Isabelle and Alexander

by Rebecca Anderson

  “’Twill be well for the master to get back to his work,” he said, a rare grin overspreading his face.

  Isabelle had underestimated how difficult it would be to get Alexander down the front steps, not to mention piloting the chair through narrow streets rutted with carriage tracks. She was of very little use. Yeardley carried the chair from the house down into the street. Isabelle could wheel it about in the house but not lift it. Then Yeardley carried Alexander down the same steps, attempting to maintain his familiar composure as people stopped to watch the spectacle of a man being conveyed like a parcel.

  Isabelle, standing dumbly with a hand on the back of the chair, avoided Alexander’s eye through this transport, which was not difficult. His hat hid his face sufficiently that he needed no effort to escape her gaze. Without either of them saying anything, she understood that he felt a sense of degradation as he was carried like a small child. She did not agree that he should be ashamed, but she understood what he must be feeling.

  Yeardley pushed the chair through the uneven street, jostling Alexander at every moment. Isabelle knew there was no avoiding the uneven furrows, but she wished she could smooth the ride so he would have a possibility of arriving at the mill looking less fatigued.

  She felt herself a part of a strange processional, walking a pace behind the wheeled chair in the rain. Never before had she felt so many eyes on her as she moved through Manchester. The city was so busy, and people seemed to have intentions and purposes for each movement. In her experience, none of the pedestrians in Manchester were walking about to take the air. They moved from one place to another. But today, people stopped walking to watch them. They stood in doorways, crowded at shop windows, and huddled in the street. More than once, Yeardley needed to ask people to move out of the way so he could proceed. Isabelle felt the embarrassment and disquiet Alexander must be experiencing. She knew no way to alleviate his humiliation, but she stepped closer to his moving chair. She wished she could speak, but words did not come. Placing a hand on his shoulder, she could well imagine how different this manner of travel was to how he used to arrive at the mill, striding tall and sure.

  They reached the mill and rolled the chair to the rear of the building. The unloading doors on the canal side stood open even without a delivery. Mr. Connor and Mr. Kenworthy both stood in the doorway to welcome them.

  Mr. Kenworthy bustled forward and lifted Alexander’s hands in his own. “My dear fellow, welcome back. It is wonderful to have you here. Wonderful.” He nodded in the direction of the door, and the three men lifted Alexander in his chair into the room where the enormous sacks of raw cotton were unloaded.

  Isabelle’s eyes itched at the smell, familiar but far more powerful than the scent of a growing plant in a garden. The floor, slick with fluff and dust, allowed the chair to glide. Isabelle worried that she might glide as well. Mr. Kenworthy must have anticipated her concern, for he offered her his arm. They removed cloaks and hats, then made their way across the vast, empty floor.

  “Cotton delivery happens Tuesday and Saturday, ma’am,” he said, explaining the lack of fibers in the room. “If you come back in a few days, you’ll not be able to see for the bags piled high.”

  Mr. Connor took over pushing Alexander’s chair, and as Yeardley stepped away, Isabelle could see Mr. Connor leaning over and speaking into Alexander’s ear. She was grateful for the easy way in which he seemed to bring Alexander back into the workings of the mill, asking questions and pointing out changes. As they reached the end of the enormous unloading room, the men once again lifted the entire chair up a few steps. They moved down a narrow hallway and turned to enter the spinning floor.

  Isabelle was prepared for the noise this time, but instead of a wall of sound, they were greeted with an unusual quiet: lines of uniformed workers, smiles on their scrubbed faces.

  Mr. Connor stopped the chair and placed Alexander in front of his workers. From where she stood, Isabelle could not see Alexander’s face, but the beaming expressions of the millworkers must have reflected some gladness in Alexander’s.

  A man stepped forward. “Mr. Osgood, we are that glad to see you here. We promise to keep the mill running, and we will all do good work.”

