say so.” What Isabelle really wanted was further reassurance that what Mrs. Burns said was true. “Are you certain?” Isabelle asked. “How can you tell?” With her mood rising and falling with each interaction, she was rarely sure from one day to the next if she had done anything right.
Mrs. Burns smiled. “The two of you will grow to be wonderful supports to each other.”
Over the next few days, Isabelle spent time searching the
city and choosing explorations for her to discover with Ed and his wife. Upon returning home one afternoon, she stepped into the drawing room and gasped.
All of the furniture was shifted—a settee under the window, three chairs moved from their places, all to make way for a beautiful cherry-wood pianoforte and a golden-brown harp.
Upon the desk of the pianoforte, where the sheets of musical notation stood, was a folded piece of paper. She seated herself upon the bench and took the note.
Dear Lady,
When there is something that I can do to make this feel more your home, I desire that you will only mention it. While this instrument is no sufficient compensation for your constant kindness, I hope you will find that it makes your days more cheerful.
The words were penned in Mrs. Burns’s hand, but there at the bottom, an inky scrawl appeared to begin with the letter A. She could only imagine that Mrs. Burns had written the words as Alexander had dictated them, and then handed him the pen to attempt a signature.
She folded the paper and held it to her heart.
Then she set it down and put her fingers to the keys. Aside from playing in the Kenworthys’ parlor, she had not had the opportunity to practice in months. As her fingers explored the keys and tested the sound of the instrument, she felt a thrill of delight that she could play for Edwin and Charlotte. Another moment and she realized that she could also possibly help alleviate some of Alexander’s disquiet during his sessions with Nurse Margaret.
Every day until the visit, Isabelle played in the drawing room for hours, both dampening the sounds of Nurse Margaret’s exercises and adding an element of comfort to the Manchester house that had not been there before. Mae mentioned that she could hear the music from the kitchen if she left the doors open, and Isabelle discovered Yeardley with a bit more spring in his step than was typical.
Mrs. Burns was delighted, and she said so often.
“What a joy to have a songbird in the house,” she would comment, walking about the room placing and replacing candles and books. It was the first time she did any housework in Isabelle’s presence.
“I know that I have you to thank for it,” Isabelle said. “And I do thank you.” She ran her fingers up and down the keys in a happy little arpeggio.
Mrs. Burns shook her head. “Oh, no. Thank Mr. Osgood, for it was all his doing.”
Isabelle questioned the absolute truth of the statement, but she appreciated the gesture.
“I wonder,” Isabelle said, “if Mr. Osgood has a favorite song.”
Mrs. Burns smiled and said, “I imagine if he hadn’t before, he does now. Sing that one you did yesterday, about the sailing ship.”
The housekeeper found ways to keep herself busy in and around the drawing room each day, and occasionally Isabelle could hear her humming along. Rough and painful sounds continued to come from the parlor. Moans rose above the sounds of the music, and Alexander often kept his face turned to the wall.
But now and then, Isabelle’s music drew a comforting blanket over this difficult time.
As the day arrived for Edwin to bring his bride to Manchester, Isabelle found herself pacing the rooms, peeking out windows, checking the kitchen, and gazing into the gloomy drizzle. She knew it would not bring him faster, but she could hardly keep a seat.
Alexander had asked to wear his favorite blue coat and be seated in his chair. “I still look an invalid,” he muttered as Yeardley resettled Alexander’s coat around the seat’s straps. He stared out the parlor window in his turn. Isabelle stood before him. “You look very fine in that coat,” she offered. He gave a momentary start followed by a small smile before he contemplated once again the view outside the window.
Isabelle was learning to look past his apparent anger to uncover her own understanding of his hidden pain. There were days his tempers frightened her. When he grumbled at Yeardley or muttered about his meals, she found herself cowering and avoiding him lest he aim his anger at her. Other days exhausted her as she imagined a lifetime of caution, backing away from any accidental offense or confrontation. But today she refused to be frightened; she would only feel excitement and anticipation. In return, her positive state seemed to bring a small echo of cheerfulness to Alexander.
At long last, a black carriage pulled close to the front steps. It took all of Isabelle’s restraint to wait in the parlor, especially when she heard Edwin’s laugh outside. Oh, that laugh. One of her favorite sounds in all the world. She was certain she could have heard it from London, or the moon.
She stood, then sat, then stood again. Alexander aimed a look at her, but she didn’t attempt to translate it. If he was nervous or annoyed, he would continue that way with or without her interference. There was very little she could do about it now.
“They’re here,” she said, unable to contain her excitement any longer. She moved to the door as Yeardley announced them and rushed into Edwin’s arms.
