Cover art © Mark Owen/ArcAngel
Book design © Shadow Mountain
Art direction: Richard Erickson
Design: Heather G. Ward
© 2021 Becca Wilhite
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Anderson, Rebecca, 1973– author.
Title: Isabelle and Alexander / Rebecca Anderson.
Other titles: Proper romance.
Description: Salt Lake City : Shadow Mountain, [2021] | Series: Proper romance | Summary: Isabelle Rackham enters into an arranged marriage in 1850 with the eligible Alexander Osgood, owner of a successful mill in Manchester, England, and who has close business relationships with Isabelle’s father. Although she enters the marriage with no illusions about love, but with a will to make it work, she finds her new home in cold, dreary, dark northern England difficult to bear until an accident occurs on a visit to Alexander’s country estate.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020043855 | ISBN 9781629728476 (trade paperback) | eISBN 978-1-62973-995-3 (eBook)
Subjects: LCSH: Newlyweds—Fiction. | Arranged marriage—Fiction. | Eighteen fifties, setting. | England, Northern, setting. | Manchester (England), setting. | LCGFT: Historical fiction. | Romance fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3623.I545 I83 2021 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020043855
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Other Victorian Proper Romances
Ashes on the Moor
by Sarah M. Eden
The Lady and the Highwayman
by Sarah M. Eden
The Gentleman and the Thief
by Sarah M. Eden
To Josi
You always believe I can.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Discussion Questions
About the Author
Isabelle Rackham stood in the morning parlor staring into the mirror, grateful to be alone for a moment and that nobody was fidgeting with buttons, bows, fasteners, or pins. She took as deep a breath as her corseting allowed and ran her hands down the waist of her bridal gown, allowing herself a little shiver of delight.
Her wedding day.
Every young woman surely dreamed of this day, and Isabelle was no different, having planned and schemed and imagined every possibility, but even in her fantasies, she hardly dared hope that the groom would look like Alexander Osgood.
She had heard of him, of course, from her father. His successful mill in Manchester kept her father happily, profitably busy as Mr. Rackham supplied the mill’s coal. When her mother requested that Mr. Osgood send a miniature portrait, Isabelle felt sure that the artist had taken liberties with reality: no man was as handsome as that painting made him look. Isabelle begged her parents for a meeting wherein she could ascertain how closely the art reflected the man.
Her request was refused. Mr. Alexander Osgood’s reputation had traveled far enough that young ladies from the Lakes had heard of his rise to success as well as his good looks. Isabelle ought to simply take rumor as fact. She did wonder, though, about his mind. His temperament.
Without appearing overly eager to know more, Isabelle would ask subtle questions of her acquaintances. In return, they would repeat, again and again, that he was remarkably handsome. Perhaps that was all the man had to his claim. If that was the case, Isabelle had decided to overlook attendant deficiencies. A dashing countenance, she could admit, was sufficiently charming.
When he finally made an appearance at the Lakes, the Rackham family was the envy of all—he spent most of his visit in a series of meetings with Mr. Rackham. Isabelle’s friends assumed that the two of them had formed an attachment, but in fact, she had met with him over meals and otherwise seen him very rarely.
Rarely, but enough to know that the rumors were, indeed, accurate.
Mr. Osgood, he of well-cut suit and strong jaw and golden hair, appeared, if possible, more handsome than the painting and the rumors that had preceded his arrival.
And he’d certainly charmed Mr. and Mrs. Rackham. To Isabelle, he was polite but not forthcoming, proper but never particularly engaging . . . apart from his smile, which appeared seldom enough to be of ever so much interest. It was the smile of a young boy who holds a secret but is unsure he should tell it. A smile that spoke of timidity on a face that inspired swoons. Isabelle hoped to be the recipient of more such smiles.
When her father had approached her and let her know Mr. Osgood had made an offer that would combine families and business interests, Isabelle felt herself soaked in a state of marvel for days. Her emotions, ranging from delight at being chosen to annoyance at the efficient, professional, and completely passionless nature of the offer, swirled through her head and heart.
She had no delusions about romance. Well aware that she held a responsibility, as the Rackhams’ only child, to further her father’s business affairs, she had always been prepared to submit to a marriage connection that would strengthen the business that had allowed the Rackhams to rise up through the class of the working wealthy. Mr. Rackham’s business endeavors provided enough income that his wife and daughter lived in a style of comfort outmatched by few of the families in Cumbria. In return, Isabelle knew she would make a match that pleased him.
But now, she thought perhaps it could please her as well. Mr. Osgood had been effectual rather than warm in his offer of marriage, but surely once she was his wife, she would uncover and encourage his depth of charm and affection.