  Isabelle felt pride for the man, clearly no orator, who was the spokesman for the entire group. She glanced about the room, seeing among the smiling faces a few whispered comments behind hands. Surely some of those were about her, but most were likely in appreciation that Alexander’s accident had left him well enough. And, if the looks on the young women’s faces were any indication, appreciation that he was still their beloved, handsome employer.

  Alexander nodded to the man and said, “I thank you for the way in which you’ve carried on. Mr. Connor and Mr. Kenworthy have only positive reports of your progress. Now, let us continue. Start up the machines, if you please.”

  Clanking and ticking led to roaring and heaving, and before too many moments, the room was filled with a cloud of noise. Isabelle saw the grin on Alexander’s face and felt grateful that he’d agreed to come.

  He met her eye. “Thank you,” he said over the sounds of the machinery. “I appreciate your efforts on my behalf.”

  She smiled and patted his shoulder, wishing for a private and quiet place to respond.

  The group took a turn about the enormous spinning room, watching the laborers retake their places and engage in the procedures of their work. After making a circuit of the spinning room, the men carried the chair up the narrow stairs to the level above, where the process of greeting and inspecting was repeated.

  Isabelle knew that Osgood Mill was a small operation for this part of Manchester, but even so, they did not go farther than the first two working floors. Many hours would be required to visit each of the levels in the mill, and Alexander was tiring visibly.

  Before they left, Alexander requested an interview with Mr. Connor and Mr. Kenworthy. By the time they rolled the chair into his small office, there was no room for Yeardley or Isabelle. They elected to wait outside and walked together to the door.

  The rain had stopped, but the gray light leaked weakly through the clouds.

  “Perhaps,” Isabelle said to Yeardley, “we should get Mr. Osgood to the country. The change might do him good, and chances are better he might see the sun.”

  Yeardley nodded, but his words were cautious. “One step at a time, ma’am. This visit will likely tire him for some time.”

  Isabelle patted Yeardley’s arm, her unspoken thanks intended. He was a dedicated servant to Alexander, and he understood his employer’s needs and whims better than most anyone.

  When the door opened and Mr. Kenworthy beckoned to Yeardley to help retrieve the chair, Isabelle stood and looked out at the city from the front of Osgood Mill. What had always seemed a dark, hooded city became a bit more vibrant when she considered what was occurring behind the doors of each of the hulking buildings, when she thought of the lives, the hopes, the personalities of each of the thousands of people who worked to help fill the city’s daily needs. Seeing the city from this perspective, she believed she understood Alexander’s love for the place.

  She turned and saw him watching her. A look of pride overspread his features, softening his expression into one of quiet joy for all he surveyed.

  His eyes met hers, and for a small moment, she felt herself included in that look of joy. Shivers of delight ran up her back, and she wrapped her arms around herself, holding the feeling close.

  As Yeardley navigated the rutted street back to Alexander’s house, all talk was of mill work. Alexander cheerfully answered Yeardley’s questions and spoke of his employees at the mill. Isabelle, though not personally contributing to the conversation, felt nothing but gladness that the visit had gone so well. She was certain she’d remember the look of pleasure on Alexander’s face forever.

  Isabelle and Mrs. Burns spent several afternoons in January acceptin
g deliveries of furniture, draperies, bed­coverings, and decorative touches with which they brightened and lightened Alexander’s house. Isabelle still did not think of it as her home, but with the addition of each of the modest but lovely items, she felt herself becoming more comfortable there.

  After writing several letters on the exquisite, creamy paper Alexander had given her at Christmas, she seated herself outside the parlor door. Listening at doors for medical updates had become part of her weekly duty, since the doctor would tell her nothing and she feared that asking Alexander was a sure way to make him resentful.

  She overheard the doctor tell Alexander, in his mechanical and unfeeling tone, that taking his chair into the street was poor treatment of medical equipment. “The machine was built to move you around your home, not to replace a carriage. These wheels will not hold up to further expeditions.”

