“Do you ever regret that you came, when you lie here suffering?” I asked.
“Never, ma’am; I haven’t helped a great deal, but I’ve shown I was willing to give my life, and perhaps I’ve got to; but I don’t blame anybody, and if I was to do it over again, I’d do it. I’m a little sorry I wasn’t wounded in front; it looks cowardly to be hit in the back, but I obeyed orders, and it don’t matter in the end, I know.”
My heart near broke in two when he finally asked me the dreaded question.
“This is my first battle; do they think it’s going to be my last?”
I hated to answer, but I could not dishonor him with lies. “I’m afraid they do, John.”
After the surprise settled in, then did acceptance. “I’m not afraid, but it’s difficult to believe all at once. I’m so strong it don’t seem possible for such a little wound to kill me.”
At his request, I wrote George for him then. I knew of his love for you all when he gave George charge of you and your mother. I only wish your response had arrived in time.
The rest I have told completely in Sketches. He only made one cry before the first streaks of dawn ushered him into eternity. He never once loosened his grip on my hand, and in death, he lay serenely waiting for the dawn of that long day which knows no night.
Johanna, I pray this settles your mother, though I am not sure it will. I contend it is better to think on John’s life, rather than the circumstances surrounding his death.
Perhaps you would write them down and recall them—both you and your mother—and share them with me. I admit I am curious to know all there is to know of my prince of patients, this brave soldier who represents the honor for which we all should strive.
Send me your stories of John, and in doing so, we will both reflect on him better, I think, and do his memory the utmost honor.
This has been quite a long scribble, so I will leave you now, in anticipation of your next letter.
Respectfully yours,
Louisa May Alcott
February 18, 1865
Dear Louisa,
It is odd to sit and start a letter without a John story, as Mother and I have come to call them over these months of our correspondence. We truly have racked our brains trying to think of more, but I think they have all been exhausted and have done their duty in bestowing honor upon my brother. Thank you for allowing us to soften our grief in sharing a piece of him with you this past year. Stories most certainly seem to have healing powers, and I wonder if that is not why we are drawn to them?
How does it feel to have a novel published? I admit to being a tad envious of such a wonderful accomplishment and can’t wait to read Moods.
Mother improves with the warmer weather. George courts Mary Little, and I think there will soon be a wedding. I have had no serious suitor—oh, I know, I know . . . “liberty is a better husband than love,” but how can you be so sure if you have not known love? And while you have your writing which at least earns some, I have no means to support myself, save for a meager income with my sewing. A kind boy named Bryant persists in courting me, though I cannot seem to think of him as more than a friend. I do not mean to complain, but neither do I look forward to living beneath George and Mary’s roof. Is it so bad to want to break away? To find a place to belong that sings within my soul?
Enough of that. I am thankful for your friendship, Louisa. Even so, I realize you are busy, and so now that we have exhausted John’s stories, I wish to release you from any responsibility you feel toward our family, including these continued letters. Indeed, you have gone beyond what we could ask or imagine in your kindness.
I look forward to reading your novel.
Your friend,
Johanna
April 18, 1865
Dear Johanna,
I’ve been meaning to write but news of Lincoln’s death has rendered me melancholy for the last few days. I pray we can, as a country, cling to his message all the more. I pray we can indeed go forth “with malice toward none” and with “charity for all to bind up our nation’s wounds.”
It is odd to see such a strange and sudden change in our nation’s feelings, for we were only just enjoying a state of grand jollification over Richmond being taken. I was witness to the great procession in Boston. Colored men marched in it also, one walking arm in arm with a white gentleman, and I exulted thereafter.
On a lighter note, I am happy to report that I no longer wear a wig but appear on all occasions with a fine flowing crop. If shaving my head kept my fever at bay, then I am glad Marmee and Papa allowed it, but admit that losing all one and a half yards of my one beauty was quite a strike to my vanity. But never mind; it might have been my head, and a wig outside is better than a loss of wits inside, don’t you think?
