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

her head to hide a grin and a blush. “Thank you, ma’am. There’s more in the kitchen if he comes looking.”

“So you think I should feel free to finish this?” Isabelle said, pulling Alexander’s plate across the table.

“If there’s anything improper in it, you can count on me not to mention it, ma’am,” the girl said with a grin Isabelle appreciated and returned.

There was indeed a comfort in eating another serving of the sweet and sticky pudding, and when she’d finished, she went to her room to change into night clothes. For a moment, she wondered if she should venture out on her own, see a show or walk through a park, but the noise and dirt of Manchester kept her inside, wrapped in a warm cotton blanket made of woven cloth from Alexander’s mill. In a manner of speaking, she decided, he was keeping her warm this evening.

She sighed again, recognizing the frequency with which she made that sound. If this had not been a sigh of contentment, it was, at the very least, not despair. If her marriage, if her life, had not turned out precisely as she’d planned or hoped, she knew at least it was not a life of tragedy or hopelessness. She had a comfortable home and a handsome and successful husband. She tried and failed to ignore that he seemed most happy when he was away from her. But he had chosen. He had made the marriage arrangement with her father. If he regretted it now, there was very little else for him to do but stay busy at the mill.

Which he did.

Constantly.

Another sigh roused her from her discouraging contemplation. She sat at the small table in her dressing room and wrote a reply to Edwin’s letter, in which she extolled the pleasures and virtues of a well-made match. It was easy to say the words if she thought only of the marriages she’d seen and imagined in the past. When she thought of the lonesome reality, the words did not come in such a flow.

Once, twice, she put the pen down and walked around the small room, shaking out the dusty corners of self-pity. She tried to remember the way Alexander had looked at her at dinner.

His eyes had fixed on her, traveling from her simple hairstyle to her partially revealed shoulders to her face and back again.

She could convince herself that he was pleased with her; he’d given her more compliments at that meal than in most of their conversations combined. He’d certainly liked the look of her in the dress.

She had not imagined his inclination to gaze at her, of that she was sure.

She seated herself again and collected her thoughts enough to write to Edwin that quiet dinners at home were the joy of married life and that visiting made for pleasant days. None of that was untrue.

She restated her most sincere congratulations for his engagement and told him how she hoped he’d find all the happiness in the world with his Charlotte. She hurriedly sealed the letter before a tear could smudge the ink. She climbed into the bed in her dressing room and prayed for sleep to take her thoughts away.

Sleeping in the dressing room allowed for a quiet and luxurious lie-in, but the next morning and so many others, she missed the warmth of a bedroom fire. When she was certain it was late enough that Alexander would be gone to the mill, she roused herself and dressed before going down to eat breakfast. On the corner of the dining table, she found a sealed note addressed to her. The masculine handwriting was unfamiliar. How odd. Sitting at the table, she cracked the seal and read.

Dear Mrs. Osgood,

I am indeed sorry that I had to cut last evening short. It would be my pleasure if you’d agree to accompany me to Wellsgate on Friday to stay four days. Your company would be most welcome. Perhaps, once there, you could ride out with me, get to know our horses, and compare the beauties of the countryside with those of your childhood home.

Sincerely,

Alexander

He wanted her to join him? Again? Even after the fairly cold and distant outcome of their last journey?

She reread the letter and recognized that was precisely what he had said.

Isabelle’s surprise was great, but not to outweigh her pleasure at the invitation. He wanted her to come. He wanted her to ride with him, to talk with him. Alexander wanted to spend time in her company.

She traced the words Sincerely, Alexander with her finger.

She clutched the note close to her heart and allowed herself a small laugh. Was this what it felt like to be courted? Perhaps there was hope for the Osgoods yet, she thought. Perhaps they were simply going through the usual process in reverse.

Isabelle sat in the enclosed carriage remembering the last visit to Alexander’s country home and her silly game of trying his patience. How she had intended to annoy him but had surprised them both by provoking a smile or two out of him.

She wished she had the courage today to chatter mindlessly again. Instead, the excitement she’d allowed herself to feel in anticipation of this visit made her dumb. She could think of nothing either clever or inane to say to him. Her wanting filled her with self-doubt and squashed her ability to be entertaining. She stared silently at the light-blue hangings partially covering the windows and felt each bump in the road.

As they pulled into the lane at Wellsgate, the quiet in the carriage had become oppressive. She wondered if she should remark on the thickness of the hedgerow or the greenery of the meadow or the heaviness of the clouds. None of that seemed at the least interesting. And why, she thought with a shadow of annoyance, should she have to carry all the responsibility of conversation? Could he not hear the echoing silence? Could he not help her? Could he not