  Alexander asked if he ought to get a different chair to use on outdoor excursions.

  Doctor Fredericks responded, “You misunderstand me. This house is where your progress lies. You ought to remain inside and avoid such nuisances as you can.”

  “Nuisances such as my work?” Alexander asked, and Isabelle’s face flushed in sympathetic anger. How dare the doctor reduce Alexander’s business to a trifle?

  “And superfluous visitors.” The statement could have so easily filled Isabelle with resentment, but instead of being offered in brusque contempt in the manner of Nurse Margaret, Doctor Fredericks’s words came in a tone of aloof disinterest that made Isabelle miss Doctor Kelley more each day.

  “I am sure I do not know what you mean,” Alexander said.

  “Nurse Margaret tells me of a simple-minded friend of your wife’s who comes to call. She assures me the young person is loud, uninhibited, and behaves with constant impropriety.”

  If Isabelle had ever felt any kindness toward Nurse Margaret, this relayed thoughtlessness would have evaporated it. How dare she speak of sweet Glory in this manner?

  Alexander made a noise of disagreement, but the doctor went on. “Your recovery depends on limiting irritants. This manner of visits is one such aggravation. As is undue concern for your mill, which, as you well know, runs without your interference.”

  Isabelle heard metallic clanging noises indicating that the doctor was packing up his instruments. “If you are unwilling or unable to reduce the nature and volume of such vexations in your home, I can recommend several places of asylum for a more quiet recovery.”

  Isabelle leaped from her seat and began pacing the hall. That dreadful, dreadful man. Coming into Alexander’s home, mistreating his body, dismissing the importance of his life’s work, and suggesting he ought to gain admittance to a hospital for recovery. She fumed.

  Isabelle heard no more of the conversation between Alexander and Doctor Fredericks over the sound of her stamping feet. She knew that no good could come from an encounter with the doctor, so she took herself upstairs. Passing what used to be her dressing room, she only just refrained from kicking the door in anger at Nurse Margaret and all that she stood for.

  This was not how she had expected to spend her days as a married woman—hiding from various medical professionals. She knew she was being ridiculous, but anger made her impractical.

  If she had not seen Alexander’s improvement with her own eyes, if she had not watched every fractional advance, she would demand they dismiss the nurse. But she knew that even though the woman was unkind and difficult, she was bringing about increases in Alexander’s abilities. What could he do before Nurse Margaret arrived? Practically nothing but grimace and grumble.

  And now, Isabelle thought, now he can visit his employees. He can give them messages of hope and encouragement. He can make jokes, raise his hands, turn to watch someone walk into the room.

  With that kind of progress in these few weeks, Isabelle knew she could swallow her loathing for the heartless Doctor Fredericks and caustic Nurse Margaret if it was best for Alexander.

  She went into the parlor as Yeardley laid the fire. Isabelle lit the lamps and candles herself, finding joy in bringing comfort to the room. As she seated herself near Alexander’s chair, she reached for a slim volume resting on the table.

  “May I,” she asked, “read to you?” Isabelle knew that on his most pain-filled days, even the sound of her voice could vex Alexander’s nerves. She hoped their latest progress would make such an experience soothing rather than troublesome.

  “That would be most pleasing,” he said. “What have you chosen?”

  “Miss Barrett’s poems.” Isabelle read “Lady Geraldine’s Courtship,” a ballad discussed in many fashionable drawing rooms over the last few years. Isabelle had read the work before, but this time, she was surprised to recognize the similarity to her relationship with Alexander. Not that he was a poor poet, nor was she a daughter of an earl. But their slight disparity of station, nearly forgotten by Isabelle, was likely more of a constant concern to Alexander. It pleased her to read the stanzas at the end, where the young woman, compared to a winged angel, accepted the poet for the nobility of his heart.

