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

Good heavens, she thought to herself. What if I like this man?

Mrs. Burns had arrived before the carriage and had opened the country house in preparation for their arrival. When the driver pulled up to the front door, Alexander leaped out and faced the home he loved. His staff, intact and present here in the country, stood outside awaiting their arrival.

Yeardley, upright and unsmiling but somehow not fearsome, stood nearest the carriage. Mrs. Burns stood between him and Mae, the kitchen maid who provided the cooking in addition to all the other kitchen work. Jonathan, the driver, took his place in line with the others. Alexander greeted his staff with polite warmth, as though he had not seen them only that morning.

Isabelle waited what seemed quite a long time for him to remember that he’d brought her along. Finally, at a glance from the driver, Alexander turned and reached his hand to help her out. She found her legs shaky from having sat so long trying not to let their knees touch, and she gripped his hand harder than she’d have liked as she stepped down onto the gravel drive.

Isabelle looked up at the house, pleased with its aspect. An unassuming home, larger than a cottage but smaller by far than a manor, it felt familiar. Much like her parents’ home. Like her home, but smaller. More compact. Windows faced the gently sloping lawn that led away from the front of the house and down into a small wood.

“It’s perfectly charming,” she said.

She hadn’t meant to say it. She glanced at him to see if he was offended by her appraisal.

He appeared not to have heard her. His gaze hadn’t left the house, as if the view itself were his life’s breath.

“It is good to be back here,” he said. “Thank you all for your work to open the house.”

Mrs. Burns nodded and answered him. “Mr. Osgood, you made such good time that I hadn’t expected your arrival for another hour.”

Alexander smiled at Mrs. Burns. “I couldn’t wait. I told Jonathan to push on.”

Mrs. Burns turned to Isabelle. “Mrs. Osgood, welcome to Wellsgate.”

“Right. Yes,” Alexander mumbled. “Welcome.” He cleared his throat. “I hope you can be comfortable.” All signs of his smile were gone now. “I know it does not compare to your parents’ property, but it is home to me.”

They stepped inside the house, and a warm, inviting entryway filled with light seemed to welcome them inside. A staircase to the right led up into what were likely the bedrooms, and a large, window-filled room was on the left.

Alexander cleared his throat again. “Please make yourself at home,” he said, pointing to the sitting room. “I’ll have Yeardley bring in the bags, and then Mrs. Burns can show you to your rooms. I am going up to change.”

He practically ran up the stairs, leaving Isabelle standing in the foyer. Mrs. Burns breathed out what might have been a laugh. “Give him time, Mrs. Osgood. He’ll learn.”

“What will he learn?” Isabelle asked. The possibilities of what remained unmastered seemed manifold and various.

Mrs. Burns nodded in understanding. “How to make a place for you,” she said kindly. “I am sure he’s very glad you’ve come.” She bobbed her head and stepped into a hallway.

Isabelle was not so sure Alexander was glad she’d come. How could she have such assurance when he made no point of saying so?

Isabelle stepped inside the sitting room. It was warm, lovely, and comfortable. If this room was where he thought she belonged, she could be happy here. The furnishings felt simpler than the dark and heavy tables and couches in Manchester, and the few paintings, landscapes and village scenes, evoked comfort. She walked to the large bank of windows and looked outside. A view of the stables made her wish for an afternoon of fast riding, but she dared not suggest it. Alexander had given her no reason to think that she was welcome to make plans.

As she watched out the window, she saw Alexander jogging toward the stables. He was dressed to ride, and he looked so free, so eager to get into the saddle. She battled with the pleasure of seeing him looking relaxed against the frustration of having been left behind. Did it not occur to him to ask her to join the ride? Or was he eager to be away from her? She slipped into a chair and picked up a book from the table at her elbow. Every few seconds, her eyes slipped from the page to the stables. After several minutes, she saw Alexander ride away on a handsome stallion. She felt her posture soften. He was gone, and glad to be gone. And this was her place. Inside. Alone.

Back home. Isabelle thought if she kept referring to Manchester as her home, it might begin to feel as though it were. Her daily routine had changed so little she wondered if Alexander had even noticed they’d taken the country holiday.

He certainly hadn’t noticed her while they were at Wellsgate. Her silly antics in the carriage had brought a smile to his face for only as long as there wasn’t something better to distract him. He’d spent his days riding and his evenings poring over books and papers. Isabelle stayed at the periphery, as she’d been taught to do.

As, she had come to realize, was expected of her. Both in the country and now back in the city.

She sat in the masculine sitting room holding books she couldn’t become interested in, sketching drawings she didn’t care about, humming measures of songs she wouldn’t finish.

Her two forms of solace were Tuesday visits with the Kenworthy women and delivery of the post.

Mrs. Burns came to the door of the sitting room, not doing a particularly good job of hiding her pity. “Good morning, Mrs. Burns,” Isabelle said, arranging her face into a polite smile.

“Good morning, Mrs. Osgood,” Mrs. Burns replied. “It’s a lovely day.” They both looked out