Isabelle and Alexander

by Rebecca Anderson

  Not finding her in any of the expected places, Isabelle entered the kitchen. Mae was kneading dough, her arms floury.

  The young woman looked up in surprise. “Mrs. Osgood.” She attempted to remove her hands from the dough and put them behind her back, standing upright.

  “Please, don’t let me stop your work,” Isabelle said. She pulled out a chair. “May I sit with you for a time?”

  Mae nodded, hesitating over her table.

  “Please,” Isabelle repeated. “Carry on with your work. I simply need some company.”

  For the next hour, Isabelle asked questions and Mae answered, growing more comfortable as time passed. Mae scrubbed vegetables clean in a bowl of water, occasionally rising to check the progress of a boiling chicken. Isabelle asked about Mae’s family, her prospects, and her happiness with their situation.

  “I love my work,” Mae said, lifting a towel and uncovering the now-risen bread dough. “I do miss my parents when we leave the city.” She looked up, startled. “I don’t mean to complain, ma’am. I am grateful to come here to the country, but living here, sleeping here, is different than going home at night.”

  “I understand completely. And I imagine you’re as ready to return to the city as Mr. Osgood is.”

  “Indeed I am, ma’am. It will be good to go home.”

  Home. Isabelle wondered when any place would begin to feel like it deserved that name.

  “I believe you. And when I married Mr. Osgood and moved away, I missed my childhood home. I missed my parents and the familiarity of my place, but my homesickness and loneliness were not for a place, but rather for a person. When I left home, I ached for my cousin.”

  Mae nodded. “Is she your age?” she asked, dicing a carrot that would be boiled into a textureless puree.

  Isabelle said, “Who?”

  “Your cousin, ma’am,” Mae said, a look of confusion on her face.

  Isabelle laughed. “Oh, of course. You must think me daft. My cousin is a year younger. And a man. His name is Edwin, and he is my dearest friend.”

  When she said the words, Isabelle realized how true they still were. She longed for Edwin’s company, but she couldn’t imagine him here, now. She couldn’t picture him within the home she was attempting to create, within the life she was living.

  “Was he very sad to lose you when you married?” Mae asked, encouraged by Isabelle’s honesty.

  “He was, for a time. But he is the kind of person who will always be surrounded by someone to love. It didn’t take him long to fill the hole my marriage left.” Isabelle smiled, pleased that what had felt so painful when she had read it not many weeks ago now seemed right, and if not joyful, at least good.

  “He himself is engaged to be married,” Isabelle said.

  “Do you like her?” Mae asked. “His lady?”

  “I’ve not met her, but I am prepared to love her.”

  Mae smiled as she sliced a potato and slid it into a pot for soup. “I hope that is a common sentiment, ma’am. Being prepared to love the choice your friend has made, I mean.”

  Isabelle picked up a spoon from the table and turned it in her hands. “I am not sure how common it is. My parents knew Mr. Osgood before I did. They thought highly enough of him to arrange this for us.”

  Mae looked up and said, “It’s not a love match, you and the master?” The knife she held clattered to the table as Mae dropped it and covered her mouth. “Oh, dear, I do apologize. I didn’t mean . . .” Her voice trailed off as she shook her head, clearly attempting to recall her words.

  Isabelle was unruffled. She picked up the knife and handed it back. “I have not known Mr. Osgood for long,” she said, “but I have not given up hope.” She sent Mae a smile to show the girl she hadn’t committed a drastic violation of propriety. Perhaps in the city, this kind of conversation would never happen between them, but nothing in the country was as she had expected it to be.

  “That is a lovely thought, ma’am. Especially considering all that has happened here over the past weeks. If I may say, you were welcomed into Mr. Osgood’s household with a great deal of love and admiration.”

  “He hasn’t any family,” Isabelle said. “There was nobody to win over.”

  Mae ducked her head. “Forgive me if it’s impertinent to mention it, but Mrs. Burns thinks very highly of you.”

  It was the first time the idea had occurred to Isabelle that the house staff considered themselves to be part of Mr. Osgood’s family. Which meant they thought of themselves as the entirety of his family, as there was no one else. She knew Mrs. Burns had been the first domestic help Alexander had acquired, and now that she thought of it, it was natural for the woman to feel maternal toward him.

  “Not impertinent at all,” she said, although she wasn’t completely certain how to maintain the proper boundaries of household relationships. Her parents’ serving staff stayed belowstairs and performed their work as though invisible, but she and Alexander had a different life than that of her parents, and times were, as she often noted, changing.

  “Thank you for allowing me to interrupt your work,” Isabelle said, rising from her seat and replacing it where she’d taken it from. “It feels lovely to have someone to talk with.”

  Mae smiled. “If there’s anything special you’d like me to cook for you, please let me know.”

  “I am very glad to eat what Mr. Osgood eats,” she said. “But I wouldn’t mind a custard with berries if the ingredients are available.”

  “I believe that is not too much to ask,” Mae said, throwing Isabelle another smile.

  Upon returning to Manchester, Isabelle poured her efforts into arranging the house for Alexander. For the first time, she wished the house were situated differently; were all the rooms on the same level, he’d have a greater chance of making his way through his own home without encountering unsurmountable obstacles.

