The Orchard House

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  The words ignited something in my spirit.

  Cora, too, was spellbound as Bryant told of Peter coming out of the boat to walk on the water to Jesus, how he began to sink, but how Jesus caught him up with His own strong hand.

  After Cora ran off with her boat, Bryant held out his hand to me, and I took it. We did not say much, but I felt the promise of something new. Something full of hope.

  I think perhaps that I have been looking all these years for something that was not so far away. And no, I do not mean Bryant, for he too will no doubt eventually fail in his own way.

  I am talking about a bigger place to belong—in the arms of One who not only tells me not to fear, but who, in the midst of my failures, has loved me and given me a worth beyond measure. In this, I find both liberty and home—two things I once thought opposites but I now see are not so very different.

  I wrote a poem about this, titled “Trust.” I am sending it to you along with the others I have written since Nathan’s death. I send them because a part of me wants to share them, and a part of me wishes never to see them again. Hide them away if you will, for I feel it fitting they be buried somewhere in Concord.

  I am ready to begin anew, to put the past to rest. These poems are a thank-you for your friendship, Louisa, dear. I am unsure I would have been able to get through these years without you.

  I know you are not one for traditional religion, but I found a verse that I wish I had known long ago. Perhaps then I would have recognized that what Nathan had for me was not real love. But you, dear Louisa, always seeking charity, have met every one of these standards. Thank you, my friend, for loving me always.

  Your loving friend,

  Johanna

  Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up,

  Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil;

  Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth;

  Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.

  Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away.

  I finished the letter, knowing what had spoken to Victoria was the verse at the end. But for me, I couldn’t get past another one of Johanna’s sentences.

  Something stirred in my chest then, and it wasn’t intimidating this time. It was foreign and yet undeniable. Beckoning and drawing me with magnetic force.

  “I am talking about a bigger place to belong—in the arms of One who not only tells me not to fear, but who, in the midst of my failures, has loved me and given me a worth beyond measure. In this, I find both liberty and home—two things I once thought opposites but I now see are not so very different.”

  The words swirled in my heart.

  What if they were true? What if I belonged because I was loved? What if that same hand that was being held out to Peter was being held out to me? Telling me not to be afraid. Telling me that while I might struggle with my shortcomings forever, there was One who was greater who had made up for them all long ago?

  The prospect caused my chest to become light. Free. And suddenly I understood completely what Johanna had written.

  Victoria and I met one another’s gazes over the old letter. “I—this is amazing,” I whispered. For once I was at a loss for words. Had to let this revelation marinate within me before voicing it out loud.

  “Right?” Victoria sighed. “I knew what Will was doing wasn’t love, you know? Even so, it was only that last time, when these words defining charity—defining love—were fresh in my mind, that a clearing came over my brain.”

  I nodded, didn’t want to interrupt for fear I would discourage her from speaking.

  “I used to write letters to Louisa, looking for help, for answers. But I’ve been thinking, maybe all along another hand was being held out to me.” She brushed her hair out of her face. “I wasn’t a perfect wife or even one of the best. I’m realizing how I fall short in so many ways. And I’m learning to embrace that weakness. To take the hand that God’s offering me.”

  I grabbed her arm. “Yes. That’s—that’s exactly what I feel she’s trying to say.” Like this wasn’t the end of our story. The one I was writing. Mine. Victoria’s.

  I thought of that long-ago entry Louisa had written as a girl, the one she related to at age fifty, the one that touched my heart, the one about her not being able to do all the good she vowed to do, the one condemning herself as “bad.”

  “Be of good cheer; it is I; be not afraid.”

  “It is I.”

  As if the presence were enough of a reason not to fear the future. Enough of a reason not to wallow in my inadequacy.

  As if freedom wasn’t found in how well I could go it alone or even how well I climbed the stairs to the lofty castles I’d built in my mind, but rather how willing I was to grab the hand offered me.

  “I think I understand,” I whispered. Though I wasn’t sure if I was ready to take the plunge, I couldn’t deny the pull of it. And for the first time, I was willing to explore it with Victoria, my best friend. Explore it with my family.

  Victoria smiled, and she looked prettier and lighter than she had in a long time. “Thank you, Taylor. In a lot of ways, you’ve been like a Louisa to me these last several weeks.” She looked out into the front yard, to the street. “You know, there’s a lot of women out there like me. And I want to help them. Maybe starting with that story.”

  I sat up, an idea suddenly coming to me. “That’s it . . . I’ve been stuck for days, but that’s the missing piece. Our story. But your story too, Victoria.” I opened my laptop.

  All those years ago up in the garage, Victoria had prodded me to write my story. Write my story and make something good come out of it.

  Only I never knew how. Until now. Until my story became our story. Until I entertained the thought of handing it all over to another author. The Author of Life. He was still writing the words, spinning our story. And this time I was certain that good would come from it.

  EPILOGUE

  When one cannot go away, one can travel in spirit by means of books.

