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

Voice airy and light, she said, “I found myself wandering along the canal and stopped to inspect Osgood Mill.”

He spluttered a bit, recovered his composure, and asked, “What was the result of your inspection?”

She thought of all the impressions she’d received in the hour she was inside. There was much she could choose to say. The mill was many things: Busy. Productive. Frightening. Loud. Full. Structured. Crowded. Smelly. Organized. Impressive.

She knew a conversation like this, begun with such a tentative goodwill and harmony, must be directed carefully. Her delight in experiencing a discussion that had lasted this long made her think carefully before she spoke. She felt the possibility of their words tipping him back to his anger and resentment.

She set down the spoon with which she’d been feeding him. Looking directly into his eyes, she said, “You’ve created something beautiful.”

Alexander did not speak, but he gazed into her eyes with something that could be interpreted as gratitude. Isabelle thought she could sit here in the candlelight and receive that gaze for hours.

Finally, he blinked and looked down.

“And your Mr. Connor certainly loves you,” she added, offering him another sip of broth.

After he swallowed, he said, “I don’t pay him to love me.”

She nodded. “And apparently you wouldn’t have to. That,” she said with a grin, “he’d do for free. He’s determined to keep your mill running functionally for the next several hundred years, proclaiming your virtues all the while.”

Alexander looked down again, and Isabelle was beginning to understand that it was his new way of dissembling. He couldn’t turn his head to avoid her eye, and he couldn’t simply evade like most people could with a shake of his head. In those few seconds, she realized how powerful the language of the body was and what a disadvantage Alexander had not to be able to use it.

She could tilt her head slightly to suggest either disagreement, flirtation, or sincerity. He must use words alone.

No, she thought. Not alone. He still had use of his fine brow, his expressive eyes, and his frown. Or his smile. The smile she’d seen more tonight than any other time in the recent past.

Perhaps it was the dress.

More likely it was the chair.

Should she mention it? Would discussion of his injury detract from the peaceful and happy conversation they were having? Impossible, she thought, to ignore the reality of their new life. “How does it feel to be able to move through the house tonight?” She asked, patting the arm of the chair.

“It is easier to breathe, and to speak, when I sit up.” He exhibited a moderate inhale and looked so proud that she vowed to never again take breathing for granted.

“And you’ve not . . . fallen?” She remembered the devastated look on his face as she knelt before him and pushed him upright that very morning—that morning that felt like years ago.

“I am strapped in.”

The words were spoken with no change of expression, but Isabelle felt a shock flash through her. He was tied to the chair in order to remain upright. She had an urge to explore the situation—to examine the straps he spoke of and see for herself. In her mind, ropes were fastened around his chest, over his shoulders, and beneath his arms. The vision she created was reminiscent of artists’ renderings of pillage and capture. It was impossible that the reality was as awful as her imaginings.

But no.

Nothing, she reminded herself, looking at her husband, was impossible.

She felt her breath hitch and commanded herself to remain calm. It would not do, not at all, to cry during what was, up until this point, the nicest meal they’d shared in Manchester. Certainly the best hour since Alexander’s accident.

Perhaps he could see how close to tears she had come, because he began to echo her style of playful chatter.

“Yeardley practiced pushing me about the room,” he said. “He’s rather good at maintaining decorous speeds. Very appropriate. I was quite pleased. When I demanded he increase the pace, he proved he is less tractable than a good horse.”

It was as if the physical atmosphere in the room shifted. The smile instantly dropped from Alexander’s face. With the offhand mention of a horse, the stark reminder of how Alexander’s life, and therefore her own, had gone so wrong, Isabelle’s tears would no longer be held in check.

“Forgive me,” she said, rising from her seat, unable to hide her tears. “I need a moment.” She ran from the room, nearly upending Mrs. Burns’s tray.

“Mrs. Osgood?” Mrs. Burns said, and Isabelle could not reply. She simply shook her head as tears blurred her vision.

“Never you mind,” Mrs. Burns said. “I’ll manage his ­dinner.”

Nodding in gratitude, she slipped up the stairs and fell onto the bed.

How unfair, she thought. How perfectly, awfully unfair that a casual comment could render her so undone.

A few minutes passed, and there was a knock at the bedroom door. Isabelle hurried to make herself presentable before she realized that it was certainly not Alexander. And Yeardley would never come to her bedroom. She wiped at her eyes and went to the door, tearstained and rumpled and mostly resigned to that fact.

Mae stood at the door, tray in hand. “Mrs. Burns said you’re unwell. I thought you might care for a bite.”

Isabelle thanked her and took the tray. Mae nodded and stepped away, closing the door. Isabelle was certain she couldn’t eat a thing, but when she uncovered the tray, the simple meal of white fish and potatoes smelled so delicious she decided to taste a mouthful. As if her body remembered the strain of the day, she became ravenous at that first taste and ate every morsel.

A small dish with a silver cover held a tiny, perfect portion of the loveliest raspberry cream pudding. She dipped her spoon into the creamy custard and held the bite in her mouth, savoring the sensation of rich, sweet comfort.

This was a simple offering. But at the same time,