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

Again she let her eyes flicker to every possible prompt for a topic, but all in her sight appeared unnecessary to remark upon. She knew she was proving a poor conversationalist, at least while she felt she’d need to be the sole speaker. Discussion seemed futile.

She determined to set aside her worry and say nothing at all, so nothing was what she said. Alexander, the same. She watched the house grow nearer. At least she could look forward to the evening ride he had invited her to join him in. There would be no expectation of talk while they were on horses.

Yeardley took the cases from the carriage and placed them in the bedroom. Isabelle noted the distinction—on their last visit, Alexander’s cases had been delivered to his dressing room. She wondered how much convincing Mrs. Burns had needed to induce Yeardley to place their bags in the same room.

Since she could not even trust herself to comment on the weather, she clearly could say nothing about such an arrangement, so she remained mute, and soon after, a platter of bread and cheese was on the sideboard for Alexander and Isabelle. They ate in relative silence for several minutes until Isabelle suggested that the light was nice in the west parlor. Surely he would understand she meant she would rather eat in the warmer, sunnier room. Alexander merely nodded.

“Perhaps we could remove to the parlor now,” she said.

Alexander looked up, startled, but immediately stood and nodded. “Of course,” he said, carrying the small platter in one hand and offering her his other arm.

As they moved to the brighter room, Isabelle felt pleased at this discovery. Possibly he needed only to be asked a second time. It was not the romantic ideal of her childhood dreams, but she could choose to see it as rather a poetic obstacle.

They seated themselves in neighboring chairs, and Isabelle found conversation to come slightly more easily as she felt the warmth of the sun through the large window.

After eating, she excused herself to change into riding clothes. The bedroom was large and filled with an enormous, masculine wood-and-metal framed bed hung with dark-green draperies. The thought occurred to her that they would be sharing this room. This bed. Together. She quickly looked away from the bed and focused on the fireplace. As soon as she’d finished dressing, she left the bedroom so Alexander could change at his leisure. She did not think of herself as shy, exactly, but she was far more comfortable with privacy and imagined he would be as well.

Walking through the country house, she wondered when she’d stop feeling like a visitor there. Not soon, she thought as she took several steps down the long, curved staircase. It was a lovely home, but it was not hers. She didn’t even think of it as theirs. It was Alexander’s country home. She was pleased to be invited as a guest there.

She made it to the bottom of the staircase and turned toward the kitchen. She was not hungry after the bread and cheese, but she thought she’d see if there was anything there to offer the horses. As she turned into the room, she found Mrs. Burns placing something in a glass bowl.

Pears. Lovely, perfect pears.

She remembered mentioning to Alexander on their last visit how she enjoyed pears.

A portion of the tension seemed to release from Isabelle’s back and shoulders.

She could not keep herself from walking over to Mrs. Burns and standing beside her. “Those are glorious. They smell divine.”

“Indeed, they do,” Mrs. Burns said, keeping her gaze on the bowl but poorly hiding a smile.

“Is there a good market in the village? Or did you bring those with us from the city?” Isabelle reached into the bowl and put the fruit close to her nose.

Mrs. Burns nodded. “Here in the village. A neighbor has a small orchard in operation. Mr. Osgood seems to have had a pressing desire today to partake.”

A pressing desire? Had Alexander demanded that Mrs. Burns go to the market upon arrival and buy fruit?

Perfect September pears. Always among the reasons to be contented.

“I wonder,” Isabelle said to Mrs. Burns, “if you’re at all aware that I love pears and that you’ve made me very happy.”

The housekeeper looked into Isabelle’s eyes and smiled. “I am recently made aware of this, and I am terribly glad I’ve had a small part in bringing you joy.” She leaned in a little closer. “But if you don’t mind my saying, my job was only the execution. The plan was made by himself.” She nodded over her shoulder to indicate the rest of the house.

Isabelle felt her stiffness soften another fraction. Her voice, when she spoke, came softly. “That’s very kind.”

Again Mrs. Burns nodded. “He is, you know. Very kind. Even if it’s hard for him to show it. He has a practiced deference to women of your station.”

Isabelle knew that if she could search for such kindness instead of underscoring the disappointments, the next few days might tell her much about the changes she could expect in the coming weeks and months.

As she turned the lovely pear over in her fingers, she remembered Alexander’s glance at her over dinner that night earlier in the week, the feeling that they’d shared a moment of intimacy. She was startled to hear Alexander’s voice from the stair.

“You were right.”

She looked up. He was dressed in fetching fawn riding gear. His casual and comfortable handsomeness nearly took her breath. “Right? About what?”

He came down the last of the steps and stood nearer her. His smile was gentle and looked sincere. “You once told me that simple things can please you.”

She looked from the pear to her husband. “Simple kindness will surely always do so.” She felt her cheeks flushing, and it was a relief that the blush stemmed from happiness instead of frustration.

She turned the fruit in her hands. “I thank you for this thoughtfulness. And for remembering.”

“Indeed, I remember,” he said,