Jo & Laurie

by Margaret Stohl

  But since then, the story had grown more complicated. Lady Harriet had staked her claim to Brooke at the Gardiners’, chatting with him and slipping her arm into his in a possessive way that Meg couldn’t help but notice. It was possible that Lady Harriet was only trying to make Meg jealous, and that Mr. Brooke was too polite to remove himself from her grasp.

  Or—and this was the possibility she couldn’t ignore—he actually liked her attentions and was encouraging her. A wealthy, beautiful young woman wasn’t something any man could afford to ignore, much less a poor man like John Brooke.

  When they reached the fork in the road—when they had gone as far as they could without drawing too much attention to themselves—Brooke stopped, and said, “I know that my leaving for Boston makes my question more complicated.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “What, then?”

  “I was thinking Lady Harriet might be sorely disappointed by your asking me. And that you might be disappointed as well.”

  He took her hand in his, and she let him—but only because she couldn’t think of a way of removing it without insulting him. “Lady Harriet doesn’t factor into my thinking at all.”

  But Meg was determined. Brooke had said his piece; now she would say hers. “Why shouldn’t she? She’s clearly so fond of you. And—and I have no dowry. Whereas she is rich as Croesus.”

  Brooke clutched her hand more tightly. “You know that doesn’t matter to me. I wouldn’t ask you if it did.”

  “Perhaps it should matter to you.”

  Mr. Brooke became agitated. “What are you saying, Miss March? That you won’t have me because you have no dowry and I only a modest income?”

  “We’d be paupers. We’d have nothing to our names, nothing,” cried Meg.

  “We’d have each other. Isn’t that enough? It is enough for me, my dearest. I wish I had more to give than my heart.”

  She looked down at their joined hands. She didn’t pull hers away; she couldn’t bear to let go, not yet. Not until she’d told him the truth. “It’s not enough. Oh, Mr. Brooke, if you won’t think of your future, you must let me do so for you. Don’t marry a poor girl. I’m sure Lady Harriet would be glad to have you, if you asked her.”

  His shoulders sank, along with his dark brows. “But I did not ask her. I’m asking you.”

  She glanced down once more at their joined hands. You must be firm. For his sake, don’t be selfish now.

  “I cannot marry a poor man,” she said. “I won’t. Two wrongs don’t make a right, especially not in this case. I am very fond of you, Mr. Brooke, but there can be no question of us marrying. Not when neither of us has a penny to our name.”

  Now Brooke did indeed let go of her hand. He took off his hat and rubbed at a spot on the brim, saying, “I understand,” so quietly that it was hard to hear him. “No, of course not, I cannot ask you to marry a man as poor as me. I have overstepped.”

  Meg felt her heart in her throat, but she choked it down. Poor heart, to be so denied. “I hope in time you will come to see the wisdom in this decision. And that we may still be friends.”

  For a moment it seemed even the birds had quieted down, as if the whole world were leaning in to listen. “A friendship so denied can never recover, I’m afraid, but I see you’re resolved. I will not bother you any more, Miss March.”

  He bowed once, stiffly, and left her standing in the road, shaking and nearly ill, but determined. She had done the right thing for both of them. She had never been more certain she had done the right thing. They would be as poor as church mice! What was love but a burden? He would thank her one day, when he was the lord of Carmichael Hall, his magnificent bride on his arm, and they had everything they ever wanted and needed. She would give this to him; she would sacrifice her love for his happiness.

  It was all she had to give him.

  * * *

  • • •

  WHEN MEG ENTERED the house, her sisters pounced on her. “So! What happened?” “What did he say?” “What did you say?” “Why do you look like that?” asked Jo and Amy in excitement as they fought to sit by Meg and hear all the delicious details.

  Meg almost fell onto the sofa, her legs having given out underneath her. “He asked me to marry him.”

  Amy was petting the cat next to her. “And?” she asked her older sister, her eyes lit with the fire of romance.

  “I said no.”

  “You refused him?” Jo demanded.

  “I did.”

  Jo looked stricken. “Why?”

  “Because he should be with Lady Hat. With someone who can provide him a better life than I can.”

  “But he didn’t ask Lady Hat!” raged Amy.

  “That’s what he said,” said Meg.

  “You refused him,” Jo repeated.

  “Oh, Meg!” said Amy, who pushed the cat away from her lap in her agitation. “What is wrong with everyone in this family? I was so looking forward to the wedding!”

  “But you love him,” said Jo. “It’s so clear. And so why can’t you have your happiness? Who cares about money?”

  “I do. I want him to be happy. He will be happier with her,” Meg said, staunchly. “So will I.”

  “No, he won’t! You won’t! He loves you!” said Jo, raging and flinging her arms about in the unfairness of it all. “I’ve never met such a martyr in all my life! You refused him!” she exclaimed again. “Because you think he would be happier if he married someone with a large dowry? Meg, are you mad?”

  “I must be,” Meg said, tears pricking at her eyes, “but it was the right thing to say, and not you, or Mama, or anyone else can change my mind!”

  “But you love him and he loves you!” Jo shouted. “It’s enough! It has to be!”