He laughed as he swept her off her feet into a delicious, crushing hug.
The feel of strong arms squeezed about her nearly took her breath, not from the actual pressure, but from the rarity of the feeling. It had been so long.
“Oh, Belle. Look at you,” he said, holding her at arm’s length. “Haven’t changed a bit, have you? Like nothing at all has happened in the past few months.” He chuckled at his own joke, and in years past, Isabelle would have commented in the same manner, but now Isabelle felt that Alexander might not appreciate even oblique references to the accident, so she turned to welcome Edwin’s bride.
“My dear cousin, how welcome you are,” she said, stretching her arms to offer an embrace. Charlotte stood still and stiff, allowing Isabelle to wrap her arms around her shoulders but returning no such attention or affection. Isabelle realized she had overstepped the bounds of propriety and moved a pace backward. She smiled at Charlotte and said, “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, and I hope that we shall be good friends.”
Charlotte gave a polite if insincere-looking smile and said only, “Indeed.”
Isabelle glanced at Edwin to see if this was perhaps a jest they’d long waited to play on her, but Edwin was gazing at his bride with eyes full of stars, as if she were the most important person in the world—much the way he used to gaze at Isabelle.
She felt her heart stutter and took a slow breath. Turning to glance at Alexander, she saw that he had not missed any of it: not her overeager embrace, and not Charlotte’s cold reception. He gave her an almost-imperceptible nod of encouragement.
His reassurance increased her confidence enough for her to say, “Mr. Osgood, of course you remember my dear cousin Edwin, and may I present his bride, Mrs. Charlotte Poole?”
Alexander dipped his head in a nod to them both. “A pleasure. Welcome to Manchester, Mrs. Poole. Forgive me,” he continued with that mysterious smile, “for not standing to welcome you. Please, take a seat.” He motioned to a chair with his hand, and Isabelle noticed how natural his movement looked. Almost like moving his hands was not a daily miracle for him.
Charlotte’s chilly demeanor thawed a bit with Alexander’s welcome, but she did not warm significantly to Isabelle. After ordering tea and performing her hostess duties, Isabelle carried the conversation with Edwin, asking after their families, his home, and their favorite old haunts. Isabelle occasionally directed a question to Charlotte or to Alexander, but neither of them seemed eager to speak a great deal.
Ed, however, chattered along. He told amusing stories that made Charlotte smile. He touched her hand at every excuse, smiling at her with pride and adoration. Isabelle watched him attend to his wife with gentle regard and wondered how he could love her so dearly. She appeared to Isabelle unfeeling and cold. But Isabelle knew her judgment was unfair. Simply because Charlotte behaved insensitively and emotionlessly to Isabelle did not mean that was her typical behavior. After all, Alexander’s behavior to Isabelle had occasionally reflected
warmth and affection, but lately only on rare occasions had he even given Isabelle more than a warm glance.
But Edwin seemed to feel toward Isabelle as he always had. Dear Edwin. He remembered old acquaintances to Isabelle, at which comments Charlotte looked bored. He handled the conversation in the parlor deftly, giving attention to each of the ladies in turn and calling Alexander into the conversation at opportune times.
Just before the hour when Nurse Margaret was expected, Isabelle invited Edwin and Charlotte to make their way to their room to freshen or change clothes. “I should like to show you some of the sights in the city,” she said. In fact, she wanted to get them out of the house while Alexander was being prodded and twisted.
“Will you be joining us?” Edwin asked Alexander.
“Not today.”
“Perhaps another time,” Edwin replied, his willingness to help Alexander move about the city apparent.
Alexander nodded.
As Mrs. Burns showed Edwin and Charlotte to their room, Isabelle crossed the parlor to Alexander. “Thank you for showing my cousin such a warm welcome,” she said. Perhaps “warm” was a bit strong, but Isabelle appreciated anything more welcoming than the icy silence she still feared.
Alexander gave a small shake of his head, but whether he meant to deflect her gratitude or deny her comment, she did not know.
“We shall see you for dinner,” she said, walking out of the room.
Alexander spoke softly. “I only hope not to further disappoint you,” he said.
Turning, she came back to the side of the room where his chair sat.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Nothing, nothing.”
“Please,” she said. “I do not understand to what you refer.”
He shook his head and looked away before he said, “Doubtless any comparison you make over the next few days will leave our own situation dim in contrast.”
Isabelle stood dumbly in the middle of the parlor, unable to think of a single response. How had he understood and articulated so perfectly what she was feeling? Not only the truth of the obvious comparison but the fear of sinking deeper into the melancholy of that difference.
Isabelle and Alexander Page 19