She glanced at her reflection in the glass from several angles. She saw nothing of which to be ashamed. She hoped Mr. Alexander Osgood would feel the same.
A quiet knock pulled her attention from the mirror. She turned with forced calm toward the parlor door where her cousin Edwin, a year her junior and dear friend of her heart, poked his head into the room.
“Are you decent?”
She looked at him archly. “And i
f I weren’t?” she said.
“Too late, I guess. Corruption. Scandal. Complete loss of position.”
She pushed an errant curl behind her ear. “You’re fairly casual with your social standing.”
He looked apologetic. “Oh, no. You misunderstand me. I meant to be casual with yours.”
She laughed and perched on the edge of the couch. “Come. Sit with me.” She pushed a cushion out of the way. He sat and turned to look at her.
His familiar grin overspread his face. “Gracious, Belle. You’re a vision.”
Isabelle’s smile was proper if not sincere. “And that’s what matters. I look the part of beautiful bride. The women out there see that the man of the hour has a respectably handsome wife. Mother gets the notices in the papers. Father gets a share in the Osgood Mills.”
“And you?” Edwin asked. “What do you get?”
His voice verged too much on the tender. She changed tone immediately by ticking off items on her fingers. “I? A house in the city and a place in the country. A husband to keep me in dresses and pin money. A new name. A new start.” She threw him a grin. “A new life.”
He wrapped his fingers around hers. “And what was so wrong with the old life?”
Oh, if he knew how she wished she could simply stay young and free and home at the Lakes with him forever. But to Edwin, every day was a giddy adventure, with little thought for what the next week or year ought to hold.
Heart heavy, but voice light, she put her head on his shoulder so he could not see her face. “Not a thing is wrong with this life. But it’s time.” She hoped he couldn’t hear the ragged edge in her breath. “We all have to grow up sooner or later, Ed.”
Edwin made a sound that might have been assent. Or perhaps not. Edwin had been less delighted with Mr. Osgood than had the young ladies. He thought Alexander rather “chilly.” Isabelle could not exactly argue with that assessment from any personal interactions, but she lent it small credence as Edwin was the warmest, most ebullient of young men. Beside Edwin, everyone else must appear a bit cold and dull.
In addition, Edwin had hinted at his disappointment in Mr. Osgood’s family history. A successful business owner who had come up from practically nothing, a possibility that would have been unthinkable only two generations ago. Isabelle shrugged off Edwin’s concerns. No one cared about such things in these modern times.
“He does not deserve you,” Edwin said.
“Perhaps it is I who do not deserve him,” Isabelle countered.
He pulled her closer. “You deserve everything wonderful.”
She whispered into his vest, “You’re not required to like him. Only to continue to adore me forever as your favorite.”
He placed a kiss on her hair in response. “Forever,” he said. “But, oh, how I’ll miss you when you’ve gone.”
She knew. They’d been inseparable playmates for nearly all their lives, romping through the halls of her home or his, stealing from the cooks, running off with the horses to explore the woods and meadows. Their mothers were sisters, alike in age and temperament, who married favorably: gentlemen who supplied them far beyond the basic needs and had no objections to purchasing neighboring properties.
They’d acted as children so much like brother and sister that they were treated as such—scolded by each other’s governesses and by each other’s mothers, as well as loved beyond measure by mother and aunt alike.
Isabelle wondered occasionally if her mother didn’t prefer Ed. Who wouldn’t rather have a son? But Edwin had confessed that he feared the same—that his mother would have rather had a daughter for her own. In the end, each determined that their lot—adoration by mother and aunt—was better than most people ever received, and agreed to be grateful.
Until Edwin grew taller than Isabelle, she’d been the unquestioned leader of their mob of two. All capers were her suggestion. When he reached the age of fourteen, he suddenly sprung ahead of her in height, in bravado, and in mischief. The Chicken Incident, the unfortunate experience with the neighbor’s stone wall, and most recently, the fox hunt gone awry, could all be chalked up to Edwin’s increasing mastery of the indirectly forbidden.
“I should not ask you one more time if you’re sure.” Edwin tightened his hold around Isabelle’s shoulder.
“No, you should not.” She sat up and smiled at him. “But I’ll tell you in any case. I am. Certain. This is the proper next step. I shall marry Alexander Osgood today.” And, she thought, I shall hope neither of us regrets it very soon.
Now why, she wondered, had she thought that? Of course Mr. Osgood would warm to her—if not immediately, at least presently. She would be the one to melt the frost upon his personality. It was one of the responsibilities of a good wife.
Another knock at the parlor door brought her up off the settee. Her mother slipped inside and leaned against the door behind her. “It’s going beautifully already.”
