She coughed. “Yes. All right. Let me think.”
They were all watching. Finally she cleared her throat. “I won’t say she ‘walks in beauty, like the night,’” Jo said, “because I’ve seen Meg first thing in the morning, Brooke. It’s not a pretty picture.”
“Jo!” That was Mama, chiding.
Laughter all around the table. But they were among friends, and no one would hold Jo’s impertinence against her here. Except perhaps Harriet, and Jo didn’t care a whit what Harriet thought.
She went on. “I will say that you could not ask for a better bride.”
Smiles now. She was winning them over.
“As Mr. Bennet said of Lizzy, I cannot believe that anyone would be deserving of our Meg, but we could not part with her to anyone less worthy than you, Mr. Brooke.”
She picked up her glass. The friends around the table did the same. “To the happy”—then a sudden noise, someone knocking at the front door—“couple.”
The room fell silent.
Mr. Laurence and Laurie looked at each other, around the table. No one else was expected, surely? Jo couldn’t imagine who could be coming over at such an hour, on such a night.
Voices in the hall. The servants, talking to the unexpected visitor. The visitor answering.
No one had the slightest clue who it could be.
In a moment the servant appeared, and behind him, a figure in a blue greatcoat, his head and beard gray. “I’m so sorry to interrupt—” he began, and was then himself interrupted.
“Father!”
“It’s Father!”
The March women were up out of their chairs then, racing around the table to fling themselves at a shocked and laughing Mr. March.
Father had come home.
“You made it!” Jo exclaimed, her eyes wet with tears.
“In the nick of time, it seems,” he said, and embraced them all.
31
NONE BUT THE LONELY HEART
Father hadn’t known that the wedding was to take place the next day. In fact, he hadn’t known about the wedding at all. It was only blind luck that he’d arrived at home after nearly a month of traveling, through all kinds of trials and dangers.
They settled him into a chair while the servants fetched him a good glass of brandy at Mr. Laurence’s request. He sat down gratefully, exclaiming over all of them, wet with their tears. Jo sat on one side of him and Meg on the other, while Amy sat on the floor at his feet, each of his girls clamoring to be near him.
When he could speak, he told them all he’d experienced recently, how, after receiving Mama’s letter, he had decided to come home during Amy’s illness. He’d written a letter to tell the family he was coming, that Amy should think of her father in her difficulty, that he would be home as soon as possible.
“We never got the letter,” Meg said.
“Hang the postal service!” said Jo.
“I can imagine you thought the worst had happened,” he said. “I was afraid of the same.” And he cupped Amy’s face in his big hands. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see that was not the case.”
“So are we, Father,” Amy said, and hugged his legs.
Little by little the story came out, how Father had left his position in Mississippi in mid-November, on foot, for what he’d heard was the nearest rail station that would take him to Washington, and from there he could go by rail up to Boston. But he’d been caught in some terrible weather, shrieking winds and rainstorms that went on for two days. The roads became impassable because of mud and fallen trees from the storm, so Father was forced to walk to Oxford, all the while afraid he would arrive home too late to see Amy one more time.
It was weeks before he arrived in Washington, dirty and hungry, but he kept going north as fast as he could, taking train to train to train, until he reached Boston and finally Concord, more than a month after receiving Mama’s letter.
“Christopher Columbus!” Jo declared on hearing all he had endured. “It’s a wonder you made it home at all.”
“It is,” said Father, pressing Mama’s hand to his heart. “I’m like Ulysses, coming home to Ithaca. But with a much happier outcome. I’m so glad I’ll be able to be here to see you wed, Meg.” To Brooke he said, “I couldn’t have chosen a finer young man for her myself.”
“Hear, hear!” said Mr. Laurence. They all toasted the happy couple again, this time with the entire family present.
Jo met Laurie’s eyes. How happy she was! It was possible she had never been happier and never would be again.
All evening, Jo watched her mother and father. Their heads together, whispering hellos. The tears in not just her mother’s eyes, but her father’s as well. It was clear how happy they both were to be reunited.
She would never understand their marriage.
When Jo came around a corner unexpectedly into the cloak-room, she found them embracing, her mother’s arms around her father’s neck. Her mother weeping while her father whispered into his wife’s ear in a soothing tone. Stroking her head. “It’s all right now, my love,” he whispered. “Everything will be all right.”
Jo backed out of the room quickly, so as to not be noticed. She wasn’t embarrassed, exactly—her parents had always been very affectionate with each other, at least when they were in the same town. But she was surprised. Mama was always so cool and collected, so unruffled by everything life threw at her.
With their father, Mama Abba was different.
To be fair, life had thrown quite a lot at her recently. Amy’s illness. Meg’s wedding. And the fear about what had kept Father from contacting them all those weeks. She had been shouldering quite a lot of worry. Now that Father was back, she was unburdening herself to him. Letting him comfort her as perhaps no one else could.
Because, as Jo was just realizing, that was what marriage was. The shouldering of each other’s burdens. The knowledge that you weren’t alone in the world with your cares, your fears. Your joys.
