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

with stretching, far more than Isabelle did each morning, then further muscle work that left Alexander moaning in pain. He would catch his breath and ask Isabelle to go, and she always complied. Every day, because he asked her to, she left him to suffer through the most difficult moments of his rehabilitation without her.

When Nurse Margaret left the room, and Alexander was alone, often Isabelle would enter the parlor to find him grimacing. She would ask after his pain, and instead of the gentle kindness from the good mornings, he occasionally dismissed her without much comment.

“Mrs. Burns,” Isabelle said when the housekeeper brought her a cup of tea, “I hate leaving him in there with her.”

The housekeeper patted Isabelle’s hand. “I know, ma’am, I know. But think of how it is for him. How he must hate for you to see him weak and hurting like that. Allow him his dignity.”

Isabelle understood, even though she did not like it. Retreating upstairs did not remove her far enough from the sounds of his pain. She soon found reasons to spend her afternoons away.

Visits to the Kenworthy home continued to bring her great satisfaction. Glory delighted in playing simple tunes on the pianoforte with Isabelle guiding her hands.

One afternoon, Glory herself answered Isabelle’s knock.

“Hello, Mrs. Osgood,” Glory said, bobbing a curtsy and taking both of Isabelle’s hands in her own and placing a kiss on her cheek. “I have something to show you.” She tucked Isabelle’s arm in the crook of her elbow and escorted her into the drawing room. Isabelle was welcomed by Mrs. Kenworthy, who stood as Isabelle entered. Gladly, Isabelle returned her warm greeting.

“Have you been working on the song from last week?” Isabelle asked Glory.

“Yes, but that is not it. That is not the something I want to show.” Leading Isabelle to a chair, she bade her sit. “Close your eyes,” Glory said, clapping her hands and grinning.

At a small throat-clearing noise from Mrs. Kenworthy, Glory spoke again. “If you would please close your eyes,” she said.

Isabelle closed and then covered her eyes with her hands. She heard and felt some movement fluttering around her.

Glory placed her warm hand on Isabelle’s shoulder and said, “Now. Open your eyes.”

Isabelle looked and saw a painting on the table, a portrait of herself, seated in the window seat, holding the small brown dog. The light coming in the window fell across her hair, and Glory had captured the colors and textures of both Isabelle and the sweet dog’s fur.

“Oh, Glory,” Isabelle said, her intake of breath creating a completely sincere gasp of delight. “It’s so beautiful.”

Glory clapped her hands. “It is, you are right. It is so beautiful.” She sat beside Isabelle and took her hand. “This is a painting of two things that make me very happy. Small, warm puppies and you, my friend Mrs. Osgood.”

Isabelle found herself laughing with delight. Glory’s simple, light-filled painting gave Isabelle a feeling of peace and, somehow, safety.

“Where will you hang it?” Isabelle asked.

Glory shook her head. “I shall not. It is not for me. This is a gift for you.”

Isabelle reached for the painting. “Do you mean I can take it to my home and look at it every day?” She understood, but she wanted to show Glory how much it meant to her.

Glory nodded, her delight apparent. “And if I am invited to your home, I can look at it as well.”

Isabelle said, “I would love to invite you to my home. Just now we are having a small inconvenience which makes visitors uncomfortable,” Isabelle said, thinking of the afternoons of Nurse Margaret reducing Alexander to a dismal, shaking ruin.

Glory gave a nod of understanding. “Is someone having an unwell day? Sometimes I have an unwell day, and visitors are uncomfortable.”

Isabelle smiled. “Something like that. Mr. Osgood seems to be having a series of unwell days just now.”

Glory looked surprised. “Mr. Osgood? From the mill?”

Isabelle could imagine the picture in Glory’s head of Alexander railing, howling, and overturning furnishings. Isabelle wished she could find amusement in such a picture, but the truth was far from diverting.

Mrs. Kenworthy answered. “Everyone has difficult times, Glory. And each person’s difficulties look different.” She turned to Isabelle. “I offer my apologies; I understand you once stopped by to see us on one such problematic day.”

“No such apologies are necessary between friends, I hope.” Isabelle smiled at Mrs. Kenworthy and patted Glory’s hand. “But I certainly am glad to be able to see you when you’re well.”

Glory nodded in understanding. “And when Mr. Osgood is well, we can visit him also. I like Mr. Osgood.”

“I like him too,” Isabelle said and realized it was true.

Glory had another idea. “Maybe he’d like to hold Abbie’s dog. That helps me on some of my unwell days.”

If it was easiest for Glory to imagine Alexander’s problem as a reflection of her own, if that was how she could understand it, Isabelle was perfectly willing to let her imagine Alexander shouting and throwing things and then feeling the comfort of a warm dog to cuddle. “Perhaps he would indeed.”

Glory got very serious. “Sometimes the doctors tell me that too many unwell days in a row means I may need a new home.”

Isabelle’s eyes shot to Mrs. Kenworthy’s. She saw there an air of exhaustion that went deep, far beyond Isabelle’s own effects of the past many weeks. But behind the weariness, there was something else: a well of strength, goodness, and grace. Isabelle hadn’t known Polly Kenworthy long, but she was certain that some of that grace and goodness had come not in spite of the challenge of raising Glory but because of it.

Mrs. Kenworthy smiled at Glory. “Dearest,” she said, her voice gentle, “this is always your home. We are your family, and this is where you belong.”

At the end of their visit, when Glory handed Isabelle the painting and promised to come when the time was right, Isabelle spoke briefly with Mrs. Kenworthy alone.

“How are you managing?” Both