You speak of “breaking away.” If it can be dutifully and wisely done, I think girls should see a little of the world, try their own powers, and keep well and cheerful, mind and body, because life has so much for us to learn and young people need change. Many ways are open now, and women can learn, be, and do much if they have the will and opportunity.
Change of scene is sometimes salvation for women who outgrow the place they are born in, and it is their duty to go away even if it is to harder work, for hungry minds prey on themselves and ladies suffer for escape from a too-pale or narrow life. That being said, I have a peculiar proposition for you if you wish to take flight from the nest.
Due to my nursing experience, I’ve been asked to accompany a young, ailing woman on a yearlong trip to Europe. While I am a bit hesitant, I cannot think to turn down such an offer. With May off to Boston for art classes and often vacationing upon Clarke’s Island, and Anna busy with her own brood, we are in need of some help over here at Apple Slump—ahem, I mean, Orchard House.
Mother can still manage but could use the help. Our little Portuguese girl, Maria, was ill last spring and has not returned to work since. We could pay you a fair sum to keep house, cook, and clean. Perhaps this does not seem a better opportunity than living in your brother’s home. If so, please dismiss it altogether. But if some part of you wishes to come to Concord, perhaps start building your own castles in the air, and you don’t think you will miss your mother and George altogether too much, perhaps you will accept this offer.
Write as soon as possible and I will send fare for your transportation if you are agreeable to this plan. It would be wonderful to meet you, as I’ve come to admire the woman I have known only through letters.
I plan to leave in July and would like to settle things well before my departure, if you find it suiting. The decision is yours. I only think it may be wise to try out your liberty before you try out love.
Yours,
Louisa
CHAPTER SIX
Whatever we can do and do well we have a right to, and I don’t think any one will deny us.
~ LMA
Johanna
CONCORD, MASSACHUSETTS
JUNE 1865
I grasped the handle of my tattered valise in one hand and pulled my hat onto my head against a gust of New England wind with the other. As I descended the train’s platform, I looked for Louisa, though I hadn’t the slightest idea of her appearance.
Stepping away from the platform, I rested my valise on the ground and inhaled the earthy scent of horse mixed with that of the coal burning aboard the train. I felt for Mother’s ring hanging at my neck. John’s ring. I allowed my thoughts to settle on my brother. In his last letter, he’d given me and Mother over to George’s care. What would he think of me traveling so far from home? Of my search for . . . what? Adventure? Experiences? Somewhere to set this passion for words free from a place outside myself?
For the millionth time I wondered about the lady who had cared for my brother in his last days. The lady who, by all accounts, seemed to love my brother and to some extent, he her. The enigma of a lady who claimed that liberty was better than love.
“Johanna?”
I dropped my hand fr
om my neck, twisted to see a tall, rather aged-looking woman. I tried to hide my disappointment. Though I knew Louisa was older than me, I couldn’t help but imagine a beautiful vision in a nursing uniform beside my brother. And while I knew her head had been shaved in a desperate attempt to keep her fever down whilst she suffered the typhoid, I’d expected . . . something different. The tall woman before me with snapping gray eyes seemed more aging aunt than sweet friend.
I tried to recover quickly, though the pinched expression on Louisa’s face suggested I failed. “Louisa—” I held out my hand—“it’s so good to be with you.”
And it was. My fanciful expectations were not important. This woman offered me an avenue out of my poor farming life. She offered so much more. Imagine—Massachusetts! And Concord at that. The very place where literature and education and writing came alive. I thought of the papers in my valise, tucked carefully between petticoats and corsets, of the many scribbles of poems written upon them. Poems born of a place deep within me that longed for release. Could anything come of them here in Concord?
Louisa’s expression softened, and I glimpsed eyes alive with fire—with the very spirit I saw in her letters. “I am glad you’ve come, Johanna. Here, I have a carriage waiting.”
