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

“The country is progressing, and your Mr. Osgood is progressing with it.” The zeal with which Mrs. Rackham spoke of the queen and all her rule represented tended to carry her to heights of excitement, and Isabelle was grateful her mother reined in her vocal fervor now. There was, after all, a wedding to participate in. She turned her daughter to inspect her appearance from all sides and then leaned in and kissed Isabelle’s cheek. “Be patient as he finds his place as a gentleman of business.”

Satisfied, she spun around the room, looking for anything that needed putting in order. Finding all well, she smiled.

“Edwin, dear, it’s time for you to take your place in the ballroom. Isabelle, are you ready, love? Good.”

It was just as well she didn’t wait for an answer. Opening the door a crack, she motioned into the hall. Through the door squeezed Annette, Mrs. Rackham’s lady’s maid.

Isabelle embraced Edwin and ignored the directions her mother gave Annette. Edwin whispered in her ear, “We’ve never had any secrets, and I will not lie to you. I will only say that I hope Osgood grows to deserve you.”

The nervous tears that had been threatening all morning rose to her eyes. She stared at a corner of the ceiling as she brought Edwin’s hands to her lips.

Mrs. Rackham bustled Edwin out of the room, and as Annette inspected Isabelle for flaws, Mrs. Rackham restated her efficient list of all Isabelle must know and do to be a proper wife.

Isabelle nodded and said nothing, the surest way to encourage her mother to finish this conversation quickly. The blush that rose to her face did, she noticed in the mirror, add something of a glow to her aspect. With rosy cheeks, she exited the morning parlor and stepped into the beginning of her new life.

Later, Isabelle would remember very little of the actual ceremony. The local vicar, knowing nothing of Alexander Osgood aside from his choice of bride, kept his remarks short. The large, elegantly dressed crowd blended into a sea of fashionable hats and bonnets.

Isabelle knew that the great families of the area were out of her social reach, but the kindly and generous friends and families of the district’s successful class made the celebration lovely. And even the higher-society ladies of the region graced them with their presence in order to be in a room with the famously attractive Alexander.

Her father, George Rackham, stood straight, looking as pleased with himself as ever he did when making a profitable business decision. And there, next to her father, was the man who would, from now on, be her husband.

Alexander Osgood. His golden hair shone in the reflected candlelight, and he stood tall and strong and striking. It appeared clear to Isabelle that she was the envy of all the collected young women as well as many older ones. His slightly distracted expression offended her until she realized that her own face, stiff with anxious concern, must have been a mirror of his.

Was Mother right? Did Isabelle appear as far above Alexander’s reach as she said? She would find ways to assure him that they were well matched.

She arranged her features into a demure expression of pleasure and walked forward into her future.

It didn’t take years or even months for Isabelle to discover what life as Mrs. Alexander Osgood was to be. An undisclosed emergency at his mill precluded their scheduled visit to Wellsgate, his small home in the country, so they bypassed their wedding trip and settled into his house in the city. Not The City. Manchester, not London. Any dreams of settling on the proper side of the most elegant streets in Town had gone the way of childhood fantasies years before. When one’s family came into its wealth within the past generation or two, one ought not to imagine rising above the stigma of New Money in any kind of society.

Besides, Isabelle’s parents had made it clear that such a life was beyond their reach, and beyond the reach of anyone who would likely turn his head toward Isabelle. She was handsome enough, she was educated enough, and she was accomplished enough to look the part of a successful businessman’s wife. She’d wear the proper clothing and speak of topics unlikely to shock or offend. Following her mother’s carefully structured advice on proper wifely behavior, she could belong.

Thus far, the couple had made two forays into Manchester society for what Alexander referred to as “business dinners,” and both times, Isabelle had been in a stupor of nerves. Every woman who glanced appreciatively at Alexander seemed to give a secondary, less gracious glance at Isabelle. None seemed inclined to ask her polite questions; none made any offer of friendship or interest. Neither evening lasted long, and neither prompted any discussion between Isabelle and Alexander. Her questions, answered in monosyllables, soon dried up.

Two weeks into their marriage, Isabelle believed she understood exactly what was expected of her, and what she could expect in return. It was not what her mother had led her to suppose.

Alexander was polite, if cold, and exceedingly busy. It appeared to Isabelle that their marriage had changed his daily routine very little. In the city, he woke early and breakfasted alone before walking the four blocks to his mill, where he spent his days overseeing the workings that remained a mystery to Isabelle. When he arrived home for supper, he spoke little of his work, and Isabelle cast about for any topic of conversation they’d not scratched the days before.

Trouble was, there was very little for her to offer.

Welcome home, Mr. Osgood, she could imagine herself saying. Dinner is served as you requested. I spent the day managing your small staff of servants who are fully capable of managing themselves, waiting for visitors to appear, nodding and smiling at people who passed the parlor window, and staring at the