She motioned for Isabelle to turn and inspected her gown, a frilled and flounced confection worthy of the status of their family.
“Now, Isabelle, in addition to what we spoke of last evening,” she began.
Isabelle flushed and glanced toward Edwin, who chose not to hear, or if he heard, wisely did not meet Isabelle’s eyes.
Her mother continued. “Mr. Osgood is on the same path on which your father travels upward through society, but you must remember that even if he cannot yet provide you the connections and the comforts you’ve enjoyed in this home, all those things will come.”
She tucked a flower more tightly into her daughter’s hair as Isabelle nodded her understanding. She realized that Mr. Osgood’s rise through society would come partly at her hand.
“The country is progressing, and your Mr. Osgood is progressing with it.” The zeal with which Mrs. Rackham spoke of the queen and all her rule represented tended to carry her to heights of excitement, and Isabelle was grateful her mother reined in her vocal fervor now. There was, after all, a wedding to participate in. She turned her daughter to inspect her appearance from all sides and then leaned in and kissed Isabelle’s cheek. “Be patient as he finds his place as a gentleman of business.”
Satisfied, she spun around the room, looking for anything that needed putting in order. Finding all well, she smiled.
“Edwin, dear, it’s time for you to take your place in the ballroom. Isabelle, are you ready, love? Good.”
It was just as well she didn’t wait for an answer. Opening the door a crack, she motioned into the hall. Through the door squeezed Annette, Mrs. Rackham’s lady’s maid.
Isabelle embraced Edwin and ignored the directions her mother gave Annette. Edwin whispered in her ear, “We’ve never had any secrets, and I will not lie to you. I will only say that I hope Osgood grows to deserve you.”
The nervous tears that had been threatening all morning rose to her eyes. She stared at a corner of the ceiling as she brought Edwin’s hands to her lips.
Mrs. Rackham bustled Edwin out of the room, and as Annette inspected Isabelle for flaws, Mrs. Rackham restated her efficient list of all Isabelle must know and do to be a proper wife.
Isabelle nodded and said nothing, the surest way to encourage her mother to finish this conversation quickly. The blush that rose to her face did, she noticed in the mirror, add something of a glow to her aspect. With rosy cheeks, she exited the morning parlor and stepped into the beginning of her new life.
Later, Isabelle would remember very little of the actual ceremony. The local vicar, knowing nothing of Alexander Osgood aside from his choice of bride, kept his remarks short. The large, elegantly dressed crowd blended into a sea of fashionable hats and bonnets.
Isabelle knew that the great families of the area were out of her social reach, but the kindly and generous friends and families of the district’s successful class made the celebration lovely. And even the higher-society ladies of th
e region graced them with their presence in order to be in a room with the famously attractive Alexander.
Her father, George Rackham, stood straight, looking as pleased with himself as ever he did when making a profitable business decision. And there, next to her father, was the man who would, from now on, be her husband.
Alexander Osgood. His golden hair shone in the reflected candlelight, and he stood tall and strong and striking. It appeared clear to Isabelle that she was the envy of all the collected young women as well as many older ones. His slightly distracted expression offended her until she realized that her own face, stiff with anxious concern, must have been a mirror of his.
Was Mother right? Did Isabelle appear as far above Alexander’s reach as she said? She would find ways to assure him that they were well matched.
She arranged her features into a demure expression of pleasure and walked forward into her future.
It didn’t take years or even months for Isabelle to discover what life as Mrs. Alexander Osgood was to be. An undisclosed emergency at his mill precluded their scheduled visit to Wellsgate, his small home in the country, so they bypassed their wedding trip and settled into his house in the city. Not The City. Manchester, not London. Any dreams of settling on the proper side of the most elegant streets in Town had gone the way of childhood fantasies years before. When one’s family came into its wealth within the past generation or two, one ought not to imagine rising above the stigma of New Money in any kind of society.
Besides, Isabelle’s parents had made it clear that such a life was beyond their reach, and beyond the reach of anyone who would likely turn his head toward Isabelle. She was handsome enough, she was educated enough, and she was accomplished enough to look the part of a successful businessman’s wife. She’d wear the proper clothing and speak of topics unlikely to shock or offend. Following her mother’s carefully structured advice on proper wifely behavior, she could belong.
Thus far, the couple had made two forays into Manchester society for what Alexander referred to as “business dinners,” and both times, Isabelle had been in a stupor of nerves. Every woman who glanced appreciatively at Alexander seemed to give a secondary, less gracious glance at Isabelle. None seemed inclined to ask her polite questions; none made any offer of friendship or interest. Neither evening lasted long, and neither prompted any discussion between Isabelle and Alexander. Her questions, answered in monosyllables, soon dried up.
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