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

agree that these short outings were better than the alternative. One morning as they walked home from the mill, she asked Yeardley if she could push the chair. He stepped back but stayed close, and Isabelle could see him scanning the street for obstacles.

“Which is the next machinery to be replaced?” she asked, knowing that Alexander had read Mr. Connor’s report as she visited the laborers on the other work floors.

“Four new weaving looms arrive later this week,” he said. “They will allow the weavers to produce cloth significantly faster.”

“And what will be done with the old machines?” she asked.

“Why?” he asked. “Do you want one?” The playfulness in his tone was a delight to her, mostly from being so rare.

“If I could fit it in the drawing room, I would love to have one. The weaving floor is my favorite place in the mill.” She wondered if he would understand the relative peace she found there, both with the reduction in noise of the wooden looms and the softness of the finished product. She doubted such thoughts would interest him, however, so she kept them to herself.

“I was unaware you had a favorite part of the mill,” he said, his voice soft.

“Oh, several,” she said, eager to continue any such positive conversation after a week of difficult days. “I love the loading bays. The canal is such a busy place, and so much traffic comes in at the bays. And the elevators, where the product goes from one floor to the others, are fascinating.” The teagle—the steam-powered, belt-driven cube in each corner’s vertical shaft—allowed workers and materials to be moved from one floor to another. Isabelle had watched the movement and wondered about it as she walked up and down the stairs. “May I tell you a secret?” she leaned over the back of the chair and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’d like to ride on one.”

“Would you?” Alexander said. A pause was followed by a sly glance and a smile. “I did. Today.”

Isabelle stopped short, a strange combination of excitement and fear washing over her. Where had she felt such a thing before? Of course, she realized. It was the feeling of trying some new and dangerous riding trick with a horse. “Is that safe?” she asked him.

“Hardly.” Was that a laugh? “But it was grand.” Alexander went on to tell her that he was able to get up into the drawing floor for the first time in months to see the new spindle finisher and spindle rover machines.

Even though Isabelle did not recognize the names of the machines he referred to, she was glad and grateful to hear Alexander speaking of them. Glad to hear him, of his own free will, speaking to her of mill matters, sharing that which held importance to him.

As they arrived home and Yeardley helped Alexander into the house, Isabelle held out a faint hope that this good humor could last through an afternoon with Nurse Margaret.

Although Isabelle kept away from the parlor during these treatments, she felt herself exhausted by the very idea of them. That afternoon, she awaited Nurse Margaret’s exit from the parlor.

“May I have a word?” she asked, polite but firm.

Nurse Margaret said nothing, but she did not attempt to turn away and walk up the stairs. Isabelle understood this to be acquiescence. She gestured toward the drawing room, and the nurse preceded her into the room.

Upon sitting, Isabelle said, “I should like a report, if you please. How is Mr. Osgood progressing?”

“As long as he remains in the house, he can sit in his chair without use of binding,” Nurse Margaret answered.

Isabelle shook her head, uncertain of her understanding. “Forgive me, but do you mean that he has gained enough strength to sit up on his own power?”

Nurse Margaret’s words were laden with contempt. “If you would keep him inside where he is safe, he could do. Continuing to parade him along the streets of Manchester will only provide more opportunity for additional injury.”

If the nurse was convinced that all the visits to the mill were Isabelle’s idea, perhaps she would not berate Alexander about them. Isabelle was willing to bear that blame. In addition, it did not sound as though Alexander had confided his elevator ride to the nurse. Well done, Isabelle thought. The woman did not need to know everything.

Isabelle wished she could brush off the nurse’s opinions about taking Alexander outside, but she understood that even this was a concession. Were the nurse to have her way, Alexander would not only stay indoors, but he would do so as an inmate of the Royal Infirmary. She knew better than to press this discussion.

The nurse went on. “You have noticed his increased function in hands and arms. There is no way to know how far that function may continue to improve. There is very little evidence that his legs are strengthening, but on Doctor Fredericks’s orders, we continue to press for results.”

Isabelle nodded. “And how do you find his spirits?”

The nurse shook her head. “I am a practitioner of caring for the body. This talk of spirits is not within my purview. I am not being paid to make your husband happy. If there is nothing else,” she said, standing to leave the room. Isabelle nodded but could not find the will to stand and show her out.

Would Isabelle have no help in encouraging Alexander’s continuing happiness?

The next morning dawned rainy and bleak, and Alexander told her he would not be visiting the mill that day. “The nurse recommended I do not make so regular visits,” he said, watching the rain cover the parlor window. “She believes it is hindering my recovery. I can do nothing to increase production nor add to the success of mill work.”

Isabelle yearned to argue, wanted to remind him how happy his workers had been to see him and hear his voice. She wished she could convince him that the gentle business of relationships was as important to