Jo & Laurie

by Margaret Stohl

  * * *

  • • •

  A FEW DAYS later, the two sisters made the short trip by train to Boston, where Laurie and Brooke met them at the station in the Laurences’ carriage. Jo had been nearly certain Harriet would be with them, though she was not. “You’ll see her later,” Laurie said. “Right now I’m glad it’s the four of us together, just like we were in New York.”

  Jo was surprised but relieved. A few minutes without Lady Hat would be like old times—not just New York, but all the times they were together in Concord at picnics, in ponds. In the attic garret of Orchard House, playing out their small dramas on a homemade stage.

  All at once the time stretched and telescoped. They weren’t children anymore. They were adults, or nearly so. Everything would change. They would never again be as they were right now: four young people who knew each other’s secrets. Who knew each other so well, they could finish each other’s sentences.

  But while Jo was afraid she might weep, Meg was so thrilled to be reunited with Brooke that she threw her arms around his neck in full view of everyone at the station, forgetting propriety completely.

  “I’m glad to see you, too, my love.” Brooke gently extricated himself from Meg’s embrace while Laurie and Jo laughed.

  Meg turned pink and straightened out her dress. All around them, people were staring.

  “Get ahold of yourself, Meg,” said Jo. “I thought I was the improper one in the family. We can’t all be scandalous, now, can we?”

  Laurie was nearly doubled over with laughter. “That’s a sight I’ll never forget,” he said. “But love makes fools of all of us, I suppose. Should we head home before we’re all arrested?”

  “Good idea,” said Jo, and they all piled into the carriage.

  She was gratified to see her sister and Brooke reunited, but Jo had to admit to herself, as they drove through the pouring rain, that this visit was not something she was relishing. To meet Lady Hat again—to watch her preen and fuss over Laurie, to claim him, to fold him into her family like just another of her wealthy possessions—would be one of the hardest things she’d ever had to witness.

  But she was here for Laurie, because he was her dearest friend, and would always be. For the sake of their friendship, which she had not given up on yet.

  Meg kept her arm in Brooke’s all through the ride and said very little. Brooke was quiet, as always, but Jo and Laurie chatted about any number of things: Amy’s improving health. Laurie’s classes, which he was still neglecting, to his peril. Harriet’s mother inviting most of the Manhattan social register to the wedding.

  “What about your sequel?” he asked Jo. “Have you given it up for good? When we were in Concord, you seemed to hint that you had.”

  Jo looked at Meg and Brooke, her sister’s hand curled around Brooke’s upper arm. “I might have started working on it again.”

  “Oh?” Laurie asked. “What scenes have you written?”

  “Preparations for a wedding,” she said, and gave Meg a wicked grin. “Oh, don’t worry, it’s all in excellent taste, I promise.”

  “And me?” Laurie asked. “Am I in this one?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. Perhaps I shall make you turn pirate.”

  Brooke smiled at them both. “What makes you think he isn’t one already?”

  They all had a good laugh, but for Jo it was still tinged with sadness. Everything was ending; she could feel it. Soon, Meg would move from Orchard House into a home of her own. But at least the newlyweds had decided to stay in Concord. Brooke would move to their little hamlet for good, giving up his pupils in Boston.

  When they pulled up in front of the house, Mr. Laurence himself came to the door to greet them, holding out an umbrella so the girls could dash into the house. “My dear girls, welcome to Boston!”

  “Hello!” cried Meg, while Jo said, “We thought you were leaving for London on the last boat. Have you decided to stay the winter?”

  “I have, to help with the wedding planning,” he said, ushering them inside. “We will all journey over together next year, when the weather breaks.”

  “Thank you so much for having us,” said Meg, gently taking the old man’s hand. “You’re always too kind!”

  “It wouldn’t be a proper engagement party without some Marches,” said Mr. Laurence. “The two of you are a welcome reminder of home.”