  ~ LMA

  EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER

  I looked out over the crowd beneath the tent at Orchard House, all here for the launch of my newest book. Victoria’s and mine. A book about women helping women. A book that celebrated the Alcotts and the independence of humankind but also a book that celebrated real love and family and the blessings a marriage of teamwork could bring. A portion of the proceeds would go directly to helping women who had been in Victoria’s position.

  Mom stood with Dad off to the side, the hair she’d lost growing back in a lovely bob of silver, her scans taken three weeks ago clear. Luke stood beside them smiling at me. I squeezed my left fingers together, felt the newness of the engagement ring there. It felt right. Perfect, even. We’d be married in three months. The Bennetts—my family—would be alongside us when we said vows under a covenant of faith, one in which we sought to live out love for not only each other, but for God, who gave us to each other. In many ways, at the age of thirty-eight, I felt my life was just beginning.

  I stepped up to the lectern, thanked the crowd for coming and Orchard House for providing the venue. “I grew up right down the street. When I was thirteen, I had the absolute blessing of being adopted into a beautiful family, but I was often filled with doubts about their love. Doubts about my worth. I ran away from them at the age of twenty-one, but I couldn’t run away from the part of my heart they already had. I realized then the depth and complexities of love. How doubt can destroy, but love can give life.”

  Victoria came beside me, launched into her own story of being helped through a difficult time in her life by reuniting with me, by discovering Johanna’s story.

  “We all know the Alcotts were huge proponents of women’s rights and even the inde
pendence of women. But it didn’t end there, and it wasn’t just about women. They fought tirelessly for abolition, hiding runaway slaves in their own home many times. They helped the poor, they put action to their beliefs, they didn’t just fight for women—they fought for humankind. For the oppressed. For the underdog. It’s what Taylor and I seek to do today. To continue the mission of the Alcotts and work to give awareness through the power of a story.”

  The crowd clapped, and I caught Maddie and Caden cheering heartily beside Mom. It hadn’t been easy for them to go through any of this. Victoria had decided to not go public with all the details of her story in order to protect the kids and her privacy. They were still sorting through what it meant to be separated but still a family. Will continued counseling and seemed to be committed to change. And while he and Victoria spent time together, my sister was determined to remain cautious and take things slow when it came to the idea of possibly healing her marriage.

  It wasn’t always easy. Sometimes the kids resented the entire separation; sometimes they resented their father; sometimes they resented the time Victoria took to work on the book. But right now they were cheering.

  I hoped this novel would be the beginning of something good for all of us.

  I looked up to the sky, wondered if Louisa would have ever imagined this castle in the air—crowds gathering to honor her at “Apple Slump,” crowds commemorating causes that were dear to her own heart.

  I reached out a hand to Victoria and she slipped her cool one into mine. God had indeed cast out our fears and brought us to a new place. A place we could call home. A place where we didn’t have to question our worth. A place where we put the pen in His hands and allowed Him to be the One to write our stories.

  I was sure they would be some of the best yet.

  Historical Note

  IT’S BEEN MORE THAN 150 YEARS since the publication of Little Women, and our culture continues to be fascinated by this seemingly simple domestic tale. In many ways, its message is revolutionary. And in many ways, it is as old as time, calling each of us to our own good works and independence, calling each of us to love one another well.

  As always, when writing of a true historical figure, I feel both excitement and a burden to portray them as they truly were and honor their memory. To take on Louisa May Alcott, such a fiercely admired lady and author, was a task I did not take lightly.

  In preparation for this mission, I read several respected biographies as well as her published letters and journals. Though I had read Little Women before, I reread the beloved classic, as well as the books of hers mentioned within—Hospital Sketches, Moods, and Fair Rosamond (published in 1995 as A Long Fatal Love Chase). In my research, I gained insight into this woman—so much more than simply fictional Jo March. I gained respect for her and felt her sadness over much of the tragedy that played out in her life. Many times, particularly in dialogue and letters, I have used her own words from her letters and journals to keep a tone of authenticity within them.

  Louisa was a champion of the underdog—whether it be the enslaved African, the voteless woman, the widowed beggar, her orphaned nephews and husbandless sister, or hardworking Marmee, I could imagine what this strong-willed woman’s response would be to a friend in Johanna’s situation.

  Her experience with Johanna’s brother John Suhre did happen, though she fictionalized some of it in Hospital Sketches. John did leave behind a brother and a sister, whose names I’ve kept, but the similarities end there and from then on are entirely fictionalized.

  I had the pleasure of visiting Orchard House while researching, and I would heartily encourage New England visitors to take a tour if in the area. From the Revolution to the Renaissance, Concord is a town bursting with history and culture.

  Though I have not witnessed domestic abuse firsthand, I have known women who have suffered its harmful effects. If you are a woman who finds yourself in a situation like Victoria’s or Johanna’s, or you know someone in an abusive relationship, I hope you will reach out for help. There are some great resources online at thehotline.org. No one should have to live in fear. Please know I am praying for you and that you are not alone.

