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

Could she do that? She wondered. Was it within her power to proffer simple gifts and see great rewards grow from them?

Dear Mother,

I thank you for your solicitous notes. We arrived back in the city. Yes, I’ve eaten. Thank you.

Honestly, Mother, Isabelle thought (but did not write), is there nothing else you could ask about? Nothing that matters more than me being fed? When will you take even one casual glance about and see that every needful thing is more critical, more urgent, more important? Isabelle used the back end of the pen to scratch an itch near her elbow. Smiling at the horror her mother would have expressed at this act of mannerlessness, she continued her letter.

Alexander has purchased a wheeled chair. Sitting up in it allows him an easing of the breath. According to doctors both in the country and the city, breathing will continue to be a struggle until some more of his muscles regain their strength. It seems a great joy for him to wheel about.

Great joy. Indeed. Until he made a flippant comment about it, and instead of laughing, she burst into tears and fled the room. When would she regain composure enough to avoid ruining meals? And would you like to know, Mother, Isabelle thought, that he can neither scratch his head nor grasp a spoon? Alexander had made it clear that he was uninterested in anyone knowing the breadth of his injuries who did not absolutely need to be told. Isabelle’s mother had made a few offers to come, to help, but Isabelle knew Alexander would feel mortified at the bustling presence of his mother-in-law.

We thank you for your gracious offer to come and stay for the holidays. However, just now it’s important for Alexander to rest in as quiet a setting as we can ­manage.

She pictured her mother, at least two indispensable maids in tow, bustling into the house and rearranging all of Alexander’s staff, schedule, furniture, and menus. It would be anything but quiet. And she’d be alarmed, Isabelle was certain, at how little of Isabelle herself was visible in the house. It looked, but for the necessary changes to the parlor-turned-convalescent-room, exactly as it must have when Alexander lived alone here as a bachelor. Perhaps there was something she could do about that.

I thank you again for your kind words and news. It is a delight to hear stories of the neighborhood and of your plans. I look forward to a visit when Alexander is well. Perhaps at the new year.

When Alexander is well. The words came easily out of her pen, but before the ink dried, she stopped writing and stared at the simple phrase that so glibly assumed what was in no way certain. No more certain than what mood Alexander would be entertaining when she saw him next. His anger and frustration stabbed at her when she considered that there were times she seemed able to make him happy, even peaceful. Surely if she carried the capacity to bring him happiness, she was also responsible for his despair. If seeing her looking fresh and lovely made him smile, perhaps it was her bland or disappointing appearance that brought him down. If an occasional witticism entertained him, her dullness at other times must be the catalyst for his despondency.

The logic of such a thought was inescapable. She could even simplify it further—Alexander had appeared a satisfied, fulfilled man before their marriage. To hear anyone tell it, Alexander Osgood had been a contented bachelor with a successful business and an adoring public. Now, as a married man, he was gloomy. Brooding. Solitary.

A small part of Isabelle’s mind knew that it was not so simple, that the circumstances of his injury were too large to merely add to a list of marital inconveniences; however, that small part of her mind was overtaken by the significant evidence before her. Wives were, as she had been told all her life, responsible for the care and happiness of their husbands. Everyone knew this. And Isabelle was, as anyone could see, failing as a wife.

The thought brought Isabelle down until it was all she could do to sign the letter.

Composing herself to once again face Alexander, and not knowing which husband she would encounter in the parlor, the tender or the despondent, Isabelle squared her shoulders and prepared to descend the staircase.

As she arrived at the landing, she heard voices in the parlor. Her first fear was that it was that terrible Doctor Fredericks. But upon hearing a laugh, she knew that could not be. Doctor Fredericks, she had decided upon knowing him for only a few minutes, was a man incapable of laughter.

After a moment, she recognized Mr. Kenworthy’s cheerful voice. As much as she would like to say hello, she knew it would be best if she waited for an invitation into the room. She halted in the foyer. Such an invitation did not seem to be quick in coming, particularly if the gentlemen did not know she was standing outside the room.

She would never stand at the door and listen, but she found it of great immediate importance to inspect the wood grain in the banister. If she happened to overhear any of the conversation happening a few feet away, so be it.

In a short few seconds, she heard the tone change from cheer to seriousness. Worried that something disagreeable had happened in the mill, Isabelle moved closer.

Mr. Kenworthy’s voice carried into the hallway. “The same as usual with one of her episodes. It kept on until she wore herself out, but that was far into the night, and poor Polly was exhausted.”

He must have been speaking of Glory’s illness yesterday, the one that frightened Isabelle from the doorway. Far into the night? The clamor and screaming and the sounds of crashing had apparently carried on for hours. Poor Glory. Poor