  For just a minute, under the umbrella, Jo met Laurie’s eyes, and she felt the current between them that was always there, even if it was slightly removed for once.

  It was clear Laurie was happy. He was content, and he was back to being her friend again instead of a jilted lover. After the terrible disagreement they’d had at the end of their New York trip, and later her painful refusal of his offer of marriage, she was relieved to find that he had regained his sense of humor. He was able to be kind, because he had found his bride, even if it wasn’t her.

  She was determined to be happy for him.

  She would.

  * * *

  • • •

  TWO NIGHTS LATER, the Laurence house was a splendor. Though never as grand as the Carmichaels’ Manhattan manse, it was still a large, well-built brick house with fine drawing-rooms and dining-rooms filled with the creamy light of hundreds of candles, the smell of beef and lobster, the tang of good French wine.

  Upstairs, the March girls were helping each other dress for the party—Meg in one of her pretty silks, Jo in one of Meg’s old plaid dresses. “Like you’re ready for the hunt,” Laurie said when he saw her. “A Scottish lass in the heather.” And he kissed her once on the cheek, warmly.

  As he would a sister, Jo thought. She tried to think nothing else about it, but the warmth of his lips had left her fizzing, if only for a moment.

  Downstairs, they were still setting candles and flowers around the room when there was a noise at the door, a clattering of umbrellas, shoes, and door hinges.

  “Oh, you wicked, wicked girls!” Harriet exclaimed, practically flying at them. “Why did you not come to me immediately on arriving in Boston? I can’t believe Laurie and Brooke have been hoarding you for two days already. I only just learned of your arrival.”

  Harriet and her mother were staying at a hotel, as was proper. After the engagement party in Boston, they would journey with the Laurences to New York for another engagement party there.

  Jo and Meg rose to their feet, alarmed at the cacophony of colors and noise that Harriet brought wherever she went. “Hello, Lady Harriet—” Jo began, but Harriet rushed on, “Mother and I were so desolate that you didn’t come to see us right away. I told you, you must come to see me whenever you come to Boston.”

  She had never said any such thing, especially since she usually lived in New York, but Meg only said, “It’s good to see you again, Lady Harriet.”

  “Please, call me Hat. We’re practically family,” she said.

  “Yes, of course,” said Meg. “It’s good to see you . . . Hat.”

  Harriet was being entirely disingenuous. All this nonsense about practically being family, when a month ago Harriet had been envious of Meg to the point of turning green! What rot. Jo couldn’t help needling her, and by extension Laurie, just a bit. “I’m afraid we’re not in the uppertens,” she said. “I hope that’s all right.”

  “Oh, of course!” she gushed. “Mother might object, but I never would. A woman of the people, that’s me.”

  Jo met Laurie’s eyes. He looked amused, and at Harriet’s expense, since a Carmichael-Carlthorpe never was and never would be a woman of the people. Jo was reminded yet again that it was unlikely they’d see much of each other after this, and so she only had to endure Harriet’s snobbery for a few days. For Laurie, she would remember her manners.

  “Very republican of you,” said Laurie.

  Jo grinned. “Yes, the manners of the country must be rubbing off on yo
u. Next thing you know, you’ll be swimming in mud-holes like we used to.”

  “Laurie!” said Lady Hat. “You swam in mud-holes? With Miss March?”

  “In my defense, it was very hot that day.”

  “Scandal!” said Harriet, and took him by the arm. “I suppose I will have to civilize you, after all.”

  “If you can,” Brooke said. “I found that prospect rather difficult myself. Some people resist all efforts at civilizing.”

  “Perhaps you should have tried harder.” Harriet looked over Brooke coolly. Apparently there were still hard feelings, at least on Harriet’s side. Meg either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

  Then Harriet and her mother moved closer to the fire to get warm, and Jo leaned over to Laurie to whisper, “Who will be civilizing whom, I wonder?”

  “Jo. Behave yourself.”

  “I always do, Teddy. I’m not sure your fiancée realizes that. We lower classes do have some manners, after all.”

