I nodded, and he bent to kiss me softly upon the cheek. When he held my hands, this time I did not pull away. “I want to make up for my poor behavior by taking you to Boston for the day. On your next day off, perhaps?”
I agreed, and when a box of beautiful new dishes arrived the next week to replace Mrs. Alcott’s broken one, I felt Nathan had proved his sincerity above and beyond what I could ask of him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I honor marriage so highly that I long to see it what it should be—life’s best lesson, not its heaviest cross.
~ LMA
Johanna
“SHE’S HERE!” Louisa’s sister May, normally poised and graceful, flew wildly about the lawn as I stood with Anna and her two boys at the gate. Little John pressed my hand, apparently anxious over the commotion. From behind, I heard a stifled sob from Mrs. Alcott.
I forced my lips together, noticed Louisa’s beloved “Marmee” anew. She would no doubt look different to Louisa since she had last seen her a year earlier. Pale, weak, often withdrawn and sad. Her back was bowed, as if she’d finally stooped under the weight of all her hard work and good deeds. Selfishly I hoped Louisa wouldn’t blame me for her mother’s failing health. When it came to her mother, my friend could be quite protective.
I hung back as she alighted from the carriage with Mr. Alcott, allowing her family to swarm around her, bestowing hugs and kisses in unabashed affection. The tender scene was enough to make my own eyes smart as I thought of my family and how it had been over a year since I’d seen them. I grabbed for John’s ring at my neck and smoothed the metal beneath my thumb.
George and Mary were expecting a wee one next month, and Mother seemed in her glory. More than once, she hinted in her letters that Bryant was still a bachelor in need of a respectable wife.
It was her way of saying she missed me, I knew, but it was not the bait to see me home. Especially now that Nathan occupied so much of my time.
Louisa stooped to plant a kiss on little John’s cheek and then straightened and held her arms out to me. She looked wonderful—much healthier than when she departed—and I wondered if it had been all the spas she went to or her time with Laddie that had something to do with her improved constitution. We embraced, and for just a moment I felt I belonged, that I was a sister to this woman, a child of this family.
It only lasted a moment, and then it was gone, as fleeting as a summer shower. But it left a fresh gentleness to it, which I chose to pocket for another time.
What was it about this family that drew me? They were like nothing I grew up with, and yet their deep beliefs—how they felt and acted upon those beliefs—called to me. I followed them all into the house, a foreign heaviness sitting upon my chest. What might happen to me now that I was no longer needed at Orchard House?
When Nathan came to fetch me later for an evening carriage ride, I withdrew myself from the merry conversation in the parlor with some bittersweet feelings. Louisa sat in a chair, describing Europe with all the skill of the accomplished writer she was, successfully holding us spellbound. When Nathan knocked, I went to the door and invited him in, certain the Alcotts wouldn’t mind.
But his face was shadowed in storms, and I knew at once that he had had a trying day and wished to be alone with me.
I tried not to show my disappointment. I enjoyed being with Nathan immensely. He hadn’t faced the grumps in some time, particularly now that the warm weather was upon us. But the laughter and chatter of the family within called to me as well.
“I was hoping to catch the sunset at Walden Pond with you,” he said, and I could not turn down such an offer of romance.
So I excused myself to the family, allowing their pleasant chatter and the scents of strawberry rhubarb pie to follow me as I grabbed my shawl and walked up the path to Nathan’s now-familiar shay.
He tapped his mare a bit harder than necessary, and the shay jolted down the drive. I placed a tentative hand on his arm, felt the muscles clench beneath, and drew my fingers away, remembering the mood of his I witnessed last January.
True to his word, he had been a perfect angel since. Jolly, even. At least in my presence. I admired his resolution to keep away from his drink and to win my heart. Still, rebuilding trust took time. That moment when he pushed me in his study, though forgiven, would not be so easily forgotten, it seemed.