That was what Mama and Father shared, in whatever way they could, when they could. Whether or not anyone else could make sense of it.
Meg and Brooke, too—she could see it in their faces. Perhaps not everything, not yet. But that kind of understanding would come surely enough after the wedding. A home and children, a family, would bring them as close as Mother and Father were, in their own peculiar way.
Jo could see it in the way they tipped their heads together, the way they looked at each other with perfect understanding. Meg had chosen well for herself. The future Mrs. Brooke would be happy indeed—perhaps not the mother of twins, as Jo had written in her book, but a mother, surely.
Her children would love her every bit as much as Meg, Jo, and Amy loved Mama. Their “Marmee” in fiction and their beloved mother forever.
“Hullo, Cousin Jo.” It was Laurie, coming up with a very full cup of punch to hand to her. “Shall we have some music, and dancing? I can’t think of a better time for it.”
She took the cup and instantly managed to spill some on her dress, as usual. “Are you going to be the one to play?”
“Of course. Do you have any requests for me?”
“Play Tchaikovsky’s ‘None but the Lonely Heart.’ For old times’ sake.”
“For you, Jo? Anything.”
* * *
• • •
ACROSS THE ROOM, Harriet was watching them. Mr. and Mrs. March. John Brooke and Meg March. And Jo and Laurie, whispering with their heads together. She’d been watching them all night, through the meal, the toasts, the excitement of the unexpected guest.
Laurie could feel her still watching as he sat down at the piano. “Shall we have some dancing?” he asked, and began to play “None but the Lonely Heart,” as requested.
Meg laughed as Brooke twirled her around. Sallie and her new husband joined them. Fred Vaughn bowed to Jo, an
d the two of them joined the other couples. Laurie frowned to see it. Fred leaned down and whispered something to Jo, who turned positively scarlet, and laughed at whatever it was Fred had said.
Fred Vaughn and Jo! Laurie nearly stood up and put a stop to the whole thing right then and there. Not his dearest friend Jo March for the fickle, bullheaded Fred, who courted girls by the dozens. Even now, his previous conquest, Amelia Perkins, was crying into her pillow back on Beacon Hill. Lord only knew how many others there were, scattered around Boston and Cambridge and even London.
But now here was Fred turning Jo around and around in a dance. His hand on the small of her back, his other hand clasping Jo’s own. For a moment Laurie could picture Fred bending his head over Jo’s white throat, kissing her neck . . .
Plunk went the song. Everyone turned and looked. Laurie turned back to his music, keeping his eyes on his own hands.
There was no point in envy. Jo had refused him, hadn’t she? Once and for all.
Harriet, who had no partner since Laurie was playing, came over to stand beside the piano, watching the dancers. “Penny for your thoughts,” she said.
“Oh, well,” he said. “Just seeing how well everyone looks. How everything has worked out for the best.”
“Truly, Laurie?”
She was by far the most elegant woman in the room, but Laurie couldn’t help noting how unhappy she looked. “What’s the matter, old Hat?” said Laurie. “You seem oddly glum. That’s not like you.”
She was watching Brooke and Meg as much as Laurie was watching Fred and Jo. “Funny, I thought it wouldn’t bother me,” she said. “I never expected to lose him to Meg. But they seem well suited to each other.”
“Luckily you have gained such a splendid conquest in me.”
Harriet sat next to him on the piano bench. Laurie made room for her. “Have I? I wonder.”
Laurie still played, but he glanced over at her. “Is something the matter?”
Harriet joined in and turned the song into a pretty little duet, she playing the lower end and he the upper. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s seeing you here, at home in Concord. I feel like I don’t belong.”
She did not belong in the slightest, but Laurie would never have hurt her by saying so. She was entirely an outsider here, with the Marches and the Moffats and all the country folk. Only Laurie’s and Grandfather’s affection for her had brought her into this circle. But that’s the way it always went—you met one acquaintance through another, and your circle widened.
“You belong because I belong. You belong to me, and I to you.”
She made a little noise in the back of her throat. “That’s just it, though. I don’t think I do belong to you. Not really. Not like Jo does. All the Marches, really. But especially Jo.”
Laurie’s hands stilled, faltering a bit over the piano keys, while Harriet’s kept going. The dancers were looking their way—Jo and Fred, Brooke and Meg—with curiosity. They’d noticed the change in the tune.
He was getting the distinct impression Harriet was trying to tell him something. But not here, where everyone could hear them. Alone.
When the song was over and the dancers clapped their appreciation, Harriet got up and quietly excused herself to go outside for a little fresh air. Laurie followed her.
When they were quite sure they were alone, she said, “Let’s not make this a big scene, Laurie. Please.”
He took her by the elbow. “What are you saying, Hat? That you don’t want to marry me after all?”
“I think—no. No, I don’t want to marry you after all.” She threw up her hands. “Well, there it is, I suppose.”
Laurie could hardly believe what he was hearing. “But you seemed so pleased when I asked you! I don’t understand it. What has changed your mind?”