  “Please, Jo. If you just tried to get to know her, I’m sure you’d find she’s not . . . half-bad.”

  “Such high praise. No wonder you want to marry her. Or was it her . . . other attributes that attracted you?”

  “Other attributes? Mainly that she wasn’t you?”

  “Of course she isn’t me. Teddy, you’re better off without me. Surely now even you realize it.”

  “I do, Jo. You were right. We’ve both found where we belong.” He turned and looked at Harriet, who gave him a sly, private smile.

  We have, thought Jo. Finally, we both have.

  Even if it was not a place anyone would have expected.

  The guests arrived, and Laurie and Harriet greeted them with grace and enthusiasm. As the party went on, the guests laughed and danced and drank toasts to Laurie and Harriet. In the midst of them all, Jo smiled and laughed and danced with her best friend as if it were for the last time. Perhaps it would be.

  Tomorrow they would return home. Meg and Brooke would soon be married. And Jo would have her books, her writing, her family.

  It was all she ever wanted. That would be enough.

  It would have to be.

  30

  AN UNEXPECTED GUEST

  Back at Orchard House a few days later, Meg had removed her silk gown and put on a different one. She turned around and around in the silver House of Worth dress, trying to see the back for herself. “Bother!” she exclaimed. “I can’t get a good look at it.”

  Jo fetched a second hand-mirror from her own room and gave it to Meg. With one mirror in front and one behind, Meg was able, finally, to glimpse the back side of the most expensive, lavish garment that any March had ever owned and decide for herself if it was the one she’d wear to her wedding.

  Several long seconds passed while Meg stared critically at her own reflection. “I don’t know, Jo,” she groaned. “I just don’t feel comfortable being married in your dress.”

  Jo stamped her foot. “For the last time, it’s not my dress!”

  Once more, Jo thought how silly all this wedding business was. What difference did it make what dress she wore? Meg was beautiful in everything.

  “But Laurie had it made especially for you. It’s . . . personal.”

  “You didn’t think so when you wore it to the opera in Manhattan.”

  “That was different. I wasn’t getting married at the opera. It’s bad luck to be married in another woman’s dress!”

  “Ugh.” Jo flung herself down on the bed. “It’s not another woman’s. It’s yours. I gave it to you.”

  “And Laurie gave it to you.”

  “I’ve never even worn it. I’m sure I never shall,” she said. “My opera-going days are over, I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t say that. You don’t know what might happen yet.”

  “With you married and Laurie in England, how on earth would I manage to go to the opera? No,” she said, “it’s yours.”

  “Jo . . .”

  “Be reasonable, Meg. You don’t want to spend the little bit of money you’ve saved on a new dress when you already own the perfect dress. Even Sallie Gardiner did not have a wedding dress as fine as this one. You’ll be the envy of every girl in Concord.”

  Meg gave a great sigh. She was still not convinced. It was true that when her friend Sallie had married Ned Moffat a week before, she had worn a very lovely but very local dress. Not this Parisian confection.

  Jo said, “If you don’t wear it, it will only sit around collecting dust until Amy is old enough to wear it. It will get old and brittle, and possibly fall out of fashion. Why shouldn’t you wear it now? Be sensible.”

  In the little hand-mirror, Jo could see Meg’s face break into a small smile. She wanted to wear the dress. But first Jo had to convince her.

  Just then, through the crack of the door, Mama caught sight of them both. She put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Meg,” she said. “I only wish your father were here to see you.”

  Because of course they still had not heard from Father. No one wanted to say what they were all thinking: that if Father had not come to them during Amy’s illness, and no one had heard from him since, it was likely that something dreadful had happened. He might have been seriously injured, delirious in some faraway hospital.

  Or worse—he might already be dead.

  So Mama’s mention of him had them all in tears. Why was it, Jo wondered, that new beginnings were always so inextricably tied up with endings? Couldn’t they have the joy and celebrating without the sense of impending loss?

