by Elise Hooper
May would awaken rattled and fearful.
Another snowstorm locked Orchard House off from the outside world. Anna’s condition worsened. Marmee and Father moved slower and looked grayer. Freddy and Johnny hovered like shadows outside their mother’s door. May attempted cheerfulness when she encountered her nephews, but exhaustion and a sense of futility wore at her.
After three more days, Anna’s fever still raged.
The doctor risked a return through the snow, but shook his head as he put away his stethoscope. Father stomped along the front yard in snowshoes, heading to the train station to deliver another note they hoped would reach Louisa in Boston.
Trapped inside with too much time to think and fret, May despaired. If one more snowflake appears in the sky, I will start screaming and not stop.
Dark thoughts circled around and around in her head like hawks over prey: she should have heeded her sister’s concerns and never kept the boys out for so long in the cold; they would never have taken ill; Anna would not be fighting for her life. She knelt next to her sister, who lay flushed and perspiring, and prayed to overcome her selfishness.
Before all of the storms, a letter from Alice had arrived informing May that Miss Knowlton also lost her art studio and all of its contents during Boston’s fire, leaving her destitute. Caught up in her own sorrow over classes closing, May had neglected to consider the welfare of her other instructor, and the realization sickened her. All of her careless actions that winter filled her with shame. She had always dismissed Louisa’s accusations of selfishness over the years as baseless, but now she wondered—was her sister correct?
Clasping her hands in front of her nose, May whispered, “If Anna is spared, I will give up my art. I promise.” The room was dark except for the firelight guttering in the grate. She fell asleep with her face in her hands, leaning against Anna’s bed.
The following afternoon, footsteps pounded up the stairs, and Louisa barged into the sickroom. May leapt up and collapsed into her sister’s arms, pressing her face into the shoulder of Louisa’s boiled wool coat. It smelled of woodsmoke and felt blessedly cold.
“I’m here. Blast these snowstorms and cursed train delays. I’m finally here.” Louisa peeled off her coat and threw it behind her, as she clasped Anna’s skeletal hand. “We must feed her some broth. She needs fuel.”
Louisa’s confidence brought May back into action. It was a relief to relinquish command to Louisa.
May returned with a tray of food, and Louisa spooned some of the broth into Anna’s slack mouth. “When I was nursing during the war, we always tried to get something into those soldiers, no matter how much they resisted,” Louisa said. “We’re not going to lose you, Anna. Do you hear me? Your boys need you. Come on now, eat, and stay with us.”
Louisa stopped the spoon midair and smiled at May tenderly. “Dear girl, you look like you’ve been to battle. Go get some rest. You’ve earned it.”
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, May awoke to the sound of the boys shouting excitedly outside. She unbent herself from her cramped seat next to Anna’s bed and limped to the front window. Freddy and Johnny were exchanging a volley of snowballs with a neighbor who had hopped off his wagon and returned fire good-naturedly. The man saw May at the window and waved. She raised her hand in return, tears sliding down her cheeks.
Louisa entered the room carrying a fresh bucket of snow. “What happened? Is she worsening?” She turned to Anna in confusion.
“No, I just saw the boys playing with Captain Clark and felt so overcome to see the kindness of our friends. And I . . . I just . . .” May dropped next to Anna’s feet on the bed and sobbed.
“Hold on. Anna’s fighting her way out of this. I know you’ve been working hard. I’m so sorry to have neglected you,” Louisa said, putting her arms around May. “Let’s put you into bed for a while.”
“This is all my fault,” May said, strangled by tears as she hung on Louisa’s arm.
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not anyone’s fault.”
“It is. I kept the boys outside in the cold way too long. They got sick, then Anna got sick. What if we lose her? It’s all my fault.”
“Stop it.” Louisa held May in front of her by both shoulders. “Stop this now, or you’ll get sick next.”
May gave a weak nod and let Louisa help her into bed. For the first time in weeks, May rolled over and slept.
