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

to happen. She turned her head and angled her mouth toward his ear so she could be heard. “I wanted to see the mill.”

If he thought it odd that she’d never seen the mill when her husband was in it, he said nothing. He nodded and motioned for her to follow him. As if he showed the owner’s wife around the facility on a regular basis, he made space for her to follow him through the room without interfering with the intricacies being enacted on every side.

Mr. Connor led Isabelle to a set of double doors. Upon exiting the work floor, they stepped into a foyer where a different set of doors led out to the street. Had she not followed one of the workers inside, Isabelle might have found this door and entered into the quieter lobby.

As Mr. Connor pointed out a maplike directory on the wall, Isabelle saw that each floor of the massive building held a separate workspace. If each level’s space was appointed like the main floor, this building could hold hundreds of roaring machines. She gave herself a moment to contemplate that this building, although five levels high, was one of the smaller mills in the district. The sheer volume of Manchester’s industry staggered her mind.

Now that she was out of the work floor and in the lobby, other senses began to register input. Isabelle’s nose itched with the onslaught of sharp scents; some, like burning coal and engine oil, she recognized, while others combined into a mysterious miasma of smells she could not identify. She thought now that she had expected the place to smell like a clean bedsheet warmed by the sun. It did not. Although it was unfamiliar, she sensed a comfort she imagined one could grow into—the scents of a place where one spent a great deal of time could either attract or repel.

Mr. Connor led Isabelle into a stairwell, pointing upward to signal they were going to climb. As soon as the door closed behind them, the sounds of the ground-level room muffled even further to a dull grumble. Though far from silent, the significantly reduced sound in the stairwell threw Isabelle off balance, and she reached out to cling to the stair railing.

“It’s a bit like putting your head underwater, isn’t it?” Mr. Connor asked, and Isabelle was reminded she had always found his voice unnecessarily loud when he spoke to Alexander in their home. There was one mystery explained.

Before he opened the door at the top of the stairs, he turned and asked her if she was ready. As she had no idea what she was about to experience, she didn’t know whether she was ready or not.

“I am,” she said.

In fact, she wasn’t.

The room was filled with rows and rows of metal machines, rolling spindles clanking. Men and women seemed to fly past her, and children who looked as young as nine or ten ran from one machine to the next, unhooking, rethreading, gathering, and clearing away whatever needed attending.

Mr. Kenworthy bustled past his workers to come greet Isabelle. He pumped her hand and said something, only a few words of which (“very kind, very pleased”) Isabelle could distinguish. Mr. Connor leaned close to Mr. Kenworthy’s ear and shouted something to which Mr. Kenworthy nodded. The portly gentleman handed the younger one a set of keys from his pocket.

Mr. Connor led Isabelle back to the main floor, turned at a break in a wall, and used the keys to unlock a door. He ushered Isabelle into the small but comfortable office and gestured to a chair. Closing the door, he again muffled the sounds of the work floor.

On the desk sat a small silver frame within which was a pencil-drawn miniature. She made herself bold to lean over and look at it, startled to see her own face. This must have been something her father had sent to Alexander in the time they were formalizing the marriage contract. All the prescribed details, rather unpleasant and archaic-seeming to Isabelle at the time, were beneath her notice. She only needed to know that she was marrying a successful man who would ensure continued business for her father’s mining operation. Her mother promised he was spoken of as very handsome. Isabelle had not assumed there was anything more personal in the arrangement.

Now, seeing this snug but pleasant workspace holding a drawing of her face, Isabelle felt a flush of pleasure.

Mr. Connor politely ignored Isabelle’s reaction. “This is Mr. Osgood’s office. He meets with clients here and interviews employees.”

Surprised, Isabelle asked, “He meets with the workers?”

“Aye. Asks about their experience. Monitors their well-­being, is how he says it.” Mr. Connor continued. “He wants his workers to feel like this is their mill as well as his own. Many of the mills in the city cycle through workers. One sustains an injury or grows tired of his hours or how he’s treated and moves next door until that place disappoints him. But Mr. Osgood keeps his crews.”

Isabelle felt a swelling of pride upon hearing this. She knew, because her father told her, that Alexander’s mill was successful, but she’d thoughtlessly attributed that success simply to the quality of his product. Now she was beginning to understand that he had created procedures that led to more satisfied workers.

“It’s been eight years now since Mr. Osgood took ownership,” Mr. Connor said, “as you well know.”

Isabelle in fact had not known, and she was grateful Mr. Connor had the kind of pride in his work and his employer that prompted him to offer such details.

“With each year’s profits,” Mr. Connor explained, “he replaces some of the original equipment. In the new mills, you see, nothing wooden is allowed to be inside the building. Too dangerous. With all the hot oil and the friction, many of the old mills experienced accidents. It wasn’t uncommon for a spark to ignite and the whole operation to flare into flame.”

Isabelle saw a shudder cross his shoulders. Remembering the hulking