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

to cut. Easy to eat. A good sign, if I may say, that he has an appetite for new things.”

Isabelle picked a chestnut from a bowl on the table. “You may, indeed, say so. Now, if we can discuss the menu for the week that my cousin and his bride will stay with us?”

Mae set down the parsnip she was peeling and wiped her hands on a towel. Pulling a small notebook from a side table, she wrote notes and made commentary on Isabelle’s ideas for meals and puddings, suggesting alternatives for what might not be available from the market.

“Thank you, Mae,” Isabelle said, standing to leave the kitchen. “It is such a great relief to know that all our food concerns are in such capable hands.”

“Very kind of you to say so. And if I may be so bold, you are doing a fine job running the household.”

At the young woman’s unexpected praise, Isabelle choked out a small sob and covered her face with her hands.

“Oh, Mrs. Osgood, I beg your pardon,” Mae began, crossing the room to stand nearer Isabelle. She did not reach for her or say anything else, but she stood nearby and wrung her hands.

As soon as Isabelle gathered herself sufficiently that she could speak, she assured Mae she had done nothing wrong. “I simply wish so regularly, so constantly, that I could do anything correctly. I thank you for thinking I am doing well.”

“I imagine, ma’am, that we all need to be told now and then.”

Isabelle nodded, wiped at her eyes, and smiled at Mae. As she took her leave, she wondered if Alexander felt such a need. Would words of affirmation about his progress mean anything at all coming from her? She had no experience in physical recovery from a traumatic injury, either as a patient or as a witness. To suggest that his improvement was notable might sound artificial or patronizing. She remembered only too well how he had snapped at her when she complimented previous small measures, such as turning his head or closing his fingers around a pen.

But what if Mae had considered a possible poor reception and chosen not to make her own kind statement? The relief Isabelle felt, the true thrill of hearing someone, anyone, tell her she was doing well shocked her with its magnitude.

She told herself she must find a reason to tell Alexander she was pleased with how well he was progressing.

Easier decided than completed.

Isabelle entered the parlor that afternoon to find Nurse Margaret bending over Alexander’s shoulder, pressing it into a contortion that looked as painful as it did unnatural.

“Good afternoon, Nurse,” Isabelle said, attempting to sound unafraid. She knew immediately that she had failed. Every time she endeavored to speak to the fearsome woman, she quailed.

Nurse Margaret chose not to answer her.

She tried again. “Are you finding all well with Mr. Osgood today?”

The look that the nurse sent Isabelle carried with it all possible contempt. She shuddered under the withering gaze.

She knew if she turned and left now, it would be nigh impossible to ever come back in during an exercising appointment. She stepped closer to Alexander and placed her hand on his arm. He turned his gaze toward her, eyes dark with pain. She sent him what she hoped was a bolstering smile. “Are his shoulders strengthening?”

“You should hope so if you want to see him do more than sit in that chair.”

Isabelle saw Alexander’s face shift from pain to humiliation. She felt her own face flame not with shame but with anger.

But Nurse Margaret was not finished. “His small improvements will mean very little if he cannot move past them.”

Isabelle clenched her fists and turned to the nurse, indignation firing throughout her entire body.

“I am confident,” Isabelle said, more heat in her voice than had ever been there in the presence of this terrifying woman, “that every bit of progress I’ve watched Mr. Osgood make is leading to a strong future, whether in that chair or out of it. He has worked tirelessly and, unlike some, complained not at all. I am endlessly proud of his efforts.”

She spun on her heel and walked away, certain that any more time in Nurse Margaret’s presence today would bring more honest reactions to the surface, and none of them would be as positive as the one she’d just expressed.

Isabelle marched upstairs and paced the bedroom, muttering the things she knew she ought not say aloud but needed to give vent to. A gentle knock stopped her voice and her feet.

“Yes?” Isabelle said.

Mrs. Burns stood in the doorway.

“Anything I can get you, ma’am?” The woman had begun to foster a sense for Isabelle’s tempers. Not that it was unreasonable for anyone to guess that Isabelle would be angry after an encounter with Nurse Margaret.

“How does a woman like that choose to become employed caring for the ill?” Isabelle wanted to throw something, but she resisted and tugged on the corner of the bedclothes. “She clearly has no love for human beings, and with her communication skills, she could likely secure more lucrative employment on a pirate ship or repairing the railway.”

Mrs. Burns looked away but failed to hide her smile. “As long as the doctors find her assistance to be useful to the master,” she said in her gentle way, “we can attempt to welcome her.”

Isabelle held her tongue only because she did not want a dispute to create disharmony with the housekeeper. Her quarrel was not with Mrs. Burns. She nodded. “Thank you for the reminder. I have not known many nurses. This one is simply different than any I’ve met. Or heard about. Or care to know. I look forward to the day Mr. Osgood no longer requires her assistance and she returns to the institution.”

Mrs. Burns nodded in agreement. “That will be a welcome day for every reason.” She clapped her hands together once. “And now, what else can we do to make the home more comfortable for your guests?”

Gratitude filled Isabelle.