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

particularly, would welcome her into the discussion. Before long, she was nearly comfortable hearing—even taking part in—such conversations.

Inasmuch as Mr. Connor was experiencing a less-taxing workload under the new arrangement, Mr. Kenworthy was by default taking upon himself more work than he was used to.

On her next visit to the Kenworthy ladies, Isabelle unburdened herself of her gratitude.

“My dear friend,” she said to Mrs. Kenworthy, “I imagine that your family is all feeling the effect of Mr. Kenworthy’s longer hours and increased responsibility at the mill. I do wish that none of this was needful, but I certainly appreciate his willingness to carry out so much of the work that must be done so Mr. Connor can continue to do his part. I do not know what we would do if we ran Mr. Connor ill by overwork.”

“Oh, indeed,” Mrs. Kenworthy said. “I agree. This is a difficult time, but we must all do our part.”

Glory smiled at Isabelle and said, “Papa comes home and falls asleep all ’round the house. At the table, in the parlor, in the bath.” She leaned closer to Isabelle as if to impart a secret. “He is much better at sitting for paintings when he is asleep than when he is awake.”

All the ladies shared a laugh at that notion.

“Speaking of portraits,” Mrs. Kenworthy said, “it has been quite some time since Glory has been to your home for a painting session, but she has been hard at work making studies of you and Mr. Osgood.” She nodded at Glory.

“Would you like to see some of the paintings I’ve made?” Glory asked, leaping from her seat before Isabelle had a chance to answer.

“I would be delighted,” she said to Glory’s back as the young woman ran from the room to gather her art.

As Glory passed the paintings to Isabelle one at a time, she pointed out how she had planned different compositions, colors, and light. Isabelle could see Glory’s attempts had quite a bit of technical merit—a distinction she had been unwilling to grant such paintings before she knew the artist.

“He looks like himself,” Glory said, head tilted and gazing at the board in her hand, “but not quite.”

“I agree,” Isabelle said. “Anyone would know that Mr. Osgood is the subject of these paintings, but there is something missing.”

“Perhaps if he would agree to smile for me, I would know him better,” Glory said, and Isabelle could not hold in a laugh. In a room with these women who had been so kind to her, she believed she could offer an insight she would never dare say elsewhere.

She leaned close and beckoned Glory to come nearer. “I often think the very same thing,” she said, and Glory and her mother joined Isabelle in the kind of laughter that holds no malice.

Mrs. Kenworthy reached out and patted Isabelle’s knee. “Times will not forever be as trying as they have been these past months,” she said. She appeared to think a moment. “Or perhaps you will continue to struggle through difficulties, but you will grow in your ability to weather them together.”

“As you and Mr. Kenworthy do,” Isabelle said softly.

“As all well-matched couples do. And I know you have your doubts, but you may trust me: I am an excellent judge of such things. You and your Mr. Osgood are indeed a good match.”

Isabelle felt a familiar prickling behind her eyes which seemed to appear whenever anyone voiced confidence in her marriage. Although it continued to feel odd, she was learning to appreciate and rely upon the good opinions of those who had known Alexander prior to the time she met him. With these declarations of Alexander’s merits, she could more often look past her sometimes-wounded feelings to put a more generous perspective on his distraction and occasional ­coldness.

Not that she could manage to do so upon every occasion. She was a woman with a heart, after all, accustomed to a life filled with affection and laughter, for which reason she was daily grateful for the Kenworthy women and their continuous fond and effusive welcome.

After a long and friendly conversation about Edwin and Charlotte’s visit, Isabelle prepared to take her leave. Taking Glory by the hands in farewell, she said, “If you would come again next week, perhaps Thursday, I will attempt to coax a smile out of Mr. Osgood. It ought to help that he will spend some time in the mill that morning.”

“And I shall look out a joke to tell him. That always makes me laugh,” Glory said, and the matter was decided.

These mornings spent in the mill did seem, in fact, to aid in Alexander’s spirits rising, but the medicine did not always last through the day.

By the time Nurse Margaret finished the muscle treatments, Alexander was often in no mood to visit with anyone, even Isabelle. She offered to read aloud to him but was gently rebuffed. Suggestions to take the outside chair about for a walk were met with excuses of fatigue, and though Isabelle was tempted to remind him that Yeardley would be the one doing all the work, she held her tongue.

Many hours, therefore, were spent with Alexander staring out the parlor window and Isabelle playing her pianoforte in the drawing room. In her more generous moods, she would consider these hours as sharing something: he had provided the instrument, and she provided the music.

There were, however, days she wallowed in the drama of some of her stormy Baroque favorites from Bach and Handel. Alexander said nothing of the moods of her music, but she doubted he could miss the message. Was this, she wondered, what marriage was like for other people? A glimpse of pleasantness sprouting from the heaviness of recurring discouragements? Was every wife as exhausted by worry and physical fatigue, by the vagaries of their own situations?

Mornings, though, were pleasant. Visits to the mill did bring comfort and fulfillment and direction. Though it was clear Alexander wanted to be doing more, all could