by Elise Hooper
“My aunt was saying the reviews of your sister’s book are favorable. She likened Louisa’s success to that of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s. Isn’t that something?” Joshua called out as the Middlesex Hotel fell behind them.
She bit the inside of her mouth, hoping the pain would distract her from the disappointment curdling in her stomach. “Let’s race.”
Joshua raised his eyebrows, casting an uncertain look at her pale blue day dress, but she kept talking. “I shall race you up to the North Bridge and loop around the pasture. We can finish at the riverbank behind the old house up ahead.” Without awaiting a response, she dug her heels into Rosa’s sides. The horse needed little prodding to break into a gallop down the road and jump over the mossy stone wall to land them on a path along the Concord River. May’s bonnet slid down her head so she yanked it off, holding it alongside the reins. With the thundering of Rosa’s hooves over the North Bridge, she lost herself to the blur of big bluestem grass waving in the breeze and galloped a wide circle around the farm fields before heading back. There was nothing quite like riding fast to help shake off the humiliation that made her itch as if her clothes were full of nettles. Soon, her burning muscles and lungs were all that she could focus upon.
Once at the river, May slid off Rosa and gasped for breath as Joshua pulled up on his horse behind her. He dismounted, ambled to a shady patch of grass under a dogwood tree, and reclined on the riverbank to watch May as she walked to the river’s edge and knelt. She rolled up her sleeves and dipped her hands into the river, relishing the cold current beneath the sun-warmed surface. Silver minnows streaked, darting from shadow to shadow in the crystalline depths of the water. It was easy for her to pretend she was in another world. “I wish I could just dive in,” she said, looking at the bubbles of air clinging to her submerged fingers like tiny pearls.
“You wouldn’t.”
“What makes you so sure?” May laughed. “Someday I’d like to swim in the Atlantic.”
“There are dangerous riptides.”
“Still, I should like to try it someday.”
“My, aren’t you bricky.”
Every muscle in May’s body loosened in the glow of his admiration for her courage.
“Come up here.” He brushed off his trousers as he stood and helped her up the riverbank and right into his arms. He brushed at her jawline gently, and her heart caught in her throat at his touch. Tiny blond hairs along his face caught the sunshine. The solidity of his shoulders tempted her to run her palm along them.
Beyond the trees, a train horn blasted, shattering the moment. Startled crows, like oily black smudges on a background of ocher-, umber-, and sienna-painted grass, flew in a rush toward the sky.
“I should get you home and ride back to my aunt’s house in Lexington.”
She inhaled sharply, glancing down at the grit covering her dress. Without looking at his shoulders again, she dropped her gaze and gave her skirts a good shake with both hands before mounting her horse. “When will you return to Boston?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
CONCORD CENTER WAS quieter late in the afternoon, and sun the color of ripe peaches peered down through the trees. May let her body sway to the rhythm of the horse, only half listening to Joshua describe a client engaged in quarreling with a neighbor. Within minutes, the Alcotts’ home appeared, and he brought his horse to a stop and looked at May intently.
“So, your sister’s book’s success is a good thing, is it not?”
The drone of meadow bugs filled the dirt road around them. How could she easily explain her mess of feelings about her sister’s book?
“Louisa’s been writing for as long as I can remember, so I’m delighted Little Women is being so well-received, but the critics are merciless about my illustrations in the book. They’re calling them ‘amateurish’ and worse.”
“That seems unfair. I thought they looked good.”
A little sympathetic indignation on her behalf bolstered her spirits, and she smiled.
“But they like the book—that’s what’s important, right? And after all, you are an amateur.”
Her smile vanished. “True, but I want to become a professional artist.”
“An artist—?”
“A painter.”
“And get paid for your work?”
“Yes, just like my sister gets paid for her writing.”
He opened his mouth to say something, hesitated, and then gave a small shrug.
“Your sister Louisa gave up a lot to be a writer. Would you do the same?”
His question caught May off-kilter, and she floundered, wondering at his intentions toward her. Louisa’s writing raised eyebrows, though her success with Little Women helped to patch her condition into something acceptable. While remaining unmarried like Louisa did not interest May in the slightest, she couldn’t help admiring her sister’s independence and success. Couldn’t she marry and pursue her art? It galled her to have to choose. She sighed. “I shouldn’t have to give anything up.”
“There’s a fellow down on Washington Street who runs a business painting portraits. Would an endeavor like that suit you?”
May didn’t understand the workings of business. Furthermore, the Little Women reviews made it obvious she knew nothing about drawing people correctly—how in the world could she start painting portraits? The whole conundrum made her head hurt.
“I’m still . . . getting ideas and working out all of the details.”
“I’m sure you are. You never seem short on ideas.”
She wanted to lean closer to him, to feel the traces of sunshine still lingering on his shirt, but Rosa gave an impatient snort and shuffled her hooves, so instead she busied her hands with patting Rosa’s neck. “I hope to see you again soon.”
