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

other days they had to avoid saying anything at all for fear of adding to the gloom? Perhaps there was some magic in the air.

Isabelle untied the ribbon from the paper and slid the blanket out of its packaging. As she unfolded it, she held it out to him and pointed out its features. “It’s made of Osgood cotton because you deserve the very best,” she said, noticing the smile that still shone on his face. “Here, I’ve stitched our names and our wedding date, and here is a poor rendition of Wellsgate.” She continued to show him the words and pictures she’d stitched into each panel and then offered to cover his legs with it.

“I shall never take it off,” he said.

She laughed, hearing the tender, teasing note in his voice.

“But first,” he said, “you must take your gift.”

She saw his eyes dart to the package on his knee, which she moved to the table before covering his legs with the ­blanket.

Retaking her seat, she unwrapped the package and saw a beautiful wooden box with a hinged lid. Raising the lid, she saw a pile of writing paper and a beautiful pen and ink pot.

“I’ve noticed that you write a fair number of letters.” His grin was gone, but his face remained peaceful. “Though I made neither the paper nor the pen, I did make that box, many years ago, so I hope it’s an acceptable handmade gift.”

“It is truly lovely. I adore it,” she said, closing the lid and holding the box to her heart.

“There is—” he began but stopped at the entrance of Mrs. Burns.

“Good morning,” she said. “Mae has a lovely breakfast laid out for you.”

Yeardley followed Mrs. Burns into the room and pushed Alexander in his chair to the dining table, where Isabelle was delighted to see a warm and delicious feast laid before them. Soft breads and cooked fruits filled the air with scents of every wonderful Christmas memory.

“Thank you all for such a lovely morning,” Isabelle said as the household was gathered together. “Mrs. Burns, Yeardley, Mae, I am so grateful for the tireless work you do for us.” She glanced at Alexander to see if she had overstepped her bounds to speak for them both, but he continued to watch her with that peaceful smile about his fine mouth.

“A very lovely Christmas to us all,” Mrs. Burns said, and Mae murmured in reply.

“I should very much like to taste some of . . . well, all of this,” Alexander said. Yeardley reached over and filled Alexander’s plate with such delicacies as suited his recovery, and as Isabelle helped him eat, he murmured appreciation of each bite.

If all days, Isabelle thought, could only be like Christmas.

Naturally, not all days could be like Christmas, but as the weeks passed, Alexander and Isabelle shared many happy mornings. His exercises seemed to be assisting in the return of more and more feeling in his hands and arms.

“I will never tire of this,” she said, sitting knee to knee next to his chair. Straightening the handmade blanket on his legs, she stroked his hand and felt the returned pressure. “If we could sit here, in this room, every day for the rest of our lives, just this way,” she said, squeezing his fingers softly, “I promise to be very happy.”

“Do you?” The curve of one raised eyebrow showed his amused disbelief. “I own, Mrs. Osgood, that I must ask for something more.”

“You think me very simple,” she said, and her voice held no reproach, no complaint.

“I think you very beautiful,” he replied.

The flood of pleasure that flowed through her body at his compliment took her by surprise.

“I want to see you wherever you are. I shall turn my head to look at your face. I shall lift my arm to touch your hair, and then, I promise you, I shall be happy also.”

“I am happy now,” Isabelle said, interlacing her fingers with his.

Other days, those fearsome stormy looks and silences overtook Alexander. On such days, he refused to engage in Doctor Kelley’s exercises, reminding Isabelle that she was no nurse. Each time that happened, she felt herself growing smaller. Silly girl, she berated herself, frustrating an ill man. On those mornings, Isabelle felt the chill of Alexander’s cold rejection of her offered affection.

How grateful she was that those days were not every day. She soon came to realize that the peace and contentment of the best mornings could not last all day. Every afternoon, Alexander was in custody of Nurse Margaret.

At first, Isabelle stood in the parlor, watching the nurse perform her work. She asked questions, watched the procedures, listened for the changes in Alexander’s responses. She felt she was learning much, discovering much about his recovery.

The ministrations of Nurse Margaret were far more like Doctor Fredericks’s than they were like Doctor Kelley’s. In the country those first few days, Doctor Kelley had whispered encouragement and moved Alexander’s limbs gently. The city approach appeared like taking the rod to a naughty child, beating the paralysis out of him as though it had become a nasty habit.

This pattern of firm manipulation of limb was used by few doctors. A Scandinavian practice made popular in recent decades, this muscle-stimulation treatment had gained a small number of adherents on the continent and throughout England. Doctor Fredericks was one of the few Manchester physicians to find success using it on patients who had lost mobility, and his crew of nurses was in high demand throughout the city.

When Isabelle asked how, why, or for how long something was done, Nurse Margaret offered only curt replies, and only when she deemed Isabelle’s questions worth a response. There were hours when it seemed the city plan, as Isabelle began to think of it, was working. But each afternoon, there came a time in the treatment when Isabelle could stand no more.

It did not take many days for both Alexander and Isabelle to recognize a pattern to Nurse Margaret’s work. The work would commence