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

Isabelle a smile and a nod, and Isabelle began to sing. Her voice quiet, she hoped that none of the people taking the air in the park would bring word of this back to Alexander. Even in the blush of their newfound connection, he might not understand the motive for such unconventional behavior. She glanced about, hoping no one would recognize her or find her impropriety distasteful.

In the glade beside the stream,

The creatures prance and stir and hop.

A hedgehog shuffles past a fox

And a rook watches from the treetop.

Behind a stone a rabbit hides,

Resting for the race ahead

When he must bound across the glade

Before he rests in his warren bed.

She continued to sing the song through twice, and because Glory stopped grunting and muttering as Isabelle sang, she hummed it an additional time as they walked.

Never had the sight of the Kenworthys’ home brought Isabelle such relief. But at the same time that Isabelle caught sight of the front door, so did Glory.

She began to yell and stamp her feet. “No!” she shouted. “It is not time to go inside.”

Mrs. Kenworthy held Glory firmly by the elbow and led her toward the door.

“No!” she screeched again. People on the street looked at them and then looked away. “We stay out!” she yelled and dug her feet into the road.

“Here,” Isabelle said, taking Glory’s other arm, “let me help.”

Glory shrieked like she had been burned, and Isabelle stepped away.

“I did not mean to . . .” Isabelle said, feeling a sting of tears.

“No, dear,” Mrs. Kenworthy said, her voice gentle and soft. “You are helping. If you don’t mind taking her arm and assisting us into the house.”

As Isabelle took Glory’s arm, the young woman jerked herself free and hit out at Isabelle, making contact with her eye. Isabelle saw flashes of light before she felt the pain of being hit. She gasped.

“Darling, please,” Mrs. Kenworthy pled. “Mrs. Osgood, I am so terribly sorry.”

Catching her breath, Isabelle said, “Do not think of me. Let us get her inside before she hurts herself.”

Climbing the stairs, the women struggled to maintain their grasp on Glory’s arms, but as soon as they opened the door, Glory broke free. She picked up a large candlestick and swung it.

Both women lunged out of the way. Glory ran into the parlor and, judging by the sounds Isabelle heard, threw something heavy against a wall.

“What can I do?” Isabelle asked, feeling a combination of fear at the display and shame that she had somehow contributed to what was happening. From the other side of the wall, they could hear Glory shouting and crying. More crashing sounds followed.

“My dear Mrs. Osgood,” Mrs. Kenworthy said, shaking her head, “I do apologize, but when Glory has reached this stage, there is nothing to do but let it run its course.” She winced as another heavy object made contact with a surface. “She might be easier if her father were here,” she added.

“Of course,” Isabelle said. “I shall go for him now.”

Catching a rare glimpse of Mrs. Kenworthy’s fatigue, she leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

Mrs. Kenworthy attempted to speak her gratitude, but Isabelle rushed out the door. Hurrying to the mill, all she could think of was getting Mr. Kenworthy home as quickly as possible. She practically ran to the mill, and upon entering, scanned the spinning room and saw no sign of him. She took to the stairs and glanced at every work floor, willing him to be there, to see her.

She finally discovered him in the weaving room, bent over one of the new metal machines being prepared to replace the wooden ones.

“Mr. Kenworthy,” she said, breathless.

He did not turn; her voice could not carry above the sounds of the mill. She touched his shoulder, and he turned to see her.

“My dear Mrs. Osgood, are you here to see the last of the cloth come off the last wooden loom? How kind of you. As you can see, most of the looms are already at rest.”

“Indeed, sir, that is not why I have come. You are needed at home at once. Glory . . .” Isabelle did not know how to finish her sentence, but she did not need to. He seemed to understand at an instant that she was having one of her episodes.

He glanced about as if the solution to this problem could be found in the warps in the corner or the stacks of folded cloth that had come off the loom.

With no idea of what she was going to say, she touched his arm. “Sir,” Isabelle began, and then let the words tumble out, “I shall stay here. Please, go home. If there is someone you could send to fetch Mr. Connor, I shall do well enough to keep my eye on things until he arrives.” Even as she said the words, she knew how silly the thought was that there was any way in which she could provide leadership here.

He nodded and grasped her hands before hurrying out. The weavers who remained in the room continued their work, moving the shuttle and feeding the threads into the weft. One of the weavers looked over her shoulder and nodded at Isabelle.

“Right. Carry on,” she said, feeling foolish as she made her way to the stairs. How did she think her presence would assist in the work that needed to be done? Every person in this mill, from the schoolchildren to the grizzled elderly men and women, could perform tasks she could not even imagine. Nevertheless, she had given her word that she would stay, and her word had seemed to comfort Mr. Kenworthy.

So stay she would.

Isabelle made her way from one mill floor to the next. At each landing of the stairs, a sign announced the floor’s function. “Fifth Story: Dyes.” Isabelle entered the dyeing floor, where huge vats of boiling colored water blew billows of hot steam into the humid air. As she took a circuit of the room, she realized that