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

in response, he clasped her more closely. As the sky outside lightened and the sun rose, they took no notice at all, so absorbed were they in discovering each other.

It was high summer, and Isabelle and Alexander had only just returned from a week’s stay at Wellsgate. Upon freshening up in their bedroom, which once had been the parlor, Isabelle heard a knock at the door.

“Pardon me, ma’am, but Glory Kenworthy and her mother are here to see you both. Mr. Osgood is already sitting with them in the drawing room.”

Isabelle nodded her thanks and checked her reflection in the mirror on the wall. Over the past few months, all her injuries had healed, save one. The back of her right hand, badly burned from the mill fire, had a patch of puckered skin. Isabelle did not mind the blemish, mainly because Alexander called it her badge of honor, and he placed a tender and grateful kiss upon it each morning and night.

As she stepped across the entry hall and into the drawing room, Isabelle heard the discordant sound of several atonal musical notes being played together and Glory and Alexander laughing.

“Perhaps not yet,” Glory said, “but I believe Mrs. Osgood could teach you.”

“What could I teach you, Alec?” Isabelle asked, catching a glimpse of the relaxed and playful husband she was coming to know and adore.

“To play the pianoforte,” he said, grasping the wheels of his chair and backing away from the instrument. He moved his chair beside the one Isabelle sat in. “It will not be the most challenging thing you have attempted,” he added, giving her a wink.

She reached for his hand, always preferring to be touching him when they were in the same room. Which was, undoubtedly, most of the time.

Isabelle glanced at the small wooden box set with care and joy in the center of the drawing room’s central table—a place where she could see it every day, beside a bowl of perfectly ripe pears. Only after her recovery did she fully realize the gift Alexander had given her at Christmas. Beneath the gift of new writing paper, he had placed ever so many undelivered notes he had written to her, at first with his own hand, and then, when his hands no longer allowed, in the writing of Yeardley or Mrs. Burns. Every message, penned over months, a testament to his growing love for his wife.

Glory reached for a paper-wrapped package beside her.

“For you,” she said, obviously eager for Isabelle to open it.

Isabelle clapped her hands. “Is it our painting?” she asked, pulling the paper away.

Glory nodded. “Even if it does not look exactly as you look, it looks like you feel.”

Isabelle pulled the painting upright and held it in front of her and Alexander. It was the two of them, Isabelle smiling forward, and Alexander staring at her from the side, a look of happy surprise on his face.

Glory explained. “The last time I came to paint you, this is how he looked at you when you were singing. And now it is how he looks at you always.”

Isabelle stood and crossed the drawing room to take Glory in her arms. “Thank you. It is lovely. Almost perfect.”

Glory looked surprised. “Almost?” she asked.

Isabelle nodded. “I fear that soon I will need to trouble you to make another. Our family, you see,” she said, “is growing.”

Glory clasped her hands at her heart. “Are you finally getting a puppy?” she asked, all joy and excitement.

Isabelle’s hands went to her stomach, where a small bulge reminded her every day that there was ever something more wonderful to look forward to.

“Even better,” she said.

I offer my sincere thanks to all whose hearts hold a love for stories of the past, both real and imagined. There are endless tales to be told.

Thanks to the tireless team at Shadow Mountain, who make publishing look easy: Lisa Mangum, Heidi Taylor Gordon, and Chris Schoebinger, the editorial Dream Team; Troy Butcher and Callie Hansen in sales and marketing (that’s a whole lot like professional party planning); Richard Erickson and Heather Ward in design; and Rachael Ward for the lovely typography. And a special thanks to Carly Springer for a careful proofreading eye.

Writing can be a lonely, solitary experience, but it doesn’t have to be. I’m so grateful to be a member of several writerly communities through which I have learned to tighten my prose, balance what matters, and see new possibilities. Thanks to all the writer friends who pull together when it matters, especially my Proper Romance sisters and my Barbie girls. Special gratitude to Jenny Proctor, who promises to love almost everything I write and helps me polish up the rest of it. And Stephanie Sorensen, who took a fortunate trip to northern England and sent back photos and videos of Victorian-era mills. Next time, I’ll join you.

What a joy to be able to be a high school teacher in a community of amazing colleagues. We’re constantly surrounded by the best, brightest, and most delightful young adults in the world. Their readiness to make the world better inspires me daily.

I have an amazing family. The deep goodness of my husband and kids is a great comfort, and I am occasionally startled by new realizations of my good fortune. Thanks for being my people.

And thank you, readers, for sharing your hours. You give our characters a reason to live.

1. Isabelle and Alexander is not a typical romance. In what ways does their marriage still allow for the important question, “Will they fall in love?”

2. The Victorian era was a time of great reform in society, in industry, and in interpersonal relationships. How is Isabelle helped into a sense of independence within the confines and opportunities of this changing time period?

3. Alexander’s natural reticence is compounded by a feeling of being socially “beneath” Isabelle’s family. How does a perceived difference in social stature affect a relationship?

4. Isabelle and her cousin Edwin have a close family friendship. Do you