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

into a pot for soup. “I hope that is a common sentiment, ma’am. Being prepared to love the choice your friend has made, I mean.”

Isabelle picked up a spoon from the table and turned it in her hands. “I am not sure how common it is. My parents knew Mr. Osgood before I did. They thought highly enough of him to arrange this for us.”

Mae looked up and said, “It’s not a love match, you and the master?” The knife she held clattered to the table as Mae dropped it and covered her mouth. “Oh, dear, I do apologize. I didn’t mean . . .” Her voice trailed off as she shook her head, clearly attempting to recall her words.

Isabelle was unruffled. She picked up the knife and handed it back. “I have not known Mr. Osgood for long,” she said, “but I have not given up hope.” She sent Mae a smile to show the girl she hadn’t committed a drastic violation of propriety. Perhaps in the city, this kind of conversation would never happen between them, but nothing in the country was as she had expected it to be.

“That is a lovely thought, ma’am. Especially considering all that has happened here over the past weeks. If I may say, you were welcomed into Mr. Osgood’s household with a great deal of love and admiration.”

“He hasn’t any family,” Isabelle said. “There was nobody to win over.”

Mae ducked her head. “Forgive me if it’s impertinent to mention it, but Mrs. Burns thinks very highly of you.”

It was the first time the idea had occurred to Isabelle that the house staff considered themselves to be part of Mr. Osgood’s family. Which meant they thought of themselves as the entirety of his family, as there was no one else. She knew Mrs. Burns had been the first domestic help Alexander had acquired, and now that she thought of it, it was natural for the woman to feel maternal toward him.

“Not impertinent at all,” she said, although she wasn’t completely certain how to maintain the proper boundaries of household relationships. Her parents’ serving staff stayed belowstairs and performed their work as though invisible, but she and Alexander had a different life than that of her parents, and times were, as she often noted, changing.

“Thank you for allowing me to interrupt your work,” Isabelle said, rising from her seat and replacing it where she’d taken it from. “It feels lovely to have someone to talk with.”

Mae smiled. “If there’s anything special you’d like me to cook for you, please let me know.”

“I am very glad to eat what Mr. Osgood eats,” she said. “But I wouldn’t mind a custard with berries if the ingredients are available.”

“I believe that is not too much to ask,” Mae said, throwing Isabelle another smile.

Upon returning to Manchester, Isabelle poured her efforts into arranging the house for Alexander. For the first time, she wished the house were situated differently; were all the rooms on the same level, he’d have a greater chance of making his way through his own home without encountering unsurmountable obstacles.

Obstacles like stairs.

Once the mark of elegance and acceptability, the main staircase in the Manchester house now proved a barrier to Alexander’s privacy. Without access to his rooms abovestairs, he was again situated in a parlor, and life carried on around and all about him.

And if Isabelle had thought she’d resettle into the life she’d left only a few weeks ago, she’d have been surprised at the difference having Alexander at all times present would make.

Mrs. Burns helped organize the removal of the bed from Alexander’s dressing room down to the parlor. A ready-made wheeled chair was ordered, and all furniture was moved from the middle of each room to the edges so he could be moved freely throughout the main level. The drawing room, generally ignored in favor of the parlor, had very little furniture about it other than a divan and a couple of seats, but Alexander’s dining chair was taken away from the table so that when he was ready, he could be brought into the dining room for meals.

The day they arrived back in the city, Yeardley and Jonathan, the driver, carried Alexander inside the house. Isabelle wished she could cause a distraction on the other side of the street to avert all eyes away from the sight of Alexander being loaded into the house like an overlarge bundle of stove wood. All she could do was hope that he chose, as he tended to do when she was exercising his legs, to close his eyes and ignore his surroundings.

Once installed on the bed in the parlor, Alexander set about dictating letters with Yeardley, demanding appointments with Mr. Kenworthy and Mr. Connor, and asking any and every person who passed the parlor door to fetch him something or other from his rooms or from the mill.

Isabelle installed herself in the drawing room opposite, but she wondered after half a day if she’d be still long enough to sit down at the table to write a note to Mrs. Kenworthy. After multiple trips up to Alexander’s dressing room for a pillow, a different pillow, his dressing gown, a blanket more suited to early October, and his favorite painting of a hunting party, Isabelle felt her legs might give way.

Chiding herself for complaining, even if only in her mind, she remembered how grateful Alexander would be if only he could run up the stairs himself.

Upon recommendation from Doctor Kelley, Alexander had chosen a physician in Manchester who had treated several people with spinal injuries. He had begun to earn a reputation for successful rehabilitation.

A knock on the door was followed by several voices. Isabelle came to the entry hall to find three men lifting the large wheeled chair over the threshold.

Mrs. Burns stepped to Isabelle’s side. “Mrs. Osgood, may I present Doctor Fredericks?” She motioned to the gentleman supervising the lifting. He glanced at Isabelle and gave her a bare nod. Before she