Isabelle and Alexander by Rebecca Anderson (read novel full .TXT) 📕

intentions and purposes for each movement. In her experience, none of the pedestrians in Manchester were walking about to take the air. They moved from one place to another. But today, people stopped walking to watch them. They stood in doorways, crowded at shop windows, and huddled in the street. More than once, Yeardley needed to ask people to move out of the way so he could proceed. Isabelle felt the embarrassment and disquiet Alexander must be experiencing. She knew no way to alleviate his humiliation, but she stepped closer to his moving chair. She wished she could speak, but words did not come. Placing a hand on his shoulder, she could well imagine how different this manner of travel was to how he used to arrive at the mill, striding tall and sure.

They reached the mill and rolled the chair to the rear of the building. The unloading doors on the canal side stood open even without a delivery. Mr. Connor and Mr. Kenworthy both stood in the doorway to welcome them.

Mr. Kenworthy bustled forward and lifted Alexander’s hands in his own. “My dear fellow, welcome back. It is wonderful to have you here. Wonderful.” He nodded in the direction of the door, and the three men lifted Alexander in his chair into the room where the enormous sacks of raw cotton were unloaded.

Isabelle’s eyes itched at the smell, familiar but far more powerful than the scent of a growing plant in a garden. The floor, slick with fluff and dust, allowed the chair to glide. Isabelle worried that she might glide as well. Mr. Kenworthy must have anticipated her concern, for he offered her his arm. They removed cloaks and hats, then made their way across the vast, empty floor.

“Cotton delivery happens Tuesday and Saturday, ma’am,” he said, explaining the lack of fibers in the room. “If you come back in a few days, you’ll not be able to see for the bags piled high.”

Mr. Connor took over pushing Alexander’s chair, and as Yeardley stepped away, Isabelle could see Mr. Connor leaning over and speaking into Alexander’s ear. She was grateful for the easy way in which he seemed to bring Alexander back into the workings of the mill, asking questions and pointing out changes. As they reached the end of the enormous unloading room, the men once again lifted the entire chair up a few steps. They moved down a narrow hallway and turned to enter the spinning floor.

Isabelle was prepared for the noise this time, but instead of a wall of sound, they were greeted with an unusual quiet: lines of uniformed workers, smiles on their scrubbed faces.

Mr. Connor stopped the chair and placed Alexander in front of his workers. From where she stood, Isabelle could not see Alexander’s face, but the beaming expressions of the millworkers must have reflected some gladness in Alexander’s.

A man stepped forward. “Mr. Osgood, we are that glad to see you here. We promise to keep the mill running, and we will all do good work.”

Isabelle felt pride for the man, clearly no orator, who was the spokesman for the entire group. She glanced about the room, seeing among the smiling faces a few whispered comments behind hands. Surely some of those were about her, but most were likely in appreciation that Alexander’s accident had left him well enough. And, if the looks on the young women’s faces were any indication, appreciation that he was still their beloved, handsome employer.

Alexander nodded to the man and said, “I thank you for the way in which you’ve carried on. Mr. Connor and Mr. Kenworthy have only positive reports of your progress. Now, let us continue. Start up the machines, if you please.”

Clanking and ticking led to roaring and heaving, and before too many moments, the room was filled with a cloud of noise. Isabelle saw the grin on Alexander’s face and felt grateful that he’d agreed to come.

He met her eye. “Thank you,” he said over the sounds of the machinery. “I appreciate your efforts on my behalf.”

She smiled and patted his shoulder, wishing for a private and quiet place to respond.

The group took a turn about the enormous spinning room, watching the laborers retake their places and engage in the procedures of their work. After making a circuit of the spinning room, the men carried the chair up the narrow stairs to the level above, where the process of greeting and inspecting was repeated.

Isabelle knew that Osgood Mill was a small operation for this part of Manchester, but even so, they did not go farther than the first two working floors. Many hours would be required to visit each of the levels in the mill, and Alexander was tiring visibly.

Before they left, Alexander requested an interview with Mr. Connor and Mr. Kenworthy. By the time they rolled the chair into his small office, there was no room for Yeardley or Isabelle. They elected to wait outside and walked together to the door.

The rain had stopped, but the gray light leaked weakly through the clouds.

“Perhaps,” Isabelle said to Yeardley, “we should get Mr. Osgood to the country. The change might do him good, and chances are better he might see the sun.”

Yeardley nodded, but his words were cautious. “One step at a time, ma’am. This visit will likely tire him for some time.”

Isabelle patted Yeardley’s arm, her unspoken thanks intended. He was a dedicated servant to Alexander, and he understood his employer’s needs and whims better than most anyone.

When the door opened and Mr. Kenworthy beckoned to Yeardley to help retrieve the chair, Isabelle stood and looked out at the city from the front of Osgood Mill. What had always seemed a dark, hooded city became a bit more vibrant when she considered what was occurring behind the doors of each of the hulking buildings, when she thought of the lives, the hopes, the personalities of each of the thousands of people who worked to help fill the city’s daily needs. Seeing the