Isabelle and Alexander

by Rebecca Anderson

  She let her eyes pass over the lines again, throwing out her most forward ideas, as well as the most reserved. Striking a proper balance was more difficult than she’d imagined. How tricky this marriage business had become. But she was determined to try again to be the kind of warm and welcoming wife she had once imagined she would be.

  When Alexander walked through the door, Isabelle simply stood, took a step toward him, and held out both her hands in welcome. “Hello,” she said, which was not among any of her prepared greetings. She watched his face closely for any sign of dismissal. There were no such signs.

  Neither did he say anything. He stood in the parlor doorway watching her, his face fixed and immobile, his mouth slightly open.

  Be brave, Isabelle, she told herself, and she took another step forward. He had no choice but to take her hands or turn away. Either his upbringing had given him practiced response, or he shook off the shock of her boldness.

  He took both her offered hands in his. “Hello,” he repeated. His voice shook slightly, and he stammered, “You look well this evening. Very well.”

  Choosing to ignore the nervous energy Alexander was exhibiting, Isabelle turned toward the dining room, folding her arm into his as though this were a natural occurrence. “Thank you,” she said. “I feel very well. I spent the day with Mrs. Kenworthy and Glory, and I found myself wet through from the rains. After a long visit and a brisk walk home, I feel it was a day well spent.” She knew she couldn’t mention Edwin’s news. Alexander might make it clear he did not care, and that would be the final blow to Isabelle’s ability to maintain control of her delicate emotional balance.

  They entered the dining room, and he pulled out her chair. “I don’t recall that dress,” he said as she sat.

  Was he angry? Did he think she had gone out and made purchases without consulting him?

  He didn’t actually ask her if she’d spent money on a new gown, but the thought crossed her mind that if she had, he’d have a right to be put out.

  “It’s been waiting for me to find the right occasion,” she said. “I have not worn it before this evening,” she replied, trying not to sound as nervous as she felt. “But I quite like the color, and I thought I’d give it a try.”

  He nodded. “Yes,” he said, his voice cracking. “Indeed a lovely color.” He stammered, “Very flattering. To your complexion.” He seated himself across the table from her and met her eye. “You should have another made in that same shade.” He glanced away and then back to her face as though he couldn’t keep his eyes off her.

  Surprise stole any reply from her. She was fairly certain that if Alexander continued to look at her with that same expression, she’d willingly wear only that shade of pink every day for the rest of her life. A small warning voice whispered in her mind that it should take more than an appreciative glance to win her over this way, but she ignored that voice in favor of feeling the pleasure of being smiled at.

  As dinner was served, Alexander continued to glance at her, and Isabelle felt the full weight of being charming. All of her practiced conversations for the evening flew out of her head, and so she told a small part of the story of watching Glory paint.

  “Perhaps you should sit for her,” he said.

  Isabelle chewed a bite of fish longer than needed. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “She could paint a portrait of you.”

  Mae came in from the kitchen to deliver a pudding, and Alexander looked away. Isabelle assumed he was uninterested in continuing the conversation, as it dealt with a hypothetical painting that did not contain hunting parties or horses or even dogs, but as soon as the kitchen maid left, he repeated his statement. This time, he added, “You could wear that dress.”

  Her heart stuttered to a stop long enough for her to recognize that she was being complimented.

  By Alexander Osgood.

  She looked at him, and they shared a smile.

  Before a proper response could form itself, they heard a knocking at the front of the house. Seconds later, Yeardley came to the dining room door.

  “What is it, Yeardley?” Alexander said.

  “Beg pardon, sir, but Mr. Connor is here and wishes to speak with you.”

  Alexander pushed away from his seat and rushed out of the room, leaving Isabelle to wonder when she might grow used to the idea that she was less important than whatever happened inside his mill. Her father’s business dealings had been farther removed from their home. As Mr. Osgood’s mill was only a few blocks away, he was never far from work, and work seemed never far from his mind.

