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

we should get some rest. If it doesn’t put you out overmuch, I’ll stay and monitor his progress.”

Isabelle felt the muscles in her back begin to soften. “Stay here?” she asked. “Would you?”

At his nod, a flood of relief overtook her. If Doctor Kelley was the one who comforted Alexander in his fears, Doctor Kelley should be the one he saw when he reopened his eyes.

“Go on,” he said. “Try to sleep for a few hours. I’ll be sure to send for you if there is any change.”

“Do, please,” Isabelle said, feeling the shaking in her arms. “I believe I could sleep. Does that make me heartless?” she asked, mainly to herself.

“It makes you human, and that’s what we’re all aiming for, isn’t it?” He patted her shoulder and turned back to the parlor. “Rest well,” he said, his voice soft.

Isabelle climbed the stairs to the shared bedroom they had yet to share, feeling small and alone in the grand bed.

In the days of watching Alexander’s motionless form, Isabelle had busied herself in occasional moments writing letters: letters she intended to send. Now that Alexander had awakened, she posted a note to Mr. Kenworthy letting him know that Mr. Osgood’s absence would be extended, but with no further detail than “he’s been injured.” Her letter to her mother was more detailed, and the one she wrote to Edwin was the most full of both observations and fears.

Within a few days, return letters began to pour in. Mrs. Kenworthy, no doubt her husband’s confidante, wrote to ask for all the information Isabelle was prepared to share. Her request was solicitous, friendly, and polite. Isabelle felt the sincerity and affection of her new friend.

In stark contrast, her mother’s questions bordered on disinterest. Isabelle felt no need to answer when all she’d asked was what social events she’d miss, who was keeping up the Manchester house, and whether Isabelle had been eating.

“Honestly, Mother,” Isabelle muttered at the letter, setting it aside. Her mother seemed so often to miss the point.

Edwin’s letter, true to all Isabelle expected, asked the proper questions, poured on compliments, requested permission to drop everything and come help immediately, and even managed to make her laugh.

One line stood out to her. “You say he looked frightened. Belle, I’d be frightened too, if I woke in a room without a memory of how I’d arrived and unable to stand.” She appreciated his view of the matter, even if she doubted his ability to put himself entirely in Alexander’s place.

Mr. Kenworthy had sent a short note in response to Isabelle’s message and a large packet of papers addressed to Alexander. Perhaps Isabelle had been less clear than she should have been. But, she wondered, how could she have made herself understood? She could not have said what she meant: “Dear Mr. Kenworthy, Your employer is unresponsive and unmoving for several days now. Please carry on running the mill as you have begun, for I have no instructions to give you.” No. Somehow, even within all her uncertainties, she was certain that would not have pleased Alexander.

Pleasing Alexander was the question of today. And yesterday, and for the foreseeable future. She’d stayed mainly out of the parlor for the days since Alexander had awakened. Fearful of upsetting him, she’d busied herself elsewhere in the house, exploring the grounds, plucking flowers, bothering Mrs. Burns with unnecessary details, and generally feeling herself a nuisance. She left Doctor Kelley alone with his patient.

When the good doctor came to find her in the late morning a week after Alexander had awakened, she rose to greet him. Standing this near him, she could plainly see the toll the past few days of constant attendance had laid on him. His posture fairly called out weariness, and the skin beneath his eyes hung in purple pouches.

“Please, come and sit,” she said. They sat across the dining table. “How is he, Doctor?”

If Isabelle had thought him tired before, his sigh showed that he’d been hiding his true exhaustion. He rubbed his face and shook his head.

“Are you prepared to hear difficult news?” he said, his voice containing pain and sorrow.

“I wonder if there’s any longer such a thing as pleasant news,” Isabelle said, steeling herself.

“Mr. Osgood cannot move his legs at all.” Within the shock of these words, Isabelle recognized the formal use of Alexander’s name. She understood, in an intellectual manner that ignored everyone’s more personal interest in this situation, that the doctor was distancing himself in order to maintain professionalism. She wondered if Doctor Kelley would become emotional at the mention of this dreaded outcome if he’d spoken, instead, of Alec, the boy he had known and loved.

The doctor carried on in the same formal voice. “He has shown possibility of motion in his neck, however, so there is a chance he’ll be able to turn his head in time.”

Isabelle heard the doctor’s pause and realized that she should say something, but she had nothing to offer.

Doctor Kelley’s hand stroked the hair over his ear, but it seemed an unconscious motion. “Although his hands are still unresponsive, there are signs that his arms may also regain motion.”

Isabelle felt her mouth go dry and wished she’d asked for tea before this conversation had begun. It seemed so insensitive to do so now. She offered the doctor a nod to show she was still listening and understanding him. Clenching and unclenching her hands, she heard him say she would need to consider the probability of looking into long-term care. He mentioned the names of several hospitals that offered housing for the permanently wounded.

With the phrase “permanently wounded,” Isabelle felt her entire existence shift on its axis. Over the long and frightening days of the past week, she’d allowed her mind to flit between great hope of full recovery and complete marital felicity and the awful fear of widowhood. She had recognized, even as she moved through the days in a haze of exhaustion, that the reality would likely