MAY AWOKE DISORIENTED by the sunshine scissoring through her window at a low angle. She wrapped herself in a shawl and shuffled next door to find Anna sitting up against some pillows.
“Look who’s awake,” said Louisa, holding a mug of tea up to Anna’s cracked lips.
May dropped onto a stool in relief.
“It’s not often we can make May speechless. Well done there, old girl.” Louisa beamed down at Anna from her seat next to the bed. “The boys have spoken to their mother. Now they’re off with Father, running an errand at the Hosmers’ house.”
Anna’s eyes closed.
Louisa saw May’s jaw tighten and said, “She’s just sleeping. Her fever has broken. She’s weak, but I believe she’s turned a corner. We need to continue watching over her, though.”
May rubbed her throbbing temples, and twisted from side to side, stretching out the knotted ache in her lower back.
Louisa watched May with concern. “Go back to sleep. You’ve been under terrible strain. We can’t have you falling ill now. Go.”
May didn’t need further urging.
When she awoke again, it was dark. The click and clack of knitting needles led her to find Louisa next to Anna’s bedside. The bedroom had been kept cold for the last couple of weeks due to Anna’s fever, but now flames whispered in the fireplace. A warm glow reflected off Anna’s sleeping face, making her look healthier, even though her cheekbones protruded sharply now.
“She’s been sleeping steadily, and her skin is cool to the touch. She’s breathing better,” whispered Louisa. May sat down on a chair and watched the rise and fall of the buttons on the neckline of Anna’s nightgown. Louisa gestured at the bird May had painted on the mantel above the fireplace. “I love the owl. I’ve been listening to one outside the window. It’s a comforting sound.”
May managed a feeble smile. “I know, I’ve heard it, too. I believe a barn owl has set up a nest nearby.”
“I’ve been thinking—book sales are going exceedingly well, and I’ve just invested another lump of money with Cousin Sewell. You’ve been working so hard and have neglected your art. I really didn’t realize how bad things were here. I’d like to give you one thousand dollars to return to Europe to work on your art.”
May’s fogginess lifted. “Really? But what if—” She looked over at Anna.
“Slow down, you won’t get on a boat tomorrow. Anna needs to get back to her former glory. Let’s plan on a spring departure. This old place can carry on for a while on its own. Or at least, with a little of my supervision here and there.”
May’s spark of excitement vanished. She had a promise to keep. “I can’t go.”
“Why not? Of course you can.”
“No, I really can’t.”
“Well, now you’re just being contrary. What in the world do you mean?”
May buried her face in her hands. “I made a promise to God that if he spared Anna, I would give up my art.”
Louisa fell back into her chair, a look of disbelief on her face. “You did what?”
“I was so scared Anna was going to die. It seemed like my fault.” Tears ran down May’s face.
Louisa sighed and leaned forward to pull May’s hands off her face. “Stop crying. I’m sorry you’ve been feeling so wretched, but a vow like that makes no sense.”
“It does. My art makes me selfish.”
“It’s selfish to want to express yourself? It’s selfish to learn? It’s selfish to want to improve yourself?”
“I need to focus on our family and stop chasing this dream. It has always seemed like . . .” May’s voi
ce trailed off.
“Like what?”
“It always seemed like I needed to make something of myself.”
“Something other than Amy March?” Louisa rested her forehead in her hands. “Making you little Amy in Little Women did you no favors. I’m sorry.”
“It’s taken me a while, but I no longer worry about little Amy March. I just want to prove that I’m a worthy member of this family.”
“Worthy? Worthy of what?”
“Of everyone’s respect. Mother and Father always appeared to value you, Anna, and Lizzie because of all of your noble undertakings—Anna and Lizzie’s charity, your abolitionism. Once Mother and Lizzie took me to visit a poor family in an appalling tenement building on Lowell Street, and the place terrified me. I never wanted to return. I never wanted to help Mother with her rounds again. Afterward, I felt so inconsequential compared to all of you.”