  Isabelle scooped another bite of bread pudding into her mouth just as Alexander reappeared at the door. He didn’t come inside the dining room, but said from the doorway, “Terribly sorry. Bit of an emergency at the mill. Thank you for a lovely dinner. I do hope you’re not distressed.”

  She didn’t have time to answer him, or even chew her food, before he was gone. She felt her posture soften and her breath leave her in a sigh.

  He hoped she was not distressed. This was thoughtful, but in fact, she was a bit distressed, and he was the one who made her feel so.

  She stared at a painting of a hunting scene on the facing wall as she ate every bite of her pudding. Minutes later, she was still in her chair, wondering if there was any way she could have tempted him to stay, or simply how she could have handled the situation better, when Mae came to clear away dishes.

  Isabelle heard the kitchen girl’s gasp of surprise. “Oh, sorry, ma’am. Thought you’d be away from the table by now. I’ll come back.” She practically backed out of the room.

  Isabelle waved her inside. “No, please. I have finished eating and was contemplating life. Most importantly, contemplating whether or not Mr. Osgood would mind if I ate the pudding he hastily left behind. It was delightful.”

  Mae ducked her head to hide a grin and a blush. “Thank you, ma’am. There’s more in the kitchen if he comes looking.”

  “So you think I should feel free to finish this?” Isabelle said, pulling Alexander’s plate across the table.

  “If there’s anything improper in it, you can count on me not to mention it, ma’am,” the girl said with a grin Isabelle appreciated and returned.

  There was indeed a comfort in eating another serving of the sweet and sticky pudding, and when she’d finished, she went to her room to change into night clothes. For a moment, she wondered if she should venture out on her own, see a show or walk through a park, but the noise and dirt of Manchester kept her inside, wrapped in a warm cotton blanket made of woven cloth from Alexander’s mill. In a manner of speaking, she decided, he was keeping her warm this evening.

  She sighed again, recognizing the frequency with which she made that sound. If this had not been a sigh of contentment, it was, at the very least, not despair. If her marriage, if her life, had not turned out precisely as she’d planned or hoped, she knew at least it was not a life of tragedy or hopelessness. She had a comfortable home and a handsome and successful husband. She tried and failed to ignore that he seemed most happy when he was away from her. But he had chosen. He had made the marriage arrangement with her father. If he regretted it now, there was very little else for him to do but stay busy at the mill.

  Which he did.

  Constantly.

  Another sigh roused her from her discouraging contemplation. She sat at the small table in her dressing room and wrote a reply to Edwin’s letter, in which she extolled the pleasures and virtues of a well-made match. It was easy to say the words if she thought only of the marriages she’d seen and imagined in the past. When she thought of the lonesome reality, the words did not come in such a flow.

  Once, twice, she put the pen down and walked around the small room, shaking out the dusty corners of self-pity. She tried to remember the way Alexander had looked at her at dinner.

  His eyes had fixed on her, trave
ling from her simple hairstyle to her partially revealed shoulders to her face and back again.

  She could convince herself that he was pleased with her; he’d given her more compliments at that meal than in most of their conversations combined. He’d certainly liked the look of her in the dress.

  She had not imagined his inclination to gaze at her, of that she was sure.

  She seated herself again and collected her thoughts enough to write to Edwin that quiet dinners at home were the joy of married life and that visiting made for pleasant days. None of that was untrue.

  She restated her most sincere congratulations for his engagement and told him how she hoped he’d find all the happiness in the world with his Charlotte. She hurriedly sealed the letter before a tear could smudge the ink. She climbed into the bed in her dressing room and prayed for sleep to take her thoughts away.

  Sleeping in the dressing room allowed for a quiet and luxurious lie-in, but the next morning and so many others, she missed the warmth of a bedroom fire. When she was certain it was late enough that Alexander would be gone to the mill, she roused herself and dressed before going down to eat breakfast. On the corner of the dining table, she found a sealed note addressed to her. The masculine handwriting was unfamiliar. How odd. Sitting at the table, she cracked the seal and read.