  “Is it?” Meg stood taller. “Look in the mirror, Josephine March!”

  And she ran up to her room and slammed the door on her sister behind her.

  22

  SHADOWS UPON SHADOWS

  After the first few weeks away—and once he was able to stop brooding over Jo long enough—Laurie was almost able to enjoy himself at Harvard.

  Almost.

  There was cricket and rugby after classes, plus the supper club, the debate club. And at all, there was the company of other young men from fine American families, some of whom were also at university against their will. Most of Laurie’s classmates were New Englanders, but there were a few from as far away as Chicago and even Minneapolis who regaled their fellows with tales of living in the wilds of the Middle West. Evenings, they would read their lessons or play billiards with a glass of brandy or two. Weekends, they would go into Boston for their amusements: musical performances, lectures, sometimes even a dance where they would have a chance to meet the young ladies of Boston society—properly chaperoned, of course. When called upon—if not in one of his darker moods—Laurie would even favor them with a tune or two on the old supper club piano.

  Fred Vaughn was Laurie’s constant companion on these rambles, for Fred was a lively sort of fellow, given to Jo-like slang (“Hang it all!” was his perennial favorite), and always up for a laugh, if one could be had. In Fred’s company, Laurie was able to forget about Jo for long stretches of time. In the middle of a rugby match or at a night of billiards with such lively company, it was impossible to brood on all he had lost.

  Fred’s company was good for almost everything that ailed Laurie except his studies. More than one professor had warned that Laurie would have to repeat his freshman courses if he didn’t shape up soon. But because Laurie preferred to spend his evenings out of Harvard Yard, he was prone to miss turning in his assignments on time.

  It was hard to feel like any of it mattered. His grandfather had insisted, so here Laurie was, but the old man couldn’t make him study against his will.

  He had missed the Virgil assignment, and another on Marcus A
urelius, but the Latin professor promised to give him a little more time to turn them in, as long as he did a spectacularly good job.

  The history professor wanted a substantial essay about the Reformation in England, but as Laurie couldn’t keep all the English kings straight, he didn’t see how he’d manage to finish.

  Instead he was up late with Fred, who’d found them a couple of girls from a good Beacon Hill family to squire around town to dances and dinners. Fred’s girl was Amelia Perkins, a merry blonde with a wicked sense of humor that matched Fred’s own. Her sister Caroline was Laurie’s, less blond and more reserved than Amelia and (to Laurie’s way of thinking) a bit dull, really, but pretty enough in her way. She didn’t read much or like musical performances, declaring them too long and too crowded. But Amelia wouldn’t go out with Fred unless someone escorted her sister as well, so Fred had begged Laurie to join him.

  At the very least they made a cheerful foursome around town, riding in hired carriages, stopping for sweets at cafés after dark, and Laurie was glad at least to be out of his stuffy little dormitory, where he had too much time to think.

  One night, Fred announced that Amelia and Caroline were hosting a society dinner at their house on Beacon Hill, and that all the Boston Brahmins would be in attendance—the Cabots and Elliotts, the Peabodys and Welds. Of course, half the Harvard student body would be in attendance, including honored guests Fred Vaughn and Theodore Laurence. “Do say you’ll come, that’s a good sport,” said Fred when they received their invitations.

  But Laurie had been souring on Caroline’s company somewhat. She was a perpetual complainer, and though he was happy to help out Fred, he didn’t want to be pulled further into the girl’s orbit than he was already. Becoming a regular at her family get-togethers seemed especially beyond the pale, and so Laurie had been thinking about refusing the dinner invitation. Amelia didn’t need her sister to have an escort in their own home, after all.

  Instead, Laurie was thinking of going home to Concord for the weekend, on the pretext of seeing his grandfather. In reality, he was missing Jo and looking for an excuse to visit, if only to glimpse the old cottage, perhaps find out if she was as miserable as he was.

  He hoped she was miserable! How terrible it would be if he saw her seeming happy and industrious without him.

  I won’t survive it. I won’t.

  But still.

  “I think maybe I’ll beg this one off, Fred,” Laurie said. “My grandfather has called me home for the weekend.”

  “All the way to Concord for the weekend? You’re joking.”

  “Not at all. He’s leaving soon for London, and it wouldn’t do to refuse him, you know.”

  Just then, a knock came at the door. It was the dormitory attendant announcing that Laurie had a telegram.

  “From whom?”

  “I believe it’s from your grandfather,” said the attendant, a young German with shaggy hair.

  Laurie read the missive. It was clear from the note that Mr. Laurence had heard of Jo’s refusal and knew his boy was nursing a broken heart, even as his was just as broken—he had been so looking forward to seeing the two of them together and Laurie settled. Perhaps they could cheer each other up.

  “Grandfather is visiting this weekend,” said Laurie.

  Across the room, Fred Vaughn looked like the cat who’d eaten the canary. “How lucky! You won’t have to go to Concord to see him after all. Which means you can come with me to Beacon Hill this weekend.”

  Laurie stifled a groan and only said, “I guess so. How fortunate.”

