Isabelle felt a jolt of concern for the poor man. Alongside that feeling, she experienced a small thrill of happiness at being included in this conversation. Never before had Alexander shared details of his work with her. It occurred to her now that perhaps he had been waiting for her to show interest.
“I do not pretend to know about the requirements and the details,” Isabelle said, looking at a blotter on the small desk, “but do you think that perhaps Mr. Kenworthy could manage the day shifts for a time if I brought you here for an hour or two each morning? I think with Yeardley’s help, we can manage the journey, and you can be here with your workers, and Mr. Connor can rest.”
She stood practically without breathing, hoping her suggestion was received in the manner it was meant. When Alexander did not reply, she looked up to see him watching her.
“Of course, if that is an unwise suggestion, I understand,” she said, her voice quaking under the fear of her own folly. “I know Doctor Fredericks has spoken in opposition to traveling outdoors in the chair. Surely we can secure a chair more suited to the roadways.”
“You understand far more than I would have imagined,” Alexander said. “And I thank you for such a generous offer. I should like to speak with both Kenworthy and Connor as soon as possible.”
As Edwin and Charlotte returned to the main floor of the mill, the group made its way out of doors. Isabelle asked if there was anything in particular that had caught their attention.
“Is it not fascinating to consider,” Charlotte said, “how many thousands of people in this city must have a daily employment?”
There was nothing judgmental or critical in her words, but Isabelle felt a need to defend the workers.
“Fascinating indeed. As much as it is to consider how many gentlemen’s families need no employment at all,” she said, underscoring her words with a smile to stave off any possible offense. “People of all circumstances are needed, it seems, to keep England on her feet.”
“Hear, hear,” Edwin said. “Jolly true. Imagine the state of things if every man in the country spent his days like I do, in relative idleness.” His laugh showed that his conclusion was meant as no disrespect for the life he had been born to. “No work would ever be accomplished. And if every man in the city lived like you, old man,” he said, nodding to Alexander, “far too many wives would stand at the window awaiting the return of their busy, important husbands.”
Isabelle watched the group laugh together and revisited her thoughts about how Edwin had changed. She realized that perhaps he had not changed at all, but through the past months of alteration to her lifestyle and expectations, she certainly had.
It seemed possible to Isabelle that the Edwin of her past was a delicious memory of something sweet and delightsome. Now, with the evolution of her tastes, she believed she rather craved something of more substance. Her heart would always hold dear Ed in a place of fondness, but her heart was expanding to make room for love of different kinds.
As Edwin and Charlotte’s visit came to an end, Isabelle saw them off at the platform where they caught a train to Liverpool. Waving goodbye, she felt a tug on her heart that seemed to be more for the loss of the child she had been than for the loss of Edwin in her daily life. Her love and affection for him would always be part of her heart and her soul, but it could not be all. She had come to require more from a connection than diversion and pleasure.
She had come to value a certain solidity that she felt with Alexander, even within his shifting moods and tempers. There was a firmness, a power that seemed to come not in spite of his physical challenge but because of it.
Isabelle began to think that his was a strength she did not desire to live without.
The new arrangements brought Isabelle and Alexander to the mill each morning for two hours. Mr. Kenworthy met them at the door and helped Yeardley bring Alexander inside, where a smart new chair awaited him, one that could navigate the aisles of the factory floor with ease.
Some days, Isabelle found Alexander delighted with the new procedure. He seemed to enjoy his interaction with his workers, and there was a light in his eyes when he met with them and discussed their work. Isabelle kept a polite distance from these interviews, always nearby but keeping outside any professional conversations. She learned a great deal about the five floors of the mill and found herself drawn to the weaving room, where the rhythmic motions of shuttles being pushed through warp and weft elicited the same kind of calm as the ebb and flow of the ocean. Most of these appliances were original to the old mill, and she loved the gentler creak of wooden shuttles and forms. The lower floors’ equipment roared and ground, metal machines working faster and stronger than the older wooden ones could. Isabelle loved wandering through the weaving floor until it was time to meet Alexander at the end of his meetings with Mr. Kenworthy and the other workers. He generally seemed pleased with the arrangement.
On other occasions, Alexander would grow quiet and pensive after a morning’s visit to the mill. He mourned his inability to be useful. Isabelle learned quickly that her input on days like this was not helpful. He did not want to hear her say that his efforts were worthwhile; he wanted proof of his own. She could not give him that.
In all the hours and days she spent in the mill, she became acquainted with several of the workers, young women near her age who did not hesitate to speak of Mr. Osgood’s reappearance in the most animated fashion. It soon ceased to surprise Isabelle when she would enter the small cloak room on any of the floors and hear the workers considering her husband’s excellence as an employer. The young women, particularly, would welcome her into the discussion. Before long, she was nearly comfortable hearing—even taking part in—such conversations.
Inasmuch as Mr. Connor was experiencing a less-taxing workload under the new arrangement, Mr. Kenworthy was by default taking upon himself more work than he was used to.
On her next visit to the Kenworthy ladies, Isabelle unburdened herself of her gratitude.
