Isabelle and Alexander by Rebecca Anderson (new books to read TXT) 📗

Isabelle felt herself begin to warm immediately. She reached for Glory’s hands and pressed her fingers. “Thank you, Miss Glory. I was so eager to see you that I couldn’t wait for our usual Tuesday.”

Glory nodded. “Instead of Tuesday, you’re here on a painting day. Would you like to watch me make a painting?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Isabelle said, surprised to find she meant it. Her heart lightened at the thought of taking her mind away from Edwin’s upcoming marriage by watching Glory work. “What will you paint today?”

Glory’s grin grew, if it were possible, larger. “Abbie in the kitchen brought a puppy.” Her hands flapped at her sides, and Isabelle could see Glory’s mounting excitement. “Today I paint a picture of the puppy.”

Mrs. Kenworthy stepped into the parlor and welcomed Isabelle. “Our dear Abbie has agreed to let Glory try to paint her family’s new dog.”

Glory shook her head. “Not paint the dog. Paint a picture.”

Her mother smiled. “Of course you’re right, darling. That’s exactly right.” As Glory led the way to her drawing room, Mrs. Kenworthy took Isabelle by the arm. “You may have surmised,” she whispered, “that we have, in the past, needed to make a distinction about what it means to paint a subject.”

Isabelle smiled, and the women followed Glory up the staircase. In a small but warm corner room, Glory settled herself on a stool in front of an easel holding a board. After a short time, the kitchen maid appeared in the doorway. “Beg pardon, ma’am. I’ve brought you Jip.”

“Thank you, Abbie,” Mrs. Kenworthy said.

The maid nodded and placed the sleeping pup into Glory’s outstretched arms. “If you don’t mind, ma’am, I should get back to the kitchen. Will he be all right here with you ladies?”

Glory had snuggled the dog into her arms and was nuzzling his tiny head with her cheek. “Good boy,” she chattered at him. “Such a good boy.” Isabelle and Mrs. Kenworthy watched her pure joy with pleased smiles.

“Mama, I don’t want to put him down. But if I don’t, how can I paint his picture?”

Isabelle thought a great deal of grown-up decisions came down to just such a choice.

Mrs. Kenworthy picked up a small basket with a tea towel inside it. “What if you put him in this and paint him for a while, and then, when he’s ready to go back to Abbie, you can carry him down to the kitchen?”

Glory nodded and snuggled the pup in the basket. She placed it on a small table near the window and resettled on her stool.

Isabelle watched Glory’s pencil draw swift strokes on the wooden board, sketching the barest outline of dog, basket, and table. She was surprised how clearly she could determine Glory’s subject matter even with so few details. When she put brush to paint and then paint to board, Glory’s picture came to life first in blocks of color, then in attendant detail. Isabelle found herself relaxing and calming to the rhythm of Glory’s brushstrokes.

Glory hummed to herself, sometimes talking about her painting, sometimes cooing to the puppy on the table. Isabelle thought this might be the most soothing hour she’d spent since her marriage. Glory would hum, and the sweet pup would sing a little whine in response. Isabelle was grateful for the fullness of sound without the pressure of making awkward conversation. That pressure was the one thing—perhaps the only thing—her evenings in her husband’s home were too full of.

The puppy stirred and stretched, his paws reaching outside the edge of the basket. “Mrs. Osgood, can you help me?” Glory asked.

“Of course, Miss Glory. Anything you need.” Isabelle stood from her seat.

“Jip is restless. Can you hold him so he doesn’t get hurt?”

Isabelle scooped the little dog into her arms. He snuffled at her hands and her dress, filling himself with the scent of her. She ducked her head toward his tiny brown nose to make it easy for the puppy to get to know her.

“I had a dog just this color once,” Isabelle told Glory. “He was called Toast.”

Glory shook her head. “This dog is not toast color. He is much too dark to be like toast,” she said.

“But not at my house.” Isabelle lowered her voice to a playful whisper and shared a confidence with Glory. “Our cook always burnt the bread.”

Glory’s laugh filled the room again, and Mrs. Kenworthy gave Isabelle a grateful smile.

“Sit there, in the window,” Glory said, pointing with her paintbrush.

Mrs. Kenworthy reminded Glory of her manners.

Glory started again. “If you please, Mrs. Osgood, would you sit in the window with the puppy? He doesn’t need to be still for me to paint his colors.”

Isabelle sat against the cushion and put the dog on her knees. She chattered about her childhood pets as Glory’s face grew still with concentration. When she ran out of words, Isabelle took a cue from Glory and hummed to the dog.

“Have you a dog at home, Mrs. Osgood?” Mrs. Kenworthy asked.

“My parents have several dogs, but I don’t have one of my own there.”

Mrs. Kenworthy made a small sound of correction. “I meant to ask of your current home.”

Of course. Isabelle felt herself unequal to talking much about her current home in any way. “There is no dog at Mr. Osgood’s home. There may be one that lives in the stable with the horses at Wellsgate, but if there is, I haven’t met him. Perhaps on my next trip into the country, I could ask Mr. Osgood to make introductions.”

Glory laughed, so Isabelle continued. “Mr. Osgood could escort me to the stables and say, ‘Prince, old boy, might I present my wife, Mrs. Isabelle Osgood?’ and of course, the dog would be elegant and proper. He’d bow down and tell me how delighted he was to make my acquaintance.”

Placing her paintbrush on the edge of the table, Glory clapped her hands and laughed some more.

Isabelle loved the feeling of entertaining Glory. She continued, “Of course, I