Lady Hat caught his eye from across the room, raising her glass of champagne to him.
Laurie grabbed a glass off a passing tray and raised it in return.
She laughed, disappearing into the crowd.
He downed the glass in one gulp. “Harvard be hanged.”
And with that, he was off.
Making his way back to the front door, where he’d told his carriage driver to wait “just in case,” Laurie slipped out into the hot summer night. The carriage—parked over on the next block—was all in readiness to whisk him to Steinway Hall.
Laurie clambered inside, telling the driver to make haste. Down Broadway they clattered in the dark, the horses jolting around mud-holes and crowds of people shouting after them, up to the front door of Steinway Hall. Laurie argued his way inside—finally producing a receipt for the tickets in an amount so substantial that the doorman gave up and let him pass—and slipped down the dim aisle.
The stage was still empty, the lights up. The buzz in the crowd was so electric, Laurie knew it would be only a matter of moments until the principal attraction—Dickens himself—took the stage. Laurie searched the crowd for one head of slightly mussed curls in particular.
There.
He could see her, just a glimpse, from rows away. How it was, he couldn’t have said, but he could always spy her. Crossing a field, all the way from the road. Walking a crowded street, from down the block. A particular gesture of her hand, the bend of her head. The lines of her he knew by heart. The colors he knew best.
The speed of her. The liveliness. The spirit.
He watched from the aisle. She was talking animatedly with an older man sitting to her right.
He smiled.
No peacock feather here, just a slim velvet ribbon in the mussed curls of her hair.
The seat to her left—the seat that Laurie had bought for himself—was still empty, as if she was waiting for him.
The others had long been given away, but this one seat she had kept.
Just in case.
Just as you would have for her.
Laurie could not say when it had happened, or why. There were no moments to pinpoint, no lines to quote. The truth of the thing had inched up around him a season at a time, finally bursting into blossom with the apple orchards adjoining their two houses. Laurie had grown up learning how to love her. It was the only lesson he was ever any good at, because Jo herself had taught him, even if she hadn’t known she was doing it.
She had made him.
And now, she was the thing that made him happy, made him whole, made him anything at all worth being.
He never wanted to be anywhere but by her side.
Hang Harvard.
He took a deep breath, feeling for the small velvet case in his pocket.
The one that held his mother’s ring.
The one he’d been carrying around with him all week. To the Green in the sunshine. To the docks in the rain.
This was why they had come to New York. This was why they had come to see Dickens. He had wanted everything to be perfect, and at the very last minute, Grandfather had scuttled his plans entirely.
Grandfather, and Harvard, and Lady Harriet.
And—
Who the blazes is she talking to?
Jo didn’t see Laurie at first, so engrossed was she in her conversation with the older-looking man. Dressed a bit shabbily—his cuffs were frayed, and the hat in his lap had definitely seen better days—the fellow seemed to be saying something about the work he’d done in the war. Laurie heard the words “battlefield” and “photography.”
Jo could barely contain her excitement. “And so you were there? At Gettysburg?”
“Yes, but I was too far away to witness the conflict while it was happening. I could hear the cannons firing and see the smoke.”
“But you walked the battlefield after, with Mathew Brady, the famous photographer?”
“I did. It was . . . difficult work, to say the least.”
“I can imagine.”
As Laurie moved closer, he could see the flush of interest on Jo’s face—her eyes bright, her attention all focused on the photographer. And equally so, the smile of pleasure from this unknown man whose work Jo found so fascinating.
It was an intoxicating thing to be the object of Jo’s attention—as Laurie himself had been, once upon a time.
As I long to be again.
Laurie drew nearer.
“And what brings you to Dickens this evening?” Jo was asking.
The man looked proud. “I’ll be taking his photograph later. It’s all been arranged.”
“Christopher Columbus!” Jo exclaimed. “That means you’ll get to meet him!”
“That’s true.” He nodded. “It is a bit exciting, I’ll give you that. Though I’m meant to not let on, professionally speaking.”
Laurie could see the scheme forming behind Jo’s eyes.
“I don’t suppose—” she began, then faltered.
In a moment she’d be inviting herself back-stage with this older photographer in an effort to meet Dickens in person. Or worse—the photographer would do so himself. Dickens or no Dickens, Laurie wouldn’t let himself be usurped by an old man in fraying cuffs.
He pulled his hand out of his pocket.
The box stayed put.
Now is not the time.
Laurie stepped forward, into Jo’s line of sight, and said, “Aren’t you the American authoress Josephine March?” He offered a sweeping bow. “And would you be saving that seat for anyone in particular?”
Heads swiveled from every direction. Heads, followed by whispers.
“I beg your pardon,” Jo’s seatmate began, indignantly.
Jo looked momentarily startled—until her face lit with pleasure. “Oh, Teddy! You came!”
“You know I could never choose a society ball over you, Jo.” He slipped into his seat and took Jo’s hand. The photographer noticed, giving Laurie the merest nod and Jo a look of regret. Laurie ignored him completely.
Jo didn’t notice because the audience was quieting. Dickens had just arrived.