  She glanced at Alexander to see if his response to the poem was akin to hers, but she found him asleep in his chair. She noted the smoothness of his forehead, so often creased in pain or discouragement. As she placed the book once again on the table and stood to go, she leaned over the arm of Alexander’s chair. Inhaling softly, she allowed the scent of him, warm and masculine, to fill her.

  Whispering words of another poem by Elizabeth Barrett, Isabelle hovered near Alexander’s sleeping form. “How do I love thee?”

  Unprepared to fully answer her borrowed question, she placed a tender kiss upon his handsome brow. Perhaps another day she would be able to more adequately ask and answer Miss Barrett’s lyrical query.

  A letter arrived informing Isabelle that Edwin’s marriage was approaching and that he would love nothing more than to bring his bride to Manchester to meet her.

  Belle, I am happier than I ever deserve to be, and the only thing that could tip the scale to make me float above the earth is for you to love my Charlotte as much as I do. Please say we can come.

  Isabelle read and reread Edwin’s letter. Had there been anyone to whom Alexander had spoken like this before their own marriage? Did he experience even a particle of the anticipation for marriage that Edwin had? If so, whom did he make his confidant? There was no guessing if Alexander were more likely to reveal such thoughts to Yeardley, Mr. Connor, or the Kenworthys. Isabelle found it difficult to imagine Alexander speaking in such a manner to anyone.

  She knew it was unfair to compare the two—they were different men in every manner. Even so, she wished to believe Alexander had the capacity for such excitement about joining himself to her.

  Aside from his work and visiting the mill, she hadn’t seen him act excited about much of anything since the day of his ride.

  His ride.

  Perhaps what Alexander needed was a return to Wellsgate, but she knew that was unlikely. Certainly not while under the care of Doctor Fredericks and Nurse Margaret. And how much good would it do him to be near the horses he loved when there was no conceivable way for him to ride one, perhaps ever again?

  She mentioned Edwin’s letter to Alexander. “He wishes to come here as part of their wedding trip,” she said lightly, conscious that any mention of travel or celebration might sound like a complaint about her own wedding experience.

  Looking out the window, away from her, Alexander gave a short laugh. “Manchester. Every woman’s dream honeymoon destination.”

  She could not counter that, so she said, “I believe they have interest in a place they’ve not seen. And that they board a ship from Liverpool. They intend,” she said, holding up the letter, “to ride the rail line.” The Liverpool and Manchester Railway lines had been delivering passengers and goods from the port city to Manchester and back again for twenty years.
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  “Hm.”

  Which was not an answer at all.

  She waited what felt like forever for a reply.

  Finally, she asked again.

  “May I tell them they can come to stay for a few days? I could have Mrs. Burns make ready your dressing room for them.”

  Alexander still gazed out the window. “If it pleases you,” he said, and nothing more.

  What, she would love to know, would please him? Now that the doctor had told him it was unwise to visit the mill, what could she do to bring a moment of amusement or satisfaction to his days?

  This quiet and occasionally sullen Alexander would be desolate company for Edwin and his bride. They could come and sit in the parlor, and he could stare out the window and furrow his admittedly handsome brow.

  “It will please me very much, I thank you.” Isabelle forced the words out, feeling once again the need to behave formally. Remembering the tenderness with which she’d kissed him as he slept, she wished that such a spontaneous action might be welcome more often. But she had no assurance of such welcome. Would that she could laugh with him and he with her. That she could encourage a friendly conversation as she’d been able to do on a few memorable occasions. With a sigh of acceptance that much was improving, and the promise that she would have Edwin here in the city, she stood and left the room.

  Mere moments after she wrote to Edwin informing him that they would be delighted to receive him and his bride, worries about the impending visit flew around Isabelle’s mind like night birds round a rookery. Would Alexander’s sometimes recalcitrant attitude put them off? Would Nurse Margaret perform her typical pain-riddled treatments while she was entertaining in the next room? Would Manchester’s dreary, gray, dirty features throw a mood of gloom over all their stay?