She smiled, but there was sadness in it. He could not ever remember a time when she had looked so serious, or spoken to him in such earnestness. She clearly meant every word. “I care for you a great deal. You know that. But it isn’t love, not really. Not like Meg and Brooke.”
“Meg and Brooke? That’s why you’re breaking our engagement?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I thought maybe he would still change his mind about Meg. I thought—well, it doesn’t matter. I was wrong, wasn’t I? They’re so happy.”
It was beginning to dawn on Laurie what she was saying.
That she had loved Brooke, not Laurie. That she had accepted him only because her first choice had been denied. Because when you couldn’t have what your heart most desired, what did it matter? After that, everyone else was just another someone to try to love.
Another wrong someone.
On that score, they were alike. Exactly alike, Laurie had to admit.
“Oh, Hat. I didn’t realize.”
“It’s fine,” she said. “I didn’t realize it myself until tonight. Not the whole of it. I thought I was just jealous that he didn’t love me in return, and that it would pass in time. But I think, perhaps, it was rather more than that.”
“Oh.”
“It’s better we find out now, isn’t it? Before we do anything irreversible. Besides,” Harriet said, “I saw the way you looked at Jo just now. You still love her. You may not want to love her any more than I want to love Brooke, but you do. You can’t help it.”
Laurie’s head was swirling. “But Jo refused me.”
“It doesn’t matter. I won’t marry someone who’s in love with another person. And neither should you. It’s . . . small. And ugly. And I think, despite all our faults, we are not yet that.” She gazed at him wistfully. “One hopes.”
Laurie sank down onto a bench. “We’re finished, then.” It was not a question.
“Positively wrecked.” Harriet sat down beside him. “But we’ll be all right. Our kind usually are.”
“Where will you go?”
“Back to New York with Fred and Kate, I suppose,” she said. “Fred Vaughn must have declared he was in love with me ten or fifteen times at the Perkinses’ dinner.”
“Did he?” This news should have bothered him, Laurie realized. But it didn’t.
“I’ve never lacked for suitors. If it’s not Fred Vaughn, it will be someone else.” She shrugged. “Probably someone my mother picks. You know . . . steel, oil, coal, finance . . . the odd lesser lord.” She laughed, sounding a bit more like herself again, if only for a moment. “What about you? You’ll be all right?”
“I think so.” Then, “Yes.” Laurie took the hand of his former betrothed and kissed it.
She looked at him fondly, then nodded and drew a deep breath. “It’s best if I leave first thing in the morning. You’ll tell your grandfather for me?”
“Of course.”
“I’m so sorry, Laurie. In a little while you’ll see it’s for the best.” With that, Harriet got up and disappeared into the house.
Laurie cradled his head in his hands and sat watching the dark street, the windows still lit up behind him, their guests still murmuring, laughing. Grandfather would be disappointed, but Laurie was not. He felt instead strangely resigned, as he supposed a condemned man on a pirate ship must feel walking the plank.
You may not want to love her any more than I want to love Brooke, but you do.
You can’t help it.
Was Harriet right?
He was still thinking about it when, not long after, the Marches emerged out the front door, leaving to return home. Mr. and Mrs. March. Meg and Jo. Amy and Hannah. Calling back their thanks to Grandfather for the hospitality.
As Laurie watched them cross the lane, the March women crowded around their husband and father, now restored. Content now that they were all together once more.
They would meet again at noon for the wedding, minus one.
By then, Harriet would be gone.
As Laurie watched them go, he f
elt the same wistful pull at his heart that he’d come to expect whenever he saw the March sisters together with their mother. A feeling of longing and belonging, all tied up together at once, in a way that somehow contradicted and completed itself. It didn’t seem real or even possible, but there it was, every time he saw the Marches.
What is it, the word for that?
But as soon as he wondered, he knew.
Home.
32
THE HOUR OF GETHSEMANE
Perhaps it was the return of Father, or perhaps it was the sight of Laurie following Harriet out onto the porch in the darkness. Whatever it was, Jo was awake all night.
She lay down and tried to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come. Her mind would not stop moving—over the things she’d seen and felt. Over the thought of her sister’s marriage, and her parents’. Laurie and Harriet. What it meant to be part of a family—not just a family that one was born into, but a family that one made for oneself. The people you loved and stood by, no matter what difficulties came your way.
Jo felt she understood it, even felt it now. She’d glimpsed the heart of things, the why behind every action, every decision.
The world opened itself up to her, and by extension, so did her book.
She went upstairs to the attic and lit the candles. She wrote all night, the words feverish in her mind.
There were the twins for Meg and Brooke, and Europe for a grown-up Amy, who went with fictional Aunt March to study painting. Father was home from war.
She sent herself away to New York to get away from Laurie’s increasing attentions, where she was governess to two little girls who lived in a boarding house.
And Laurie—Laurie proposed to Jo, and Jo refused.
The scene wrenched at her as nothing else in her life had done. The Jo of her novel was not any different from the real Jo. Temperamental. Obstinate, even reckless. And afraid. Afraid to give herself over to a man, any man, body and soul.
Afraid of change. Afraid of making the wrong choice. Because in life, there were no revisions.
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