“Just in time,” said Jo.
On-stage, Dickens strode tall and elegant to a table at the center, where a book lay open. Waiting.
For a moment, Laurie felt certain the author must have seen him slipping into his seat near the stage—watched him sliding his hand into the hand of the young woman waiting there in her authoress’s dress, her face rapt.
And so, too, he believed Dickens himself could surely see what Jo could not or would not: that they were meant to be.
Just then, the great man gave Laurie an imperceptible nod—or so he imagined—and began to read.
“My father’s family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip. So I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip. . . .”
There was rapturous applause and Laurie chuckled, then leaned toward Jo and whispered, “So he does do voices! I told you. Well worth the price of the ticket.”
“Stop, Teddy!” She touched her head to his, hesitated, then—“Was the ball a terrible bore?”
“You weren’t there, Jo.” He shrugged. “Of course it was. You know I’d rather be here with you. More than anywhere.”
She squeezed his fingers hard, her face shining with excitement. “I’m so glad,” she said, and for the barest second, his heart leapt with hope.
15
A QUARREL
By the next morning—and by all accounts—it seemed the night had been a great victory, indeed. A shining triumph of a night, in a city indifferent to such glories. All of which made for a rather difficult business of going home.
But it was time to return to Concord, regardless of whether anyone seem
ed particularly happy about it. Jo had already crammed her authoress dress into her trunk and was trying to get the lid latched when Meg came in with the Worth gown on her arm and a forlorn expression she now punctuated with a heavy sigh.
Jo pushed harder. “For goodness’ sake, Meg, you aren’t still mooning over old John Brooke, of all people. So he danced with you. That’s what people do at balls.”
Meg gave her sister a frown. “I’m not mooning over anyone. Besides, you’re one to talk. Why don’t you tell me the story of how Charles Dickens himself shook your hand and said Miss March fifty-five more times?”
“Perhaps I will! Because he’s Charles Dickens.” Jo gave up on her bag and thumped across the room. “I can’t seem to find my cloak.”
The elder March smoothed the silvery fabric of the gown, straightening the embroidery. Despite her protests, she was still thinking of the ball, and of John Brooke. Of how good it had felt to have a friend there who knew her and liked her for who she really was—a girl without a dowry, in a dress that originally had been meant for her sister—especially after Laurie disappeared.
Meg hadn’t told Jo everything that happened the night before. She hadn’t told about the whispers that ran around the room when Lady Hat discovered Laurie had left Meg behind at the ball. Meg knew immediately where he’d gone; there was no question his heart was with Jo at the Dickens event, the surprise he’d arranged so carefully and then had to abandon at his grandfather’s whims.
But no one else knew where he was, or why.
Or why Lady Hat, in particular, seemed to care.
Meg also hadn’t known that Laurie had arranged for Mr. Brooke to be Meg’s escort. Not at first. At first she only felt Lady Hat practically gloating, her face shining with mischief at the discovery as she danced a waltz with Brooke. “What!” Harriet said, loud enough for the entire room to hear. “Gone and left her? Our dear Cousin Meg?”
Then the humiliation when people stared and whispered. That poor girl, they must have been thinking. That poor, poor girl, to be abandoned at the biggest social event of the year!
It was only when Mr. Brooke insisted on dancing with her a second time that the whispers stopped and Meg could enjoy herself again. At the end of the evening, when Mr. Brooke said Laurie’s carriage had arrived for them and asked if he could escort her home, she went with him gladly, gratefully—a true gentleman who never said a word to embarrass or frighten her.
And when they came into the drawing-room of the boarding house and he bid her good night, he’d kissed her cheek.
For just a moment, Meg had let herself imagine what it would be like to be Lady Harriet, rich and worldly and admired everywhere she went.
“Thank you for your charming company, Miss March,” he’d said. “I hope I may enjoy it again sometime.”
He’d called her charming! But then, he’d said the same about Harriet. Meg had to admit he’d spent half the night flirting with Harriet and the other half with her.
Why did Meg care? Like Jo had surmised, Meg wouldn’t allow herself to feel those feelings for him. Jo’s book was astute. In it, Meg originally meant to refuse Brooke because of his poverty, but had only accepted him to spite “Aunt March.” Meg had to make a rich match. She couldn’t be as silly as their parents, who had given away their fortune to live in genteel poverty, as Jo’s book told the world. Meg wanted more for her children. She wanted them to have everything she never had.
What were their names? That Jo had given them? Daisy and—
She’d forgotten already.
And yet, Meg hadn’t stopped thinking about it—that dance, that kiss—all night. Not when Jo came in and flung herself down on the bed. Not when her sister went on all through breakfast about Dickens and Great Expectations. Not when she’d retold the story of the timid girl who had tapped on her shoulder and asked if she really were the American authoress Josephine March, and in that case, if she would sign her program.
All the while, Meg had taken out her memory of her night—of her Mr. Brooke!—and turned it over and over in her mind’s eye, as if it were something so soft she could not help but reach for it, yet something so delicate she was afraid to touch it at all. Perhaps a novel she wanted to read so badly she had slept with it under her pillow. Or a Christmas present she’d only just been given and had yet to unwrap.
