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

“They’re here,” she said, unable to contain her excitement any longer. She moved to the door as Yeardley announced them and rushed into Edwin’s arms.

He laughed as he swept her off her feet into a delicious, crushing hug.

The feel of strong arms squeezed about her nearly took her breath, not from the actual pressure, but from the rarity of the feeling. It had been so long.

“Oh, Belle. Look at you,” he said, holding her at arm’s length. “Haven’t changed a bit, have you? Like nothing at all has happened in the past few months.” He chuckled at his own joke, and in years past, Isabelle would have commented in the same manner, but now Isabelle felt that Alexander might not appreciate even oblique references to the accident, so she turned to welcome Edwin’s bride.

“My dear cousin, how welcome you are,” she said, stretching her arms to offer an embrace. Charlotte stood still and stiff, allowing Isabelle to wrap her arms around her shoulders but returning no such attention or affection. Isabelle realized she had overstepped the bounds of propriety and moved a pace backward. She smiled at Charlotte and said, “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, and I hope that we shall be good friends.”

Charlotte gave a polite if insincere-looking smile and said only, “Indeed.”

Isabelle glanced at Edwin to see if this was perhaps a jest they’d long waited to play on her, but Edwin was gazing at his bride with eyes full of stars, as if she were the most important person in the world—much the way he used to gaze at Isabelle.

She felt her heart stutter and took a slow breath. Turning to glance at Alexander, she saw that he had not missed any of it: not her overeager embrace, and not Charlotte’s cold reception. He gave her an almost-imperceptible nod of encouragement.

His reassurance increased her confidence enough for her to say, “Mr. Osgood, of course you remember my dear cousin Edwin, and may I present his bride, Mrs. Charlotte Poole?”

Alexander dipped his head in a nod to them both. “A pleasure. Welcome to Manchester, Mrs. Poole. Forgive me,” he continued with that mysterious smile, “for not standing to welcome you. Please, take a seat.” He motioned to a chair with his hand, and Isabelle noticed how natural his movement looked. Almost like moving his hands was not a daily miracle for him.

Charlotte’s chilly demeanor thawed a bit with Alexander’s welcome, but she did not warm significantly to Isabelle. After ordering tea and performing her hostess duties, Isabelle carried the conversation with Edwin, asking after their families, his home, and their favorite old haunts. Isabelle occasionally directed a question to Charlotte or to Alexander, but neither of them seemed eager to speak a great deal.

Ed, however, chattered along. He told amusing stories that made Charlotte smile. He touched her hand at every excuse, smiling at her with pride and adoration. Isabelle watched him attend to his wife with gentle regard and wondered how he could love her so dearly. She appeared to Isabelle unfeeling and cold. But Isabelle knew her judgment was unfair. Simply because Charlotte behaved insensitively and emotionlessly to Isabelle did not mean that was her typical behavior. After all, Alexander’s behavior to Isabelle had occasionally reflected warmth and affection, but lately only on rare occasions had he even given Isabelle more than a warm glance.

But Edwin seemed to feel toward Isabelle as he always had. Dear Edwin. He remembered old acquaintances to Isabelle, at which comments Charlotte looked bored. He handled the conversation in the parlor deftly, giving attention to each of the ladies in turn and calling Alexander into the conversation at opportune times.

Just before the hour when Nurse Margaret was expected, Isabelle invited Edwin and Charlotte to make their way to their room to freshen or change clothes. “I should like to show you some of the sights in the city,” she said. In fact, she wanted to get them out of the house while Alexander was being prodded and twisted.

“Will you be joining us?” Edwin asked Alexander.

“Not today.”

“Perhaps another time,” Edwin replied, his willingness to help Alexander move about the city apparent.

Alexander nodded.

As Mrs. Burns showed Edwin and Charlotte to their room, Isabelle crossed the parlor to Alexander. “Thank you for showing my cousin such a warm welcome,” she said. Perhaps “warm” was a bit strong, but Isabelle appreciated anything more welcoming than the icy silence she still feared.

Alexander gave a small shake of his head, but whether he meant to deflect her gratitude or deny her comment, she did not know.

“We shall see you for dinner,” she said, walking out of the room.

Alexander spoke softly. “I only hope not to further disappoint you,” he said.

Turning, she came back to the side of the room where his chair sat.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Nothing, nothing.”

“Please,” she said. “I do not understand to what you ­refer.”

He shook his head and looked away before he said, “Doubt­less any comparison you make over the next few days will leave our own situation dim in contrast.”

Isabelle stood dumbly in the middle of the parlor, unable to think of a single response. How had he understood and articulated so perfectly what she was feeling? Not only the truth of the obvious comparison but the fear of sinking deeper into the melancholy of that difference.

She wanted to reassure him, but anything she said to deny the disparity of their own situation and the Pooles’ would be untrue, and such fabrication was unjust. She could attempt a happier attitude than she felt, she could hitch on a convincing smile, but she would not lie to Alexander.

Instead, she said, “I shall see you for dinner,” and went out of the room.

Over the next few days, Isabelle took Edwin and Charlotte to Peel Park and the Natural History Museum. They walked on afternoons when the rain abated. They took a carriage ride across the city and explored Queen’s Park, and they wandered through the marketplace full of