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

husks of burned-out buildings on the canal, she understood his reaction.

“Now, you’ve seen the floors where most of the machinery is made of solid steel, milled on the other side of the canal, poured and formed right here in the city. As soon as Mr. Osgood gets back on his feet, I reckon we can increase production and have all old equipment replaced within five years.”

Back on his feet. Isabelle silenced her urge to confide Alexander’s actual condition with Mr. Connor. Instead, she murmured a general sound of agreement and asked how he, a man so young, became such an indispensable part of Mr. Osgood’s team.

A genuine smile overspread Mr. Connor’s face. “When I started working here, I was a runner, still small enough to go beneath the looms and pick up dropped parts and change bobbins. When the owners decided to leave, Mr. Osgood offered to buy out the whole affair—building, equipment, and employees. All the workers had the choice to stay or go. I stayed.” His smile did not falter. “This mill has been a salvation for me.”

Isabelle felt a rush of gratitude that Mr. Connor’s experience had been so pleasant. She’d heard enough stories of the dangers to the bobbin runners of past generations to know her mind. She held strong opinions against mills employing children. From the safety of her childhood home, she’d often expressed her opinions. Loudly. But, as her father had once pointed out over dinner, if an owner threw the child workers out, they’d not eat. Which was worse, giving them work that endangered them or taking away the employment that put food in their mouths? Perhaps he could simply pay the parents more, but as soon as she thought it, she understood that the money would have to come from somewhere. Isabelle had realized then that there wasn’t an easy answer.

Mr. Connor continued. “Mr. Osgood insisted I attend school every morning and held my job for me in the evenings. I grew into my adulthood here in the mill, and Mr. Osgood has advised me and instructed me and trained me up.”

“And do you plan to purchase a mill of your own one day?” Isabelle asked.

“Ah, no, ma’am. I will work for Mr. Osgood for as long as he’ll have me. I have no desire to be an owner. I’m only standing in for Mr. Osgood while he’s ill. Can’t wait to get my hands back on the machines.” He explained that his usual work began near the end of a day, at the break between day shift and night, when he could walk each of the mill’s floors, listening, as he said, “to the voices of the machines.” Then, when the day workers left for the evening, he’d spend the night hours in the less-crowded areas repairing, maintaining, and cleaning the equipment.

This explained to Isabelle his tendency to bring Alexander back to the mill in the evening hours, a practice that had offended and hurt her in the past. She’d imagined Alexander was looking for any excuse to leave her company, when in fact, he was taking great care to ensure the safety of his machines, and therefore, his workers.

Taking her leave of Mr. Connor and thanking him for his time and attention, she exited through the weaving floor, catching drifts of cotton snow on her coat and hat.

As she walked down King Street after visiting the busy, swarming mill, the surge of the crowds on the street seemed less oppressive. Maybe Manchester wasn’t a heartless bustle of a city. Perhaps all these people simply had important responsibilities to attend to. As she looked at them each as a person with a meaningful destination, as opposed to ­obstacles or inconveniences, she began to realize that all citizens of Manchester took a role in the work. Some produced. Some sold. Some purchased. Some consumed. Some prepared, cleaned, entertained.

And perhaps even she, Isabelle Rackham Osgood, had a part to play in the life of the city.

When Isabelle returned to Alexander’s house—returned home, she corrected herself—she had time to change from her smudged and oil-scented dress before dinner. She chose the pink gown Alexander liked, tucked up a few stray strands of hair, and went downstairs.

Alexander was already seated at the table in his wheeled chair. He watched her walk into the room, and a small smile came to his lips. “Forgive me for not standing,” he said as she entered.

For a moment, Isabelle stopped still. This was by far the warmest welcome he’d given her since their return. And the healthiest he’d appeared.

His voice sounded stronger. Perhaps sitting up helped his breathing. The smile certainly helped.

“Mr. Osgood,” she said, smiling in return as she crossed the room to take the chair beside him, “I believe you’re joking with me. Take care, or I might learn to expect such a thing. Please keep your seat, sir. I can forgive this small lapse of propriety in this case.”

Heart full of his kind reception and thoughts of the pride his business had instilled in her, she leaned over and kissed his cheek before sitting in her chair.

When she looked at him again, his face registered a look of astonishment, but not disappointment. She warmed yet again with the understanding that she’d shocked him in the best kind of way.

Mrs. Burns brought in soup, and as Isabelle raised a spoonful to Alexander’s lips, she told him the story of the day.

“I wanted to pay a call on Mrs. Kenworthy, as she’s my only actual acquaintance in the city, but it was not an auspicious time.”

He swallowed and asked, “Was Glory very bad?”

Tipping the spoon into the soup again, she answered carefully. “I didn’t see her, of course, but it appeared the home was in a bit of a frenzy.”

Isabelle remembered the last discussion they’d had about the Kenworthy family’s choice to keep Glory at home and Alexander’s cruel remark about locking her up. Isabelle wanted to keep him far from thoughts of that sort,