As much as she loved her sisters, this was for her, and her alone.
Meg didn’t tell Jo any of these things. Jo would tease and taunt her about old Babbling Brooke, but Meg wasn’t sure she was ready to share it yet. Or that she even knew what any of it meant, for her or for him.
Him.
Even that small word sent a shiver through her.
Under my pillow you go. Meg carefully folded the Worth dress into her own small trunk and closed the latch. “I was only thinking there may never be another occasion for either of us to wear this. That’s all I meant to say.”
It was the strangeness—was it sadness?—in Meg’s voice that snapped Jo out of her own dark mood. She stopped fussing about her cloak and turned immediately to her sister. “But you wore it brilliantly, Meg! Truly, you were the very picture of beauty itself. Beyond that—if you ask me—it was a terrible waste, even for our Teddy. I do wish he hadn’t done it.” No one ever had to ask Jo anything; Jo simply volunteered her opinion anyway.
Just then, the maid knocked at the door. Jo leapt up to let her in.
“Mr. Brooke wants to see Miss Meg,” the maid announced shyly in a pronounced Irish accent. “Waitin’ for you in the drawing-room, miss. Some question about the travel arrangements.”
“Thank you, Bridget,” said Meg. Her voice was calm, but her heart thudded.
Meg rose to go. “The only waste is that Laurie went to a lot of trouble buying an incredible gift for you that you won’t even wear. You can’t very well be cross at him for that.”
“I’m not cross,” Jo said, crossly. Meg looked at her. “At least you didn’t burn the back of this one,” said Jo with a sigh. “If you think it’s a waste and neither of us shall ever have occasion to wear it again, maybe you should leave it here with Lady Hat? I’m sure she’d find a use for it.”
“I’m sure she would,” said Meg, wincing at the very thought of the flirtatiousness between Harriet and Brooke. “But she already has enough fine gowns. We’ll take it home and put it away, Jo. Maybe one day you’ll wear it as a wedding dress.”
Jo’s face crinkled up into a look of horror. “The only thing I’m married to are my books, Meg. You’ll wear it for a wedding dress before I do. When you marry Mr. Brooke, perhaps.”
“Jo! That’s the last thing on my mind,” Meg insisted.
But Jo gave her a sly look, as if she knew what Meg was thinking and wasn’t fooled at all.
* * *
• • •
AT THE TRAIN station, where the porters loaded their trunks into the cars and the passengers scurried to and fro to find their seats, Meg and Jo, Laurie and Brooke climbed aboard for the long ride back to Concord.
It had been a late night—and a long week—and they were all a bit gloomy at the thought of returning home.
After the Dickens reading, Jo had been so inspired, she’d spent half the night making notes for her novel, even going so far as to write a new scene, so provoked was she by something the great man had said about the evils of modern society.
And, perhaps, by the tap on the shoulder.
She wondered if she would ever get used to meeting her own readers in person. It was one thing to think of them as envelopes, or even oranges. It was quite another to see a face, to shake quavering hands, to hear how Jo’s words had found their way into a new home.
What an odd life this is!
Jo had thought she would write on the train, but as she stared out the soot-streaked window now, she was too preoccupied. She thought of her writing garret in Concord, which
somehow seemed even smaller now—and after the adventures of Manhattan, a trifle cramped and dull.
Meg, too, was quiet, lost in thought. She only wished she had a moment to be alone again with Mr. Brooke, to determine the depth of her feelings for him, or his for her—were that the case. But I don’t know up from down, she thought.
Charmed or charming.
A kiss on the hand or on the cheek.
Concord or Kensington.
But all Mr. Brooke and Laurie could do was argue about the student’s utter abandonment of his reading-list and his lapse of study in Greek.
“You’re snapping at each other like little old ladies,” Jo finally said.
“Jo!” Meg frowned.
“Sincere apologies,” Mr. Brooke said, looking distressed.
“Come now,” Laurie groused. “We were just having a bit of lively discussion.”
Jo snorted. “Lively discussion? If I had the money, I’d hire a private car so I could write in peace and quiet.” She crossed out the last sentence she’d written.
“You would not, and you know it,” Meg observed, with a shake of her curls.
Jo knew she was right, but still.
* * *
• • •
LAURIE COULD NOT shake the mood, either.
There’s no escaping the row ahead, old boy. Might as well soldier up and accept it.
He knew Grandfather would hear that he had not, after all, made the acquaintance of the Harvard president; had, instead, left the ball early to go see Dickens. The old man would have some choice words for his grandson, surely—about duty and honor, about his place in society.
Gratitude. My mother, whom Grandfather never approved of. The Laurence name.
He suspected there would be a further row, about leaving Meg there, for surely Brooke—or else the Dowager Lady Carmichael-Carlthorpe—would tell the old man everything.
If only Grandfather didn’t know Hat’s mother quite so well.
Laurie sighed. He didn’t want to admit that he felt a bit like he deserved that one, himself.
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