She introduced the driver of the carriage as John, her older sister’s husband. He packed away my valise and we climbed into the carriage.
Once we were settled, John lightly tapped the horses’ withers and we pulled away.
“We are not far from here. How were your travels?”
“Quite well, though I admit I felt a bit anxious without an escort.”
Louisa smiled, and I noted the lines around her mouth and at her eyes. “You did well.” We were quiet a moment before she spoke again. “I am not what you expected.”
I floundered for words but came up short.
“The typhoid aged me in ways I did not expect. I went to Washington a topsy-turvy young girl. In many ways, I woke from the fever an old woman. I may not have gone to war as a soldier, but perhaps I’ve done a soldier’s battle. And I don’t regret a minute of it. I’m thirty-two—not so very old, but my body doesn’t seem to remember what my mind feels.”
“I hid my surprise poorly. Forgive me. I did think you closer to John’s age.”
She smiled. “They didn’t allow nurses younger than thirty to serve. I had to be well into spinsterhood in order to qualify.” She patted my arm. “But you needn’t worry yourself. I remember after I saw Fredrika Bremer, whose books I loved, I was so upset that my sister Nan and I went into the closet and cried though we were great girls of sixteen and eighteen.”
I couldn’t help but smile, already seeing past her aging face to her spirit within. I placed my hand on her arm. “I can’t imagine all you’ve been through. Ultimately, it’s strength of character that counts, and you have no short supply of that.”
She studied me a moment, rested her hand on my own. “I think we are to be good friends.”
I nodded. “I hope so.” I squeezed her fingers once before pulling away. I couldn’t help contemplating that this was the same hand that last knew my brother’s. Dear John, who used to lift me upon his tall shoulders so I might scurry up into the loft when I was a girl. Dear John, who always encouraged me when I shared my poems with him. I gave a sidelong glance to Louisa. I had never told her I loved to write. I didn’t want her thinking I wished anything from her except friendship and employment. And yet I couldn’t help but wonder in coming to this quaint town, so close to Boston, if cultivating a relationship with a real author like Louisa could open doors for me that wouldn’t have been possible in Pennsylvania.
I thought of the family farm, the small church we attended each Sunday, Bryant ever faithful in the left pew closest to the window. He’d been upset when I’d left, but the thought of going through another harvest season instead of exploring what the North had for me left my legs shaky and my middle trembling and desperate. I’d never encouraged him, had no reason to feel guilt at going away. In fact, I felt if I didn’t leave, Pennsylvania itself would strangle me. I longed to be free of it all at the same time that I longed to find the place I belonged.
Now I gazed with hunger at the bustle of the main thoroughfare as we passed through the center of town. Reynolds’s apothecary, Holden’s grocery, a boardinghouse, and a plethora of other businesses. A new hope bubbled up within me, warm and pleasant and full of anticipation.
“It is not much now, but when it gets stirred up, Concord can be quite a sight to behold. You will love the festivities held on the Fourth—the children make the streets hideous with distracted drums and fifes. Everyone wears cockades wherever one can be stuck, flags flap overhead like colored birds of prey, and everything in heaven and earth seems to be consigned to red, white, and blue.”
“It sounds marvelous.” I inhaled the stuffy air of the carriage as if I could experience what she spoke of merely by breathing the words still lingering in the air. “I am beyond thrilled to be here. Oh, and I must say, I gobbled up Moods.”
She raised an eyebrow at me. “Did you truly?”
I couldn’t meet her gaze, though I hadn’t lied when I said gobbled. I’d read it in one sitting. “Absolutely.”
“And what did you think?”
I couldn’t begin our friendship with untruths. “It was interesting.”
“Interesting how?”
We’d only just met. Need she pinion me with such questions? Perhaps I shouldn’t have initiated the topic anyhow.
“Interesting in that it’s bold, unlike anything I’ve ever read before.”
