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

She lifted the sodden fabric and slapped it against the loom frame. Under the weight of the cloth, one of the burning legs gave way. Isabelle kicked at a piece of the wood that was covered by her skirts, snapping it in half. She reached for her skirts and pulled them toward her as she prepared to throw them again.

Her voice felt raw from smoke and shouting, but she persisted in calling for help and slapping at the burning wood.

Arms shaking, she continued to lift and drop the cloth, and as she began to see progress in controlling the flame, she heard a loud curse from behind her.

“I need more water,” she shouted toward the voice, hoping it belonged to someone who had more knowledge or experience than she did.

A figure ran past her, calling for her to continue suffocating the blaze. Within seconds, a splash of water came past her shoulder and sizzled over the wood, soaking the blackened remains of her skirt again.

As the man ran past, she saw that it was Mr. Connor. “Keep it up. I’ll get more water,” he said.

Her heart pounded in her throat, and she willed herself to continue to slap out the flames. The wood cracked and fell in on itself, grazing her arm as it did so. She carried on, grateful for the appearance of Mr. Connor but aware that her stamina was approaching an end. Her breath came in gasps, each inhale scraping down her throat. Mr. Connor must have activated an alarm, for a shrill bell pealed, and soon men armed with buckets and blankets rushed into the weaving floor.

A small part of Isabelle wished to stay and see the fire completely extinguished, but when she saw that the mill workers had a system they had clearly learned and practiced, she backed away and made her way down the stairs.

Soon she joined the flood of workers moving toward the street, and she allowed herself to be carried by the surging crowd out the door. Even the belching stacks of the surrounding mills could not dampen Isabelle’s enthusiasm for the relatively fresh air.

As soon as she could break from the throng, she leaned against a wall and closed her eyes, gulping until her lungs felt satisfied.

Before long, she felt a hand on her shoulder. “Mrs. Osgood? Is that you?” a gentle voice asked. Isabelle opened her eyes and saw a young woman she’d met at the mill several times squinting into her face.

“It is,” she said, relieved to find that her voice sounded controlled. “Is it difficult to recognize me?”

“Impossible, more like,” the girl said. “You look a fright, if I may be so bold.”

Isabelle held up her hands and saw that her arms, blackened, swollen, and bleeding, did indeed defy recognition. If the rest of her reflected such a state, Isabelle wondered if she would even know herself in the glass.

“Here,” the girl said, handing Isabelle a folded piece of fabric. “Put this on.”

Isabelle unfolded it and saw that it was a dress cover, one the workers used to protect their clothing.

“I think my dress is beyond saving,” Isabelle said.

The young woman leaned closer and spoke quietly into Isabelle’s ear. “Aye, but someone’s bound to notice you’re without skirts before long.”

Isabelle felt a rush of emotion overtake her, finding it impossible not to laugh. The impulse, for all its unfamiliarity, frightened her a bit. She attempted to cover her mouth, but her fit of laughter could not be contained. She gave in to it, wrapping her arms around the dress cover and hiding her head until her frantic moment passed.

The girl remained at her side, a hesitant hand hovering over Isabelle’s arm. Recovering her composure and covering her shift with the jacket, Isabelle said, “Thank you . . .”

“Grace,” the girl responded.

“Of course. I remember now. Thank you, Grace.” Wiping her eyes, Isabelle felt every portion of the energy that had carried her all afternoon, since she ran from the Kenworthys’ home, drain away. “Might you stay with me for a moment, until I feel stronger?”

Grace nodded, and her attendance did seem to add a measure of strength to Isabelle. “If it pleases you, I would be happy to find someone who can run to your home and tell Mr. Osgood that you are well.”

“Oh, dear,” Isabelle said. “This is going to come as a fearsome shock to him.”

“Aye, but he will be right happy that you are mostly unhurt.”

“I meant the fire. The mill. The damage,” she said, feeling the words turn to a mumble in her mouth.

Grace led her to a stair nearby and helped her to sit. “No harm to the building will matter as long as he knows you are well,” she said, as though she could possibly know.

Isabelle wished for the same assurance. She knew Alexander would be pleased that she was unhurt, but if the mill was destroyed, how much would her well-being matter? Would he blame her for her inability to quell the flame? Could he forgive such an offense? Alexander Osgood liked his wife, she knew, but he needed his mill. It defined him. Made him feel worthwhile.

She clasped her hands and winced, surprised at the shock of pain that radiated from her palms. She inspected her fingers, blackened and blistered and horrible. Every bit of skin on her hands was unrecognizable to her. She gently touched a finger to her face to find similar but less-substantial damage. One cheek burned with a tingling throb, and her eyes stung. The muscles in her legs, unused to the employment of this day, began to constrict and spasm.

As she sat on the step, more people exited the building. With them came a variety of explanations of what was happening inside. Isabelle heard snatches of several accounts, most of them, she imagined, including partial truth and ­significant embellishment.

“I wish I knew what was occurring in there,” Isabelle said.

A young boy, probably about twelve years old, ran past.

Grace called out