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

Where she had—only moments before—seen the unspoiled glory of green lands and hills, she now saw a wilderness devoid of help or comfort.

Should she stay? Kneel here by the unmoving form of her husband? Hope someone wandered past?

Leave? Go find help? But where would help be? They’d ridden far from Wellsgate. She knew nothing of the homes or villages in the surrounding area.

What could she do? None of her practiced skills seemed appropriate to the moment; however, she could talk. “Alexander,” she said, feeling her heart ease at saying his name, “this is a problem, but not an insurmountable one. With my quick wits, we’ll have you rescued in no time. If only I knew how to organize a rescue here, alone, on this hillside.”

She rose to her feet. Her knees shook. Waves of heat and cold took turns shuddering over her body. Isabelle rooted her feet to the grass and stared at her husband’s motionless form. She scanned the valley from east to west and saw no one. The very idea of getting on her horse and leaving him here made her stomach ill. But without help, what could she do for Alexander? She tried to think of what he would want her to do, but she knew so little of his heart, it was impossible to guess what he might prefer.

“Alexander?” Her voice came out no louder than a whisper, and a shaky one. She was afraid to touch his face, worried he might recoil from her hand and hit the stone again.

She knelt beside his body and reached for his hand. As she picked it up, his fingers did not tighten around hers. She could see his chest moving very slowly beneath his vest.

“Alexander.” He couldn’t hear her. She was almost sure of that. But she had to do something, and talking was the only thing of which she felt currently capable. “You have had a fall. Your horse is fine, as I am sure you’ll be glad to know.” She glanced over at Goblin, who stood munching grass and not at all concerned with the fate of his master. “You’re alive. I am glad of it, all things considered.” She imagined that, had he been able to hear her voice, this might have coaxed a smile.

“I wonder if there is something I should be doing. Should I attempt to make you sit up?” She could see no response. “Should I force you to wake?” She wasn’t certain why it made her feel better to ask him questions she knew he wouldn’t answer, but there was that small possibility her bothersome chatter would wake him from whatever sleep he was now in.

“Once,” she said, settling herself next to his torso and pulling his hand onto her knees, “I fell off a horse. I didn’t do quite as effective a job as you’ve done of it. I landed hard and lost my breath and frightened the forest creatures with my crying. Edwin made me promise not to tell my father because he would have been furious. Ed ran off to find someone who could help me home. By the time he returned for me, he claims I was on my feet, lurching in circles, and muttering every forbidden word in the English language. I deny all recollection of colorful speech.”

She glanced again at his face, his eyes. He remained still.

“Oh, you’re not surprised, are you? Well, if I thought it would make you wake, I’d have a few of those colorful words to say to you now.” Isabelle felt a breeze cool the tears on her cheeks. Her pretense of casual silliness felt wrong, somehow, when in her heart she staggered under the fear of the unknown.

“Alexander? Please?” She couldn’t manage to finish the sentence. She wasn’t certain exactly what she was begging for.

Isabelle didn’t know how long she sat there, huddled over Alexander’s still form, when a man on horseback came upon them. She didn’t remember asking for help or watching other men carry Alexander away or making her way back to the house. Next thing she properly experienced was sitting at the small kitchen table at Wellsgate and drinking a very sweet cup of tea.

Mrs. Burns sat across the table, watching the level of Isabelle’s tea, hand close to the kettle and ready to refill.

Isabelle shook her head as though to clear away further cloudiness in her mind. “I apologize for being distracted,” she said.

Mrs. Burns reached across the table and patted Isabelle’s hand. “Nothing of the kind, dear. You’ve had a bad shock. But the doctor is hopeful, and so must we be.”

Isabelle barely remembered what the doctor looked like, much less what he’d said to her. She nodded. “Hopeful, indeed. Will you kindly remind me what he said?” She hoped Mrs. Burns would see her lapse in memory as evidence of her upset and not of uncaring.

“’Tis a bad blow to the head, to be sure, but the master’s breathing is uniform, and he’s not fevered. Doctor will be back this evening and once again early in the morning.”

All of this sounded vaguely familiar, and Isabelle nodded.

“I think I’ll go sit with Mr. Osgood for a while. Please don’t bother with a formal meal this evening. Perhaps some cold beef and bread?”

Mrs. Burns nodded and cleared the teacup. “Anything you need. Be off with you now, and sit with the master.”

Her gentle cheer and thoughtful kindness gave Isabelle the courage to step into the parlor, where the doctor had Alexander laid on a couch. One arm lay bent at the elbow, his hand upon his chest. If Alexander had been the kind of person to sleep upon a couch, he might have appeared to be resting.

Isabelle could find no such rest. She paced the parlor from side to side, and when she grew weary of that, she paced the perimeter. She ate when Mrs. Burns reminded her to do so. She slept when she could no longer stand. Very few specific thoughts that ran