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

the entryway. When she wasn’t in the parlor attending to Alexander, Nurse Margaret stayed in Isabelle’s dressing room—now her room—or went out into the city.

Isabelle could see evidence that the treatments were working, but she hated them nonetheless. Alexander could now lift either hand a few inches and his entire right arm nearly to the level of his shoulder. The fingers on his left hand could dependably close around an object larger than an egg, but he couldn’t manage a spoon or a pen.

“Yet,” Isabelle made sure to add whenever Alexander talked about his progress, or lack thereof.

On good days, he’d repeat the qualification. And there were good days. In times of more difficulty, he reverted to his protective silence, and Isabelle attempted not to feel offended.

Isabelle had hung the painting Glory gave her in the drawing room where she could look at it regularly. One morning before Nurse Margaret made her appearance, Isabelle brought Alexander into the drawing room to see it.

“I know you’re disinterested in decorating,” Isabelle said, “but our dear Glory painted this, and I love it.” She pushed his chair up near the wall so he could examine the painting where it hung. “In case it’s unclear, this is me holding the Kenworthys’ kitchen girl’s dog.”

The subject matter had, of course, been perfectly clear to Isabelle from the moment she first saw it, but she’d also been in the room when it had been created. Perhaps the painting did not carry her likeness quite so much as she had thought.

“Of course I can tell it’s a painting of you,” Alexander said. “She’s captured your proportions and the curve of your cheek quite passably. And the light is a nice touch. I know how you enjoy sunlight coming through windows.”

Isabelle wondered if she would ever grow tired of hearing reminders like these that Alexander listened to the things she said, even if the things were silly prattle. And his comment about her proportions gave her a blush she wasn’t prepared to analyze.

“I have a request,” Isabelle said.

“Something you’d like to buy?” Alexander sounded excited, as if eager to hear a request he could reasonably acquiesce to: a new rug for the entryway floor or a ribbon for a bonnet.

“Yes, in a way.”

She rolled his chair next to an empty one and came to sit beside him.

“I mentioned it in passing when Mr. Kenworthy was last here. I’d very much like to hire Glory to paint us.” She hesitated before going on. “A family portrait.”

Alexander turned his head toward her. She felt her breath hitch in her throat at the miracle of the small action. Would she never grow tired of such an attention? She thought not.

“If you would like a painting done, there are many fine and capable artists both here and in London who could make a good job of it.”

He had not said no, precisely, and his tone was more calm than testy.

Isabelle nodded. “I know,” she said, “and I believe there are indeed many who could do a fine representation. But I’ve come to love her style, her bold strokes and bright colors that speak to something both childlike and powerful. Her paintings make me feel strong. I would love to offer Glory a chance to do it. And a chance to earn some money of her own.”

“Her parents give her all she needs. You know that,” Alexander said, his voice not unkind. But it was clear to Isabelle that he didn’t understand.

“I do know that,” she replied. “But when you do your work, don’t you love not only the physical activity but also the understanding that you have earned something? Glory has a talent, and I would like to honor the work she does by offering her this commission.”

“What would I have to do?” As soon as he asked, Isabelle knew it meant yes.

She smiled. “Only sit for her a few times, I imagine. Perhaps put on the same coat for a few days.”

“Very well,” Alexander said. “If it will please you, I am pleased to support it.”

The next day, Isabelle sent a formal request to Glory in writing, and by the beginning of the following week, Glory was knocking at their front door, a leather bag over one shoulder. When Mrs. Burns showed her into the drawing room, she glanced at her mother, who had escorted her, and said, “My dear Mr. and Mrs. Osgood, it is so wonderful of you to invite me.” After she spoke, she glanced at her mother again, and Isabelle saw Mrs. Kenworthy give a small nod and a large smile. Glory had been practicing.

“We are delighted to have you come,” Isabelle said. “Would you like to sit and visit for a while, or shall we get straight to work?”

Glory looked into the corner of the room as though she were weighing important options.

“Play and sing, if you please,” Glory said.

“We have no instrument, but I should love to sing a song for you if it would please you, dear Glory,” Isabelle said.

Glory gave a serious nod, and Isabelle sang something she’d loved as a younger girl, a song about a lark and a laurel bush. Isabelle glanced around the room now and then as she sang the song. Glory’s eyes closed, and she swayed with the music. Alexander was seated so he had to turn his head to see Isabelle, and he was doing so. He had a look of satisfaction and peace about him that Isabelle wished Glory could capture. It was something she rarely saw in his face, but to Isabelle, it was the aspect that was most handsome.

At the close of the song, Isabelle leaned back against the cushion beside Alexander. He placed his hand over hers, the first time he’d reached for her outside of exercises.

Isabelle curled her fingers around his.

Glory placed herself opposite them in the room and set up her drawing materials. She had paper and pencils, and as Isabelle and Alexander spoke to Mrs. Kenworthy, Glory made sketches. Now