As soon as she could break from the throng, she leaned against a wall and closed her eyes, gulping until her lungs felt satisfied.
Before long, she felt a hand on her shoulder. “Mrs. Osgood? Is that you?” a gentle voice asked. Isabelle opened her eyes and saw a young woman she’d met at the mill several times squinting into her face.
“It is,” she said, relieved to find that her voice sounded controlled. “Is it difficult to recognize me?”
“Impossible, more like,” the girl said. “You look a fright, if I may be so bold.”
Isabelle held up her hands and saw that her arms, blackened, swollen, and bleeding, did indeed defy recognition. If the rest of her reflected such a state, Isabelle wondered if she would even know herself in the glass.
“Here,” the girl said, handing Isabelle a folded piece of fabric. “Put this on.”
Isabelle unfolded it and saw that it was a dress cover, one the workers used to protect their clothing.
“I think my dress is beyond saving,” Isabelle said.
The young woman leaned closer and spoke quietly into Isabelle’s ear. “Aye, but someone’s bound to notice you’re without skirts before long.”
Isabelle felt a rush of emotion overtake her, finding it impossible not to laugh. The impulse, for all its unfamiliarity, frightened her a bit. She attempted to cover her mouth, but her fit of laughter could not be contained. She gave in to it, wrapping her arms around the dress cover and hiding her head until her frantic moment passed.
The girl remained at her side, a hesitant hand hovering over Isabelle’s arm. Recovering her composure and covering her shift with the jacket, Isabelle said, “Thank you . . .”
“Grace,” the girl responded.
“Of course. I remember now. Thank you, Grace.” Wiping her eyes, Isabelle felt every portion of the energy that had carried her all afternoon, since she ran from the Kenworthys’ home, drain away. “Might you stay with me for a moment, until I feel stronger?”
Grace nodded, and her attendance did seem to add a measure of strength to Isabelle. “If it pleases you, I would be happy to find someone who can run to your home and tell Mr. Osgood that you are well.”
“Oh, dear,” Isabelle said. “This is going to come as a fearsome shock to him.”
“Aye, but he will be right happy that you are mostly unhurt.”
“I meant the fire. The mill. The damage,” she said, feeling the words turn to a mumble in her mouth.
Grace led her to a stair nearby and helped her to sit. “No harm to the building will matter as long as he knows you are well,” she said, as though she could possibly know.
Isabelle wished for the same assurance. She knew Alexander would be pleased that she was unhurt, but if the mill was destroyed, how much would her well-being matter? Would he blame her for her inability to quell the flame? Could he forgive such an offense? Alexander Osgood liked his wife, she knew, but he needed his mill. It defined him. Made him feel worthwhile.
She clasped her hands and winced, surprised at the shock of pain that radiated from her palms. She inspected her fingers, blackened and blistered and horrible. Every bit of skin on her hands was unrecognizable to her. She gently touched a finger to her face to find similar but less-substantial damage. One cheek burned with a tingling throb, and her eyes stung. The muscles in her legs, unused to the employment of this day, began to constrict and spasm.
As she sat on the step, more people exited the building. With them came a variety of explanations of what was happening inside. Isabelle heard snatches of several accounts, most of them, she imagined, including partial truth and significant embellishment.
“I wish I knew what was occurring in there,” Isabelle said.
A young boy, probably about twelve years old, ran past.
Grace called out to him. “Do you know the Osgoods’ home?”
He nodded.
“Please, will you take word to the master that his wife is well and that she will be along soon?” She sent him off with a gentle nudge and a smile.
Grace turned to Isabelle with a gentle smile. “May I see to your hands, ma’am?”
Isabelle nodded, though even that small motion took effort.
Grace ripped a few strips from the hem of the dress cover Isabelle wore, and then gently wrapped them around Isabelle’s wounded fingers.
“Thank you, Grace,” Isabelle said.