  * * *

  • • •

  MEANWHILE, BACK IN Orchard House, Amy’s illness had, indeed, not turned the corner as her mother and sisters had believed.

  Instead, it had gotten so much worse that she had been in bed for days.

  Her mother and sisters had taken turns feeding her broth and tea, trying to starve the fever. They’d covered her with blankets and rubbed her feet, and yet over those days her skin had grown ashen, her sweet limbs wasting into emaciation. The cough grew so violent that Amy couldn’t keep down any food, even broth, and the fever had grown, blossoming inside her small body like a lit fire, so that touching her skin felt like touching the stove.

  For a week, Amy burned.

  Sometimes she would rally, and sit up a little to eat. But other times she sank into a restless sleep, alternately kicking the blankets off and complaining of heat, then of freezing cold, though the autumn weather was still mild and the days were warm.

  For her part, Mama hardly slept, so carefully did she dote on her youngest girl. The room had to be kept warm, but not too warm—the fire low, not allowed to die, but never blazing. A teapot on constant simmer had to be kept full of water and camphor, to loosen the phlegm in Amy’s lungs, which she hacked up day and night.

  After a few days, when she should have started getting better, she instead became worse, growing weaker, wracked with chills.

  In a worry, Jo sat with her, spelling her mother off, to allow Mama Abba to get some sleep. Meg would tend to Amy, too, in the mornings before she went to the Kings’ or in the early evenings when she returned. But as she needed all of her strength to tend to her little charges, the brunt of the sick-room fell on Mama and Jo and Hannah.

  They sat with Amy and listened to the rattling in her lungs. A death-rattle, Jo feared, but then banished the thought. This was too much akin to what had happened to Beth, but Jo would not lose another sister.

  “Don’t leave me,” she pleaded. “Don’t leave us.”

  Amy opened her eyes to slits. “Oh, dear old Jo,” she said warmly. “Go to bed, you’re way too tired yourself.”

  Jo shook her head. “I’ll watch over you.”

  “You can’t change my fate,” said Amy. “This isn’t just a book.”

  “I can and I will,” said Jo, a hand on Amy’s damp hair. “Please get better. I can’t bear it.”

  “I’m trying,” said Amy. “But I am so tired of fighting.”

  “You have to.”

  In response, Amy closed her eyes.

  “Don’t die, Amy,” Jo begged, openly sobbing now. “Please don’t die. I’ll be so much better to you. I’ll even let you choose your own fate in my book, if you like. Whatever you want. You can have Laurie, even, if you really want him.”

  From the bed, Amy let out a faint chuckle.

  Still, she burned.

  But it wasn’t up to Amy, or Jo, or Meg, or even Mama. It was only up to that Friend who listened.

  Please, please, Jo continued to beg. Don’t let her die. I can’t lose another sister. I barely survived Beth’s death. Do not take Amy, too.

  But outside, the wind blew, and if that Friend were listening, no one answered.

  23

  DECISIONS

  The Kings? Why ever would I go live with the Kings?”

  Meg was in shock, but Mama Abba was resolute. “I’ll not let you become a danger to yourself and the Kings’ children, Meg.”

  Because Amy is not improving.

  That was the urgent point of the matter, however unspoken.

  Jo wept at the thought of it, but it was no use. Meg was to be dispatched to the Kings, even though the doctor himself thought the precaution was unnecessary.

  Mama was not convinced, having seen consumption spread not only within families but between them. She was sure Amy’s visit with the Hummels had been how she’d come down with the disease. It wouldn’t do to have Meg bring the sickness to her employers’ house.

  So Meg packed a small carpet-bag and went to stay in a spare servant’s room at the Kings’, who for their part were glad to have her staying longer hours.

  From the Kings’, Meg fretted and worried about Amy all day and cried herself to sleep at night. She would have been happiest living at home and tending to Amy herself in the evenings,
which would have eased her worry. It seemed very hard to be banished from home during Amy’s illness, and only wait for news.

  They had already lost Beth.

  They could not lose Amy, too.

  If Jo suffered loudly and for everyone to hear and know, Meg kept her suffering inward. Losing Beth had made Meg all that more determined to make sure her family would want for nothing. No amount of money would ever bring Beth back, but somehow Meg had convinced herself that one was better off rich and miserable than poor and miserable.

  And miserable she was, for she ached for John.

  Her John, as Jo called him in the book. Her Mr. Brooke, who would never be her John except in fiction.

  Meg had done the right thing, she knew, but it didn’t hurt any less.

  She tried to ease her suffering by spending more time with her young charges, though to be honest, she needed time away from them to rest. Her returns home to Orchard House in the evenings were the main reason she could be cheerful with the children on most days. But spending all day every day and night in their company was making her grouchy, so she took to having a ramble around the neighborhood after the children had finished their lessons for the day.

  A little fresh air and exercise was all she needed. In the November afternoons, it was dry and cool, and Meg wore Mama’s plaid shawl on her walks down to the post-office to check for a letter from Father, or to look for a note from one of Amy’s school chums to bring home, or to see if there were any decent fruit left on the Buttens’ apple-tree.