  Obstacles like stairs.

  Once the mark of elegance and acceptability, the main staircase in the Manchester house now proved a barrier to Alexander’s privacy. Without access to his rooms abovestairs, he was again situated in a parlor, and life carried on around and all about him.

  And if Isabelle had thought she’d resettle into the life she’d left only a few weeks ago, she’d have been surprised at the difference having Alexander at all times present would make.

  Mrs. Burns helped organize the removal of the bed from Alexander’s dressing room down to the parlor. A ready-made wheeled chair was ordered, and all furniture was moved from the middle of each room to the edges so he could be moved freely throughout the main level. The drawing room, generally ignored in favor of the parlor, had very little furniture about it other than a divan and a couple of seats, but Alexander’s dining chair was taken away from the table so that when he was ready, he could be brought into the dining room for meals.

  The day they arrived back in the city, Yeardley and Jonathan, the driver, carried Alexander inside the house. Isabelle wished she could cause a distraction on the other side of the street to avert all eyes away from the sight of Alexander being loaded into the house like an overlarge bundle of stove wood. All she could do was hope that he chose, as he tended to do when she was exercising his legs, to close his eyes and ignore his surroundings.

  Once installed on the bed in the parlor, Alexander set about dictating letters with Yeardley, demanding appointments with Mr. Kenworthy and Mr. Connor, and asking any and every person who passed the parlor door to fetch him something or other from his rooms or from the mill.

  Isabelle installed herself in the drawing room opposite, but she wondered after half a day if she’d be still long enough to sit down at the table to write a note to Mrs. Kenworthy. After multiple trips up to Alexander’s dressing room for a pillow, a different pillow, his dressing gown, a blanket more suited to early October, and his favorite painting of a hunting party, Isabelle f
elt her legs might give way.

  Chiding herself for complaining, even if only in her mind, she remembered how grateful Alexander would be if only he could run up the stairs himself.

  Upon recommendation from Doctor Kelley, Alexander had chosen a physician in Manchester who had treated several people with spinal injuries. He had begun to earn a reputation for successful rehabilitation.

  A knock on the door was followed by several voices. Isabelle came to the entry hall to find three men lifting the large wheeled chair over the threshold.

  Mrs. Burns stepped to Isabelle’s side. “Mrs. Osgood, may I present Doctor Fredericks?” She motioned to the gentleman supervising the lifting. He glanced at Isabelle and gave her a bare nod. Before she could say a word, he turned from her, inspecting the rooms adjacent to the entry. Standing in the hall with her hand extended, she felt snubbed and inconsequential. She missed Doctor Kelley already.

  Returning his attention to the men with the chair, the doctor bustled around them, giving directions and striding across the entryway, pushing the chair and executing sharp turns. He appeared to be taking the measure of the house.

  “Where is the patient?” Doctor Fredericks asked in a voice louder than the space warranted, and Isabelle pointed toward the parlor.

  “Right. Come along,” he said. Isabelle wondered if she was included in this brusque invitation. She followed the men into the parlor, where Alexander lay propped against a pillow.

  “Osgood,” the doctor said with a nod, and if any additional greeting was forthcoming, Isabelle didn’t hear it.

  “Into the chair with you,” the doctor said.

  Alexander’s mouth opened as if to answer, but no words came out.

  “Up, now.”

  Alexander glanced at Isabelle. She wished for a moment to fix her expression into something other than shock at the doctor’s manner, but there was no time. The doctor snapped his fingers in impatience. Isabelle was startled at this discourtesy.

  “I’ll need assistance,” Alexander said. Isabelle was pleased for him that his voice sounded stronger than it had since the accident.

  Doctor Fredericks nodded at the men who’d carried the chair into the house, and they went to either side of the bed, sliding and lifting Alexander from the bed to the chair. At a signal from the doctor, both men stepped away.

  For a moment, Alexander looked as he had when she’d first seen him, seated in her parents’ receiving room, tall and handsome and nervous.

  She’d forgotten until this moment that he’d seemed worried that day in her parents’ home. Humble. As if it mattered to him what she thought. Until now, he hadn’t looked that way again.

  But today it wasn’t Isabelle he wanted to please. He kept his eyes glued to Doctor Fredericks, waiting for a pronouncement.

  Isabelle watched as Alexander seemed to grow smaller. Only seconds later she realized that he was slipping, tilting in the chair. She watched in horror as he began to fold over on himself. She ran the few steps across the room and landed on her knees at his chair, pressing her arms into his shoulders, bracing him from the fall that was imminent. As she pushed his torso upright, she heard a breath of impatience from behind her.

  “Perhaps,” the doctor said to the back of Isabelle’s head, “you’d rather leave the room as we perform our examination.” His voice was detached. Emotionless.

  “Perhaps,” Isabelle spat, “you’d like to protect your patient from any additional harm.”

  “Mrs. Osgood,” he said without a hint of contrition or judgment, “which of us is a trained physician?”

  She did not choose to answer him.

  “Leave us, if you please.”