Another wave of workers exited the building. This time, word followed that the blaze was controlled.
Grace stood. “Are you certain the fire is out?” she asked a man with soot covering his arms. “Only, Mrs. Osgood should make her way home, but she wants to know the fire is out.”
The man knelt at Isabelle’s side and removed his cap. “Aye, we are out of danger and all thanks to you, I hear.” He ducked his head in deference but smiled at her. “Bit of a hero you are, if you don’t mind my saying.”
Isabelle could not find words to reply. She had done so little up there on the weaving room floor, and most of it in a blind panic. She merely shook her head.
The man held his cap against his heart and spoke again. “You contained and minimized the blaze so others could douse it. Without your help, the whole floor would have been lost, and maybe more.” He gazed up at the building before them. “Connor will stay on the weaving floor for the night, to keep his eye on things. Not a spark will escape his notice, I assure you. I hope I speak for us all when I thank you, ma’am.”
Isabelle’s relief came as a deep exhale, releasing both her worry and her remaining strength. Even seated, her legs shook. She wondered how she would find the ability to walk the few blocks back to the house.
As word of the dousing ran through the mingling workers, people began to timidly reenter the building, speaking of returning to their positions and, where possible, continuing their work. Isabelle was stunned; how did these people return to work, work as intricate and difficult as she’d seen it, as though they had not experienced such distress? The following thought was not much more comforting: perhaps this manner of job included shocks as terrifying as fire as everyday expectations.
These people were her neighbors. These families lived in the surrounding streets, and their lives were so different from her own. How could they be so strong?
Could she learn to be as well?
The least she could do for Alexander’s workers was thank them, and so she gathered her remaining strength and stood near the door, greeting the workers and expressing her appreciation for their good efforts. She hardly knew what she said to them, but she felt better knowing they had heard her attempt. Kind young Grace remained at her side until the last of the workers had reentered the mill.
“Are you needed inside?” Isabelle asked her, knowing the answer but hoping not to be left on her own.
“I shan’t leave you alone,” Grace said, and the simplicity of her kindness filled Isabelle with gratitude. “I believe I shall be forgiven for it,” she added with a smile.
“I shall put in a good word for you with the boss,” Isabelle said, hoping her jest was taken in the manner she meant it. She was finding it difficult to maintain her smile just then.
“Home, then, ma’am?” Grace made free to take Isabelle by the arm, but by the gentleness of her touch, Isabelle knew her injuries looked nearly as bad as they felt. They walked across the street, avoiding the messes of the roadways, and turned at the first block, where they were nearly overrun by a speeding wheeled chair.
Grace dropped Isabelle’s arm and stepped in front of her, protecting her from the unexpected onslaught. Isabelle gasped, unsure she could believe what she was seeing, and Yeardley skidded to a stop, pulling Alexander’s chair back from the ladies so as not to crash into them. Isabelle and Alexander both uttered cries of surprise at the sight of each other. Isabelle feared her appearance here, in the street and away from the mill,
might give the wrong idea.
She stepped closer to Alexander’s chair. “The fire is out. We stayed until we knew the mill was safe. Mr. Connor has everything well in hand, and your workers are unharmed and back inside,” Isabelle said, her words tumbling out in an effort to give Alexander no further reason to worry. “All is well,” she added.
When she saw Alexander looking from her bandaged hands to her face to her hair and back to the covering she wore as a skirt, she feared she may have underestimated the state she was in.
“Truly?” Alexander asked.
Isabelle nodded. “No one is hurt. Very little is lost, as far as I could tell.”
Grace stepped forward, bowing her head. “If I may, sir, all is well only because your lady herself fought the flames away.”
Isabelle shook her head. “I did very little.” She stopped speaking when she noticed Alexander shaking his head.
“No,” he said, and he held out his hands to her.
She put her bandaged fingers in his. He held her as gently as a breath.
“Are you really all right?” The words, ragged with fear and affection, fell on Isabelle’s ears like a blessing.