It wasn’t until now, in his one-horse shay, as he tapped his jumpy mare, prodding her to go faster, that I recalled that Nathan hadn’t exactly promised he’d never take another drink. I wondered if he did when in Boston. Even so, I was not his keeper. As long as he never treated me in such a poor manner again . . .
“What troubles you?” I asked.
He hunched over, gripping the reins, his expression a surly one. “Uncle and I are in disagreement, and he refuses to hear me out.”
“Whatever over?”
“I feel Merry’s Museum is better suited to be a girls’ magazine. I proposed a new boys’ publication opposite of it—one with me as editor.”
“Sounds like a brilliant plan to me.”
His posture relaxed then, and I could see how he desperately needed someone on his side. He needed me on his side. I didn’t know much of his parents, except that they had died when he was young. I wondered if he had not flung himself into the world and beneath his uncle’s protection, racing toward success but missing the acceptance and love that a healthy family could bring.
In many ways, I longed to fix this. To rescue him, even. Maybe to rescue the both of us. Silly, perhaps, to think that I, a small girl of nineteen, could rescue a grown man, but I felt my love might just be enough to save him. Why couldn’t it be done? One might think Nathan Bancroft had all the world could offer, and yet I suspected that very deep, he didn’t possess some of the most important aspects of life—family, unconditional love, faith.
I wanted to help him. I wanted us to grow. Together.
“Uncle did not think it such a brilliant plan.”
“Would it not broaden your readership—to have two magazines geared to two different audiences?”
I saw him relax again, was grateful I could have such an effect upon him. “Uncle does not think we can afford the start-up costs for it yet. I believe we cannot afford not to do it.” He sighed. “In the end, it is his company.”
“That bothers you.”
He shrugged. “Nevertheless, it is the way of things.”
“What if you were to start your own publishing company?”
He looked at me with something like a half-frozen grin. “You’re serious?”
“Maybe not right away, but eventually. I don’t see why not. You know the trade. You are a good businessman, and you are willing to try new ideas.” I couldn’t help but think that maybe, if our future stayed this course, I might help him. Imagine . . . a life filled with both a man I loved and our shared passion for words. I couldn’t imagine anything more worthwhile, more exciting.
I thought of the poem I’d recently finished, tucked away in May’s room at the Alcott home. Many times I’d brought it down to show Nathan, but it never seemed the right time. He, distracted by work or so tired of it that he didn’t wish to speak of it at all.
Soon, though . . . soon I would show it to him.
He looked ahead, occupied with his own thoughts, pensive, no longer concerned that his mare had slowed to a more comfortable pace. “I owe everything I have to Uncle. He is the only family I have. I cannot leave him.”
“I understand.” Though I didn’t mean that he should abandon his uncle suddenly. Only that he should not be chained to something that kept him from his dreams.
We reached Walden Pond and he tied the mare and helped me down. The sun hovered above the horizon and the earthy scent of sand and pine wound around me. It was good that I’d come. Nathan had need of me, and I felt a help, which suited me greatly. Not to mention the night proved beautiful. Perfect, even.
We walked a bit, and when we reached a grove of pine trees
tucked out of the way, Nathan turned to me, presenting a glittering ring in his hand. I gasped, backed away a step.
He gazed softly at the shining adornment. “I’ve been carrying this around in my pocket for some time now, knowing I was going to ask you and yet not certain I’d ever work up the courage to do it.” He planted one knee on a patch of dried pine needles. “Johanna, my life has taken on a new color since you first lost your laundry in my drive.” He smiled, revealing the dimple on his cheek that I hadn’t seen in too long. I loved that it was there now, for me. “I know you have nothing of worldly means, and still I find you have everything I want. I would love for us to continue coloring one another’s worlds. Together. Will you be my wife, dearest?”