  Her sister.

  Laurie.

  It was all changing. From a vase by the window, she broke a small branch of primrose and tucked it into Meg’s hair. The white buds were like pearls against Meg’s dark hair, the only pearls they could afford.

  Tomorrow she would be a bride, and not Jo’s sister any longer. Or not only Jo’s sister. A wife and someday, probably, a mother.

  She looked at her sister in the Parisian finery. Don’t leave me, she wanted to cry. Don’t leave me alone, Meg. I can’t face the future without you.

  She had to, though. There was no other alternative.

  After the wedding, Meg would leave Orchard House forever.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE DINNER THE night before the wedding was a small affair, as the wedding itself would be the next day. As Brooke’s former employer, Mr. Laurence had invited the Marches, Mr. Brooke, and a few of their friends to his house in Concord for a chance to toast the newlyweds in private.

  Both the Laurences were there—no, three Laurences. Lady Hat, another bride-to-be, would be a Laurence by next summer. And Kate and Fred Vaughn, who had traveled from Boston with Laurie and Harriet. The four March women, plus Hannah, walked across the lane while Sallie Moffat, née Gardiner, brought her own new husband, Ned. And of course Mr. Brooke was there in a new suit of brown wool, looking a bit hot and uncomfortable at all the attention, in Jo’s opinion.

  Sallie gushed over Meg and whispered things that made Meg’s face go scarlet. It seemed to Jo that everyone in the world had been given a partner except her.

  You could have had one if you’d wanted one.

  There was nothing to be done. The decision made, the choice irrevocable. Meg would wed Brooke in the morning. In the summer, Harriet and Laurie would leave America for England. If Jo had second thoughts about any of it, it was already much too late. Besides, she still hadn’t finished her sequel, and had missed the Thanksgiving deadline.

  As he had in Boston, Mr. Laurence met the Marches at the door to welcome them. Always a gracious host, he had included Hannah as a part of the family. (“Mercy, I would be afraid t’ enter tha’ house!” she declared when the invitation arrived.) Still, she had put on her Sunday best and gone timidly with the Marches across the lane, trying to hide behind Amy to escape notice.

>   It didn’t work—Lady Hat looked shocked for a moment when she realized the Marches’ servant was coming inside, too. But after a second she rearranged her face and was as gracious as anyone else.

  They met in the drawing-room and chatted amiably until the servants called them in for dinner. Harriet sat on one side of Mr. Laurence and Laurie on the other, while Brooke sat at the other end of the table, Meg on his left side. Between the two poles of the dinner-table were gathered everyone in this world that Meg held dear, except Father. Except for Beth and Father, there was nothing more in the world she could ask for.

  It was Laurie, at Jo’s urging, who began the speeches. He stood and tapped his glass with his butter knife, drawing the room to attention. “Thank you all for coming,” he said. “As you know, I am very fond of old Brooke here, though I have done as much as I can to avoid admitting so publicly. I am very fond of the Marches as well, and can find no better occasion to say so.”

  “Hear, hear!” said Mr. Laurence, and there were nods and murmurs of agreement all around.

  Laurie went on. “I am pleased that my fondness has been so well placed, and that these two will finally stop torturing one another and all of us by declaring their love before the law.”

  A few laughs. Meg looked mortified; Jo guffawed.

  “But as you also know, I am not a wordsmith. Because we do have a wordsmith among us this evening, I believe she should begin the toasts. Jo, will you say a few words on our behalf to the happy couple?”

  Laurie’s eyes were twinkling; he was teasing her. But putting her on the spot like this, in front of everyone—unforgivable! How dare he?

  On the page, Jo could be witty, thoughtful, romantic. And if not, she could always revise and start over. In person, though, she was lucky to string two words together properly—and Laurie knew it.

  The guests were tapping their goblets for Jo. She rose reluctantly to her feet, staring daggers at Laurie. I’ll get you for this, Theodore Laurence.