“My dear friend,” she said to Mrs. Kenworthy, “I imagine that your family is all feeling the effect of Mr. Kenworthy’s longer hours and increased responsibility at the mill. I do wish that none of this was needful, but I certainly appreciate his willingness to carry out so much of the work that must be done so Mr. Connor can continue to do his part. I do not know what we would do if we ran Mr. Connor ill by overwork.”
“Oh, indeed,” Mrs. Kenworthy said. “I agree. This is a difficult time, but we must all do our part.”
Glory smiled at Isabelle and said, “Papa comes home and falls asleep all ’round the house. At the table, in the parlor, in the bath.” She leaned closer to Isabelle as if to impart a secret. “He is much better at sitting for paintings when he is asleep than when he is awake.”
All the ladies shared a laugh at that notion.
“Speaking of portraits,” Mrs. Kenworthy said, “it has been quite some time since Glory has been to your home for a painting session, but she has been hard at work making studies of you and Mr. Osgood.” She nodded at Glory.
“Would you like to see some of the paintings I’ve made?” Glory asked, leaping from her seat before Isabelle had a chance to answer.
“I would be delighted,” she said to Glory’s back as the young woman ran from the room to gather her art.
As Glory passed the paintings to Isabelle one at a time, she pointed out how she had planned different compositions, colors, and light. Isabelle could see Glory’s attempts had quite a bit of technical merit—a distinction she had been unwilling to grant such paintings before she knew the artist.
“He looks like himself,” Glory said, head tilted and gazing at the board in her hand, “but not quite.”
“I agree,” Isabelle said. “Anyone would know that Mr. Osgood is the subject of these paintings, but there is something missing.”
“Perhaps if he would agree to smile for me, I would know him bet
ter,” Glory said, and Isabelle could not hold in a laugh. In a room with these women who had been so kind to her, she believed she could offer an insight she would never dare say elsewhere.
She leaned close and beckoned Glory to come nearer. “I often think the very same thing,” she said, and Glory and her mother joined Isabelle in the kind of laughter that holds no malice.
Mrs. Kenworthy reached out and patted Isabelle’s knee. “Times will not forever be as trying as they have been these past months,” she said. She appeared to think a moment. “Or perhaps you will continue to struggle through difficulties, but you will grow in your ability to weather them together.”
“As you and Mr. Kenworthy do,” Isabelle said softly.
“As all well-matched couples do. And I know you have your doubts, but you may trust me: I am an excellent judge of such things. You and your Mr. Osgood are indeed a good match.”
Isabelle felt a familiar prickling behind her eyes which seemed to appear whenever anyone voiced confidence in her marriage. Although it continued to feel odd, she was learning to appreciate and rely upon the good opinions of those who had known Alexander prior to the time she met him. With these declarations of Alexander’s merits, she could more often look past her sometimes-wounded feelings to put a more generous perspective on his distraction and occasional coldness.
Not that she could manage to do so upon every occasion. She was a woman with a heart, after all, accustomed to a life filled with affection and laughter, for which reason she was daily grateful for the Kenworthy women and their continuous fond and effusive welcome.
After a long and friendly conversation about Edwin and Charlotte’s visit, Isabelle prepared to take her leave. Taking Glory by the hands in farewell, she said, “If you would come again next week, perhaps Thursday, I will attempt to coax a smile out of Mr. Osgood. It ought to help that he will spend some time in the mill that morning.”
“And I shall look out a joke to tell him. That always makes me laugh,” Glory said, and the matter was decided.
These mornings spent in the mill did seem, in fact, to aid in Alexander’s spirits rising, but the medicine did not always last through the day.
By the time Nurse Margaret finished the muscle treatments, Alexander was often in no mood to visit with anyone, even Isabelle. She offered to read aloud to him but was gently rebuffed. Suggestions to take the outside chair about for a walk were met with excuses of fatigue, and though Isabelle was tempted to remind him that Yeardley would be the one doing all the work, she held her tongue.
Many hours, therefore, were spent with Alexander staring out the parlor window and Isabelle playing her pianoforte in the drawing room. In her more generous moods, she would consider these hours as sharing something: he had provided the instrument, and she provided the music.
There were, however, days she wallowed in the drama of some of her stormy Baroque favorites from Bach and Handel. Alexander said nothing of the moods of her music, but she doubted he could miss the message. Was this, she wondered, what marriage was like for other people? A glimpse of pleasantness sprouting from the heaviness of recurring discouragements? Was every wife as exhausted by worry and physical fatigue, by the vagaries of their own situations?
Mornings, though, were pleasant. Visits to the mill did bring comfort and fulfillment and direction. Though it was clear Alexander wanted to be doing more, all could agree that these short outings were better than the alternative. One morning as they walked home from the mill, she asked Yeardley if she could push the chair. He stepped back but stayed close, and Isabelle could see him scanning the street for obstacles.
“Which is the next machinery to be replaced?” she asked, knowing that Alexander had read Mr. Connor’s report as she visited the laborers on the other work floors.
“Four new weaving looms arrive later this week,” he said. “They will allow the weavers to produce cloth significantly faster.”
