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

women asked the question at the same time. They laughed, and Isabelle gestured to Mrs. Kenworthy to answer first.

“Fine. We are all well.” She placed her hand on Isabelle’s arm. “I hope the talk of sending Glory away did not upset you. It is not in our plan at any time, but she is older now, and she understands well enough. If illness overtakes her, or if in some coming day her condition worsens, she may need more help than we can give her here at home. If that happens, we don’t want a change to come as a frightening shock.”

Isabelle nodded.

Mrs. Kenworthy put a gentle hand on Isabelle’s shoulder. “And you, my dear? Are you keeping yourself well?”

Isabelle gave a small laugh. “You sound like my mother. She keeps asking me if I’m eating.”

With a twinkle in her smile, Mrs. Kenworthy said, “Mothers know that caretakers need their strength.” She leaned closer, as if to share a confidence. “Are you eating?” she asked, her laugh joining Isabelle’s.

“Plenty.” She added, “Thank you.”

“Mr. Kenworthy reports that Mr. Osgood is improving.” Mrs. Kenworthy managed to inform Isabelle of her interest without asking impertinent or disrespectful questions.

“There are times when I am sure that is true,” Isabelle said. “And other times I fear I’m woefully inadequate for the tasks at hand.”

Mrs. Kenworthy repeated what she’d said earlier. “Every­one has difficult times. This is yours.”

Isabelle felt surprised. “I thought you were going to say this is his.”

“That too. But don’t underestimate the challenge you’re facing. And don’t put limits on how high you’ll rise to meet it.”

A wave of love for this kind woman flooded Isabelle. “Are you,” she whispered, “ever afraid?”

Mrs. Kenworthy answered with a small laugh and a press of the hands. “Oh, of so very many things.”

“I wake afraid of what will greet me,” Isabelle confided. “I fear I am married to two different men.”

Mrs. Kenworthy shook her head. “No, dear. Not two different men.”

Isabelle felt a bit foolish for having said so because clearly Mrs. Kenworthy didn’t understand. She turned her head away to hide her embarrassment.

“Not two different,” her friend continued. “More like six. Inside every man lives a small army of others. Only one comes to the surface at a time, but they can switch places right quick.” She snapped her fingers. “They’ve got their strengths, sure enough. And,” she said, “their struggles. The gentle one, the angry one, the busy one, the proud one, the attentive one. And the wounded one, I’m afraid, who pays calls for injuries of all kinds.”

Every word hit Isabelle with the weight of truth.

Isabelle looked at Mrs. Kenworthy in wonder. “Why doesn’t anyone tell us this? It should be a course of study in school. Every young woman should realize this about men.”

“Oh, my dear. Before you decide they are so foreign and impossible to understand, you must accept that there are dozens of different women inside of you.”

Isabelle laughed but instantly recognized the truth of her friend’s comment. Without knowing to put a name to it, she had been holding back or pushing forward certain aspects of her personality. Even within the past few days, Isabelle had reined in or set loose different selves for different purposes.

Maybe her difficulty in growing closer to Alexander was that the wrong personas were being sent to the front lines. She was playful when he was serious. He felt angry when she expected affection.

“You’ve given me so much to think about,” Isabelle said. “I should like very much to learn to be like you.”

“We are all constantly learning, if we’re doing it correctly.”

Isabelle accepted Mrs. Kenworthy’s sincere words with a smile of gratitude for her kind friend’s support.

The sun has come out,” Isabelle announced as she walked into the parlor to spend the morning with Alexander. She drew open the drapes and exposed the room to the rare sight of January morning light. “I thought I should share it with you in here in case it never happens again.” As the room brightened, she saw Alexander in his chair, face stormy. “New year, and a new weather pattern.”

“The sun shines in Manchester as many days of the year as it does at the Lakes.” The strength his voice had gained made Isabelle glad, even though it was clear this was a dark-mood day.

“As I have not noticed that myself, I have decided to keep count. We are now at one.” She sat at his side and smoothed the skirts of her dress.

He scoffed. “That is ridiculous. There have been plenty of sunny days here.”

“If I haven’t noticed them,” Isabelle said, “then it is a good thing for me to begin now. I have to start somewhere.”

As Isabelle watched, Alexander let out an exasperated breath and shook his head.

She gripped the arms of her chair, and her mouth gaped open in a most unladylike manner.

She had not imagined what she’d seen. He’d done it. As she sat and watched, he had turned his head from one side to another.

Isabelle leaped from her seat.

“You did it!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands and feeling more like Glory Kenworthy than she ever had. “You shook your head!”

A sound of frustration, possibly annoyance, came from his lips.

“If you’re expecting me to jump up and dance, you’re going to be, once again, disappointed.” His face continued to look angry.

“But this is great improvement,” she said, attempting to lure him into celebration.

He was disinclined to celebrate. “I haven’t taken a step in months. I can only sit in this chair because I’m tied to it. I haven’t looked in on my work for so long, I have no way of knowing if the entire operation has burned to the ground, and you believe I ought to shout for joy because I turned my head?”

Well, when he put it that way, perhaps it did not sound quite so remarkable.

But Isabelle would not be dissuaded. “Just think,” she said, pushing his chair nearer to the window. “Now you can turn away from