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

“But she’s lovely. That’s proper to say, isn’t it?” Glory’s whisper was far louder than her mother’s, but her face showed a confusion Isabelle could not miss. It was clear to Isabelle that something was different about Glory. She took her cue from the mother and addressed Glory directly.

“That is very kind of you, Miss Glory.”

Mrs. Kenworthy sent Isabelle a grateful look that removed much of her remaining inhibition.

Isabelle turned to Mrs. Kenworthy. “I was so grateful to receive your husband yesterday. Being new in town is difficult for me. I was feeling lonely.” Isabelle immediately wondered if she’d said too much. This comforting pair of women had taken away her fear of overstepping unfamiliar social boundaries and made her ready, willing, and eager to speak her mind.

“We are, indeed, very glad to fill an hour of your time. You are welcome here as often as you’d care to come.” It was perhaps more than Isabelle deserved at such short acquaintance, but she smiled her thanks.

Glory seemed to struggle with a thought for a moment before she asked, “Mama, may I call for tea?”

Mrs. Kenworthy beamed at her daughter. “You may indeed,” she said. Glory clapped her hands in pleasure and picked up a small silver bell from the side table.

Mrs. Kenworthy leaned over and whispered, “Remember, gently.”

Glory’s head bobbed in affirmation as she tilted the bell to one side. The clapper made scarcely a sound. “More?” she asked.

Her mother nodded. Glory shook the bell again, her face lighting up with joy at the ringing. Isabelle smiled along with the others but wished she’d been prepared for this aspect of the visit. Could Mr. Kenworthy not have warned her that his daughter was simple? Could not Alexander have acted as a husband should and let her know what she’d be seeing?

Perhaps Alexander didn’t know, Isabelle thought. But how could he not? He must have noticed Glory’s differences from the first moment he met her. Mustn’t he? Now Isabelle wondered if her husband was the kind of person who would notice something like this after all. Was interacting with Glory remarkable in Alexander’s circle? No one like her was ever in company with Isabelle back home.

As unused as she was to socializing with someone like Glory, Isabelle found it a pleasant change from sitting alone in her husband’s house all day. And despite Mrs. Kenworthy’s stately appearance, she was as cordial and charming as any woman Isabelle knew.

After tea was brought and poured, Isabelle’s mind was brought back to the present conversation.

“Our Glory’s deficiencies are more than made up for by her sweet nature and her special gifts,” Mrs. Kenworthy said. “Perhaps you saw some of her paintings in the entryway? Glory is a marvelous artist.”

At this praise, Glory took her mother’s hand in both of hers and planted a tender kiss on her palm. Isabelle remembered the art she’d seen earlier and had cause to rethink her impression of it. She wished she’d paid more attention so she could comment on a specific painting.

Mrs. Kenworthy continued to speak without embarrassment or shame. “Many of England’s children who are like our Glory are sent away for specialized care, but we couldn’t bear to be without her.” She patted her daughter on the knee.

Isabelle well knew the traditional way to care for the mentally disadvantaged. Her mother’s brother had lived his short and unhappy life in an asylum down in London, and the stories of his horrifying experience rippled through Isabelle’s memory, causing her to shudder. She gave herself a mental shake and returned to the present—and this far more suitable situation.

“I can see that Glory is a cherished member of your dear family,” Isabelle said, feeling a pang of loneliness for the family situation she regretted—both what she’d left behind at home at the Lakes and the loneliness she would return to today.

After tea, Mrs. Kenworthy invited Isabelle to play for them. Missing no opportunity to call her “Mrs. Osgood,” she dismissed Isabelle’s claim that she was an unimpressive performer.

“We well understand the pleasure of music for music’s sake, my dear Mrs. Osgood. We would love to hear from you if you’ve no objection to entertaining us.”

No objection, indeed. Once seated at the pianoforte, Isabelle felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She had not realized how much she missed her instrument. Isabelle obliged Mrs. Kenworthy by playing a short sonata. She looked up from her fingers on the keys to see Glory standing with her hands on the cover of the pianoforte. Stopping her piece, she invited Glory to come sit beside her. Glory pulled a chair up to the keys, and Isabelle asked, “Do you play?”

Glory answered by crashing her hands down on the keys, creating a burst of cacophony. When she laughed aloud, Isabelle joined her. “Would you like to learn to play a song?”

Nods of affirmation from both women in the room prompted Isabelle to play the simple melody of a favorite hymn. Glory hummed along. As Isabelle guided the girl’s fingers to the proper keys, Glory became increasingly excited. Hesitant pressure turned to a measure of increased confidence and then frantic banging on the keys. Mrs. Kenworthy came and stood behind her daughter, hands on her shoulders, and whispered in her ear until she calmed. Isabelle had backed slightly away, but she felt to reposition herself close to Glory again.

“You played very well, Miss Glory,” Isabelle said softly. “I’d be so happy if you’d like to play with me again another day.”

Her soft voice seemed to continue to calm Glory. Isabelle felt a surprising pull toward this sweet young woman.

Glory clapped her hands together and nodded, rocking forward and back on her chair. “Again. I would like to play again.”

Isabelle glanced at Mrs. Kenworthy, who smiled appreciatively. “Perhaps,” the hostess said, “we could make this a weekly event.”

“Today is Tuesday,” Glory said. “Weekly means you can come each day that is a Tuesday.”

“I would be honored,” Isabelle said and