“And what will be done with the old machines?” she asked.
“Why?” he asked. “Do you want one?” The playfulness in his tone was a delight to her, mostly from being so rare.
“If I could fit it in the drawing room, I would love to have one. The weaving floor is my favorite place in the mill.” She wondered if he would understand the relative peace she found there, both with the reduction in noise of the wooden looms and the softness of the finished product. She doubted such thoughts would interest him, however, so she kept them to herself.
“I was unaware you had a favorite part of the mill,” he said, his voice soft.
“Oh, several,” she said, eager to continue any such positive conversation after a week of difficult days. “I love the loading bays. The canal is such a busy place, and so much traffic comes in at the bays. And the elevators, where the product goes from one floor to the others, are fascinating.” The teagle—the steam-powered, belt-driven cube in each corner’s vertical shaft—allowed workers and materials to be moved from one floor to another. Isabelle had watched the movement and wondered about it as she walked up and down the stairs. “May I tell you a secret?” she leaned over the back of the chair and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’d like to ride on one.”
“Would you?” Alexander said. A pause was followed by a sly glance and a smile. “I did. Today.”
Isabelle stopped short, a strange combination of excitement and fear washing over her. Where had she felt such a thing before? Of course, she realized. It was the feeling of trying some new and dangerous riding trick with a horse. “Is that safe?” she asked him.
“Hardly.” Was that a laugh? “But it was grand.” Alexander went on to tell her that he was able to get up into the drawing floor for the first time in months to see the new spindle finisher and spindle rover machines.
Even though Isabelle did not recognize the names of the machines he referred to, she was glad and grateful to hear Alexander speaking of them. Glad to hear him, of his own free will, speaking to her of mill matters, sharing that which held importance to him.
As they arrived home and Yeardley helped Alexander into the house, Isabelle held out a faint hope that this good humor could last through an afternoon with Nurse Margaret.
Although Isabelle kept away from the parlor during these treatments, she felt herself exhausted by the very idea of them. That afternoon, she awaited Nurse Margaret’s exit from the parlor.
“May I have a word?” she asked, polite but firm.
Nurse Margaret said nothing, but she did not attempt to turn away and walk up the stairs. Isabelle understood this to be acquiescence. She gestured toward the drawing room, and the nurse preceded her into the room.
Upon sitting, Isabelle said, “I should like a report, if you please. How is Mr. Osgood progressing?”
“As long as he remains in the house, he can sit in his chair without use of binding,” Nurse Margaret answered.
Isabelle shook her head, uncertain of her understanding. “Forgive me, but do you mean that he has gained enough strength to sit up on his own power?”
Nurse Margaret’s words were laden with contempt. “If you would keep him inside where he is safe, he could do. Continuing to parade him along the streets of Manchester will only provide more opportunity for additional injury.”
If the nurse was convinced that all the visits to the mill were Isabelle’s idea, perhaps she would not berate Alexander about them. Isabelle was willing to bear that blame. In addition, it did not sound as though Alexander had confided his elevator ride to the nurse. Well done, Isabelle thought. The woman did not need to know everything.
Isabelle wished she could brush off the nurse’s opinions about taking Alexander outside, but she understood that even this was a concession. Were the nurse to have her way, Alexander would not only stay indoors, but he would do so as an inmate of the Royal Infirmary. She knew better than to press this discussion.
The nurse went on. “Y
ou have noticed his increased function in hands and arms. There is no way to know how far that function may continue to improve. There is very little evidence that his legs are strengthening, but on Doctor Fredericks’s orders, we continue to press for results.”
Isabelle nodded. “And how do you find his spirits?”
The nurse shook her head. “I am a practitioner of caring for the body. This talk of spirits is not within my purview. I am not being paid to make your husband happy. If there is nothing else,” she said, standing to leave the room. Isabelle nodded but could not find the will to stand and show her out.
Would Isabelle have no help in encouraging Alexander’s continuing happiness?
The next morning dawned rainy and bleak, and Alexander told her he would not be visiting the mill that day. “The nurse recommended I do not make so regular visits,” he said, watching the rain cover the parlor window. “She believes it is hindering my recovery. I can do nothing to increase production nor add to the success of mill work.”
Isabelle yearned to argue, wanted to remind him how happy his workers had been to see him and hear his voice. She wished she could convince him that the gentle business of relationships was as important to the success of his mill as the merchandise they produced. But she had a different kind of convincing to do this morning.
“Since we will not be venturing to the mill, will you agree to sit for Miss Glory if she will come to paint us today?”
Alexander did not attempt to hide his grimace.
Previously Isabelle would have taken a step back, changed the subject. But she was eager to have Glory finish their painting, so she did not rescind her request. She could be patient. She waited.
“If you wish it,” he finally said.
“Thank you,” she responded. “I do wish it, very much.”
Isabelle sent word to the Kenworthy family, and within an hour, Glory had arrived and set up paints and paper.
“Mrs. Osgood, today you do not need to sing to us,” Glory said. “You can play instead.”
Isabelle and Alexander Page 21