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

his arm up and down, “but have you any interest in exchanging gifts?”

When he did not respond, Isabelle felt the foolishness of such a childish request. She moved to the other side of him, hoping that by moving out of his sightline she could hide her blush of shame. “Of course, it is a trivial tradition, but one we celebrated in my parents’ home.” Her voice receded to no more than a whisper.

“Would it please you?” Alexander asked.

His tender words seemed to release the tension from Isabelle’s limbs, and only with renewed effort could she maintain her grasp on his hand as she lifted his arm.

“You must think me very silly,” she said, “but indeed it would please me.”

“Then we shall.”

His simple response brought a tear to Isabelle’s eye. She kept it hidden, as she’d grown accustomed to doing, even though this tear was one of gladness. When she could trust her voice, she asked, “Did you exchange gifts in your childhood home?”

He met her eye. “Simple ones, always something we made ourselves.”

“Oh, how lovely. Let’s do that, can we?” Isabelle realized that she must sound as giddy as a small child.

“Fine,” he said.

Isabelle was sure from his tone that he did, indeed, find this a silly request, but she felt the delight of his acquiescence. At the return of Nurse Margaret, Isabelle fled to find Mrs. Burns.

“I shall need cottons from Mr. Osgood’s mill,” Isabelle said. At the look of surprise on Mrs. Burns’s face, she explained. “We have agreed to exchange Christmas gifts, and I should like to make Mr. Osgood a blanket from cloths he milled.”

“Should you like to make an order at the mill for the workers to make a custom piece?” Mrs. Burns asked.

“I rather want to make it myself, if that doesn’t seem a waste of cloth,” Isabelle said.

A genuine smile overspread Mrs. Burns’s face. “What a lovely idea,” she said. “I have many a folded scrap and sample among the sewing things. Shall we go through them today?”

Within the hour, the two women stood, heads together, sorting through piles of cloth. Knowing she had only a month of afternoons, Isabelle chose to connect a few larger pieces rather than many small patches. Fetching her needlework basket, she got directly to work.

Afternoon hours that month found Isabelle bent over a large patch of the softest cotton, stitching decorations into the cloth. When one patch was finished, Mrs. Burns took the piece and stitched it to the next, and the women worked in quiet companionship as a fire crackled beside them. After several weeks, the decorating and piecing were finished, and Mrs. Burns sat beside Isabelle as the two of them spread carded cotton against the back of the fabric, attached a larger sheet of cloth to that, and sewed the stacks together.

“I remember my mother and grandmother sewing a blanket in just such a way,” Mrs. Burns said, a gentle smile on her face.

Isabelle recognized the sweetness of such a memory but suddenly worried if this felt backward, to hand-make something Alexander had built a business of mass-­producing. “Will he find this frivolous?” she asked, turning to Mrs. Burns for a measure of reassurance.

The housekeeper shook her head as she pulled thread through the layers. “There are some things that are meant to be done by hand and at home,” she said. “But are we not grateful for Mr. Osgood’s manufacturing of such fine cloth for us to work with?”

Isabelle felt her heart swell with gratitude for this good woman and her hours of additional work and sacrifice. In addition to the time she spent with Isabelle working on the blanket, she had also begun to arrange pine boughs and holly berries upon tables throughout the house, adding an air of festivity to the place.

Christmas morning dawned blustery and gray, much like every other day in December. Isabelle put on a morning dress of rich red with a frill at her neck and carried the paper-wrapped package down the stairs and into the parlor, where she found Alexander seated in his wheeled chair.

The mantelpiece held a bright-green pine bough set through with tall wax candles and twisted with holly leaves and ivy sprigs.

“Happy Christmas,” she said, noticing the wrapped package sitting on his knee. At the sight of it, Isabelle realized Alexander could not have placed it there. Yeardley must have awakened early to dress and groom Alexander, place him in the chair, and lay the gift upon his lap.

And now that she thought of it, she realized Alexander could no more have made a simple gift for her than ridden in a balloon across the ocean. And she had kept Mrs. Burns busy during every waking hour helping her to complete Alexander’s gift. How could she have given so little thought to the immensity of work required of him? Yet another realization of her own selfishness. Thoughtlessness. Immaturity.

Before she could whisper an apology, she looked at Alexander’s face and stopped. He sat tall and regal in his chair with a grin of delight on his face.

“Happy Christmas. Come and get your gift,” he said.

She stepped across the parlor and stopped beside his chair.

“There,” he said, pointing with his gaze to the seat beside him. “Do take a seat.” He smiled. “But first, if I may be so bold, I believe a traditional Christmas kiss is in order.”

Startled, she gave a small laugh, then placed her hand upon his shoulder and kissed his cheek gently.

“Every day should begin this way.” His voice sounded stronger than it ever had since his accident. “With a kiss and a gift.”

“Perhaps it could be arranged,” Isabelle said, feeling a blush cover her cheeks. She sat in the chair Alexander had offered her and asked, “Would you like to open yours first?” She held the package toward him.

“I can hardly wait,” he said, smiling. “But you’ll have to do the opening for me.”

How was it possible for him to speak so cheerfully about his inability to move today, when