She leaned back in her seat. “But that is not a good thing.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“The reviews have been coming in for a couple months now. They are not all wonderful.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“I bent a lot for the sake of my publisher. I believe the real message of the story was lost as I attempted to free my mind upon a subject that always makes trouble—love, of course. What did you not like about it?”
“Are all New England women as direct as you?”
She laughed, and the act took at least five years off her features. “Most certainly not. May’s always reminding me to be more tactful. Perhaps we can have this conversation another time?”
“Yes, at least let me unpack my valise before you start drawing criticism from me, else I’m afraid you’ll have your brother-in-law turn this carriage around and send me on a train south once more.”
We laughed together, and it relieved some of the tension in the air. “Agreed. Now tell me in more detail why you agreed to my proposition. I was under the impression you were quite fond of your brother George. Is it his wife who rankles you?”
It seemed I could not escape her direct manner no matter the topic. I stared out the window as the quaint town dissolved into a lush forest of trees. When I spoke, I didn’t look at her and my words were quiet. “Have you ever felt there’s something . . . missing?”
I expected her to ask me to elaborate, but instead I heard a long, drawn-out, and very unladylike sigh. “Yes. Though I’m not certain you will find it cooking and cleaning at Apple Slump.”
I let a soft smile form on my mouth, for I was quite sure she was wrong. “Perhaps Europe will be your adventure, Louisa, and perhaps Orchard House and Concord will be mine.”
I stomped the dust of my boots on the front stoop before following Louisa into the place she affectionately—or perhaps not so affectionately—called “Apple Slump.”
Compared to the small, but well-lived and well-loved farmhouse I grew up in, Orchard House was grand. Just off the main road where the Revolutionary rebels chased away the King’s army, the brown, gabled house sat proudly nestled at the foot of a steep hill, a massive chimney crowning its center, fruit trees, overshadowing elms, and a happy garden beyond. To me, it seemed quite large for only three people, though I found some relief in the fact that there must definitely be
enough room for me.
We entered the foyer and I doffed my bonnet, hanging it alongside Louisa’s on a hook on the wall.
“Mother can no longer do all she once did. We are looking for help with the laundry, the cooking, and the cleaning. The only other task that is dear to Mother’s heart is the feeding of the vagrants.”
“The vagrants?”
“The poor wanderers who are often pointed in our direction. We never turn anyone away.” She stopped short at the base of the stairs. “I never mentioned that. I didn’t think it a problem . . . is it?”
“No—no, of course not. We fed many of the injured soldiers traveling through our town.”
I followed her into the parlor, a quaint room with plentiful windows and a shelf of books.
Louisa’s mouth tightened. “The war left behind a path of destruction for many of us. It may be over, but there is much unfinished business—not only in the country but in our minds and hearts as well.”
I nodded, acknowledging the pull within me to be a part of it all—the repairing of our country, the serving of others. If I could do it in ways that used my mind, rather than just my hands, all the better.
“We will have much time before I leave. I do hope we can talk more. My sisters and I used to . . .” She shook her head. “Never mind.”
“Anna is still close by, is she not?” I knew from Louisa’s letters that she had two sisters.
“Anna is in Concord and often takes meals here during the week while John is at work in Boston. But she has her hands full with two small boys and keeping her own home. As I mentioned in my letters, May is in Boston taking art classes. Anna and I miss her but think it well she is pursuing her talent and passion.”
We walked into the dining room and my gaze fell to the small piano and the portrait above it.
As always, Louisa didn’t miss my glance. “Do you play?”
“Yes. When I have the time.”
Louisa reached out her hand and straightened the oval sketch of a young girl above the piano. “I suppose that will suit, though I must check with Marmee first.” She swallowed, and for the first time I noticed a foreign vulnerability pass over her. She ran her fingers over the wood of the piano. “This was Elizabeth’s, my sister. She never lived here but we brought the piano. She died eight years ago.”
The Orchard House Page 6
