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

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 accepting 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