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

simple, and texture-free. “Well, nothing, I am afraid. But in defense of your doctor and your cook, I’d like to remind you that you are, in fact, recovering from a fall.”

Another near-silent breath of scorn followed. “Recover­ing,” he said, as though that was a ridiculous notion.

Isabelle had no idea how to respond to that, so she spooned up another bit of food and placed it near his mouth. With each resentful swallow, Alexander seemed to slip deeper inside himself, closing or averting his eyes.

She wondered if she should attempt playful humor or the kind of busy chatter that had previously amused him. But watching the obvious pain with which every moment passed, she determined not to minimize what he was suffering with any of her silliness.

After several bites, Alexander said, “No more.”

Although he’d made hardly a dent in the food on the tray, Isabelle recognized that he’d eaten more than she’d expected. Unfortunately, her instructions from the doctor from this point forward were far less explicit than she wished. Doctor Kelley had told Isabelle to give Alexander food, help him rest, and keep his mind off worrying topics.

“Perfectly simple,” she murmured, moving the breakfast tray away.

Alexander trained his eyes on her. “What?” As his voice came out in a whisper, it was difficult for Isabelle to read his tone.

She decided to respond as if he’d been casually interested, as if they’d been having a conversation like any other husband and wife at breakfast.

“Doctor Kelley would like to see you rest today,” she said, keeping her voice light. “If you’d like, I could read to you.”

He scowled.

She swallowed her breath of resentment. “I am sure I could find something in the house boring enough to put you to sleep quickly,” she said, watching his face for any twinge of humor.

There was none.

“I’ve done nothing but rest for—how long has it been?” he asked.

Did he actually not know?

“It’s Wednesday. Your . . . fall,” she said, hoping not to upset him further by referring to the accident in too direct terms, “was Friday last.”

“Ten days?” More air than volume rushed out of his mouth, but the thunderous set of his eyebrows proved as well as shouting would have that he was greatly displeased.

Isabelle picked up a candle snuffer and turned it in her hands. “Eleven, really, depending how you count them,” she clarified.

“I must get back.” Every word he said was accompanied by a puff of air, as if the very act of speaking required every effort of each of his remaining body systems.

Isabelle felt a shock at his words. A part of her feared she might laugh aloud.

She arranged her features into a blank expression. “Back? To Manchester?”

Moving nothing but his eyebrows and mouth, Alexander managed a flawless look of contempt. “Of course, back to Manchester,” he said. “No good will come by staying here.” He cast his gaze to the other side of the room, his only way of turning away from her.

His dismissal bit into the small comfort she had felt when he allowed her to feed him. No good? How would he know? He had been asleep for most of a week. He had no idea of the good that had been done.

She bit back a dozen replies that would have countered the doctor’s counsel to keep Alexander calm. Even though she didn’t say any of them aloud, it pleased her that the thoughts came so quickly to her mind. At least her brain hadn’t gone completely feeble in the loneliness of the past few months.

She stood. “You and I,” she said, “are neck-deep in uncharted waters. Since neither of us has any idea what to expect or what to do, we must follow the doctor’s orders.”

She smoothed her skirts with both hands. “Those orders say you need to eat, which you did, and rest, which you shall. I will remove any irritants, including myself, from the room.” She reached for the tray and swept out of the parlor before she felt the first tear fall.

Dropping the tray in the kitchen, she walked out the back door and into the field on the east side of the house. A hint of the autumn that was to come hung in the air, a softness in the breeze. Bright-red toadstools covered a patch of damp ground beneath a tree. Hedgerows dotted with purple blackberries, red rosehips, and yellow crab apples surrounded the wild garden. On another day, in a different mood, this would have enchanted Isabelle. Today, she felt her calfskin boots kick against the ground as though the turf had personally offended her.

Steps away from the house, a towering beech tree stretched laden branches to the sky. Isabelle reached up and tore a dangling switch from the lowest arm, striking it into a pile of newly fallen leaves. Attacking more piles of golden foliage, Isabelle gave voice to her frustrations.

At first in a mutter and then rising to a shout that would have shocked her mother, Isabelle gave vent to her anger. “You’re welcome, Mr. Osgood,” she said, whacking the stick into a nearby shrubbery. “It’s my pleasure,” she spat, “to sit by your side and assist you in basic survival.”

The switch came down on a hedge, scattering loose leaves and springing back. “I beg your pardon,” she shouted, “if I am less efficient than a trained doctor at caring for your injuries!”

“I am delighted,” she hit the stick against a rock again and again, “to attempt to read your mind. It’s a joy to try to decipher your mood based on whether you are angry, angrier, or most completely angry. Possibly if you’d ever spoken to me of things in your heart,” she picked up a small stone and threw it across the field, “I’d have some idea of what you’re feeling now.”

She spun around and threw the stick, bellowing to the empty field, “I did not ask for this! I could have found a way to be happy had you given me any indication that you cared for my