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

surely he would engage with her. Today could be the beginning of more familiar verbal interaction.

He said nothing.

“Were you able to get outdoors while the sun shone?”

He shook his head. So much for a domestic discussion.

She sighed. “Would you care for a drink before dinner, then?”

“I think not.”

She felt her face flush with annoyance. Would she have to continue making all the conversation?

Fine, she thought. If he didn’t want to speak, they could await dinner in silence.

They stepped into the parlor. She sat and picked up a book that lay on the small table. It did not take her many seconds to decide that this was not a book that would interest her even in the best of moods, which this was not. Why would he not speak with her? Had she not been inviting? What more did he expect her to do?

She thought the housekeeper would never come to call them to dine, but when she did, Isabelle stood and walked to the dining room without waiting for Alexander to offer his arm.

As they were served their meal, she noticed many things about which he could comment. The soup was warm and delicious, the meal satisfactory. Could he not mention it? Isabelle found herself stabbing her lamb with more force than was entirely necessary. After pudding, she pushed herself away from the table and said, “I’ll be going up to my room now. Good night, Mr. Osgood.”

He had the grace to look ashamed. At least she assumed that was what that look conveyed. He stood quickly and swallowed his mouthful. “Good night,” he said.

As an afterthought, she said from the doorway, “I had a visit from Mr. Kenworthy today, and I’ll be looking in on his family tomorrow.” She didn’t wait for a reply that surely wouldn’t come, certain she neither needed nor desired his permission. She turned and walked out of the room, hiding the tears that threatened to fall.

Pulling the pins from her hair in her room, she wondered why she hadn’t mentioned the visit from Mr. Kenworthy before her exit. She could have spoken about it at dinner. But she understood that she’d expected Alexander to mention it. Of course, Mr. Kenworthy had asked and received permission to pay her a call. Naturally Alexander knew of the visit. But he didn’t say a word. What could she understand from that but that he didn’t care? It was, of course, the obvious and the only conclusion she could come to.

Mrs. Burns knocked lightly.

“Anything you need, ma’am?” she asked.

Isabelle sighed. “Kind of you, at least, to care,” she said.

“Everyone in the household wishes the best of comforts for you, ma’am.”

Isabelle let out a short humph of disbelief.

Mrs. Burns stepped farther inside the room. “Has something met with your disapproval?” Her tone was perfectly formal, with only a hint of surprise. “I shall report it to Mr. Osgood immediately.”

She could not help it. Isabelle smiled. “And shall his behavior change at your report?”

Understanding dawned on the kind woman’s face. “Beg pardon, ma’am. I have no wish to overstep.”

Isabelle shook her head. “Not at all. Perhaps Mr. Osgood simply does not find my company interesting.”

“Oh, no, ma’am. I assure you not. He must be tired after a long day, that is all. Give him some time to grow comfortable in this new situation.” She gestured around the room in a vague circle of inclusion.

“Indeed, thank you. Good night, Mrs. Burns.”

“Good night, ma’am.”

As she drew the brush through her hair, Isabelle determined that she was finished trying to force warmth into Alexander’s chilly demeanor. He was capable of involving himself in discussion if he wished it. And he might wish it in a month, or a year, or a decade. Perhaps that was what Mrs. Burns meant by giving him time.

If he was satisfied to live as relative strangers, she could be as well.

Isabelle tried to take in everything about the entrance to the Kenworthys’ home. What was it, she wondered, that made it feel so warm? There were a great number of mediocre paintings framed and hung on the walls. She chided herself for noticing that the paintings were not very good, and she focused instead on the lovely frames. There appeared to be a tree growing from an iron pot in the entryway. Isabelle wanted to lean in and touch the perfect-looking leaves, but she refrained. She could hear some sounds of preparation in the next room over the hum of noise from outside, noise that had seemed nearly overwhelming when she’d been out in it. The city’s constant stream of carriage traffic and bustle of people rushing here and there made her feel a combination of excitement that there was so much going on and disappointment that she was involved with none of it.

The door to the parlor reopened, and the young woman who had shown her inside now gestured for her to enter. “Mrs. Isabelle Osgood, madam,” she said, and once again, as every time, Isabelle startled at hearing herself thus addressed.

Mrs. Kenworthy, a tall woman with regal bearing, stood in front of an elegant wood-and-damask chair. Her hair was swept back from features that might have seemed severe, except that she surprised Isabelle by covering her mouth and chuckling. The laugh was unexpected, and softened the look of her.

“Sorry, love, but it’s clear you’re not used to your name quite yet.” She reached both hands out to Isabelle. “Come. We’ll help you get used to it, Mrs. Osgood.”

She pulled Isabelle over to the settee and placed her beside a young woman. “Mrs. Osgood,” she repeated, smiling, “may I introduce you to my daughter, Glory?”

The girl appeared to be close to Isabelle’s own age. Glory smiled into Isabelle’s face with a boldness and a familiarity Isabelle did not expect but rather enjoyed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Isabelle said.

Glory reached her hand toward Isabelle. “You have beautiful hair,” she said, and Isabelle noticed a staggered cadence to her words. Mrs. Kenworthy gently took