Jo & Laurie

by Margaret Stohl

  I read your book, Jo. You’re a beautiful writer.

  Still, Jo forged on, desperate to make her case. “You wouldn’t mean to, but it would happen anyway. Having a house to run, children—I’d never have time to write anymore. And you would hate having an author for a wife. It would embarrass you. I’m not smart enough or fashionable enough for you. For your society friends, like Lady Hat.”

  “You are! You’re smarter than everyone put together! And I don’t give a damn about fashion or fashionable society. You know that! You think too little of yourself, and you did well in New York.”

  “Well enough as Jo March, not as Mrs. Theodore Laurence. Lady Hat would be horrified by me, you know it. Everyone would think I’d married you for your money.” She shuddered. “Literally everyone.”

  “So? Who cares? Harriet would accept you because you’d be my wife. My everything. You are everything to me, Jo,” he said. “And everyone would be so pleased. Your people. Mine. Grandfather would be beyond thrilled.” He pressed a fist against the windowpane in frustration.

  “Oh, Teddy, I’m so sorry. But I can’t even imagine it.”

  She stood next to him and put an arm around him to hold him up, the same way he had done in the pond just a few months before.

  He turned to her, his voice quivering. “Really and truly, Jo?” he asked, with a look she would never forget.

  “Really and truly, dear.”

  He went pale then. He couldn’t look at her anymore. So that was it, then. She did not love him. Not the way he loved her. He had to live with that. He had to accept it.

  “If you cannot even imagine a marriage between us, then you are not as much of a writer as I’d thought,” he said, bitterly.

  He didn’t mean it. He was smarting, that’s all. Jo shook her head, for once unable to form words to console her dearest friend even as her heart broke with his.

  Laurie stood in the hall, holding his coat, his face a mask trying to conceal his pain, his complete and utter devastation at the hands of the one person he’d thought he could count on above all.

  “Oh, Jo, can’t you?” he asked, in a final effort.

  “Teddy dear, I wish I could!”

  There was a pause, and Laurie nodded briskly. “Good-bye, Miss March. Good luck with your sequel.”

  * * *

  • • •

  WHEN HE HAD left the house, Meg burst into the room. “Oh, Jo,” she cried, “I just saw Laurie; he said you refused him! What have you done?”

  Jo sank into her tuft and crossed her arms, determined she would not be moved. “I’ve done nothing that didn’t need doing.”

  Meg seemed nearly on the verge of tears. “Oh, Jo, don’t you see? You don’t have to be alone to find your happiness in life. You love Laurie and Laurie loves you. It’s a simple thing.”

  Jo shrugged. She couldn’t explain.

  But it’s not simple at all.

  “Not to mention that if you marry Laurie, you will never have to worry about money ever again,” said Meg. “As if I have to remind you.”

  Jo forced herself to focus on her sister. To smile.

  “Always with the mercenary proposition! I shall have my happiness without greed,” scoffed Jo. “Besides, I shall write my way to success!”

  “That may be,” said Meg. “But what is success if you have no one to share it with? Just because Laurie is rich is no reason not to love him. You’re a fool who doesn’t know her own heart.”

  “I guess I’m a fool, then,” Jo said as she flung her manuscript aside. “The biggest fool you’ve ever met!”

  Then she banged her way down the old attic stairs, one at a time, leaving the pages where they landed on the floor.

  I’m just an old Roman step, she thought. As dented and abandoned as they come.

  There was no point in making up stories when her home and family, her dearest friend, were all so dramatic in real life.

  When the shadows felt as if they could very nearly swallow her whole.

  18

  AUTUMN SPLENDOR

  Jo did not attend the farewell luncheon Laurie’s grandfather threw for him. She did not help him pack his steamer trunk, did not so much as look his way through the glass windowpanes as everything was loaded up and packed off.

  Once Laurie left for Cambridge, there was little rhythm to Jo’s days. Because she couldn’t sleep, she spent her nights up in the attic trying to work—though her meager scribblings were leaving her in anguish—and her mornings crossing out everything she’d written the night before.