  I also pray the legacy of women like Louisa Alcott may continue on in our literature, minds, and hearts and that the Lord would use them to inspire hope, freedom, and most of all, love.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Emma

  I am more and more convinced that man is a dangerous creature and that power, whether vested in many or few, is ever grasping and, like the grave, cries, “Give, give!”

  ABIGAIL ADAMS

  “AH, MISS EMMA. You are lovelier than I remember.” Samuel Clarke’s words slid from his tongue, smooth as the silk ribbon holding the queue at the base of his neck.

  I smiled, thanked him as expected, wondered how Father could think us a well-made match.

  Then again, Father likely took no consideration of our personalities when deciding my future. No, mine was a match made with only monetary gain in mind.

  The Clarkes’ maid offered up a plate of chestnut fritters. As I raised my hand to receive one, for no other reason than to have something to do, the remembrance of Father’s painful grasp after Noah’s parting the other night came to the forefront of my mind. His words, like hot bacon grease, sizzled in my memory, along with the fire of his grip.

  “It will be your doing if that boy finds himself on the wrong end of my musket.”

  I understood, didn’t doubt that he would carry out his threat. If I cared for Noah, then I would stay away from him. Mayhap I had best stay away from the South End altogether. I needn’t put my friends in peril.

  Beside me, in a white broadcloth coat complete with silver basket buttons to match his knee bands, Samuel scooped up a mug of hot buttered rum, the ruffles at his hands perfectly positioned so as not to interfere with his reaching. “Your father tells me you spend your time minding the Fulton children. Such humdrum for the likes of yourself.”

  “I don’t mind. In fact—”

  “Now, now, once we wed, you needn’t worry about such nonsense.” He moved closer and I caught a whiff of sickeningly sweet cigar smoke. “I see a time soon when we will have our own brood romping around. And I will see to it you have all the help you need in caring for them so that you can concentrate on . . . other duties.”

  I expelled a breath—a nervous, mortified laugh coming along with it.

  I cared not a pig’s tooth how much money Samuel Clarke possessed nor how my parents wished for our nuptials. How could I bear to be with him every day . . . every night? To live beside him, to share intimacies with him, to be his wife?

  Sarah had attested that by my own decisions, I might change the course of my life. Something that sounded so simple but was in fact the most complicated feat I could imagine. Because to find my voice meant to speak against my parents—to speak against my world.

  Sarah, Noah . . . they bade me stand up for what was true and right, for my future, and yet they hadn’t instructed me how to go about summoning the boldness to do so.

  Mother fluttered toward us in her blue velvet trimmed with ermine, a glass of Madeira in hand. “Isn’t it simply grand to have Samuel home again, Emma?” She rested her fingers on the broadcloth of Samuel’s arm. “She’s been just dabbling around the house, simpering over your departure. A complete pity, truly.”

  “Mother!”

  She turned doleful eyes in my direction while Samuel leered at me with a grin that churned my stomach.

  He must have mistaken my outburst for embarrassment, not chastisement toward the woman who birthed me, for he chuckled, a cocky, amused expression on his face. “Has she now?”

  I searched for my voice. But alas, again, it could not be found. And what would the recourse be if I were to outright deny Mother’s words?

  I had chosen to remain loyal, but Noah’s words pressed on my mind. Loyal to what? Loyal to whom? This woman who told untruths about me to secure her own future—did she command the pri
ce of my loyalty?

  A bitter taste gathered in the back of my mouth. “Forgive me, I fear I may be ill.” I left the room, bypassed Father and the elder Mr. Clarke laughing heartily over some matter, and slipped outside.

  The cool sea air swept over me, settled my stomach. I breathed it in. I felt my life was fast barreling in a direction I did not wish to go. And yet ’twas the way of things. Did that mean I should accept them?

  From the direction of the Town House came the sound of conch shells being blown, of whistling and stamping and shouting.

  Odd . . .

  The door to the Clarke home flew open. Mother appeared, eyebrows raised. “Truly, you’ll catch your death out here without your cloak. Come back inside at once, dear.” She stilled, the sound of the horns growing closer, raucous catcalls now mounting upon them.

  “Do you hear that?” I whispered.

  Mother’s face pinched. She grasped my arm, pulled me inside. “Come.” She walked to Father, waited patiently beside him until he directed his attention to her. Meanwhile, the sounds outside grew louder.

  “Father,” I interrupted.

  A look of annoyance flashed across his face before he recovered, likely for Mr. Clarke’s sake.

  “John,” Mother started, “I fear a mob is brewing.”

  Father and Mr. Clarke summoned Samuel and the other men present, then ordered the women to the upper chambers.

  I fled toward the stairs, along with the wives and daughters in attendance. From below, the sound of the door bolt came, its echo chasing us up the stairs. The rowdiness outside rose to a deafening pitch.

  “What do they want?” Mrs. Clarke sobbed into her handkerchief as she led us to an empty guest chamber.

  “They’re demanding your family resign their position as consignors for the tea. They want your husband and sons to refuse the tea upon its arrival,” I said. How did she not know the circumstances her husband found himself in?