  Dear Mrs. Osgood,

  I am indeed sorry that I had to cut last evening short. It would be my pleasure if you’d agree to accompany me to Wellsgate on Friday to stay four days. Your company would be most welcome. Perhaps, once there, you could ride out with me, get to know our horses, and compare the beauties of the countryside with those of your childhood home.

  Sincerely,

  Alexander

  He wanted her to join him? Again? Even after the fairly cold and distant outcome of their last journey?

  She reread the letter and recognized that was precisely what he had said.

  Isabelle’s surprise was great, but not to outweigh her pleasure at the invitation. He wanted her to come. He wanted her to ride with him, to talk with him. Alexander wanted to spend time in her company.

  She traced the words Sincerely, Alexander with her finger.

  She clutched the note close to her heart and allowed herself a small laugh. Was this what it felt like to be courted? Perhaps there was hope for the Osgoods yet, she thought. Perhaps they were simply going through the usual process in reverse.

  Isabelle sat in the enclosed carriage remembering the last visit to Alexander’s country home and her silly game of trying his patience. How she had intended to annoy him but had surprised them both by provoking a smile or two out of him.

  She wished she had the courage today to chatter mindlessly again. Instead, the excitement she’d allowed herself to feel in anticipation of this visit made her dumb. She could think of nothing either clever or inane to say to him. Her wanting filled her with self-doubt and squashed her ability to be entertaining. She stared silently at the light-blue hangings partially covering the windows and felt each bump in the road.

  As they pulled into the lane at Wellsgate, the quiet in the carriage had become oppressive. She wondered if she should remark on the thickness of the hedgerow or the greenery of the meadow or the heaviness of the clouds. None of that seemed at the least interesting. And why, she thought with a shadow of annoyance, should she have to carry all the responsibility of conversation? Could he not hear the echoing silence? Could he not help her? Could he not make mention of something? Anything?

  Again she let her eyes flicker to every possible prompt for a topic, but all in her sight appeared unnecessary to remark upon. She knew she was proving a poor conversationalist, at least while she felt she’d need to be the sole speaker. Discussion seemed futile.

  She determined to set aside her worry and say nothing at all, so nothing was what she said. Alexander, the same. She watched the house grow nearer. At least she could look forward to the evening ride he had invited her to join him in. There would be no expectation of talk while they were on horses.

  Yeardley took the cases from the carriage and placed them in the bedroom. Isabelle noted the distinction—on their last visit, Alexander’s cases had been delivered to his dressing room. She wondered how much convincing Mrs. Burns had needed to induce Yeardley to place their bags in the same room.

  Since she could not even trust herself to comment on the weather, she clearly could say nothing about such an arrangement, so she remained mute, and soon after, a platter of bread and cheese was on the sideboard for Alexander and Isabelle. They ate in relative silence for several minutes until Isabelle suggested that the light was nice in the west parlor. Surely he would understand she meant she would rather eat in the warmer, sunnier room. Alexander merely nodded.

  “Perhaps we could remove to the parlor now,” she said.

  Alexander looked up, startled, but immediately stood and nodded. “Of course,” he said, carrying the small platter in one hand and offering her his other arm.

  As they moved to the brighter room, Isabelle felt pleased at this discovery. Possibly he needed only to be asked a second time. It was not the romantic ideal of her childhood dreams, but she could choose to see it as rather a poetic obstacle.

  They seated themselves in neighboring chairs, and Isabelle found conversation to come slightly more easily as she felt the warmth of the sun through the large window.

  After eating, she excused herself to change into riding clothes. The bedroom was large and filled with an enormous, masculine wood-and-metal framed bed hung with dark-green draperies. The thought occurred to her that they would be sharing this room. This bed. Together. She quickly looked away from the bed and focused on the fireplace. As soon as she’d finished dressing, she left the bedroom so Alexander could change at his leisure. She did not think of herself as shy, exactly, but she was far more comfortable with privacy and imagined he would be as well.

