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

He nodded.

“Please, will you take word to the master that his wife is well and that she will be along soon?” She sent him off with a gentle nudge and a smile.

Grace turned to Isabelle with a gentle smile. “May I see to your hands, ma’am?”

Isabelle nodded, though even that small motion took effort.

Grace ripped a few strips from the hem of the dress cover Isabelle wore, and then gently wrapped them around Isabelle’s wounded fingers.

“Thank you, Grace,” Isabelle said.

Another wave of workers exited the building. This time, word followed that the blaze was controlled.

Grace stood. “Are you certain the fire is out?” she asked a man with soot covering his arms. “Only, Mrs. Osgood should make her way home, but she wants to know the fire is out.”

The man knelt at Isabelle’s side and removed his cap. “Aye, we are out of danger and all thanks to you, I hear.” He ducked his head in deference but smiled at her. “Bit of a hero you are, if you don’t mind my saying.”

Isabelle could not find words to reply. She had done so little up there on the weaving room floor, and most of it in a blind panic. She merely shook her head.

The man held his cap against his heart and spoke again. “You contained and minimized the blaze so others could douse it. Without your help, the whole floor would have been lost, and maybe more.” He gazed up at the building before them. “Connor will stay on the weaving floor for the night, to keep his eye on things. Not a spark will escape his notice, I assure you. I hope I speak for us all when I thank you, ma’am.”

Isabelle’s relief came as a deep exhale, releasing both her worry and her remaining strength. Even seated, her legs shook. She wondered how she would find the ability to walk the few blocks back to the house.

As word of the dousing ran through the mingling workers, people began to timidly reenter the building, speaking of returning to their positions and, where possible, continuing their work. Isabelle was stunned; how did these people return to work, work as intricate and difficult as she’d seen it, as though they had not experienced such distress? The following thought was not much more comforting: perhaps this manner of job included shocks as terrifying as fire as everyday expectations.

These people were her neighbors. These families lived in the surrounding streets, and their lives were so different from her own. How could they be so strong?

Could she learn to be as well?

The least she could do for Alexander’s workers was thank them, and so she gathered her remaining strength and stood near the door, greeting the workers and expressing her appreciation for their good efforts. She hardly knew what she said to them, but she felt better knowing they had heard her attempt. Kind young Grace remained at her side until the last of the workers had reentered the mill.

“Are you needed inside?” Isabelle asked her, knowing the answer but hoping not to be left on her own.

“I shan’t leave you alone,” Grace said, and the simplicity of her kindness filled Isabelle with gratitude. “I believe I shall be forgiven for it,” she added with a smile.

“I shall put in a good word for you with the boss,” Isabelle said, hoping her jest was taken in the manner she meant it. She was finding it difficult to maintain her smile just then.

“Home, then, ma’am?” Grace made free to take Isabelle by the arm, but by the gentleness of her touch, Isabelle knew her injuries looked nearly as bad as they felt. They walked across the street, avoiding the messes of the roadways, and turned at the first block, where they were nearly overrun by a speeding wheeled chair.

Grace dropped Isabelle’s arm and stepped in front of her, protecting her from the unexpected onslaught. Isabelle gasped, unsure she could believe what she was seeing, and Yeardley skidded to a stop, pulling Alexander’s chair back from the ladies so as not to crash into them. Isabelle and Alexander both uttered cries of surprise at the sight of each other. Isabelle feared her appearance here, in the street and away from the mill, might give the wrong idea.

She stepped closer to Alexander’s chair. “The fire is out. We stayed until we knew the mill was safe. Mr. Connor has everything well in hand, and your workers are unharmed and back inside,” Isabelle said, her words tumbling out in an effort to give Alexander no further reason to worry. “All is well,” she added.

When she saw Alexander looking from her bandaged hands to her face to her hair and back to the covering she wore as a skirt, she feared she may have underestimated the state she was in.

“Truly?” Alexander asked.

Isabelle nodded. “No one is hurt. Very little is lost, as far as I could tell.”

Grace stepped forward, bowing her head. “If I may, sir, all is well only because your lady herself fought the flames away.”

Isabelle shook her head. “I did very little.” She stopped speaking when she noticed Alexander shaking his head.

“No,” he said, and he held out his hands to her.

She put her bandaged fingers in his. He held her as gently as a breath.

“Are you really all right?” The words, ragged with fear and affection, fell on Isabelle’s ears like a blessing.

Isabelle found that she could not answer.

He continued. “You are injured,” he said, looking at her fingers. Then, raising his eyes again to her face, he spoke with a voice of agony. “I promised to keep you safe, and I failed. You are suffering.”

Attempting to comfort him, Isabelle shook her head. “I am well enough,” she said.

Alexander’s brow furrowed. “You are a great deal more than well enough. You have offered your strength when I had none, your patience as I pushed you away again and again.”

Isabelle’s breath caught in her throat.

He went on. “I have