My stomach trembled. Though I’d hoped for a proposal sometime in the future, I hadn’t expected it quite so soon. But why not? We loved one another, had shared this past year together, both the good and the bad. Now that Louisa had returned from her trip, I would no longer be needed. And I knew that Mr. and Mrs. Alcott had borrowed money whilst Louisa was away. They could not afford to keep me on, and I could not stay unpaid.
The family was dear to me, yet what of my future? One where I had my own family? I thought of sweet John, gone at such a terrible young age. Life was indeed too short. I must seize it when it presented itself. And here, with Nathan on one knee holding a glittering promise of our future, it appeared it had. He wanted me. I would really and truly belong to someone. We could begin our own life, together.
“Yes,” I said on the end of a breath.
He stood. “Yes?”
“Yes, you silly man!”
He slipped the ring onto my finger and kissed me so wonderfully I felt as if I were in a Brontë novel. I melted into him—his arms, his mouth, his desire, for it stirred a foreign one within me, and as it deepened, I’d never felt so content, so sure of the path set before me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
In everyone’s life there comes a waking-up time and it’s well for them if it comes at the beginning and not at the end when it is too late to mend the past.
~ LMA
Taylor
“KNOCK, KNOCK.”
I looked up from my laptop, tore myself away from the story that had suddenly captivated me, to see Victoria with her brown paper lunch bag.
Three days had passed since I spoke to Luke. Since I opened that new Word document and explored characters that were maybe a little too close to me and Victoria. Since the story came alive with its Concord setting. The words were coming—most of them born of my own experience. For once, I dove into the hurt. Looking for answers, searching for healing, even. Funny thing was, I didn’t think the story was half-bad. Maybe even one of the better ones I’d written.
My problem was getting consumed in it. Yes, I had a deadline to make, but my priority was Mom. She was tired this week and seemed to be happy I spent time with Victoria—in some capacity, at least. But the story was threatening to take me away. I had to remind myself constantly that this was not real life—it was my career, it was important, but it wasn’t the most important.
Right now, Mom was. Maybe even my time with the Bennetts as a whole.
I’d never had this problem—real life competing with my stories. Probably because I didn’t have much real in my life.
“Hey,” I said to Victoria as I reached for my lunch bag. She’d made this a habit so far this week—eating lunch together in Bronson Alcott’s school. We’d kept it to small talk mostly—chatting about the kids or how Mom was feeling or plans for dinner that night. Surface stuff, which was fine by me.
I was saving the nitty-gritty for my story.
“How’s it coming?”
“It’s coming.”
She sat on one of the hard chairs, opened her lunch bag, and pulled out a sandwich. The light scent of tuna filled the space between us. “You’re doing an amazing job teaching the kids. And while Maddie might be the last to admit it, I can tell she’s getting a lot out of what you have to say.”
“It’s . . . nice. Being here, pouring a little bit into them.”
“Seems like we were just in their shoes, doesn’t it?”
“Sometimes it feels like yesterday. Other times it’s like a lifetime ago.”
She stared at the wooden boards at her feet, tuna sandwich still untouched in her hand. “I know what you mean.”
I would miss this. Teaching, being here, maybe even eating lunch with Victoria. It was Thursday. We hadn’t spoken about what would happen after the week was out. Mom had chemo treatments next week. I thought about offering to take her, to stay on another week, but I hadn’t worked up the courage yet.
I popped the lid off my salad, poured dressing onto the green leaves. Silence hung between us, and I felt a new—or maybe old—heaviness. It was that barricade again, the thing that kept us from reconciling.
“How come you stopped writing?” I whispered the words, even as I regretted them once they were between us.
She lifted her gaze to mine. “Do you really want to know?”
No. No, I supposed I didn’t. But I couldn’t take it back now. “I—I don’t know. Do I?”
She laughed, but it wasn’t an amused laugh; it was a bitter sort of laugh. I definitely shouldn’t have asked.
“I stopped writing after you left.” She let the sentence hang there, and though I felt she wanted me to ask more in order to draw it out from her, I refused. Was it my fault she stopped writing?