“I remember that. You didn’t sleep for weeks. No one thought any less of you for being scared. I remember another time when you almost jumped out of your skin after opening a cupboard in the kitchen in search of the flour and finding a wide-eyed black face peering out at you. You were probably only about five years old, and no one had told you of Father’s Underground Railroad work. I fear we all sometimes forgot how much younger you were than the rest of us.” Louisa took May’s chin in her hand. “Listen, if you want to stop with your art, fine, stop. But don’t stop because of some promise you made to God in a moment of self-loathing. I have no doubt God wants us all to find something special inside of ourselves. Your imagined selfishness had nothing to do with Anna’s sickness or recovery.” Louisa sat back and folded her arms around herself. “But you must pursue your art because you cannot imagine life without it.”
“I offered to give up my art because it’s the thing I value most, aside from my family,” May said tearfully.
“Well then, go after it. You don’t need to prove anything to Marmee and Father. And you certainly don’t need to prove anything to me. Prove it to yourself.”
“Do you feel this way about your writing?”
“Yes. I certainly have a list of people I’m always trying to best, but I write because I must.” Louisa bent over to pick up the knitting she had dropped on the floor.
“But you have to do it to make money.”
“The money is lovely, but even if no one ever read anything I ever wrote, I would still do it. Even if I couldn’t earn a penny from it.”
May wrapped herself tightly into her shawl and smiled. After weeks of feeling as though her world was cracking into pieces, she allowed herself to lean into the warmth of the fire and listen to the gentle hooting of the owl outside the window.
Part 3
April 1873–August 1877
London, England
Chapter 22
May sailed for London in late April. Her newfound independence both excited her and frightened her in turns. For seven dollars a week she rented an airy second-floor apartment in a Georgian boardinghouse overlooking leafy Bedford Square in Bloomsbury. She missed the companionship of her sisters, but was determined to revel in being unencumbered by family responsibilities.
At one of her first stops in London, she decided to sketch inside Westminster Abbey. She wandered around the grand cathedral to find a suitable spot to work. Eventually, she settled her camp stool on the black-and-white tiled floor in the grand Henry VII Chapel and brought out her sketchbook. She became mesmerized by the intricate fan patterns in the vaulted ceiling. Colorful pennants rippled over the designs in a draft overhead. With her eyes trained upward, she failed to notice two people approach her.
“Look, that woman has claimed my favorite spot.”
May turned to see a woman with her hands on her hips, smiling down at her.
“I’m sorry. I’m sure there’s room for more than just me,” May said, dragging her satchel closer to her.
“Don’t mind me. I’m just teasing. Isn’t this just the most beautiful place in London?”
“Yes, it’s lovely, but I’ve just arrived so I’m afraid I can’t compare it with much else yet.”
The woman clapped her hands together. “You’re American! William, come here. There’s a new artist, and she’s just arrived—from where?”
“Boston.”
The woman couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, and she clutched a wooden art box. She had violet-colored eyes that glowed like amethysts from under a fringe of long black lashes. Between her size and extraordinary eye color, she looked like a fairy. May eyed the remarkable-looking woman’s ears to be sure they weren’t pointed. They were not.
A tall dark-haired man came to stand beside the pixie. “What a coincidence. We were just in Boston before arriving here,” he said. “Please allow me to introduce us. I’m William Keith. This is my wife, Violet.”
May rose to introduce herself with a quizzical look on her face.
“I know, I know—my eyes . . . and my name.” The woman laughed. “My parents, well, they kept things simple when they named me Violet.” She threw up her hands with a shrug. “It makes it easy to remember me.”
Everything about this lively woman was memorable, and May laughed along with her.
“I adored Boston,” Violet said. “I grew up in California, and it’s amazingly different.”