Again, Joshua cocked his head thoughtfully and appeared on the verge of saying something, but stopped himself and simply smiled before riding away. She watched his retreating figure from the side of the road, puzzling over their conversation before turning to face the house. She twisted the cracked leather harness strap around her hand tighter and tighter as she wondered if he would have paid any attention to the May Alcott of a year ago, before Little Women was published. Somehow this novel bestowed a sheen of respectability upon her family she now realized they had always lacked. Louisa’s success seemed to highlight that Alcott women were known for being ambitious and not following the conventional path into wifehood and motherhood. No wonder May perplexed Joshua; she perplexed herself.
Above, Louisa’s silhouette was visible in her bedroom window where she sat at her desk writing, writing, always writing. Blood pulsed and throbbed in May’s fingers until she loosened the strap and walked the horse to the barn. Was there room in the family for more than one accomplished woman?
Chapter 3
A week later, a faint outline of a plan started to take shape in her mind. The steady whisper of drizzle outside brought the sisters together in the parlor to work on mending, and May sensed her opportunity.
“Louisa, I must ask you something.” She took a deep breath and lowered her sewing to her lap, but a frantic knocking at the front door followed by giggles and a rustling of silk interrupted her.
Louisa rolled her eyes, dropped the letter she was reading, and fled through the dining room for the kitchen door. Moments later, she rushed past with a white cap listing to the side of her head and a white apron billowing behind her. Louisa opened the door to three young women, who leaned in and looked around expectantly, rubbing raindrops off their faces.
“Is Miss Alcott here?” one of the girls asked, clutching a copy of Little Women to her chest.
With a convincing Irish brogue, Louisa pretended to be an Irish maid and explained the writer was out of town visiting friends. The front door provided stagelike framing, and Louisa readily delighted in her playacting in front of these young fans. She closed the door and sauntered into the parlor, giving her sisters a sly grin.
“You’re an abso
lute devil,” Anna said. “You should feel awful for doing that. They were so excited to meet you.”
“Mercy me, I don’t feel one drop of guilt.” Louisa pulled off the apron with a dramatic flourish as she took a bow. “My little performance actually made me feel nostalgic for our old shows. Remember? You used to dream of being Jenny Lind.”
“Oh, goodness, that was all so long ago.” Anna gestured at a dingy mail sack overflowing with letters next to May. “But think back even a couple of months—did you ever imagine you would be reigning over Concord as its most celebrated author?”
“Anna, you’re too good to me. A gaggle of girls fawning over my juvenile novel does not compete with the importance of Mr. Emerson, Mr. Thoreau, and Mr. Hawthorne.”
Anna laughed and leaned over, sifting gently through the contents of the bag. Wobbly handwriting skittered along the envelopes like the frenetic tracks of squirrels upon snow. Since Louisa barely tolerated the fan mail that arrived in huge sacks, Anna took it upon herself to answer the letters, even delighting in signing them as Meg March. She pulled one out to read. “This sweet girl from Albany wants to know what she can do to become a famous writer like you.”
“Well, that’s an improvement over the usual drivel. I’m sick of questions about husbands for the March sisters.”
“You’re a dreadful curmudgeon,” May said.
“I rather like being a curmudgeon. Honestly, do girls give two pins for anything beyond marriage proposals these days?” Louisa stuck her nose up in the air as she stood and gathered up her bonnet and shawl from a peg by the door. “Now, I’m off to see Lidian Emerson.”
Before the front door shut, May called out to her sister’s back, “It seems rather mean-spirited to complain about getting letters from admirers.”
Only the decisive click of the door’s latch answered.
She squinted down at her sewing, amazed that even though Little Women proved Louisa’s writing to be successful, her sister still begrudged almost everything about it.
“Weren’t you about to say something to Louisa?” Anna said. “Before those girls came to the door?”
“No, no, I must catch her in a good mood.”
“Ha, that’s no easy task. Lately, you two are always after each other with your claws out. You’re both too competitive for your own good.”
“Competitive? How can I possibly compete with her, a renowned authoress? Meanwhile, look at me.” May flapped her hands around herself impatiently. “I’m still here, producing . . . I don’t even know what I’m producing anymore . . . I daresay the critics would pronounce it rubbish.”
“You exaggerate. I am looking at you, and believe me, most people would agree you have much in the way of fair assets. Come now, you and Louisa need to be more generous with each other and yourselves.”
“It’s easy to be generous when you’re making money.”
“Generosity has nothing to do with money. You know that.” She reached forward and smoothed an errant curl back from May’s forehead and said quietly, “You two are so similar, both so hungry for something more, but at the same time, you couldn’t be more different.” The dimple on Anna’s right cheek deepened as she gave a warm smile to May before returning to the letter in her hands. “See? This is why I must come from Maplewood so often. You both certainly know how to make my visits lively.”
May pictured the Pratts’ little weathered bungalow, fifteen miles away, north of Boston, and how it strained to contain the energy of her two nephews. “Livelier than the boys?”
“They have nothing on the two of you,” Anna said, tilting her head and smiling to herself as she read and ran a hand absentmindedly along the swirl of her thick dark hair’s upturned twist.
