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

“Do you have a dog? Paintings with dogs are better.”

“Is that how you want your coat to look?”

“Do you know anyone who has a baby you could hold? This would look much more like a family painting if there was a baby.”

Isabelle answered the questions as well as she could. She was far more used to Glory’s conversational patterns than Alexander was. Even though he had known the Kenworthy family for years, he’d spent very little time with Glory. Isabelle hoped that her slightly inappropriate questions were not offensive to him.

When Glory grew tired and hungry, Isabelle requested tea.

“Glory,” she said, “I understand that sometimes artists like to do their work in small sections. If you’re eager to keep going, we can sit for another hour. But if you’d prefer, you can be finished for the day and come back tomorrow.”

“I think I’d like one cup of tea and two of those small white cakes. Then I will decide if we draw more today or go home.”

Alexander stayed mostly quiet through the whole experience, answering Mrs. Kenworthy’s questions and responding politely, but as usual, not initiating topics of conversation.

“Do you have a dog, Mr. Osgood?” Glory asked. This was the third time this visit she had brought up dogs.

“I do not,” Alexander responded again.

“Glory,” Mrs. Kenworthy said kindly, “not everyone loves a dog.”

“When I was a boy,” Alexander offered, surprising Isabelle, “I had a black furry dog as big as a bear. His name was Dumpling. He slept on the floor beside my bed.”

Glory leaned forward. “Where is he now?”

Alexander looked to Mrs. Kenworthy as if for permission. She nodded, and he said, “He died many years ago. He is buried in a field in the country.”

Glory nodded. “Animals die. People too. Sometimes when they’re old, and sometimes when they become ill. When you became ill, I prayed that you would not die. I’m glad you are still with us, Mr. Osgood.”

Isabelle wondered how he would respond to such a strange sentiment. She need not have worried. Alexander nodded and gave Glory a smile. “Thank you, Glory. I am glad too.”

Isabelle pressed Alexander’s fingers in gratitude. Sharing this small communication about his childhood showed he valued Glory, Isabelle saw.

“I am ready to work some more,” Glory said. “But I need more practice with Mr. Osgood.” She looked at him, tilted her head, and shifted in her seat so she could see him from a different angle. “Mrs. Osgood, will you please sit in that chair over there and sing another song while I draw him some more?”

Isabelle moved to where she was directed and sang for another hour, simple melodies that Glory would hum or sing along with as she sketched drawings of Alexander. She moved from her seat twice in order to work from a different view, but as she settled, she picked back up with both pencil and song.

When it was nearly time for Nurse Margaret to come downstairs to work with Alexander, Isabelle let Glory know they had another appointment.

“Mr. Osgood has a nurse who comes to help make him strong,” she said. “The nurse does not like to be kept waiting.”

Glory nodded. “May I come back tomorrow to do some more?” she asked.

Isabelle glanced at Alexander. She knew he was doing this for her, but she didn’t want to make assumptions that he’d be eager to continue.

Alexander answered Glory. “We would love to have you back tomorrow, Miss Kenworthy. Thank you for your fine work and your kind company.” Isabelle felt a flush of delight at his charming response. Something was changing. This was not the cold and distant man she had married.

Isabelle saw and appreciated the changes in Alexander, but she was not unaware that forward progress was most often coupled with hours, days, even weeks of reversals. He needed a positive experience. She knew he needed to get to the mill.

Mr. Connor, who had stopped dropping in for visits now that his working hours had changed to accommodate the loss of Alexander in the mill, had sent two messages in the time since Isabelle had visited the mill.

Alexander had not volunteered any details of Mr. Connor’s communication, which did not surprise Isabelle but for the idea she had that Alexander should have been invited to pay a visit, and he could not do that without her.

On a rainy, stormy evening, Isabelle asked Mrs. Burns to have a fire laid in the drawing room after dinner. When she’d finished helping Alexander eat his meal, she invited him to join her.

“Thank you, no.”

His response was missing all the occasional warmth of their best moments together: the moments of closeness made special by being so rare. Even though Isabelle expected these good times to come and go, their going left her saddened and self-conscious. Surely were she a better wife, she would encourage tender affection in a more consistent manner.

Nodding in recognition of yet another rejection, Isabelle said, “Very well. If you don’t care to come through to the drawing room, I suppose we must discuss your visit to the mill from here at the table.”

Alexander glanced at the connecting door to the kitchen, possibly hoping the help couldn’t hear, but more likely, Isabelle thought, wishing for rescue.

There would be no rescue this night. Yeardley was already on her side.

Isabelle adjusted her seat so she was in Alexander’s line of sight. “I understand you’ve had communication with Mr. Connor about visiting the mill. I have also been in contact with him, as well as with Mr. Kenworthy, and I believe we have a recommendation.”

She realized that she had not inhaled during that small speech, but she feared if she paused too long, she would lose her momentum. “As you know, some of the second-level machinery will be replaced at the end of the month, allowing other apparatuses to be moved and reorganized. I believe that with a small amount of restructuring, we can create paths through which your