  She would kill off Roderigo one day only to bring him back the next. Then John Brooke would go off to war but meet someone else, a Southern belle, perhaps, and elope, though that didn’t satisfy Jo’s sense of proportion.

  What Southern girl in her right mind would care at all about old Brooke?

  He was hardly the kind of man who attracted high-society ladies, no matter which side of the Mason-Dixon Line they lived on.

  Except for Lady Hat, apparently, who’d cooed and fussed over Brooke as much as anyone, according to Meg.

  Jo had a hard time believing it.

  She sat looking at her pages and considered the problem she’d written for herself. Maybe everything she’d read about society girls in novels was wrong. Maybe having a family name and money meant you were immune from looking for those qualities in a husband. Or perhaps it was just a perverse fantasy of Harriet’s, to set her cap at a man whose own situation wasn’t anywhere comparable to hers. Jo couldn’t pretend to understand what it would be like to be entirely free of financial worries, given that money—or rather, the lack of it—consumed most of her available free time.

  She would have liked to ask Laurie what he thought about Harriet and Brooke, but he wasn’t here. And she wasn’t going to write to him on that subject—on any subject—not if her life depended on it.

  Not after how they had left each other, the last time.

  Jo was resolute that she would not think of Laurie and his heartache, as it was too close to hers. No, she would not think of her heart at all.

  So Jo was not at all certain that her work was going well. At this rate, her fictional sisters would end up as adrift as the real ones were, waiting for their lives to begin.

  Even the fate of poor Beth was giving her fits. Every story line she tried didn’t work. Beth overcoming her shyness. Beth learning to dance. Beth meeting Frank Vaughn, the sickly, made-up twin of Laurie’s real-life friend Fred Vaughn, at a church picnic and striking up an unlikely romance. Beth the nurse, living at home, caring for her mother after a serious illness. (Even in fiction, Jo couldn’t write Mama Abba’s death. It was, she told Meg, out of the question.)

  Or even once she had written Beth marrying Laurie, if only to give them both some happiness that eluded them in real life.

  Wrong, wrong, wrong! Jo crumpled the page up into a ball. What a bunch of rot her sequel was turning out to be.

  It was no one’s fault but her own. All those hours spent on a story no one—not even the story’s author—wanted to read.

  Especially not the story’s author.

  If you cannot even imagine a marriage between us, then you are not as much of a writer as I’d thought, Laurie had said.

  Theodore Laurence, she groaned to herself, heaving her quill across the room. You’ve cursed me! Cursed me with your neediness, your loving me. Foolish, foolish boy!

  I’ll never write another word.

  Never!

  * * *

  • • •

  WITHOUT HER BOOK to write, Jo turned instead to her daily chores, throwing herself into harvesting the bounty from Vegetable Valley, into learning more of the plain cooking that she’d begun before writing Little Women, if only to have something useful to do and to please her mother. Mama Abba was the one person who never grew cross at Jo, no matter h
ow much difficulty she found herself in. Patient Mama would only smile and encourage her to try again, praising any effort Jo made to keep her temper in check. With such a person to emulate, Jo did want very much to please her. Mama’s demands weren’t nearly as impossible as Niles’s.

  It was on such a day, as Meg and Amy worked on harvesting Vegetable Valley and Jo struggled to learn to knead rising dough, that Meg received a letter from her dear friend Sallie Gardiner, whose wealth and connections had sometimes allowed Meg to travel in more fashionable circles, at least in Concord.

  On opening the envelope, Meg saw that it wasn’t a typical letter at all, but an invitation to an Autumn Splendor Ball. The first of many, Sallie wrote to Meg. Or at least I hope it will be.

  The three March sisters, distracted from their squashes and pumpkins, their cabbages and turnips, went squealing through the house to learn if their mother would give them permission to go. “Of course, my darlings,” she said, hugging Meg. “Of course you will want the society of other young people, especially”—and at this, she looked significantly at Jo—“when you are missing your usual company.”

