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

city than the Kenworthy family and your Mr. Connor.”

“That is not what I’d prefer,” Alexander said. “You are not a prisoner here. And no one could accuse you of pushing in.” He waited until she was looking at his face. “Any family in Manchester would be lucky to have your acquaintance.”

“Why, Mr. Osgood,” Isabelle said, her light and teasing tone returning, “I do believe you’re paying me a compliment.”

With a sigh, he said, “It appears that is a rare occurrence.” He sounded apologetic.

“But no less welcome than if it were common.” She patted his hand and placed it in his lap, stood from her seat, and resettled in the seat on the other side of him. As she picked up his other arm and began to bend it at the elbow, a look of pain crossed his face.

She dropped his arm at once. All feelings of gentle tenderness were replaced by worry at his wince.

“Have I hurt you?” she asked, feeling her heart begin to race.

“No, of course not,” he said, but his brow remained wrinkled, his lips pressed.

She shook her head and perched on the forward edge of her seat, ready to run for assistance. “But you are not well.” She did not need to ask it as a question.

When he answered, his voice was quiet. “I am well enough. Perhaps a small pain.”

She could no more repress a gasp than stop the earth from turning. Their eyes met, each alight with a desire for an outcome they were unwilling to speak aloud. A small pain? This could mean so many things. Healing among them.

She stood from her seat. “Where do you feel pain?”

“More of a pinch than a pain,” he clarified. “In the side of my neck. Above my collar.”

Isabelle stood in front of the chair and reached her hands forward, hesitation plain on her face. “May I?” she asked before placing her hands on his neck. The pillowing of the chair gave her little space to move her fingers, but she placed her hands on either side of his throat. She felt his pulse in her fingertips as she stroked his neck.

It would have been impossible for Isabelle to articulate how different it felt to touch Alexander in this way than to sit beside him and raise and lower his arm. This connection, as she stood before him and looked into his face, made her aware of her own heart beating. Her fingers trembled.

Alexander let his eyelids close.

“Pain?” she whispered.

“None,” he answered in the same soft voice.

Hesitant to either hurt him or break the delicate connection, Isabelle remained motionless but for a finger caressing Alexander’s jawbone. She stared at him for as long as his eyes stayed closed.

A loud knock at the front door jolted her, and she pulled her hands away.

Alexander opened his eyes and looked into her face. “I think I felt . . .” he began.

Yeardley appeared in the doorway. “Doctor Fredericks, sir,” he said, and the efficient and unfeeling doctor pushed his way into the room.

Isabelle bent near Alexander’s ear. “Would you like me to stay?” she asked.

He glanced toward the doctor, who was unpacking a small bag of instruments onto a table. Looking back at Isabelle, he whispered, “No. But I would very much like you to return.”

She felt all the relief attendant to being excused while Doctor Fredericks was in the house, and of being told she was wanted back.

Leaving the room, Isabelle climbed the stairs to find Mrs. Burns straightening the bedchamber.

“How did you find Mr. Osgood today?” the housekeeper asked.

“Very handsome,” Isabelle said. A laugh of surprise burst from her. “I mean well. He is very well. The chair seems to be helping, and he is happier.”

Mrs. Burns did an insufficient job of hiding her smile. She trimmed the wick of the lamp on the dressing table and refilled the oil.

Isabelle chose not to notice her housekeeper’s response. “At least I hope he is. Doctor Fredericks is here now,” she said, making a face of displeasure.

“We all miss Doctor Kelley,” Mrs. Burns said, kindly ignoring Isabelle’s own slip into informality. “Even so, I am hopeful that the visits with Doctor Fredericks will benefit Mr. Osgood.”

Isabelle sat at the dressing table Mrs. Burns had recently dusted. “Shall I tell you what I think?” Isabelle asked.

Mrs. Burns nodded in a display of proper interest.

Leaning forward, Isabelle confided, “I believe he’s beginning to regain sensation.”

The housekeeper set down her dusting cloth and stared at Isabelle. “How do you know, ma’am? What have you seen?”

Isabelle mentioned what Alexander had said about feeling a pinch. As she spoke the words, her heart ran faster with the hope they carried.

Mrs. Burns brought her hands together as if saying a prayer. “That would be most welcome.”

“If Doctor Kelley’s predictions were correct,” Isabelle said, a warning in her voice, “such a recovery would entail a fair amount of pain.”

Mrs. Burns said, “And if I could take his pain upon myself, I would.”

“As would I.”

Isabelle saw the housekeeper’s face fill with a look of contentment.

“May I offer a suggestion?” Mrs. Burns said.

Isabelle nodded.

“Keep in mind that one is not at one’s best when there’s a great deal of suffering.”

Isabelle smiled. “Nor when there is a significant life change. Nor a relocation. Poor Mr. Osgood,” Isabelle said. “He may not be at his best now, but his wife hasn’t been in particularly good form at all since the marriage.”

Mrs. Burns patted Isabelle on the arm, her maternal nature overcoming her strict and businesslike propriety for a moment. “Isn’t it a joy to know that the best is yet to come?”

Isabelle caught at Mrs. Burns’s hand. “Do you think,” she said, her voice trembling, “he can learn to love me?”

“Oh, my dear lady,” the housekeeper replied. “It is simply impossible to imagine otherwise.”

Isabelle wished she had the words to properly convey her gratitude for such a generous statement. In place of words, she pressed Mrs. Burns’s fingers and trusted the good woman to understand.

Embarrassed at her emotion, she picked