  Walking through the country house, she wondered when she’d stop feeling like a visitor there. Not soon, she thought as she took several steps down the long, curved staircase. It was a lovely home, but it was not hers. She didn’t even think of it as theirs. It was Alexander’s country home. She was pleased to be invited as a guest there.

  She made it to the bottom of the staircase and turned toward the kitchen. She was not hungry after the bread and cheese, but she thought she’d see if there was anything there to offer the horses. As she turned into the room, she found Mrs. Burns placing something in a glass bowl.

  Pears. Lovely, perfect pears.

  She remembered mentioning to Alexander on their last visit how she enjoyed pears.

  A portion of the tension seemed to release from Isabelle’s back and shoulders.

  She could not keep herself from walking over to Mrs. Burns and standing beside her. “Those are glorious. They smell divine.”

  “Indeed, they do,” Mrs. Burns said, keeping her gaze on the bowl but poorly hiding a smile.

  “Is there a good market in the village? Or did you bring those with us from the city?” Isabelle reached into the bowl and put the fruit close to her nose.

  Mrs. Burns nodded. “Here in the village. A neighbor has a small orchard in operation. Mr. Osgood seems to have had a pressing desire today to partake.”

  A pressing desire? Had Alexander demanded that Mrs. Burns go to the market upon arrival and buy fruit?

  Perfect September pears. Always among the reasons to be contented.

  “I wonder,” Isabelle said to Mrs. Burns, “if you’re at all aware that I love pears and that you’ve made me very happy.”

  The housekeeper looked into Isabelle’s eyes and smiled. “I am recently made aware of this, and I am terribly glad I’ve had a small part in bringing you joy.” She leaned in a little closer. “But if you don’t mind my saying, my job was only the execution. The plan was made by himself.” She nodded over her shoulder to indicate the rest
of the house.

  Isabelle felt her stiffness soften another fraction. Her voice, when she spoke, came softly. “That’s very kind.”

  Again Mrs. Burns nodded. “He is, you know. Very kind. Even if it’s hard for him to show it. He has a practiced deference to women of your station.”

  Isabelle knew that if she could search for such kindness instead of underscoring the disappointments, the next few days might tell her much about the changes she could expect in the coming weeks and months.

  As she turned the lovely pear over in her fingers, she remembered Alexander’s glance at her over dinner that night earlier in the week, the feeling that they’d shared a moment of intimacy. She was startled to hear Alexander’s voice from the stair.

  “You were right.”

  She looked up. He was dressed in fetching fawn riding gear. His casual and comfortable handsomeness nearly took her breath. “Right? About what?”

  He came down the last of the steps and stood nearer her. His smile was gentle and looked sincere. “You once told me that simple things can please you.”

  She looked from the pear to her husband. “Simple kindness will surely always do so.” She felt her cheeks flushing, and it was a relief that the blush stemmed from happiness instead of frustration.

  She turned the fruit in her hands. “I thank you for this thoughtfulness. And for remembering.”

  “Indeed, I remember,” he said, his voice low.

  The desire to touch his arm startled her, and she took a small step backward but retained her smile so as not to appear disinterested.

  “Perhaps we can share this simple pleasure after our ride.”

  A momentary flash of sympathy suggested to her that perhaps his silence in the carriage was brought on by nervousness. Was it possible he had been worried his gesture would be unappreciated? Did he, as Mrs. Burns seemed to think, fear her censure?

  He’d remembered a few of the silly things she’d said on that first visit to the country. How many other things did he recall? She’d spent the past several months convinced that he didn’t even notice her in his home. That she was an item he needed to collect to ensure his acceptability in Manchester society. But here, in the country, he seemed to recall even things she’d forgotten about herself.