  Jo frowned, feeling this was a criticism, though Mama took her by the chin and said, “It’s all right, Jo. I would never make you accept any man who couldn’t win your ardent affections. That is for you to decide.”

  Jo nodded, allowing Mama Abba to comfort her—even if she would not concede to needing comfort.

  Now Mama Abba patted her daughter’s cheek. “But I think you would have to agree it has been a bit quiet around here since the younger Mr. Laurence went to Cambridge.”

  Amy snorted, “Since Jo insulted him, you mean. We should be lucky ever to be invited to anything again.”

  Mama gave her youngest a stern look, but she only said, “I think all my girls could do with a little bit of lively company. Music and dancing and other young people are a sure cure for loneliness.”

  Jo could hardly call herself lonely. She was surrounded by people constantly. Why, she’d hardly had a minute to herself since the day she climbed out of her attic garret, “Determined to live life,” she’d announced to her sisters, “instead of only writing about it.”

  But a ball—especially a Concord ball, even one with Meg’s dearest friend—didn’t strike her as particularly exciting or noteworthy. Not after the delights of Manhattan and Dickens.

  Still, as she walked to the Gardiners’ a few days later with Meg and Amy, she had decided to find pleasure wherever she could. She may have been deprived of Theodore Laurence’s company, but he was not the only boy in the world, nor the Marches’ only friend.

  If you cannot even imagine a marriage between us, then you are not as much of a writer as I’d thought.

  Hmmpf.

  After much discussion, the three March girls had all forgone the Worth gown this time. Jo had refused it utterly. It was too painful to be reminded of Laurie’s kindness.

  It’s from a portrait of my mother when she was young . . . She was laughing and so happy and so alive . . . Well, it’s the one picture of her that always reminds me of you, Jo.

  After that, Meg and Amy had argued over who would wear it until Mama Abba insisted neither would do so. “It wouldn’t be proper for one of my girls to be dressed so much more extravagantly than the others. Especially for young ladies whose family cannot afford to give them a proper debut. You are sisters and equals and should look the part,” Mama said, shaming them all into silence. “Such a fine gown will save for another occasion. Like a wedding,” she added, looking at Meg.

  That was that, then. There was no arguing with Mama Abba, once she had made up her mind.

  Instead, Amy had to settle for one of Jo’s old evening dresses, patched and improved. Jo wore the white tarlatan she’d worn to the opera, while Meg wore Mama Abba’s best dress, a dark green jacquard with a froth of lace at the bosom. The color was a bit too old for young Meg, but the dress itself was perfectly respectable and lovely. Unremarkable and unlikely to draw too much attention to the impoverished March sisters.

  They walked over the few blocks to Sallie’s in their finery, planning to be of help to the Gardiners in the party preparations. Coming early also had the added benefit of downplaying the fact that they had no carriage to take them to and fro, like the other girls of Sallie’s acquaintance.

  “We should have asked old Mr. Laurence,” Amy whined.

  “We aren’t his responsibility,” Jo said.

  “He would have been happy to help, I imagine,” Meg replied.

  Jo gave her sister a look, and the subject was immediately dropped. Truthfully, Jo had been too abashed to face him after refusing his grandson’s hand.

  Meg fussed the rest of the way, saying her slippers would be dusty from the road before they arrived. But Jo said, “Who’ll see your slippers under all those skirts! Honestly, Meg, you always think everyone is judging you.”

  “Because everyone is,” said Meg, remembering Lady Hat’s triumph at the Ducal Ball when she’d realized Meg’s escort had left her. Her cheeks burned, thinking about it. At least I shall not have to face Lady Harriet this evening, she thought.

  “A real ball,” Amy sighed. Tonight would be her first. She was positively glowing with excitement, even in Jo’s old dress.

  The Marches could not afford to throw a proper debut for Meg, much less Jo or Amy, so the Autumn Splendor Ball would have to do for the youngest sister. Meg and Jo had agreed to chaperone “as long as Amy doesn’t make a fuss of it,” Jo had said.

