Isabelle and Alexander, Rebecca Anderson [nonfiction book recommendations .TXT] 📗

the window to see that, in fact, it was not. A misty rain dripped off the ends of rooflines and lampposts. Isabelle allowed herself a bemused look at the housekeeper, who, she understood, was only doing her best.

Isabelle tugged at the edge of the small table beside her.

“Are you ready to speak about new fittings and furnishings, ma’am?” The housekeeper had broached the subject several times, but Isabelle had felt unequal to making decisions about purchases without Alexander’s input. As he did not appear interested in discussing furniture any more than speaking of anything else, Isabelle continued to evade. The dark hangings, paintings of hunting scenes, and heavy wooden furniture reflected nothing of herself.

“Perhaps a lighter and smaller set of tables and chairs in the drawing room,” Isabelle said, knowing that Mrs. Burns was attempting to help her find her place in the house.

The housekeeper nodded in appreciation and promised to look out for some prospects.

“I feel sure Mr. Osgood will be delighted with any changes you’d like to make,” she said. Since their return from Wellsgate, Mrs. Burns had continued to mention, subtly and not so subtly, that she was certain Mr. Osgood was glad to have Isabelle here. Perhaps it would go better if Mrs. Burns told Mr. Osgood himself.

But Isabelle understood that Mrs. Burns’s relationship with Alexander was a delicate balance. Suggesting the use of certain rooms for certain occasions was within the housekeeper’s purview. Telling him how to treat his wife was not.

“Post’s come, and here’s a letter for you, ma’am.” Mrs. Burns handed Isabelle an envelope.

When she saw Edwin’s handwriting, she clasped it between her palms and allowed herself a smile of relief.

“Thank you,” Isabelle said, feeling like she’d been saved from drowning. She took the first full breath in what felt like weeks. Her thanks hadn’t felt like enough. “Thank you,” she said again.

Although Isabelle well recognized the look of compassion on Mrs. Burns’s face, the housekeeper continued to behave with propriety.

If, in the course of her duties of the next hour, Mrs. Burns passed the sitting room and saw her mistress alternating between laughter and tears, she made no mention of it to Isabelle.

Reading her cousin’s letters once was never enough. Isabelle knew that Edwin’s style—galloping over news and gossip—would both make her lonesome and somehow connected to all that was happening at the Lakes. What she did not expect was this line, placed in the midst of a report about the weather and their favorite horse’s colt: “Dearest, you remember I told you about Charlotte Owen, don’t you?”

Isabelle remembered no such name, but she knew this was another part of Ed’s style. He was preparing her for something. The next line clarified.

“I’ve decided I simply can’t live without the both of you, and since I can no longer have you here with me, now that you’ve been carried off to the steel jungles of Manchester, I’ve asked her to marry me.”

Isabelle gasped aloud. Past the pounding of her heart in her ears, she heard Mrs. Burns enter the room.

“I am fine,” she tried to say, but a sob broke through the words. She stood from the chair, clutched the letter in her fingers, paced to the window, looked out at the damp, chilly city, and reread the words. I’ve asked her to marry me.

Marry.

Isabelle did not know how long she stood at the window, clutching the letter in her hands while Mrs. Burns stood at a polite and proper distance, but when she could stand there no longer, she wiped her eyes and moved back toward the couch.

“I hope all is well,” the housekeeper said.

“Very well, thank you.” She knew her voice sounded anything but well. Oh, what Isabelle would give to have a friend who understood this cruel mix of betrayal and devastation she was experiencing! Come to think of it, Isabelle would be very happy to know exactly why she felt so heartbroken.

Perhaps because Edwin was still quite young, only having come into his majority last year. This news was a bit of a shock.

Perhaps because she never imagined he would survive without her. Of course, whatever he felt for Miss Charlotte Owen was vastly different from the familial relationship he and Isabelle had fostered. But would Charlotte replace Isabelle in Edwin’s heart? If Isabelle was no longer to be Edwin’s dearest, who then would she be?

Where could she turn to sort through her feelings?

There was only one place she’d felt sure clarity since coming to Manchester.

“Mrs. Burns, I am going to visit Mrs. Kenworthy for a short time. I shall be home before anyone misses me.” For who, indeed, would miss her? She felt the truth of those words as surely as she knew an hour in the Kenworthy parlor would shake loose the pieces of her heart that were stabbing at her.

“Shall I call the carriage?” Mrs. Burns’s voice held the sympathy she could not, within the bounds of propriety, give words to.

Isabelle wiped her eyes again, grateful for the lace handkerchief tucked into her sleeve. “Thank you, no. I should enjoy the walk.”

The walk to the Kenworthy home, though wet and dirty, went by in a blink. Her feet seemed to lead her there with no need for her mind to plan the next steps.

When the Kenworthys’ housekeeper opened the door, she startled Isabelle by saying, “Law, Mrs. Osgood. You’re wet through.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon. Mrs. Kenworthy is not expecting me.”

“I daresay not on foot in weather such as this,” she responded. Her smile removed all possible judgment from her words. “Please, come into the parlor, and I’ll let her know you’re here.”

When Isabelle realized how damp she’d gotten, she refused to sit on any of the furniture, standing at the window and watching the rain. Feeling her skin chill, she began to question the advisability of her choice to walk when Glory came into the room at a bound.

“Mrs. Osgood, how nice of you to come for a visit,” she said, the proper words