Isabelle found that she could not answer.
He continued. “You are injured,” he said, looking at her fingers. Then, raising his eyes again to her face, he spoke with a voice of agony. “I promised to keep you safe, and I failed. You are suffering.”
Attempting to comfort him, Isabelle shook her head. “I am well enough,” she said.
Alexander’s brow furrowed. “You are a great deal more than well enough. You have offered your strength when I had none, your patience as I pushed you away again and again.”
Isabelle’s breath caught in her throat.
He went on. “I have thought for months only of my discomfort and shame. Never of your own suffering. And now you have sacrificed your own health and safety to save my mill.” He looked beyond at the stone building rising up behind her. “It is a great gift, indeed, but would mean nothing at all were you not safe as well. Can you forgive a foolish man?”
Isabelle felt her knees buckle. She tried to answer, but words were slow to form.
Grace, standing at Isabelle’s shoulder, stepped forward. “As you can see, sir, your wife is well. A strong woman, and quick-thinking, too, she did us all a great service today. But perhaps it is time to get her home.”
“Thank you, Grace,” Isabelle said, her voice an exhausted whisper. “I shall not forget this kindness.”
The girl smiled and stepped away.
“Wait,” Alexander called to her.
Grace turned back.
“You may go home now, of course, if you wish,” he said.
Grace shook her head. “Soon enough, sir. I’ll go back inside and see what kind of use I can be to put the workings back together.” She nodded her head in farewell and moved toward the mill.
Alexander, still holding Isabelle’s bandaged hands, said, “Come. Sit.” He motioned to his chair. “You should not attempt to walk home.”
Too tired to argue, Isabelle allowed her legs to release and settled herself on Alexander’s lap in his chair, and then she steadied her aching head against his shoulder.
“Am I hurting you?” she murmured.
“Never,” he replied, raising his trembling arms to encircle her.
As Yeardley pushed the chair the remaining few blocks to the house, Isabelle closed her eyes and listened to Alexander whisper his gratitude in her ear.
Isabelle vaguely understood Mrs. Burns calling for Nurse Margaret, who appeared in the parlor muttering about such care falling outside her contracted duties.
Willing her back to straighten and her voice to strengthen, Isabelle turned to the nurse. “You are dismissed. Mrs. Burns and Doctor Kelley can tend to me very well.” She turned her face from the nurse and knew the woman had left only when Mrs. Burns leaned over Isabelle’s shoulder and said, “There is no question you had rather not have her in the room.”
Although the housekeeper’s words held no blame, Isabelle apologized. “I never speak that way,” she said, hoping Mrs. Burns would not begrudge Isabelle this breach of politeness.
Mrs. Burns shook her head. “About time, if you ask me,” she whispered, a grin lighting her face.
This gentle support allowed Isabelle to find some manner of ease once again.
All matters of cleaning, bandaging, report-filing, and repairing occurred without Isabelle thinking very much about them. She allowed herself a blessed release from thought as she sat in the parlor. Mrs. Burns, eager and capable, helped organize and carry out each duty that could bring comfort to Isabelle.
Within seconds of her skillful ministrations, however, Alexander pushed in, taking Isabelle’s hands gingerly in his own, applying cooling cloths, tenderly dabbing away the filth and soot, daubing salve onto her skin.
His movements reflected much care, both by their insistent tenderness and the obvious effort every movement cost him.
From his chair, he rolled out fresh, clean strips of cloth, light as clouds, and wrapped them gently around and around Isabelle’s hands. He let her go only when Mrs. Burns assured him Isabelle would feel far better without the scent of fire clinging to her hair.
Soon Isabelle found herself clean, her damp hair tied back in a braid down her back, sitting in the most comfortable parlor chair as Doctor Kelley inspected the work Alexander had done bandaging her blistered hand.
Even through the pain of her injuries, Isabelle felt herself drifting off into sleep.