  “I never make a fuss,” Amy had fussed. Jo was about to argue, but Amy swore she would keep her swooning to a minimum. This time, at least.

  When they arrived at the Gardiners’—a large fine house that Jo had used as the model for Aunt March’s Plumfield in Little Women—Sallie was already at the gate to welcome them. “How well you all look!” exclaimed Sallie. “Your cheeks are so rosy, Meg! You’ll be the envy of every girl at the ball.”

  Sallie was always unfailingly kind, forgoing any little digs at Meg’s expense that another girl might make. She never mentioned the fact that they’d walked, or that their evening clothes were hopelessly out of fashion. Jo was quite glad to see her.

  A little walk does us all some good, thought Jo. Some exercise will also ensure I won’t be cross with Meg or the other guests, if I expend my excess energy in more productive ways. And I will forget about Laurie, I will.

  Mama would be proud. Jo was finally learning to control her temper. You’re growing up, Mama would say, and give one of her Mona Lisa smiles.

  Jo secretly suspected even Mona Lisa must have been raging on the inside, as well—but she tried to learn her resolve, all the same.

  Inside the house, there was still work to be done—and the March girls joined in, happy to do their part. Jo, Meg, and Amy helped Sallie set out vases of flowers and cut-glass bowls full of the last of the raspberries, heavily sugared. Of course, the sight of them reminded Jo of her own sad effort with sugared strawberries—the time she’d salted them by accident instead of sugaring, and served them with cream that had turned—but Laurie had been good-humored about it, and teased her only a little, enough to make her laugh at herself. Enough that she’d felt comfortable including it in Little Women for all the world to see.

  She was thinking of the jokes he’d make at her expense now, seeing the raspberries. Did Jo help you prepare them? No, thanks, I’ll stay away, then.

  Laurie—always Laurie. At least he wouldn’t be at the ball tonight. He would be down at Cambridge, holed up his room, unable to enjoy even the meager delights of Concord society.

  Jo felt a pang of sadness even picturing it.

  How she missed him! Especially on a night like tonight.

  There would be no one to laugh with, no one who would be interested in dancing with her, no one to confide her secrets to in front of the fireplace. She remembered the first time
they’d met, how they’d both been hiding from the party. She smiled to herself at the thought.

  How long ago that was! And what a strange little goose I could be!

  “What’s so funny?” Amy asked, passing by her with a bowl of apples.

  “Nothing,” said Jo. She wouldn’t confess that she’d been thinking of Laurie even a little, especially not to Amy, who was still furious at her for refusing him. “Now, then, where do these peonies go? The rest of the guests will start arriving any minute.”

  “Over here,” said Meg, patting the table next to where she sat.

  “Oh?” asked Jo, giving her sister a teasing look, for in the language of flowers, peonies were supposed to foretell a happy marriage. She set the fat pink hothouse blossoms next to her sister. “All we need now is John Brooke.” She turned the vase so the fattest blossom faced Meg.

  “Did I hear my name?”

  The girls turned to find John Brooke standing just behind them. The first to arrive, Jo noticed, besides themselves. Eager to see someone here, perhaps? Jo wondered.

  “Mr. Brooke!” said Meg, exactly the someone Jo had just been thinking of. “How wonderful to see you.” Brooke had continued to commute from Boston for Mr. Laurence, but had not been by for a visit in a while.

  “Ladies,” he said, and gave them a bow. “You all look lovely this evening. Miss Amy, how nice to see you out.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brooke,” said Amy. “It’s nice to be out. I was starting to think it would never happen.” She tossed her curls melodramatically.

  Jo shot Amy a look of warning, then turned to Brooke with a critical eye. Dressed in a stylish (and new!) evening suit, he looked so well that even Jo had to admit he was handsome. His dark eyes were more lively than usual, and someone had cut his normally shaggy hair into a more elegant shape.

  But Meg would not meet his eye. “How have you been?” she asked, politely. Jo noticed there was a kind of hitch in her voice.

  “Very well, Miss March. Thank you.”