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

Ignoring the compliment to Isabelle, Alexander answered the doctor’s unasked question. “I need to get home. To Manchester,” he clarified, as if there was any question of which home he meant.

“I believe that is a good next step,” the doctor said, surprising Isabelle.

She moved closer to the doctor’s elbow and leaned in close. Quietly, she spoke. “Is that wise?” she asked. “Isn’t moving him a danger?”

Doctor Kelley smiled but shook his head. His eyes held worlds of sadness. “There are dangers inherent in any plan,” he said.

Alexander made a snorting noise. He said, “Dangers, indeed. A man could fall from a horse in a field he’d ridden in a thousand times.” If he’d meant that as a jest, it fell flat.

As though Alexander had not made that comment, the doctor said, “In the city you’ll benefit from physicians with more specialized experience.”

Isabelle was quick to defend the doctor. “Oh, sir. No one could take better care than you do.”

The doctor shook his head. “I was not looking for a compliment, Mrs. Osgood,” he said, his affection evident in his voice. “I only mean that our Alec might thrive among doctors and surgeons and caretakers who have more training with this kind of injury.”

At the mention of doctors and surgeons and caretakers, Isabelle felt an uncomfortable lessening of her distress, as if the doctor’s words could conjure a team of people who would know how to repair what had broken—how to cure and care for Alexander. Immediately she felt ashamed that she wanted someone else to do it.

This was her lot now. She had made a solemn vow.

This was her life. She could not pass this responsibility to anyone else.

The doctor reached inside his coat and handed Isabelle a folded paper. “Here are some people who should be able to answer your questions. I recommend you write to them while I secure safe and careful passage home to the city for you two.” He turned to Alexander. “Do you think you’ll be ready to travel within a week?”

“A week? I am prepared to leave today.”

Isabelle saw a palpable strain cross Alexander’s face, as if he were attempting to stand up and walk to Manchester.

The doctor shook his head. “No, you’re not. Don’t be foolish. Instead, continue to eat. Rest. Allow your wife to exercise your muscles. Grow strong.”

Alexander held the doctor’s gaze. The anger was gone from his face when he replied, “I will do my best.”

Doctor Kelley stepped close to the couch and placed his hand on Alexander’s shoulder. “Oh, my dear boy. Your best, indeed. No one could ask more.”

Isabelle watched her husband relax under the doctor’s soothing touch and wished she could have that kind of calming effect on him.

Doctor Kelley was true to his promise—their planned departure for Manchester was scheduled. Alexander spent time each day propped in a seated position, and Isabelle became, if not comfortable, at least competent in exercising his arms and legs.

She attempted conversations about his recovery. He made it clear he did not want to discuss mobility or the lack of it. She asked questions about his childhood spent here in the village, which he answered with as short replies as possible. She offered information and thoughts that could spark discussion, and again he refused to engage. With every rebuff, she grew less willing to try again until, by the second week’s end, they were barely speaking as she bent and straightened his arms and legs.

She remembered their first drive into the country, the quirk of his smile in the carriage as she prattled on about silliness. Would she ever again find comfort in speaking of insignificant things? Would he ever again find her amusing?

How was it possible she could be standing this close to him, touching his body, moving him in ways he could not move himself, and yet be unable to speak about important or unimportant things?

She would do it, she decided. She would simply open her mouth and tell him of some of the things she’d been thinking.

“I’ve made some inquiries,” she said, her voice quivering, “about mobile chairs.”

He responded with a grunt.

“Wheeled chairs are available for purchase several places in Manchester. If you prefer, we could have one custom made, although that costs rather a lot and would require several weeks’ wait.”

He said nothing.

She continued to talk as though he’d invited further conversation. “There are options. Chairs that could move you through the house, through the mill. I’d thought perhaps your Mr. Connor, who is so clever with machinery,” she said, glancing at him and seeing him staring at her, “might create something that fits between looms so you could continue to make rounds and inspect . . .” Her voice faded to silence as she saw the intensity of his glare.

Without taking his eyes from her, he said, “You’ve thought this through. Have you approached Mr. Connor with your ideas?” There was no emotion in his voice, no modulation of his tone. She hadn’t any clues to gauge his anger, but if the past weeks had taught her anything, it was that the newly immobile Alexander Osgood was a man who settled into an irritable mood rapidly. She placed his leg back on the couch and moved to lift his arm.

“I have not,” she said. She heard the defensiveness in her tone and wished it away. “I have written to no one in Manchester about your injury beyond my initial message to Mr. Kenworthy, at which time I was writing only to tell him we would likely be gone from the city longer than expected.”

When he said nothing, she met his eye for a brief moment. “It is not my information to share,” she added quietly, drawing his hand up and bending at his elbow.

Unable to maintain this uncomfortable eye contact, she turned her head slightly, recognizing the luxury of an ability that had always seemed a given. Only now that Alexander was without the capacity to turn away did she realize what she