Isabelle and Alexander Rebecca Anderson (books to read in your 20s female txt) 📖

Isabelle continued to speak small nonsense, keeping Glory amused as the young woman finished her painting. When Abbie, the kitchen maid, returned, Isabelle found herself sorry. It was the appropriate time for her visit to end, but she wished she could stay.

As she handed the puppy to Abbie, the young girl smiling bashfully and bobbing her head, Isabelle thanked Glory and Mrs. Kenworthy for a lovely afternoon. “I hope my intrusion was as gladly felt as my welcome was warm. You’ve made me feel quite pleased to be here,” she said, surprised to feel tears prick her eyes.

Mrs. Kenworthy picked up on what Isabelle tried to hide. “You are welcome here anytime and always,” she said, touching Isabelle’s elbow with a gentle hand. “We are indeed so grateful for your friendship.”

Glory squeezed in on Isabelle’s other side and put her arm around her waist. Isabelle said her goodbyes and realized as she walked away that those two women had put out their hands and touched her more in the past three minutes than her husband had in many, many weeks.

Perhaps it was not all his choice, though, she thought. Perhaps she was better at inviting touch with the ladies than she was with Alexander. Simply because he’d refused to show her affection previously didn’t mean he would always. Perhaps he required a different invitation. She’d attend to that right away.

Upon returning to the house, Isabelle asked Mrs. Burns if she’d help her repair the damage the earlier weather had done to her hair. Mrs. Burns nodded and followed Isabelle to her dressing room.

Unpinning her hair and brushing it down her back, Isabelle apologized for adding to Mrs. Burns’s workload.

“I know you’ve already plenty to keep you busy, and I know this kind of thing is outside your general expectations. I don’t want you to think that if I have you do it once, I’ll be assuming you’ll act like a lady’s maid every day.”

Isabelle realized she’d been speaking in what Ed called an over-quick manner. She summoned some forced calm and met Mrs. Burns’s eye in the mirror. “I’d simply like to be presentable for Mr. Osgood when he arrives today.” A blush overtook her cheeks, and she looked down. How inappropriate of her to share such a sentiment with the housekeeper. Would Isabelle never learn to behave without making such blunders?

She attempted to regain some proper standing. “Do you know if Mae has dinner prepared?”

Of course Mae had dinner prepared. Every day, their capable young cook fulfilled the menu with efficiency. Isabelle felt the silliness of her question.

Mrs. Burns stepped behind Isabelle’s chair and gently took the hairbrush out of her hand. “Here, please allow me.” The older woman drew the brush gently through Isabelle’s hair, murmuring gentle comments about its lovely color. With a few turns and twists, she’d created a clean and efficient knot, securing it with pins. “If you like the look of it, ma’am, I’d say it rather suits you.”

“I like it very well, Mrs. Burns. Thank you.” Isabelle turned her head right and left to see the sides in her glass.

“Now,” the housekeeper said, setting the brush on the table, “let’s get you into a dry dress for the evening.” She opened Isabelle’s armoire and lifted out a dress of rosy pink that Isabelle hadn’t worn since they’d come to the city. “This is a lovely frock,” Mrs. Burns said, holding it up for Isabelle to inspect. As if she’d not been looking at it daily, waiting for an excuse to put it on.

“Do you think it too formal for an evening at home?” she asked, a little embarrassed that the rules of Manchester’s society still eluded her.

Mrs. Burns placed the dress on Isabelle’s chaise. “I can’t imagine an occasion more appropriate to looking your best than an evening at home with your husband.”

Isabelle could practically hear the words Mrs. Burns wasn’t saying, and she appreciated the housekeeper’s holding back her opinions of the rather cold relationship between Isabelle and Alexander. But even more, she appreciated understanding that Mrs. Burns could see that Isabelle was trying and that she approved. As much as Mrs. Burns adored Alexander, she seemed to be finding room to appreciate Isabelle as well.

“If I may,” Mrs. Burns began.

Isabelle nodded and folded her hands in front of her, anticipating some carefully worded correction from her husband’s housekeeper.

“He’s doing his best to deserve you, ma’am.”

Isabelle barely suppressed a gasp of surprise. The shock of Mrs. Burns’s sentiment far overpowered the gentle way in which it was delivered. To deserve her?

“I do not understand.”

Mrs. Burns nodded. “Mr. Osgood’s father worked hard, and he found a kind of success rare to a country blacksmith. Through all his efforts, he helped raise the prospects of our own Mr. Osgood.” Isabelle was familiar with the outlines of this story.

Mrs. Burns looked at her own folded hands. “He feels beneath you.”

“That is not the case. My father is a man of business,” Isabelle said.

Mrs. Burns nodded. “Indeed, but you were raised to a gentler life than Mr. Osgood has known. He is striving to become worthy of the life you must be expecting.”

Isabelle did not know how to respond to this information, but she nodded her thanks and dismissed Mrs. Burns.

Within the half hour, Isabelle sat in the drawing room, her eyes sliding along the same two lines of a book over and over as she waited for Alexander to arrive. She’d thought about several different ways she could welcome him home, hoping to create that feeling of comfort she was missing, all the time wishing it wasn’t such a great lot of work. Shouldn’t this, she thought, be simple? Instinctive, even?

She let her eyes pass over the lines again, throwing out her most forward ideas, as well as the most reserved. Striking a proper balance was more difficult than she’d imagined. How tricky this marriage