“My goodness—London, Boston, California—you two are so well-traveled. My father has toured the Midwest, but I’ve never left New England, with the exception of a trip to Europe a couple of years ago.”
“Oh, Miss Alcott, you must visit the West Coast someday.” Mr. Keith’s eyes opened wide. “While Europe’s art and architecture is not to be missed, nature’s creations in the American West are beyond compare.”
A priest rambled by with a dark look to silence them. May tucked her notebook under her arm while Mr. Keith picked up her camp stool, and the three left the chapel and approached the entrance in the nave of the cathedral.
Violet rubbed her white-gloved hands together. “I think we should all forget working and welcome Miss Alcott properly. Let’s take her on a little tour of Saint James’s Park.”
“My dear, we shouldn’t bother her.”
May couldn’t resist the invitation. “Oh, yes, please, I’d love a tour.” The tall, rangy man and his tiny, outgoing wife entranced her. The Keiths were the first people in a long time who did not make the connection to her famous sister. Cultivating a friendship with this couple wholly separate from associations with her family marked a milestone for May.
Violet tilted her head at her husband flirtatiously and gave a smug smile. “See? I’m very good at reading people.”
He put out his hands palms up in good-natured surrender and laughed.
On their way to the park, William told May he had lost his studio in Boston’s fire, and so they relocated to London to work on a commission.
“Mr. Keith, are you English? I’ve been trying to guess at your accent.”
“I was born in Scotland but my father died when I was a lad, and I left for New York City with my mother and sister for a fresh start. I worked for the newspapers for a while, working as an apprentice engraver, but when I was old enough to make my own way, I headed west to San Francisco, looking for work. I thought I’d strike gold somehow, but the California landscape made me realize I didn’t want to just engrave anymore. I wanted to paint. So I enrolled in art classes.”
“It’s how we met,” Violet said. “Would you believe I was his teacher?”
“It’s true, she was. I met Violet at the Art Academy of San Francisco. She taught me everything I know.”
“Oh, you exaggerate.” Violet swatted at him. “Yes, I was his first art teacher, but he’s caught up and made his own way. You must see some of Mr. Keith’s paintings of the Yosemite Valley.” Violet smiled almost shyly at her husband. “His command of majestic landscapes leaves me in awe.”
They reached the entrance at the southeast corner of the park, and Violet sniffed the air and lo
oked around. “Do you smell peanuts?”
Down the sidewalk, a young boy was selling small brown bags of roasted peanuts that hung from a long stick balanced across his shoulders.
Violet put her hands together and looked up at her husband beseechingly. “Oh, please, buy us a bag? Please?” She turned to May with a mischievous expression. “I know they’re vulgar, but will you judge me terribly if I indulge in my craving?”
May laughed and shook her head as William left them to go to the vendor.
“I think we’re going to be the loveliest of friends, don’t you?” Violet folded her arm under May’s and smiled. There was no way May could say no. William rejoined them, and the trio entered the park, cheerfully munching on roasted peanuts. Baby nurses in crisp white aprons marched along pathways pushing prams, while the high-pitched voices of small children playing games trilled along with the sounds of birds. The clanking of the omnibuses rattling along the buzzing hive of Westminster faded away. How quickly the sounds of the city became muffled by the trees and grass. A passel of boys over by the edge of the lake played what appeared to be a lively game of pirates while a governess, tall and rigid, watched them impassively.
May noticed Violet’s face fall as she watched the boys. William caught his wife’s shift in mood and started discussing the various art collections around the city. “If I may be so bold, I propose we meet tomorrow at the National Gallery. Have you obtained your copyist pass yet?”
“No, how do I do that?”
“We shall be happy to help you.” He gave a gentle pat to his wife’s hand clasped under his elbow. The Keiths’ overt affection for one another reminded May of home. Her parents had their differences over the years, but they always demonstrated tenderness toward one another. May spent enough time in other households to understand this was unusual.