LATER IN THE evening, the sisters cleaned the kitchen. May put a stack of plates in the cupboard and admired how the late afternoon sunshine fought its way through the rain-smeared windowpanes, stippling the wooden floorboards. Soon the lamps would need to be turned on. Louisa cleared her throat as she dried a glass. “Mr. Niles is after me to answer the clamoring masses and all of their questions about whom each sister marries. He thinks I ought to write a second volume—a continuation of Little Women.”
Anna put a water pitcher down on the table, her dark eyes flashing as she spoke quickly. “Oh, you must, you definitely must write more about the Marches. When you ended it, there were so many questions needing answers. Will Meg still marry Mr. Brooke, despite Aunt March’s threat of disinheritance?”
Louisa grimaced. “You’re just as bad as these girls who write to me.”
“Well, a second installment is a capital idea.” Anna glanced at May. “What do you think?”
May turned from sorting dishes to look at her sisters. No mention had been made of her illustrations, and her shoulders tensed with the realization that Louisa did not plan to ask her for more. Outside the window beyond Louisa, shadows swallowed the yard. Anna’s boys were wrestling in the grass; a blur of limbs whirled amidst the fallen, wet leaves. “I think your little blisters are undoing all of Father’s raking.” As she spoke, Freddy formed a dirty, sodden ball of leaves from the ground and threw it at his younger brother. Anna headed for the door to intervene in the mudslinging beginning outside.
When cleaning up from supper was complete, May left the kitchen for the parlor and sat down on the lumpy horsehair divan across from Louisa to resume her sewing. Mother joined May and ran her fingers through the long golden curls cascading down her youngest daughter’s back. “I hear Joshua Bishop came courting the other afternoon. Must have been nice to go gallivanting around on his arm. I’ll bet lots of tongues are wagging about you now.”
If people were talking about her, May certainly hoped it was about Joshua Bishop instead of the mortifying reviews of her Little Women illustrations.
Mother pointed to the two rectangular pieces of velvet on May’s lap. “What’s this?”
“I’m making a gift for Louisa. A mood pillow.”
Louisa looked up from her newspaper. “What on earth is a mood pillow?”
“It’s my own creation. You can keep it down here on the divan and place it horizontally when you’re in a good mood and welcoming guests. If you’re feeling prickly, set it vertical as a warning to keep people away. Clearly you need it, judging by how you sent those poor girls packing earlier today.”
Louisa brayed with laughter. “Well, aren’t you clever? And I suppose such a gift means you want something from me?”
May stroked the cornflower-blue velvet fabric, a remnant from her favorite skirt she had ruined by spilling ink on it.
Louisa narrowed her eyes. “Out with it—what do you want?”
May turned away from her sister and, using the nickname the girls had bestowed upon Mother years ago, enlisted her help by saying, “Marmee, I’ve decided I must find some artistic instruction. Do you think Mr. Emerson may know of anyone in Boston open to teaching a woman?”
Marmee raised her eyebrows. “In Boston?”
“Yes, I was thinking I could live with Louisa in the city while I study and come home to help you around the house on weekends.”
“What a fine idea. You can keep an eye on Louisa’s health. Especially if she undertakes this second volume of Little Women for Mr. Niles.” Marmee frowned and looked at Louisa. “Falling into that last writing vortex of yours nearly undid us all. You cannot write all of the time. You must pace yourself.”
Louisa let out a groan. “Now I see where this is all going. And I suppose I shall pay for these lessons. How much will all of this cost? Why can’t you simply practice on your own?”
Indignation flared through May, and she dropped her sewing in her lap as she leaned forward to respond, but Marmee sent her a warning look and turned toward Louisa. “I know you take pride in believing you’re a self-taught writer, but you’ve been fortunate enough to be surrounded by writers your entire life, and now you’re reaping the rewards. Yes, you’ve practiced, but you’ve also seen Mr. Emerson, Mr. Thoreau, and
Miss Fuller at work and heard them speak of their craft”—a small smile danced at the corners of her mouth—“often endlessly. Surely you can help your sister.”
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing. Let’s find an artist for May. After all, now you girls have the mood pillow.” Marmee stood and walked toward the front hallway, looking back at them over her shoulder mischievously. “I’m sure it’s all you need to make your new living arrangements harmonious.”
THE NEXT MORNING, May clipped wet laundry to the drying line and studied the anemic gray light yawning down into the backyard. Was it getting too late in the season to dry laundry outside? She flexed her damp fingers in an attempt to bring some warmth back into them and noticed a large grease stain on a shirt Louisa had bought Father from Cambridge Dry Goods. A brand-new shirt. She would hide it from Louisa, knowing it would set off a tempest if her sister caught sight of how her benevolence was wasted.
The kitchen door creaked open to reveal the tall, thin figure of John Pratt, Anna’s husband, stepping out. “May, here you are—the postmaster gave this to me as I rode through town.” He stooped under the laundry line and handed her a delicate square of paper.
She opened it to find an invitation to a Christmas ball at the Bishop family’s house in Boston. Her fingers tightened on the paper; an excited tingle ran up from her fingertips.