She bit into her sandwich, chewed slowly, and swallowed. “At first, I thought it was temporary. I thought after I got over the laptop thing—I never did back up those stories—that I’d write again.”
There it was. All those years ago, I’d wanted to hurt her. And I had. I’d known she didn’t back up her stories. At the time, I’d been counting on it.
Even now I owed her an apology. She’d apologized for her part in our separation. Now it was my turn.
Only her apology didn’t seem to be enough, and I doubted mine would be, either.
“But you didn’t? Write again, I mean?” I asked.
She shook her head. “A few months went by, then six. We didn’t hear from you. You didn’t answer our calls. Will had enlisted, was gone for a year. One day on leave he showed up at our doorstep. He was a wreck. Iraq really messed with him. He was hoping you’d come home, but you hadn’t. He found me instead.”
Was I the reason Will had enlisted? I wondered how something like war could change a person, how it changed him.
Victoria blew out a long breath. “We started writing to each other. A lot. After his tour he started coming around more. In many ways, we grieved together.”
“How sweet,” I ground out. I could put up with a lot of things, but her trying to convince me that she and Will fell in love because of some tragic twist over my departure . . . I wasn’t buying it.
“You’re right.” She put down her sandwich. “It wasn’t sweet. It stunk big-time. You have no idea how guilty I felt—how guilty both of us felt. It was one minute of weakness, one minute of wrong that I wished over and over I could have taken back, and it cost us all.”
The information felt like overload. All this time, I’d wondered if they’d been sneaking around behind my back. I wondered if I’d been completely blind. To know that their betrayal had been a onetime—maybe even a one-minute—thing didn’t exactly make me feel better, but it did put things in perspective.
“I guess . . . I mean, it was just a shock, you know?”
My statement felt petty at this point. Will and Victoria were married, had been through and weathered ten times as much as Will and I had during our short dating period. It wasn’t so much that Victoria stole my boyfriend; it was that the two people I cared about most in the world had stabbed me in the most painful possible way—in the back, when I hadn’t seen it coming.
“It was my fault.” She stood, paced to the far window facing Lexington Road, and looked through the glass as if seeing that long-ago day. “I’d ju
st gotten home from class. I should have been on top of the world, but I felt . . . lonely.” She sucked in a gulp of air. “You’d been distant since you started dating Will, but you seemed so happy—like he gave you something that me and Mom and Dad couldn’t, no matter how much we tried, no matter how much we showed our love.”
I let her vulnerable words sink in even as I wanted to stop up her mouth and keep them from pouring forth. But I knew what she said was true. The Bennetts had given me the world, and yet deep down I never felt as if I belonged. Then, after Mom started pulling away, clearly relegating me to second place in order to spare her real daughter’s feelings . . . well, I’d pulled away even more. It had seemed like our makeshift happy family simply wasn’t meant to be.
At least that’s what I thought.
“I knew you were going to leave. You were going to go off and get married and have kids and I would probably have a great career, but that’s it. A career.” She turned to me. “I was jealous of you, Taylor. Crazy jealous of how you had been dealt the worst circumstances but came out on top. You had a story, an interesting one with what seemed like the perfect Hallmark ending. And all I had were my castles.”
I licked my lips, didn’t want to break the spell by talking. My sister, jealous of me? How crazy was that?
“I got home that day, sat near the garage, and just cried. I don’t know, maybe I was PMSing or something, but I couldn’t get myself together. I didn’t even see Will pull up. You know him—of course he was concerned, thought something was really wrong.” She brushed her hair out of her face, shook her head. “I shouldn’t have poured my heart out to him. It sounded like such a sob story even to me, probably sounded like I was looking for attention. I guess I kind of was. Will . . . he reassured me that my future looked bright, that I was your best friend, all that; then . . . he hugged me. I’m sorry, Taylor. I swear it was innocent, but I should have stopped it there.
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