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

Isabelle realized that Alexander was speaking. “You know my recommendation,” he said in the tone of one who had repeated this phrase many times.

“My dear man,” Mr. Kenworthy responded. “I thank you for your consideration, but I cannot entertain the idea. Sending her away would break Polly’s heart.”

“Keeping her at home will break her physically,” Alexander said, his concern evident, but his tone steady and measured. “Mrs. Kenworthy is doing more than any woman is required to do. There are many choices for hospitalization. The most effective care is in London, but there are some institutions here that could provide sufficient care.”

Isabelle’s listening became unsubtle as she leaned toward the door. She worried that her husband was no longer talking about Glory. That somehow Alexander’s suggestion included himself.

“I do appreciate your concern; I hope you know that.” Mr. Kenworthy sounded as if he’d like to end the conversation.

Alexander’s voice came louder now. “You’re stretching yourself too thin. You can’t do the work I need from you and then go home and care for your wife and daughter.”

A short pause preceded Mr. Kenworthy’s reply. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its jolliness. “Is my work not meeting your expectations, sir? Have I left necessary business undone?”

Isabelle ached at the tone of regret in Mr. Kenworthy’s voice. She could stand outside the parlor door no longer. She shook herself and took a breath to clear her head. Allowing her feet to hit the floor with more force than necessary, she entered the parlor to find Mr. Kenworthy and Alexander sitting face-to-face, the tension in the room palpable.

“Mr. Kenworthy,” Isabelle said, surprising even herself with her calm, gentle voice. She reached both hands out to the man. “What a delight to see you. Thank you for coming to welcome Mr. Osgood home and report on work at the mill.”

She was certain she’d never before used a tone quite like this; even to her own ears she sounded like her mother: analyzing, organizing, guiding circumstances until all things felt within her control. By having carefully chosen her words, she’d created a reality she was prepared to deal with. There was something empowering and at the same time vaguely unsettling about hearing her mother’s voice come out of her mouth.

Mr. Kenworthy took both her outstretched hands in his. “My dear Mrs. Osgood. How are you?”

She beamed at him. “As you can see, I am perfectly well and delighted to be back in Manchester. I eagerly await a visit with your lovely wife and daughter. In fact,” she said, leaning a bit closer as if to encourage confidence, “I have a proposition for Glory. A commission for a painting.” She released his hands so she could clap hers together to underscore her happiness at the idea.

“Wouldn’t that be enchanting? I am sure,” he said, “that they will be charmed to receive you tomorrow.”

Isabelle understood Mr. Kenworthy’s unspoken words. She wanted to ask how Glory and Mrs. Kenworthy fared today, but she felt that too intrusive; he would have to be the one to introduce the subject. And mentioning tomorrow gave her all the information she dared not pry for.

She nodded. “And all is well at the mill?” Isabelle continued, knowing perfectly well that he’d seen her there the day before.

“All is well in hand, yes. Your husband runs a very orderly operation.”

Through this entire conversation, Isabelle had not turned to look at her husband. Now she stepped back to include Alexander in the circle. “Indeed, he does,” she said, resting a hand on his shoulder, “and I know he is very fortunate to have you there to assist him in all that must be done. You are a treasure, Mr. Kenworthy.”

Alexander said nothing, and Isabelle did not attempt to leave the room. She worried that if she did, Alexander would revert to the tone he’d been using before she entered and that he’d soon say something regrettable about Glory. Within a few moments, Mr. Kenworthy had taken his leave.

After seeing their guest to the door, Isabelle returned to the parlor. “Shall we exercise your arms and legs?” she asked.

Alexander’s eyebrows pressed low on his brow. “Do not attempt to finesse me as you did Kenworthy. I am not so easily swayed.”

She let out a bare breath of laughter. “Did that appear to you to have been easy?”

He did not laugh. Isabelle sensed Alexander’s frustration. Perhaps she could continue to behave as she believed her mother would in such a situation—gathering information, organizing solutions, and having any mess cleared away by teatime. All of which she thought she could do with a healthy dose of her own disposition. If she continued to try, surely he would respond to her efforts.

She rolled his chair next to another seat and placed herself beside him. Lifting his arm, she asked, “Did something unexpected happen at the mill?”

He dropped his eyes and muttered, “Do not concern yourself with matters about which you know nothing.”

She felt the sting of his words and realized she had a choice in her interpretation. “Not nothing, of course,” she said, speaking in a light and playful tone as she bent and straightened his arm. “I know your products. I know what I saw yesterday when I toured the facility. I do not claim to be an expert,” she said, making a show of humility as she bowed her head, “but as far as mill owners’ wives go, I believe I can hold my own.” She continued to move his arm, pretending that speaking aloud of herself as his wife had not sent a strange thrill through her.

A look of shock crossed Alexander’s face, and Isabelle refrained from laughing.

“Fear not, Mr. Osgood,” she said in the same tone. “I have made no calls on other owners’ wives, nor do I have any plans to do so.” Her voice became more serious. “I do not plan to push in anywhere I am not welcome. If you’d prefer it, I’ll make no other acquaintance in this