  Still on her knees and bracing Alexander, she looked into his face. He looked back at her and whispered, “It’s best you go.”

  She whispered back, “Do you want me to go?”

  His expression softened. “You need not witness this.”

  Isabelle nodded and stood, uncaring that she appeared inelegant and improper. Before leaving the room, she settled Alexander more firmly against the back of the chair. Her hand lingered on his shoulder for a moment as if she could infuse him with a measure of her own strength.

  As the doctor did not speak to her or look at her as she left the room, she didn’t feel any need to give him even a nod. Stepping across to the drawing room, she settled herself into a chair from which she could see into a corner of the parlor.

  Perched on the edge of the seat, she watched and listened. The doctor’s toneless voice, issuing commands, cut through the space between rooms, giving Isabelle physical pain. How could this man represent the same profession as kind and gentle Doctor Kelley?

  Intermixed with the doctor’s tone, she could hear Alexander’s weaker, softer voice offering responses to questions. She wished she could understand his words, know his replies. Several times she saw the chair move across the floor, Alexander sitting upright. A small relief, at least, that they weren’t allowing him to fall from the chair.

  After what felt like hours, Isabelle heard the doctor taking his leave. She met him at the door.

  “How is he?” she said without preamble. She owed this man no particular courtesy. His assistants walked out the door without taking leave.

  The doctor reached for his coat and hat, but she stood between him and the door. If he planned to leave before she was ready to excuse him, he’d have to push past her.

  His response came in the same voice, careless of how it must carry to the patient himself. “There is reason to think he can regain some of his strength, but it won’t happen with the kind of coddling he had in the country. I’ve left the names of nurses who can be hired to come to your home if you’re determined to keep him here for a time, but when you tire of caring for an invalid, here are the asylums I recommend for convalescence.” The doctor reached into his coat pocket and handed Isabelle a printed paper advertising long-term care for the infirm and feeble. She placed the pamphlet on the table beside the door without looking at it.

  She steeled herself to deliver the words she’d been rehearsing in her mind. “Doctor, I understand that though this is a foreign experience for us, you have trodden this path of injury and recovery several times.”

  “Indeed.”

  She cleared her throat and spoke in a gentle voice, unwilling to make her words heard to Alexander. “And we appreciate your experience, your practical knowledge, your mind, and your understanding.” As she stopped for a breath, he made a move to pass her. She straightened her back and continued. “In addition to your professional skill, could you perhaps give him a small measure of your heart? Surely he will recover more quickly if he is treated kindly.”

  The doctor stared at her as if without comprehension, and his look made her feel physically smaller.

  “What do you imagine would happen if I tried to form a personal relationship with everyone I treat?” He didn’t wait long enough for her to answer. Clearly, he was not interested in her opinion. “I am not being paid to be your husband’s friend. And you,” he said, pointing his finger too near her face, “will do him no favors if you cosset him.”

  In her astonishment, she felt him shove past her and leave the house. When her shock passed, she hurried to the parlor, where Alexander was seated in the chair facing the window.

  Remembering the tender way with which he’d excused her from the room, she walked to his side and knelt in front of the chair. She reached for his hand.

  “Are you well?” she asked, her voice low.

  He did not look at her. “Well enough.”

  “How can I help you?”

  His face was a mask of detachment. “You have done enough.” If his words hadn’t expressed sufficient desire to be alone, his cold tone would have pushed her away. She removed her hand from his and rocked back, standing up and stepping away.

  “But . . .
” she began.

  He interrupted her. “You heard the doctor. You’ll do me no favors. Please send in Yeardley when you go,” he said, his voice icy.

  She left without trying to say anything more. What else was there to say? This dance of moving closer together and then pushing apart was another exhausting component of her tiring existence.

  She found Yeardley. “Mr. Osgood requests your company,” she said. “And I believe I’ll go out for a short time. Perhaps when I return, you and I can discuss what place I may have in assisting Mr. Osgood’s recovery treatment.”

  Yeardley nodded and said nothing, but Yeardley routinely said nothing, which obviously endeared him to Alexander. If Isabelle tried to be more like a silent manservant, perhaps Alexander would like her better.

  Isabelle’s walk to the Kenworthy home, a bracing October wind in her face, shored her up. She felt more peaceful than she had upon leaving Alexander’s house. Her house. Their house.

  When she was shown inside, she heard uncommonly loud voices echoing throughout the vestibule. Within a few minutes, the housemaid who had answered the door returned.

  “Very sorry, ma’am, but Mrs. Kenworthy sends her deepest regret that she is unable to come to meet you. Miss Glory is unwell.” These words were followed by a screech and a crash. The maid jumped and then closed her eyes for a brief moment.

  Isabelle reached out and touched the young woman’s arm. “Is there something you need? Something I can do to be of assistance?”

  With a weary smile, she thanked Isabelle. “It’s one of her times,” she said simply, the words suggesting a pattern of behavior that Isabelle had not yet experienced with Glory.

  Another screech and another crash encouraged the maid to nod and thank Isabelle again for coming by. “My lady will call on you when she is able,” she said, showing Isabelle the door. Realizing that her presence was anything but helpful, she apologized again and left.