“Please forgive me,” she said, covering another yawn. “I do not mean to offend.”
Doctor Kelley laughed. “My dear lady, we shall send you to sleep as soon as I am certain of your safety.”
The very thought of making it to her bed was fatiguing. “Not sure I can climb the stairs,” she murmured, sliding deeper into the cushioning of the chair.
Alexander said, “Stay. Please. Stay here, and I can keep watch over you tonight.”
Isabelle sat up slightly at the suggestion that he tend to her. “Oh, there is no need.”
“Forgive me for contradicting you, but there is a need. I need to know that you are well.” Alexander’s voice hitched a bit with an intake of breath. “Doctor, will you help her settle so she can rest?”
“A fine idea, lad.” Doctor Kelley arranged a footstool at the end of Isabelle’s chair and tucked a soft blanket about her.
She attempted to thank him, but her words slurred into the bliss of a deep, restful sleep.
She awoke to the sounds of Alexander’s voice, gentle and easy in a way she had never heard it. As she surfaced from sleep, she registered that he was speaking to her. Although her mind woke, her body was slow to move, and she listened to the sounds fall over her like a warm ray of summer sunlight.
She only realized she’d fallen back to sleep when she awoke yet again. She opened her eyes and saw Alexander holding the stationery box he’d given her at Christmas. “And I don’t know if you even saw what lay beneath,” he said. Her eyes fluttered closed.
His voice sounded tired the next time she woke enough to notice. “I wrote you this one after our first trip to Wellsgate, when I made rather a blunder of things,” he said, breathing out a sigh of regret. “And this next was an invitation to try the trip again. I was too cowardly to give them to you.”
Isabelle attempted to speak, but her body refused, and she drifted back into sleep.
Again she surfaced from her deep, healing sleep to hear his voice.
“This one,” he said, and she heard a small rustle of paper, “I dictated after I said some truly unkind words about the situation of your dear Glory. It was meant to be an apology, of course. It didn’t take long for it to become something else.”
He continued. “My dearest Isabelle,” he said, reading from a sm
all piece of creamy paper, “you never cease to amaze me with your patience and your grace. You love that girl, it is clear. Perhaps it means you can love me as well. Your attendance and kindness . . .” Isabelle heard the paper turn over before she drifted into sleep again.
Upon waking again, she saw Alexander straighten a pile of papers and place them into the bottom of the lovely wooden box, replacing the fresh stationery atop them. “Perhaps I shall read them to you again when you wake.”
Isabelle again wished to say something, but her body simply could not pull itself out of her sleep.
When she finally woke again, she heard his gentle voice continuing to address her. It felt as if he had never stopped whispering to her as she slept. He spoke as he gently rewrapped the bandages covering her hands.
“You shall heal completely; I know you shall.” His voice caressed her, and as she continued to wake, she realized his hand also stroked her. As he finished wrapping the bandage, his fingers skimmed the side of her face.
“Isabelle, how could I have lived if you had . . .” He did not finish the question. She immersed herself in the warmth of his fingers in conjunction with the tenderness of his speech and felt her eyes flutter open.
The room was filled with predawn darkness, but a single candle illuminated the corner of the room in which they sat. His chair was drawn as close to the side of her makeshift bed as it could be. She leaned into the warmth of his hand.
As much as Isabelle would have loved to lie on the chair in the parlor forever, basking in the tender ministrations of her husband, she knew he could not sustain this. Nor could she stay in the parlor as Doctor Fredericks carried out his next appointment with Alexander. She excused herself to the drawing room and slept again.
At the close of their exercise, Alexander’s exhaustion was clear, but he insisted upon caring for Isabelle’s wounds—unwrapping her coverings, applying cooling salves, and rewrapping her in clean, white cloths. She silently noted the shaking of his arms, clearly pushed beyond the limits of his newly strengthening muscles.
Isabelle and Alexander Page 24